The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (17 page)

Then again, I’m so hungry to be kept in the loop, so yeah, I’ll bite.

I frown, as if I’m contemplating my answer. In truth, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it.

He’d claim I’m obsessing over it. Okay, maybe I am, but he doesn’t need to know it. “I agree with you that the event they’re targeting has got to be something big, as opposed to past incidences, when ISIL’s victims have been those who are in the wrong place at the wrong time. But my guess is that it’s also something that is flying under the radar of the general public, which is why Emma isn’t picking up on it. And whereas other countries have caved in to its ransom demands, the Americans and the British have refused to do so, on principle. But what if this time around, the captives have such high profiles that the countries have no choice but to pay the ransoms?”

Jack stops chewing as he contemplates this. “Interesting deduction.”

“Was Arnie able to gather intel on the private jet that took Tatyana out of Damascus?”

Jack nods. “It belongs to something called Graffias International. It’s an privately held corporation headquartered in Geneva. Its primary business is banking and investments, but it also has its hand in software development and transportation.”

“In other words, it could be a front for the Quorum, or at the very least, laundering dirty money.”

“We’ve come to the same conclusion. Emma is researching it now. Hopefully, we’ll soon have a full list of Graffias’ assets, investments and subsidiaries, not to mention its executive committee.”

“Jack, have you asked the State Department for a list of any and all foreign dignitaries who may be slipping into town during the week in question–if not for a public appearance, then for fun and games?”

“We have. They claim there are none on the horizon. I’ll push for them to verify it again.”

“What about our highest-ranking officials?” I ask. He knows I mean POTUS and FLOTUS. But Jack despises Lee and Babette Chiffray so much that I avoid saying their names whenever possible.

“You mean, like President Chiffray?” Jack’s smile flattens into a frown. “We’ve already checked his itinerary, as well as that of the Vice President, the Secretary of State, and the First Lady. None of them will be on this coast anytime soon.”

He takes his empty plate to the sink. He doesn’t look at me as he adds ever so nonchalantly, “By the way, have you heard from Lee lately?”

I frown. “You know I haven’t. Why would you even ask?”

“Chill out. I only asked because he always makes it a point to call you when he’s headed this way.”

I shake my head. “Not anymore. Lee agreed with me that with Carl dead and my retirement from Acme, there was no need for further communication. You already know this, Jack.”
 

He shrugs. “You haven’t been exactly forthcoming these days. For all I know, things may have changed between you two.”

Forthcoming? Ha! He’s one to talk.
 

Noting the wary look on my face, he adds, “Trust me, it isn’t my idea. For some reason, Ryan is convinced that POTUS will divulge anything to you–even state secrets. If, for any reason he’s keeping a trip out here on the down-low, it would help Acme to know about it. In fact, it could be a game changer.”

I smile sweetly. “Will it mean an upgrade in my status from its need-to-know basis?”

“You know as well as I do that it’s standard Acme protocol to downgrade all retiring agents the minute they give their notice.”

“In that case, I’ll think about it, but no promises. Ha! I never thought that I’d have your approval to communicate with Lee Chiffray!”

“You have a nasty little habit of doing whatever you want, with or without my permission.” He shrugs. “For some odd reason, you find him endearing. So, why not use every asset at your disposal–including Lee–to help Acme? Besides stroking your ego as you go on your merry way out the door, it may actually save innocent lives.”

I’m so angry that the mallet slips out of my hand–a good thing for Jack, considering my aim. “Jack Craig, the way I see it, my relationship with Lee Chiffray has nothing to do with my ego, and everything to do with yours.”

He nods grudgingly. “Yes, okay, I’ll admit it. I hate that you find him so captivating.” His eyes seek out mine. “Now it’s your turn to be honest–if not with me, then with yourself, Donna. Do you really want to retire? Frankly, I get the feeling that you’ve had a change of heart.”

“Even if I did–and I haven’t, mind you–it’s too late for that.”

“Not as far as Ryan and I are concerned. The decision is yours to make–or not.”

I wipe away a tear. “Have you forgotten that two women are dead on my watch–all because they wanted to take my place?”

Suddenly, he’s at my side. “Jesus, Donna! Don’t blame yourself for what happened to Jenny and Pucci.”

“But I do, Jack! I’ll admit it–Ryan is right. I wasn’t supposed to be hosting them to a girls’ night out. I was supposed to be training them to keep their eyes and ears open at all times! Instead, I encouraged them to let down their guard.”

“You were only doing what all good handlers do: establishing mutual trust with your assets before sending them out into the field. You can’t assess, let alone train them, if you don’t first know their strengths and weaknesses.”

I nod, but the truth is I don’t feel any less guilty about it.

His arms go around me. “If it’s any consolation, from what I’ve read in Tally’s dossier, you won’t have any issue gaining her trust–or for that matter, catching her off-guard. She’s trained to be on high alert at all times.” He kisses me tenderly. “And as soon as she’s up to speed, you’ll be free to focus on the kids–if that’s what you really want.”

“I do,” I murmur.

I just never realized how hard it would be to give up something I’m good at, just because it’s time to do so.

The address that the photo booth dude texted back to me is located in a large warehouse in Culver City. Oddly, there isn’t any signage on the roll-up door, just a number on the side of the building.

I knock several times before he finally answers. He’s over six feet, a thin string bean of a guy with a scruffy goatee. Above and beyond that, he looks harried, as if I’ve interrupted something important.

“Enter,” he says curtly.

The hallway is dark because every door is closed except for the one at the very end of the hall. As we pass the third door on the right, I hear a smack, then a grunt.

“Those are my models. You see, I’m in the middle of a photo shoot,” he explains before I have a chance to ask. “This party booth stuff is just a way to make a quick buck. My true vocation is art house photography.”

Intriguing. “What exactly does that mean?”

“I come up with scenarios that reflect some topic involving an unconventional human plight, then pose models with the right look around set pieces that demonstrate society’s callousness.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

He snorts at my joke. “You can say that again.”

When we enter the open door, I turn around to face him and catch him scrutinizing me from top to bottom. “Fascinating! Hey, um, have you ever done any modeling?”

“Me? No. Why do you ask?”
 

“You’ve got a great look. I bet you photograph sublimely.” He splays his thumbs and index fingers into right angles and holds up his hands so that I’m framed between them.

Sure, I’m flattered. I smile seductively. “How much does it pay?”

“Two hundred an hour.” He rubs the lipstick off my front tooth.

Hopefully, that hasn’t killed the moment for him. So that he knows I’m still game, I pluck his business card out of his hand. “Give me your card and I’ll keep it in mind.” Since I’m soon to be unemployed, maybe I can keep it in mind as a part-time income source.
 

Not to mention, I won’t have to worry about blood splatters and bullet holes in my silk blouses.

His showroom contains three photo booths of varying sizes, as well as a rolling wardrobe rack containing a hodgepodge of costumes, hats, boas, wands and other toys. Some of the costumes are pretty risqué, as if he robbed a Halloween store. The randy schoolgirl, the dominatrix, a baby doll peignoir, the stripper cop, you name it.

A basket beside the rack contains a few adult toys.

I pick up a dildo. “I’m hiring you for a middle school prom, so don’t bother bringing these.”
 

He giggles weakly. “Hey, you’d be surprised what kids play with nowadays.”
 

I don’t giggle back.

Hastily, he picks up a brochure and hands it to me. “Each booth takes four photos per sitting. You’re charged by the hour, starting at seven hundred bucks for three hours, for the smallest booth. You end up with two four-shot photo cards per shoot.” He points to the one on the right. “It’s the cheapest because it holds just four people at a time, and you only get two four-shots. Usually, the kids like to pile in, and everyone wants a four-shot, so it probably isn’t your best bet.”

“And the prices on the other two?”

“Nine hundred and eleven hundred.”

Yowzah
.

All of a sudden, I hear sirens. They seem to be getting louder and coming this way.

He must hear them, too, because he quickly adds, “Look, tell you what–I’ll give you the largest booth at a discount–”

There’s banging on the door. Someone yells, “Open up! Police!”

Photo Booth Dude winces, but continues his spiel: “–say, the same cost as the middle booth! And I’ll throw in four photo cards instead of two. Whattaya say to that?”

A loud crack can be heard as the door gives way. Photo Booth Dude takes a step back, better to see what’s happening down the hall. “Wait here, okay?”

As if.

Instead, I head for the rear exit.

Too late. From what I can see just looking out the window, a line of cops are in the back too.

There’s one other door in the room. I keep my fingers crossed that it’s another exit, but it isn’t. It’s an office with rows and rows of file cabinets. Next to it is a small bathroom.

I open a drawer and pull out some files.

Surprise, surprise: Photo Booth Dude shoots porn stills.

Not only that, many of the pictures include underage teens, both male and female as well as couples and ménages of mixed and same genders, all in various states of undress, desire, nudity, and kids-gone-wild salaciousness.

In other words, the same sort of poses they’d probably text to their hotties’ heart’s desire.

Interestingly enough, most of the pictures are four-to-a-card, indicating that they were taken in his photo booths.
 

They kept their copies, and he keeps the negative. My guess is that he sells them online.

Darn it, I snag my skirt as I climb out the bathroom window, just as the police make it into the office.
 

By the time Photo Booth Dude and his two underage models are doing their perp walk, I’m safely back at my car.

This is one vendor I can tell Penelope we’re crossing off our list.
 

When I call Penelope to tell her about Photo Booth Dude, she’s livid. “I can’t believe it! He came highly recommended!”

I snort. “By whom?”

“Why, by my husband, Peter…” Her voice trails off as the light finally goes on in that dim bulb she calls her mind. Then: “Never mind! In fact, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Which band have you lined up?”

“Band? The kids would much prefer a deejay, so that they can dance to all the music they like–”

“Are you kidding? A deejay is déclassé. If this party is to be a hit–a sell-out–we need a headliner. Open your binder to page eighty-seven.”

“I don’t have it on me,” I growl.

“Go get it, then. I’ll wait.”

She’s got to be kidding. Okay, then, I am, too. I file my nails for a few minutes. When enough time has passed, I pick up the phone. “Yeah, okay, I’m on the right page now.”

“Then you see who I’m talking about, don’t you? You see how big this is don’t you?”

“Um…yeah, sure.” I feel as if I’m talking to a maniac off her meds.

“Donna, haven’t you heard of her? We’re talking Taylor Swift? Beyoncé…BIG! Katy Perry…BIG! Leonardo Cuthbert handles some of the top musical acts in the country!”