Undercover Genius (15 page)

I’d seen her across the street, so I knew she was watching
the whole scene. I trusted she was keeping an eye out for Gorilla Boy, who should
be making his escape down the alley about now.

“Entertainment news?” she asked warily.

“Brashton is dead and apparently the media thinks our lawyer
killed him. Can you think of any
good
questions
they might ask?”

I waited for her to run that scenario through her
encyclopedic knowledge of the media and reach the same conclusion as me.

“Probably not,” she agreed. “I’d rather be the one asking
questions. Is Nick out back?”

“Yup. He’ll escort you through the kitchen garden.”

With the reporter still shouting questions at me and the
cameraman now filming the whole street, I got up and went back inside. Riley
and friends wouldn’t risk a film crew.

I jogged down to my office with my heart in my throat and my
head pounding. I needed to find out all I could about Reggie’s death.

It would make a great deal of sense for our enemies to kill
Reggie and blame our lawyer at the same time. I knew Graham would benefit since
it was his house we wanted. Reggie’s old law firm would benefit because we
fully intended to drag their esteemed East Coast asses through some very murky
mud. And number one on my list of suspects — the shadowy Top Hat
organization that I suspected of ordering Reggie to kill Max. Reggie had had stories
to tell, names to name. I should have seen this coming.

I wished I had Graham’s banks of computers at my fingertips.
I didn’t like it that people around us were dropping like flies.

“Riley ran when he saw Mallard coming,” Nick announced with
disappointment, clattering down the stairs with Patra. “They don’t make good
hoodlums anymore.”

The phone rang.

I waved everyone to silence while I answered the phone.
Oppenheimer’s secretary was on the line.

“Mr. Oppenheimer regrets that he will be unable to pursue your
case,” the poor secretary said. I could tell from her voice that she hadn’t
wanted to call us — for good reason. I wasn’t about to be reasonable.

“Tell Oppenheimer not to be a chicken-hearted turd. We’ve
paid him a substantial sum, and we’re not letting him off the hook. He can help
us find out who really killed Reggie and why. Tell him to hire a detective if
he’s incapable of asking the right questions. We’re not taking no for an
answer.” I hung up and smiled wickedly at my listeners. I didn’t have to let
them know how worried I was.

"And now we start hunting Reggie’s murderer as well as
Bill’s,” I told them.

My declaring we were about to become detectives didn’t
deter Nick from heading out for the evening. Nor did it stop Patra from
exchanging notes with Sean at the fake Irish pub on the corner. Heaven forbid
that I should interfere in their social lives just because I didn’t have one.

Before I started my own detecting list, I located EG in my
bedroom, pecking away at my laptop. She had a clear view of the street from my
desk and her slightly battered spyglass beside the computer.

“I don’t suppose you’re doing homework?” I leaned over her
shoulder. She was Googling Broderick Media.

“In one sense of the word, yes,” she said in a clipped
snotty tone. “If this is to be my home, then I’m working to protect it.”

“I don’t see any Gatling guns. So, are we chasing Reggie’s
trail or the beanbrain who’s been spying on Patra?”

"Leonard Riley, investigative reporter, fired by
Broderick Media after being convicted
and
sued for invasion of privacy over telephone hacking the vice president of
the United States. Apparently the Secret Service was displeased. That was back
before 9/11.” She called up a back issue of the
Washington Post.
“There’s a different media conglomerate in the UK currently
sued for tapping the phones of public officials. They must have picked up a few
tips from BM.”

I quickly scanned the story. “I don’t think Leonard’s little
misadventure begins to compare with the English variety,” I pointed out. “The
UK media directly hacked the queen and the prince and everyone down to the baby
sisters of rock stars through some antiquated phone system. It’s tougher to hack
U.S. phone systems. If he actually tapped the vice-president, he needed someone
with equipment on the inside. Different sort of operation.”

“That’s what I thought.” EG brought up another tab with the
image of a portly, white-haired gent wearing a shit-eating smile that made my
guts grind.
Dr. Charles Smythe, leader of
the Righteous and Proud
, read the caption, but I would have recognized a
sleazy snake-oil salesman anywhere. Half the members of Congress wore that
expression. The other half just weren’t as pretty. Not that I’m prejudiced or
anything.

“Why Smythe?” I asked.

“Dr. Smythe,
a former aide
to the vice president of the United States
, recently appointed to the
R&P’s newly-created executor’s position,” she read aloud. My own personal
evil genius pointed to a figure in the background of the photo.

The figure looked like our rotund reporter, a few pounds
lighter. The story date was roughly ten years ago — way beyond our concern.
I waited for explanation.

“Dr. Smythe has resigned his position at the White House to
work as head of the Righteous and the Proud,” she read further into the story.
“Shortly prior to Leonard’s arrest,” she added, tabbing back to Riley’s page.

“Why on earth…” I tabbed back and forth, skimming the
articles.

Smythe had resigned from the White House not long before
Riley was arrested for tapping the veep’s private phone. The two of them were
shown together in a publicity photo — so presumably Riley knew Smythe? As
well as Broderick, because Riley had been working for BM when he’d got arrested
and fired.

Had the R&P rewarded Smythe with a paying position after
Riley had gathered inside information from the vice president’s private phone
line? The correlation of place and time were there, but not much else.

“And after Lennie left prison, he collected a small pension
from B&M, according to his credit report. The credit bureaus list him as an
independent contractor,” EG added.

“Independent contractor could mean anything. Lennie could
just be doing exactly what he said,” I reminded her. “Investigating new hires
is not unknown, although Riley could be putting his own spin on it for whatever
reason. I’ll dig in a little deeper. You did good, grasshopper, now go take
your bath and read a book about bats.”

“Once I have my Mac —”

“You’ll be dangerous, I’m aware. But we have to give Nick
and Patra a few things to do, so you can clock out now. Give the brain a rest.”
I shooed her out of my room, feeling a mother’s heart tug at recognizing her
child was a chip off the old block.

Except EG is my sister and she emulated Mata Hari Magda, and
that really was not a good thing for any of us.

Patra’s perspective

Patra leaned against the wall and sprawled her legs across
the booth seat in the dark pub. She sipped her beer and returned to tapping
through her smart phone. “Why aren’t you quizzing me about Oppenheimer and Brashton
and all those fascinating things all reporters want for this week’s gossip?”

On the bench across from her, Sean shrugged and sipped his
own beer. “Investigating a dead druggie isn’t my kind of story unless it leads
me to Graham and whatever he’s up to these days. I’ll be your media mouthpiece
on Reggie, if you need it.”

“Not happening unless Ana gives the word. You do not want to
get on Ana’s wrong side.” Patra showed him the text that had just arrived.
“She’s found another speech analyst for my father’s tape and is sending him all
the audio files we confiscated from Bill’s place.”

Sean already knew about Bill’s files and had done nothing
with the information. She had to trust him if she wanted insider information.
But she didn’t mention that Ana had figured out part of the code in her
father’s papers. That was private. “She’s scary good.”

“I agree with the scary part.” Sean eyed her text with
skepticism. “But your father is old news. What’s the point? The world’s moved
on. That war is done.”

“My apartment was incinerated a month ago, and Bill may have
just died for that
old
news
. If I’m earning a Pulitzer before
I’m thirty, I can’t ignore any story that comes my way. Bill was murdered. We
don’t know why. The cops aren’t looking. I will. Simple. Now are you with me or
not?”

“The whole family is crazy,” Sean muttered. “Do I get to
share the Pulitzer?”

“Sure, why not?” she waved her hand and shut down her phone.
“Ana says the rest of Bill’s papers are with his family. I want them. I have
tomorrow off. How about you?”

“It’s Sunday,” he pointed out. “Even the media has the day
off.”

“Yeah.” Patra sent him her sexiest grin. “That’s what I’m
counting on.”

* * *

Sunday morning, I woke up from a hot and nasty dream of a
sweaty, very naked Graham on top of me. I was so far into the dream that I
actually contemplated going upstairs and experimenting with another of his
steamy kisses. I’d have to do something about getting laid soon, but family
complicated my life. I hit the shower instead.

I took time to study my wardrobe after I got out. I’d spent
my earlier years as my flamboyant mother’s inconspicuous shadow. My comfort
zone had always been with invisibility. Disguise served a similar purpose. I
was planning on visiting a jail today. I didn’t think prison orange was the
look I was after.

So I opted for lawyerly. I really needed some black-framed
eyeglasses but sunglasses were all I owned in that department. And I owned nary
a single suit. Blazer over a tank top and khaki skirt had to do. I pinned up my
braid at the back of my head and hurried down to the dining room for breakfast.

“I thought Sunday was family errand time,” the candelabra
said with a distinctly ironic tone as I filled my plate.

“And so it is.” Since none of my family was down here for
Graham to eavesdrop on, I was perfectly comfortable talking to a hunk of
silver. That he recognized my street clothes ought to chill my bones. Instead,
the fact that he noticed gave me a cheap thrill. “Saving my family home comes
under family errands.”

“Give it up, Ana. You can’t afford to run a place like this.
I own the house. You can have use of it. Your family needs to find their own
lives.”

“I’m not content with
having
use of it,
your royal highness. I want a
right
to it. So go back to bed. I’ll let you know if you can stay
when it’s my turn.” I sat down to a lovely breakfast of English muffins and
poached eggs while Graham growled and clicked off. That’s what he got for
fogging up my dreams.

EG wandered in all sleepy-eyed and carrying a text on
chiropterology.

I raised my eyebrows. “Rodents kept you up all night?”

“Bats are not rodents,” she said scornfully. “They’re
mammals and more closely related to us than rats. Scientists ought to be using
them for experimentation instead of mice.”

I figured I ought to get credit for guessing that her text
was about bats, but arguing with a nine-year-old is batty. “Nice. I know a few
mammals I could suggest for lobotomy experimentation. Why mutilate poor bats?
Did you get the one out of your room yet?”

“I think he’s hiding in my closet.” She dropped the book
beside her plate and poured juice. “What are we doing today?”

“You and Nick are doing laundry. I’m helping Oppenheimer win
our case. We ought to send Patra grocery shopping just to keep her out of
trouble.” I savored the last sip of my tea and wondered if donuts were an
appropriate bribe at a jail. I’d never been inside an American one.

“They have a traveling bat exhibit at the zoo,” EG said,
intruding upon my reverie.

And that was the kind of family expedition we were supposed
to have on Sundays. Properly chastised, I grimaced and got up. “Okay, do the
laundry, tell Patra she’s going with us, and we’ll check it out this afternoon
after I get back.”

We were hardly the modern American family, but our time
division involved the same kind of choices. Did I work long hours to keep our
lavish home, or find a cheaper place and stay home with the kid on weekends?

I wasn’t any more temperamentally suited to staying idle
than Magda was. I really had to quit blaming her for our miserable upbringing.

The D.C. Correctional Facility was on the opposite end of our
mansion-studded area of town. I took the Metro to challenge my navigational skills.
I’d already researched the facility and knew the only way I was getting inside
today was by being a lawyer. I’d made a few phone calls. It’s amazing what a
little advance legwork can do.

Because he was a lawyer, Reggie had been given a private
cell. Or maybe because someone needed him alone to murder him, which might
implicate jail employees in his murder. Not a happy thought.

A few months ago, I’d found a backdoor into police files, and
I’d used it this morning to read the report on Reggie’s death. He’d been
poisoned with cyanide — a really crude choice.

According to the police report, Reggie’s collapse had been public
and noticeable. Cyanide poisoning is nasty. If Reggie’s jailers had acted a
little faster, he might have lived long enough to have permanent brain damage.
Instead, they assumed he was in withdrawal and ignored his convulsions too
long, and he’d died at the hospital.

Someone had tried to make it very obvious that our boy had
been murdered by our lawyer.

At the main entrance to the detention center, I produced the
fake ID I’d created for myself when I was studying money laundering. Since I had
already called ahead to get on the appointment roster, the guard had no reason
to examine my credentials closely. I had even found the name of the occupant of
the cell across from Reggie’s — Lemuel Hackman — and arranged a visit with
my “client.” The success of my foray depended entirely on Hackman’s
cooperation. I’d done my research there, too.