"And?" I asked.
"They don't think it's…" Riley looked at the cat, "…who we think it is."
"It's someone impersonating…um, the assassin?"
Riley nodded. "That's what they think."
"Okay…" I started pacing. "Someone impersonates me a week before Lenny—an enemy spy I've never met, by the way—escapes from the supermax prison in Colorado and dies on my front porch. Then someone impersonates a well-known assassin who no one has ever seen before. This imposter tells me he is the…other guy." Avoiding saying Bobb around the cat was not going to be easy.
"This fake assassin—" I shot a glance at Philby, who was lying on his side on the floor, panting. "—makes contact with me to establish his identity as someone else, makes a lame attempt in the grocery store to make it look like he's trying to kill me, but you end up shooting him. Then he breaks in here and does…what?"
"It sounds like that's what's going on." Riley shrugged. "I'd sent a blood sample from the grocery store to the lab at Langley, but they couldn't find any match."
"You didn't tell me that." I made a face.
"It's standard procedure," he said.
"If he's injured, maybe he went to the hospital?" Why didn't I think of that before now? Seriously, I was losing my touch.
"I checked all the hospitals. No one came in with a gunshot wound. This guy repaired it himself," Riley said. "I don't know where I hit him, either. I might've just grazed him."
I frowned. "That doesn't sound like you." Riley was a crack shot. We all were. We'd be dead if we weren't.
"What the hell is going on?"
"I don't know. It makes no sense for the assassin to keep approaching you and failing. If he wanted to scare you, he'd realize it wasn't working."
A strange sound caught my attention. It sounded like an old man coughing.
"What's wrong with Philby?" Riley asked as he knelt down beside the cat that was still on his side but now struggling to breathe.
I joined him. The cat's eyes had gone glassy, and he began to vomit something dark blue. Funny—that didn't look like a hairball. Philby's eyes rolled back into his head, and he began shaking violently.
"Philby?" I asked. "What's wrong with Philby?"
Riley got down on his knees and looked at the animal that suddenly stopped seizing and started foaming at the mouth. This was something we'd seen before—but with people. It was poison.
Without a word, Riley scooped the cat up and ran for the car. I just had time to grab my purse and lock the front door before I got into the SUV as it was rolling backward toward the street. I called the vet while Riley drove. We were there in record time.
We raced into the vet clinic, and Dr. Rye hurried us to a back room. He gave Philby a shot of something and some oxygen. Soon the tiny room was filled with the vet equivalent of cat nurses, before one shooed Riley and me off to a waiting room.
"Besides the bacon and eggs, what did Philby eat this morning?" I asked Riley as a thought slowly turned in my mind.
Riley ran a hand through his hair. "He had some food left over from last night."
"That's what the bastard did when he broke in," I said. "He broke in to poison Philby!"
Riley looked at me. "Philby hisses when he hears the name Bobb. I guess in the back of my mind I thought there was a connection, but until now I never realized it was a real threat!"
"That's what Bobb was looking for in my backyard!" I shouted, my voice echoing in the vestibule. "He was looking for Philby!"
We sat in stunned silence for a moment. How did we miss that?
"He wasn't after you," Riley said. "He was after the cat all along."
Dr. Rye came down the hall toward us, wiping his hands on a towel.
"How is he?" I jumped to my feet.
"He's better. A few minutes ago I thought we'd lost him. But then I heard you shouting, and the cat started hissing and seemed okay. It's the damnedest thing."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dr. Rye told us that he wanted to keep Philby overnight for observation. I wasn't sure. If Bobb was after the animal, he wouldn't be safe here. But then, maybe Bobb thought he'd killed the cat, so maybe it was all over? I agreed to have the vet keep my pet.
"So Bobb thinks that he killed the cat," Riley said after I mentioned what I'd been thinking while we were in the lobby. "And you think he'll just go away?"
"I think it's an opportunity," I answered. "I say we make him think he got away with it."
Which is how we ended up walking out of the clinic with what looked like a bundled up cat. I made a big show of tears. Riley did his best to look sad. Acting wasn't really his thing unless he was seducing a woman. Nothing about a dead pretend cat was sexy, so he struggled a little.
Back at home, I found a box and stuffed it with an old blanket while Riley made a big deal out of digging a hole in the backyard under a big oak tree. Solemnly, we stood under the tree after burying the box. I made a show of weeping and clinging to Riley's arm. He looked pretty serious.
"I don't think I'll ever get another cat," I whined. "It would never be as great as Philby."
Riley just nodded.
"What is going on?" Kelly stormed into the backyard. She froze when she saw my face and the little rounded mound of dirt.
"Oh no! What happened? Why didn't you call me?" she asked hysterically. That was weird. Kelly never got hysterical about anything. I really needed to have a chat with her.
Riley and I swapped glances. This was unintended. But maybe it could work.
"I can't believe you killed the cat!" Kelly shouted. "What is wrong with you?"
Uh-oh. This maybe wasn't such a great idea after all.
"Come inside," I begged. "We'll tell you all about it."
Kelly glared at me. Okay, we were on rage now. What was wrong with this woman?
"She didn't kill him," Riley said. He looked like he was going to bust out laughing. That would be worse.
I grabbed Kelly by the arm, but she shrugged me off. "Fine, it wasn't your fault," she snarled. "But you still should've called me! I'm your best friend!"
Okay…this was getting out of hand.
Riley stepped up and firmly guided Kelly to the house. He murmured softly, things I've heard him say before to distract hysterical women.
I was more concerned that my best friend was furious with me. Why wouldn't she, of all people, wait to hear what I had to say? Granted, the outburst helped if Bobb was spying on us. But I just didn't get why she was going so crazy.
Once inside the house, Riley swept it to make sure no one was inside. It was empty. I poured Kelly a glass of wine, and she grudgingly took it. Once she started breathing again, Riley filled her in on what had happened. After a few moments, Kelly calmed down.
"You still should've called me," she grumbled. There was more she wasn't telling me. But I didn't feel I should bring up her recent mood swings in front of Riley.
"Okay, fine," I said. "I am guilty of that. I'm sorry."
"It's just that I really liked that cat," Kelly said.
"He's still alive," I said.
She ignored me. "I thought Philby was the best thing for you. You two needed each other."
"He's still alive. And I like him too." I was a little confused now. We needed each other? What kind of loser was I that I needed a cat?
"We're picking him up tomorrow," Riley soothed. He really was good at this. "I'm so sorry to upset you. We just wanted to lay a trap for Bobb. We're hoping he was listening out there or will come back tonight to make sure he's dead."
I wasn't sure how comforting those actual words were, but that was what we were trying to do.
"I've got to go to work," Kelly said suddenly, standing up and heading for the door. "Call me if something happens." She slammed the door behind her.
"Something tells me I'm going to pay for this fake dead cat later," I said.
"Well, let's hunker down for the day," Riley said as he took out his laptop and set up on the breakfast bar
.
"That's it? We're just going to hang out here all day?" I asked. That sounded boring.
Riley nodded. "Yes. We have to see if Bobb comes back to look for Philby."
I looked out the window at the sad grave of the blanket in a box. "It needs a tombstone," I said.
In the garage I found some paint, and after scouring the backyard, I found a large rock. It took me an hour to paint it and find a way to stick it in the ground near the grave, but it worked.
"Philby Wrath," Riley read over my shoulder as I worked in the dirt. "Beloved Cat. Rest In Peace."
"I wanted to write more, but I ran out of room," I said, wiping my hands as I rose to my feet.
"I can see that." He pointed to the way the word Peace got smaller and smaller toward the end until the final e looked more like a period.
"Yeah, well," I said, "I had to do something to remember him by." I'd wanted to put something about how even though he looked like Hitler, he was actually more like Winston Churchill, but there was no way I could fit that on there.
"He's not dead," Riley whispered.
"I know that. But still, it seems like we should honor his memory." No, he wasn't dead. But when he came back, and if he could read and understand words, he'd feel a little flattered maybe.
We headed back inside and stayed discreetly away from the window so we could see if Bobb returned. I spent the day calling various relatives and blackmailing them into buying Girl Scout Cookies. My parents lived in Washington, DC where Dad was a senator, and I had a few scattered aunts and cousins, but not much else. And of course, I used a burner phone so they couldn't reuse the number. I kept a whole drawer of them in my nightstand. Spy craft isn't just for spies—sometimes it's useful against annoying relatives too.
"Dad?" I said as my father, Senator Czrygy, answered.
"Hey, Pumpkin! What's up?" His gravelly voice made me feel better instantly.
"Is this a bad time?" I asked. My father was a busy man. He chaired several committees and worked 15-hour days. Mom was involved in probably every charity in DC. Getting hold of her would be even harder than getting hold of Dad.
"I have a vote on the Senate floor in 10 minutes. But I have time for you," he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.
I made my pitch quick, and he said he'd strong-arm his buddies into buying cookies. Apparently, cookies in the Midwest were a lot cheaper than the rates in the big cities. And a certain senator from Tennessee had a serious peanut butter cookie addiction. I hung up knowing I'd do well there.
I was selling, but I could do better. I needed to make bank so the troop could do some cool stuff this year. I could just pay for everything—my settlement from the CIA was beyond generous. But Kelly didn't like that. She wanted the girls to work for their money. While I sat there, I put down Riley (without telling him, because why should I?) for two boxes of each kind.
I needed to put the word out at Langley. The CIA agents who still worked there had serious sugar addictions. It was a huge problem. About three years ago we had agents getting sick in Asia. After 53 were hospitalized we discovered that the Chinese had poisoned several cases of American candy bars (I'm not at liberty to name the brand—it's classified) that had been sent to each division head. I wasn't so surprised they were poisoned as much as I was surprised the management had actually shared the candy with the field guys.
Still, I figured I was a trustworthy person to buy from, so I made a list of the spies I still knew and made one phone call.
"Maria Gomez." The woman on the line sounded all business, but she was actually one of the few fun people at Langley. She could do this thing with her tongue…it's also classified, but you'd laugh so hard you'd fall over if you saw it. Trust me.
"Hey, Maria! It's Finn Czrygy," I said, using my real name. A name that sounded so foreign to me since I'd had to stop using it a year ago.
"Finn! How the hell are you, girl?" Maria laughed.
"Well, I'm selling Girl Scout Cookies now," I said. "What can I put you down for?"
"Seriously?" Maria's voice shrieked. Uh-oh. Here it comes. From international spy to Girl Scout leader. I was now going to have to endure a few minutes of laughter.
"Oh my God, girl! How much can I legally buy?" she squealed. Not what I expected, but that's okay.
I filled her in on the different types of cookies, and to my shock, she ordered a case of every kind. I wondered if I shouldn't up Riley's order.
"I'll tell everyone here! Give me your cell number, and I'll have them text you!" Maria said.
"How about I give you the number and instead of sharing it with everyone—you text me what they want, and I'll send it with Riley." I didn't want the whole agency having my cell. What if there was a mole there? Even if it was a burner phone, I still had to be careful.
"You got it!" Maria promised. "Wait, did you say Riley the Hottie is there with you?"
I gave Riley a sidelong glance, and he looked up at me. "Oh yeah. He's sitting next to me at my breakfast bar."
"Tell me he's naked!" Maria always had a bit of a thing for my former boss. I always thought it was in her best interests that she didn't work for him. Or maybe his. Maria was a pretty forceful personality. She probably would have devoured him whole.
"I'll fill you in later! Gotta go!" I said.
"Right. I'll send you orders!" Maria hung up, and I wrote down her order.
Things were looking up. I'd sold 150 boxes on the phone so far. Granted, that only amounted to a quarter a box for the troop, but still—I wasn't making Kelly do everything as she'd claimed earlier.
"Was that Gomez?" Riley asked.
"Yes, she's my cookie dealer for the agency now." I winked at him, and he looked startled.
A flash of blue caught the corner of my eye, and I grabbed Riley, dragging him off his seat and onto the floor behind the bar.
"Someone's in the yard," I whispered.
Riley slowly rose until he could see over the breakfast bar and out the window. He came back down to me.
"It's a guy in a hoodie. Same hoodie I saw at the grocery store. He's poking around the grave." Riley pulled his pistol out, and together we crawled toward the door to the garage. A second later, the two of us burst out the back garage door to the yard.
The guy was running as soon as we appeared. He vanished through the hedges.
"You chase him," I said to Riley. "I'll wait here in case he comes back!"
Riley took off running, and I looked down at the grave. The bastard had kicked some of the soil aside. Was he trying to recover Philby's body? That's disgusting. I pushed the dirt back over and had an idea.
* * *
Riley came back about 15 minutes later to find me up to my elbows in cement.
"What…what…" he gasped—was he out of shape? Huh. "…are you doing?" He doubled over until he caught his breath.
I smoothed the cement dome and took the bucket over to the hose and rinsed it and my arms off. I had no desire to allow the goop on my arms to harden, although it would've made for great weapons. Concrete Arms Girl! That would be an awesome comic book.
"Come inside for some water," I said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
Riley drank two full glasses of ice water before speaking. I changed into clean clothes and rejoined him in the kitchen.
"I'm not out of shape," he said finally. "I chased him all over the neighborhood. He kept doubling back. I think he actually might be staying somewhere here."
"You lost him?" I tried to stifle a grin.
"Yeah," he said. "At one point he went through some trees and just disappeared. I'll show you where. After I take a quick shower."
"Good idea. We can drive around while waiting for the cement to harden."
Riley shook his head. "I don't know why you did that. It won't stop him."
I nodded. "I know. But it will slow him down. I don't want him finding the cat-less box any sooner than he has to. And I'd think we should notice a guy chipping cement for hours in th
e backyard."
Riley took a shower, and I stared out the window at the backyard. It was quick-dry cement, left behind from the previous owner. I thought about our runner in the hoodie. I hadn't seen his face. Medium height, not skinny but not average either—more athletic. He ran like he'd done it all his life. That's how he'd eluded Riley.
What I didn't get was why he came back in the daytime. Whatever he'd wanted my fake dead cat for must've been serious. And creepy. I racked my brain over and over but couldn't come up with any reason why an assassin would want my cat dead. It's not like Philby could talk.
Wouldn't that be awesome? A talking cat! One that could testify against bad guys. It would be the perfect thing. And why did spy villains always have pet cats? I thought about Blofeld in James Bond and Doctor Evil in Austin Powers. They had pet cats. And Philby did resemble a certain German dictator.
I guess dogs are too nice to be evil mascots. Cats are just too unpredictable. That must be it. Why wouldn't a bad guy have a guinea pig or a parakeet? Parakeets could at least talk a little. I once knew a Somali warlord who had a pet parrot. That's how we got him in the end. The parrot would repeat secret plans. He wasn't a particularly smart Somali drug lord. We even arrested the parrot.
Riley returned, dressed in fresh jeans and a black polo shirt. A whiff of his shampoo as he walked by stirred something in me. Was I actually becoming attracted to his damp hair?
We locked up and hit the road. Riley drove the bizarre route on which he'd followed the hoodie runner. We crossed over the same areas so many times I was starting to get lost.
"And then we came through here." He brought the car down a single road that ended in two side-by-side cul-de-sacs, one on either side of the road.
I started giggling.
"What?" Riley asked.
I shook my head. "It's a testicul-de-sack!" I lost it at that point, collapsing in laughter.
Riley frowned and stared at the road. "You've got to be kidding me."
Tears were running down my cheeks. "Testicul-de-sack! Get it?" I pointed.
He nodded. "Yes. I get it. And it is funny. But this is serious!"
Mint Cookie Murder Page 9
