Mint Cookie Murder (23 page)

"I guess we just see who shows up and…" He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, "…whoever doesn't." (Insert creepy, "dun, dun, dun," music here.)

I looked at him, and not just as treacherous cookie thief. "How can you be so cold? We're talking about our family here!"

"And there's nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn't someone we like."

Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn't miss too much.

I picked up my cup of coffee. "We didn't mess up in Chicago, did we?" My mind raced to remember the details.

Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed. "No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way."

"Thanks." Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death. Of course, we'd done such a good job, the police didn't even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain smoking son-of-a-bitch's condoms with pure nicotine (which of course, killed him). That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn't look "tampered with" on the other hand, was not.

"Maybe it's nothing," I murmured. "Maybe they're going to give us an earlier retirement age." Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don't. I mean, Grandma's pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There's definitely something to be said for loving what you do.

Dak laughed. Pushing a stray lock of sand-colored hair off his forehead, he replied, "Could be Uncle Lou has found a new poison."

I perked up. Poison was my specialty. Everyone in the family had a favorite way of killing people, even though we were required to cross-train. With my brother, it was asphyxiation and/or strangulation. And while I should probably worry about that, it made us a good team because we both liked to make each job resemble death by natural cause. Of course, occasionally we ran out of time and had to leave the scene of the crime with a plastic bag still on the victim's head, but that happened only once when I'd been running late from picking up Romi from preschool. And Romi always came first. I had to have my priorities straight, after all.

Most gigs took place in other parts of the country. We had to maintain discretion. But occasionally, the job had to be local. We were
supposed
to get more time to plan those. Oh well, Murphy's Law, blah, blah, blah.

"I haven't heard any gossip," I said absently.

"Maybe with Delhi turning fifteen, and Alta and Romi turning five, they just want to focus on the ritual?" Dak offered, albeit not helpfully.

"I don't know…they've never done that before." And there it was. My baby would learn about the family. She'd start practicing with the chemistry set and sniper rifle that came standard with the blood oath.
Ooooh
, I hoped she would get the new, tricked-out Remington with laser sites! What? It wasn't different from First Communion, a Bat Mitzvah or Quinceañera. Right?

Dak slapped the table, startling me into spilling my coffee. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it until we get there." He rose and kissed me on the cheek. "I gotta run. I need a new swimsuit for the trip." He punched me in the arm and left with a wink.

I guess I'd have to start packing soon. The reunions were always held at Santa Muerta, a private island the Bombays owned off the coast of Ecuador. Hmmm, the weather would be hot. And as beautiful as it was there, I wasn't sure I wanted the family to see me in a swimsuit.

Who was I kidding? Everyone was going to be way too paranoid to notice I'd put on a few pounds. And then, I thought about Romi.

Picking up the phone, I called my cousin Liv (short for Liverpool, if you're keeping tabs on the place-name thingy. And if anyone had a right to hate her name, Liv took first prize). She answered on the first ring. The Bombays practically invented caller ID.

"You got it?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yup. You?"

"Yeah. I'll be over in five." On that, she hung up.

Actually, she made it in four minutes flat. Assassins really know how to kill time. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.) I let her in and we went into the kitchen, where I poured her an iced tea.

I loved my kitchen. I hated cooking, but I loved the kitchen. Considering that I dealt in death so much, I had filled the room with bright, cheery colors. The paint was yellow, and the curtains and potholders were citrus green. It was the room of my denial. And for me, sometimes denial was better than most orgasms. Not that I had been on the receiving end of an orgasm in a while. Try years…

Liv sipped her tea, then set it down, "I hate this."

I nodded. "Me too."

"I'd say it's not fair, but there's nothing I can do about it."

"Well, we went through it and survived," I mused, realizing I was parroting Dak's words.

Liv shook her head. "I never wanted this for Alta."

"Woody took it in stride…" I started.

She raised her right eyebrow. "I know, but he's a boy. I don't mean to sound sexist, but they're different." She wisely avoided looking at me. (I hated that "boys are different" crap.) "So you're okay with it?"

"Not really. But there's no alternative."

And there wasn't. Things are pretty black and white when your options are either live or die. And as far as I knew, no one had ever tried to get their kid out of the ritual.

Liv tapped her fingers on the counter, her eyes a million miles away. She was gorgeous, kind of in an earth mother/cold-blooded assassiny sort of way with long, black hair, soft brown Bambi eyes (that could turn you into stone when she was pissed off), and no makeup necessary. Who else would name her kids Woodstock and Altamont? She specialized in political kills. Especially neoconservatives. I kind of envied her that. Lately, I'd just been getting crooked lobbyists and tobacco execs. Booooorrring.

Liv and I had always been close. Being the same age will do that. Her husband, Todd, was one of my best friends. He was a great guy, funny and smart. He was laid back, not minding the "family business" at all. Marrying a Bombay hadn't changed him.

"What does Todd think?"

Liv smiled, "He's spent years preparing for this day—the day his baby girl becomes a professionally trained killer. He's more interested in her survival than anything else."

I nodded, "Since we have to do it anyway, maybe we can train them together…you know…ease them into it gently?"

She perked up. "Okay. Maybe we can work something out."

While most women sitting in a kitchen might discuss the weather, local schools, and Oprah, we chatted for about an hour about a new garrote Liv had come up with that didn't leave telltale lines on the victim's throat. Earth-mother beauty or not, that girl was as strong as an ox when it came to throttling someone. We avoided the "other issue" of which family member had a target painted over his or her picture in the Portrait Hall of Santa Muerta. It wasn't really coffee klatch material.

"Let's have lunch tomorrow," she suggested as she ran out the door.

Sure, I thought as I rinsed the glasses in the sink, she had a husband to help ease the guilt. I had to make the decision myself.

What was I thinking? Of course Romi would go and take the blood oath. I wasn't going to risk her life for a simple bloodletting and do-it-yourself murder kit. (Especially if it included the new Remington S-2000.
Yum
.) Besides, it would be ten years 'til her first kill. So I had some leeway there. I shoved these thoughts aside.

I had something more important to worry about. The reason for the quickie reunion, basically. I did a mental head-count of the thirty-five blooded members of the Bombay clan. But nothing remotely resembling an idea came to me, so I gave up.

I resigned myself to waiting. Well, and mapping out the basement to prepare for Romi's training. I made a list of things I would need: fifty-pound heavy bag, strong piano wire, archery set, mannequins, and night-vision goggles. They were put on the shopping list next to potatoes and milk. I could stash the chemistry set in the corner, near the windows for ventilation. But I didn't have a room long enough to shoot a .22 sniper rifle.

With a sigh, I opened the phone book to find shooting ranges. I had a lot to do today, and finding a swimsuit that would take off twenty pounds simply wasn't on the list.

CHAPTER THREE

"You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style."

~Vladimir Nabokov

Borders Books was, as usual, crowded. I tried the search computers to find a book in the children's area on assassination, but came up blank. I guess that shouldn't have come as a surprise. What did I expect? Titles like,
Harold and the Purple Silencer
,
Good Night Moon…Sleep with the Fishes
, or
Dick & Jane Poison the Federal Witness
?

I ducked into political science and scanned the titles, looking for something simple, like a pictorial guide to assassination. I found one book, but it was all amateur hits like John Lennon, President Ford, and Abraham Lincoln. Oh well, I guess that would have to do. The photos weren't too gory, and they had the Rasputin story (one of my personal faves) in there, so I thought it might work.

"Excuse me," purred a male voice with a thick Australian accent.

"Oh, sorry. I'm in the way." I turned to see who had the delectable, come-hither voice and found myself face to face with the most gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes on.

"No, you're okay. I just wondered what time it was." He smiled, and I melted into an embarrassing, oozing puddle.

"Um," I looked at my wrist, "Eleven-thirty." How's that for sparkling conversation?

He grinned, his eyes wrinkling in the outer corners, and I thought I was gonna die. "Thanks."

Look for a ring! Look for a ring!
I had the ability to observe things so discreetly no one knew I existed. Unfortunately, hot Aussies tripped up my mojo. I was convinced he saw me look at the ring finger of his left hand.

"Sure. Anytime."
Anytime? What the hell does that mean?
I wouldn't mind running into him anytime, but I was making no sense.
Mental note—don't accept jobs where you have to hit men who have accents.

The God-Among-Men (I had the habit of giving people names with a Navajo kind of ring to them.) laughed and walked away. I just stared with my jaw open until he disappeared. Grace Kelly, I was not.

An hour later, nestled in the corner of the café with a huge slice of Death by Chocolate cheesecake (I love that name.) and a large mocha latte, I found myself wondering if I really could kill someone with chocolate cheesecake. No, that would be a waste of perfectly good chocolate. Most of my hits didn't deserve to die so richly.

"Interesting books you have there." The Aussie was back.

I looked around. No, he was definitely talking to me!

"May I join you?" he asked, "There are no other open tables, and I'm intrigued by your reading list."

I nodded like a bobble-head doll, and he pulled up a chair.

"Diego Jones." He held out his right hand, and I took it.

"Ginny Bombay." I returned his shake, and felt my cheeks go hot as he examined my boobs…I mean books.

"
Political Assassination
,
Assassination through History
,
Encyclopedia of Assassins
," he read through the titles casually, "and
Assassination Vacation
?" He held up one book.

"Oh, that's by Sarah Vowell. She's one of my favorite writers." It was true. I'd loaned my copy to Dak, and he'd promptly lost it. It was a very funny book about her pilgrimages to presidential assassination locales. I liked funny.

"So," Diego began, "Ginny Bombay?"

I braced myself to hear the same joke I'd heard for the past…well hell, all my life.

"Would that be short for Virginia?"

What? A real conversation with no joke regarding the implied alcoholic content of my name? I should jump him before he realized what an idiot I was.

"Wow. You're good. Most people come up with something far more lame when I introduce myself."

Diego laughed again. "Not me. My mum was eccentric in choosing her kids' names too."

"Oh, really?" I tried to act casual as I unwittingly sprinkled salt into my latte.

Diego raised one eyebrow. I casually set down the salt shaker as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Mum was an artist back in Sydney. She had a thing for the Mexican muralist, Diego Rivera. My sister got it worse. She's Frida Kahlo Jones."

I laughed. "My family is hung up on place names. My brother is Dakota and my mom is Carolina."

He chuckled, with those delightful wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyelids. I tried very hard not to swoon. At least, not obviously. He was perfection. Dark, wavy hair, cool James Dean sideburn slivers, smiling blue eyes and the most gorgeous white teeth.

Diego took a forkful of salad and I fantasized about being that fork—especially having his tongue slide over my tines.

"So why this particular subject?" He gestured toward my tower-o-terror.

Fortunately, I wasn't too distracted. I went into cover mode, telling the story I'd used for years. "I'm in executive protection. Just occupational curiosity, I guess." Claiming to be a bodyguard had worked well for me over the years. It explained my bizarre reading habits and chaotic work schedule. Yep, my cover had always been 100% reliable and unshakeable.

"No kidding? That's what I do!" Diego grinned.

Okay, not so unshakeable. "Really?" I asked, hoping he was teasing me. I'd never met any bodyguards in person before. I usually just had to slip around them unnoticed. Well, there had been that one time when Dak and I had gotten jobs
protecting
our hit. That had been hysterically ironic.

Diego nodded. "Absolutely. Whom do you work for?"