The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (29 page)

Jack pushed his way through the crowd until he could kneel over him. The front of Pinky Ring’s shirt was already soaked in the crimson blood.

No matter how hard Jack begged the dying man to explain his connection to Carl, Pinky Ring’s whispers were lost in the din of the shocked throng as his life flickered out.

Cradling him gave Jack the opportunity to pick the dying man’s coat pocket. As he’d hoped, the man’s wallet was there, as was a door key.

He also twisted off the man’s ring and slipped it onto his own finger before lurching off into the thickening crowd.
 

By the time he made it back to the Groucho, Dominic had, as the concierge so delicately put it, “retired with his other guests.” The man eyed Jack knowingly. He turned in order to pull a brass door key, embossed with the number 13.

He had a new lucky number.

Jack took the key. As he suspected, when he got to his room, Dominic had one of his other guests waiting for him there.
 

In a breathless whisper, she exclaimed,” Why, hello! My name is Delilah, and I’ve been very, very naughty!” She pointed to the whip at the foot of the bed.

As ready, willing and able as she obviously was to assume the position of a chastened waif, he sent her down the hall, to Dominic’s room.

He was glad he did not share a wall with his friend. Tonight, he needed his sleep.

Tomorrow, the battle against the Quorum would begin in earnest.

Chapter 23
Disciplinary Action
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Case File #415516-P, on the Extermination of Franz Stein, a.k.a., Frankie “The Monster” Stein, a.k.a, “Frankenstein” (the preferred nickname of those who are closest to him), and the titular head of California’s most active neo-Nazi terror cell, “Nazis for the Ultimate Terror of Society” (or NUTS for short, no pun intended):

Filing Agent: Donna Stone

The target entered the Lodi, California 24-Hour De-Lish Donut Shoppe at 02:14, a locale, which he openly frequented in the early morning hours, and in which I had secured an undercover position.

At the time, I was the only one behind the counter. The other waitress who is usually on the overnight shift wasn’t feeling too well and went home early. (Okay, yeah, thanks to the few drops of Visine I’d put in her iced tea.)
 

Frankenstein was always a big flirt with whoever was behind the counter, but that night, I made it extra easy for him to turn on the charm. In other words, I dimpled up, batted my eyelashes, and thrust Pixie and Dixie practically in his face.
 

Needless to say, he was smitten.

There was just enough hanky-panky for me to spike his dirty hippy. (Note to Ryan: Cross my heart and hope to die, this does not, repeat, does not refer to any pal he may have had along, but is in fact the nickname of his drink of choice, a Chai tea with a shot of espresso, and therefore no provocation for an unauthorized hit.) As hoped, the diuretic had him running to the little boy’s room, allowing me enough time to check the text messages on his iPhone, which he’d left on the counter. (His cell’s case is adorned with skull-and-crossbones. Why am I not surprised?)
 

The location of the meet with the Russian arms dealer, Yuri Petrovich, was in fact verified.
 

Unfortunately, the suspect reappeared just at this moment.
 

Okay, I’ll admit it—all hell broke loose.
 

Since you’re reading this, you can guess who drove away on a brand new Harley Street Bob.
 

(Well, I had to make it look like he was killed for something, didn’t I? Can I keep it? Please? Pretty please, with sugar on top? JUST KIDDING.)

Unfortunately, in my haste to leave the kill zone, I left Frankenstein’s iPhone on the counter. I left no prints, but I’m pretty certain the phone was open to the text about the meet-and-greet with Yuri.
 

When his next-of-kin (cough! Fellow skinheads) collect his belongings, do you think they’ll have his cell’s security code? Hope not. I’d hate for that little party to be called off, since the mission directive is to be there for the arms exchange, and the sanctioned extermination of Yuri.
 

–D. Stone

[Agent Disciplinary Report, in reference to Case File #415516-P]

Agent Stone was successful in the extermination, as well as in gathering intel about the upcoming rendezvous between NUTS and a known Russian arms dealer.

Despite this, while her asides are quite colorful and entertaining in their nature, it has been strongly requested (yet again) that she forego any unnecessary declarations that may compromise Acme’s ability to protect itself and its clients from political and/or legal complications.

As for the reference made to the potentially illegal confiscation of the target’s means of transportation, for the record, the property referenced above (“Harley Street Bob”) is now in the hands of local law enforcement.
 

—Ryan Clancy, Director, Acme Corporation

FILE NOTATION

To: Ryan Clancy, Director, Acme Corporation

From: Jack Craig, Mission Leader, Project Quorum
 

Told you she’d be trouble!
 
—Jack

PS: You owe me that Benjamin.

“We’ve got nothing,” Arnie declared as he tossed Pinky Ring’s dossier in front of Jack and Ryan. “His IDs are all fake. I broke the security code on his cell phone, but a lot of good that did us. It had a kill button, on a timer. When he didn’t respond with the right code within an hour, that damn thing fried its memory card.”

Jack shook his head. “Bullshit. There’s got to be something.”

Arnie shrugged. “Okay, yeah, there’s something. But nothing legit. The room key belongs to a suite in Claridge’s. He checked in under an assumed name. He was careful to leave no prints in the room, not even on the toilet seat. I found a couple of pubic hairs and sent them over to Interpol to see if they can do a DNA trace.”

“Good luck with that,” Jack muttered. “They may not have even been his.”

Ryan raised a brow. “Is that a knock against the hotel’s cleaning staff?”

Without thinking, Jack tossed the dead man’s ring with one hand, only to catch it in the fist of his other one. “Pinky Ring could have made up for the fact that he wasn’t a lady’s man by buying a playmate or two. If you found three strands of hair, they could well belong to three different women.”

“Too much information,” Emma muttered as she clicked away furiously on her computer. Suddenly she gave a long, low whistle. “Hello, Kitty! I have a facial recognition match on his morgue picture with an old photo from East Germany. He was a Stasi colonel who disappeared after the country’s reunification with West Germany.”

“Way to go, new girl.” Jack winked at Emma. She ducked her head, but not before he saw her whole face go red.

Seeing Arnie frown, Jack coughed through a chuckle. The dude needs to grow a pair and ask her out, he thought to himself.

“One more ghost the War Crimes Commission can put to rest,” Ryan muttered.

“Tap into London’s Ring of Steel,” Jack suggested. “Scan the surveillance feed at Claridge’s, for his check-in date. That way, we’ll be able to trace his path since he arrived in London, and from where.” He tossed the ring up in the air again. “We can also see where else he’s been since his arrival in London. Maybe it will lead us to information on the stolen microdot.”

“Jeez, Jack! You were right! The hairs came from three different women!”

Jack was joking when he made the assumption. Hearing he’d been right was reason to pause. He forgot about the ring to stare at what Arnie had pulled up on his computer screen.

When the ring came down, it hit the table with a loud clack—

Then landed on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

The crest popped off, revealing a tiny cell phone memory card.

Everyone stared down at it.

“Bingo,” Jack murmured. He scooped up the memory card and handed it to Arnie. “Care to do the honors?”

Arnie popped it into Pinky Ring’s phone, replacing the fried memory card. While he crossed the fingers of one hand, he entered the security code with the other.

He hooted when the phone’s security wall disappeared.

Quickly, he downloaded the phone’s contact directory, and its text messages.
 

Arnie clicked onto the phone’s photo scroll. A digital photo appeared. “He has a picture of the Hollywood sign, here in LA.” Despite swiping the screen a few times, the photo stayed put. Arnie frowned. “Seems it’s the only picture he’s taken.”

“Let me see.” Jack stood over his shoulder to scrutinize the screen. “It’s stock photography. I’ve seen that same shot in a million ads.”

Arnie’s eyes got big. “It is, but it isn’t. See this?” He pointed to the second O on the Hollywood sign. “If you look closely, you’ll see that it looks a bit wavy, somewhat out of focus. There’s a message buried within this image.”

Emma rolled her chair close to Arnie’s so she could see the screen, too. “Wow! You mean, some sort of steganography?”

Arnie nodded and turned to Ryan. “I’ll need to decode it. If cipher text is involved, it’ll go faster with Emma’s help.”

Ryan shrugged. “Get on it, you two.” He noticed Jack stifling a yawn. “You came straight over from London, so I presume you’ve been up more than twenty-four hours. This may take an hour or so. If you need to grab some shut-eye, feel free to go back to your apartment.”

Jack shook his head. “The moment I do, you’ll call me back here. Arnie’s pretty quick. I’ll just grab an empty cubicle or something.”

He spoke too soon. Acme’s offices were buzzing, a veritable hive of nervous activity. Every cubicle held a desk operative, furtively murmuring into a headset to some agent out in the field, perhaps in peril.
 

Then he remembered the rooftop garden.
 

It was a smart move on Ryan’s part, setting up a quiet space where an Acme employee could go—if only for a few minutes, to take a breath of fresh air under the perennially turquoise sky as they gazed down onto the broad boulevard below, where normal people strolled by, going about their average, uneventful days—before crashing back into the reality of a very dangerous world.

He slipped out the fire exit, taking the steps two at a time.

The bench he chose was flanked by a box hedge on three sides, and faced the ocean.
 

He stared out at it for maybe a moment, before he fell fast asleep.