Undercover Genius (23 page)

“Journalists?” he asked warily.

“I would think you’d at least recognize a professional
questioning technique. Unless you’re recognizing anyone from the nightly news,
the journalists would be the voices you can’t identify,” I said. “I’m looking
for a connection to BM, unless R&P has their own media.”

“The R&P subsidizes a lot of right-wing media. Where do
you think BM gets their shit?” he said with journalistic cynicism. “There are
several files labeled ‘interview.’ Maybe I should listen to them.”

“Sounds like a good way to put yourself to sleep, but it
would be nice to know if BM was involved,” I agreed, only because knowledge is
power. I certainly didn’t see the connections. Yet. “What have the police found
out from the arsonist they caught?”

“That Toreador is a small time thug with connections to the DeLuca
crime syndicate. They got him out on bail,” he said dismissively, as if he
hadn’t just handed me a huge puzzle piece. “And what the hell am I looking for
if I listen to these files?”

“For who killed Bill, of course. So far, I can’t tell that
he stirred any particular nests on the day he died. Although…” I tapped my
pencil against my desk. He’d called his mother three times that day. And they
weren’t exactly friends, as I’d originally thought. I needed to look closer
into EB — Ernest Bloom?

“Ana?” Sean called through the line. “Are you still there?
What was that ‘although’?”

“Families are complex structures,” I told him. “Maybe
Machiavelli should have said keep your enemies close but your families closer.
Certainly would have been smart in his case. Thanks, friend, I owe you.” I hung
up.

The phone rang again but I switched it off and dived into
the life and crimes of Carol Bloom and family.

Patra’s perspective

Later that morning, sitting in her cubicle, Patra
concluded that Ana got lost in the details and ignored the big picture. Ana
thought ferreting out Bill’s killer would lead her to Patrick Llewellyn’s death
and wanted all the pieces to fit neatly together.

Bill’s death was puzzling but not necessarily related to the
world at large. But Broderick…there was the big picture, she decided while merrily
working her way deeper into BM’s archives, courtesy of Sam’s passwords. Sam had
promised to hide her activity if she just worked when he was available, like
now.

Broderick’s worldwide media conglomerate had the power to
buy and sell entire countries and probably had. The conversation on her
father’s tape had to be Broderick operatives. If so, his media outlets had
started wars. Voila, BM had to have killed her father for the exposé he had no
doubt been planning. She simply needed to go straight to the source and skip
the baby steps.

The problem, of course, was that the names of murderers
didn’t generally get recorded. But she had the date and location of her
father’s death, and now she could see which of BM’s henchmen might have been in
the area at the time.

The access to BM’s archives was nothing short of miraculous —
well worth the office jerkwads. As long as Sam was at the IT desk, she should
be good.

The name
Smedbetter
leaped out at her from a special report by Broderick Media at the time of her
father’s death. She skimmed the article.
Ernest
Bloom
had been a Broderick embed in Iraq who had obtained an interview with
General
Smedbetter through the offices
of a PR flack by the name of Charles Whitehead.

Well, shite, maybe Ana was on the right trail after all.

She did a quick search. Yup, Bill’s dad, Ernest Bloom, had
worked for Broderick. The PR flack Whitehead wasn’t on the BM roster, but
David
Smedbetter was the fat cat who’d
interviewed her. Had he been a general? Puzzles within puzzles.

Whistling, Patra used her private cell phone to put in a
call to Magda. Her mother had connections everywhere. Ana might have a problem
asking for help from their parent, but Patra used her as the best gossip source
in the world. She got voice mail, of course, but she left queries about
Smedbetter and Whitehead and threw in one about Bloom, too. Magda was more
likely to know generals than minor journalists, but one never knew.

The office manager prowled by, and Patra hastily scrolled up
her next piece on a new rock star that Rhianna had mentioned could use some
publicity. Reading the press releases was like wading through dog poo. She
gagged, typed, and challenged herself to write the article with one hand.
Awkward, but amusing as she used her free hand to call one of the other women
she’d met here and ask what was on for lunch.

At lunchtime, she cleared her computer history and caches
and left the rock star article up and running so any spare corporate spies
could see she was diligently working.

Back at her desk after lunch, she uncovered a whole file of
interviews from Iraq by Ernest Bloom — when some clown shouted across the
cubicle farm “
Zombie run! To arms!”

Everyone shoved back chairs and began talking excitedly, as
if this were a welcome party break. Patra ignored them and opened the first of Bloom’s
interviews to skim over it. Dear, dear Ernest was a military geek who fawned
all over the officer he was interviewing — Good ol’ General Smedbetter.
Interesting. The piece was entirely PR flak and showed off Bloom’s knowledge of
ammunition and weapons more than posing any in-depth questions about the status
of the war.

“C’mon, New Girl.” A jerkwad in navy blazer yanked her chair
back. “We all go.”

Patra hastily sent the interview to Ana’s anonymous email
address and closed the file before Jerkwad could read it. “I’m working. I don’t
play games,” she told him, opening a new file and picking up her phone.

“I said, we
all
go.”
Jerkwad grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the chair.

She wished she’d learned martial arts. Not a soul noticed
that she was being manhandled. She jammed her high heel into his instep, but he
was wearing combat boots.

This couldn’t be good.

The sheep hurried into the hall as if given a call to
recess.

Patra regarded tall, dark, and stupid with pretend interest
as he dragged her after the herd. “Hi, I’m Patra. And you are?”

“Public Enemy Number One. You aren’t really interviewing
Rhianna, are you?” Jerkwad’s tone reflected suspicion.

She couldn’t fight his grip without getting her arm broken.
She reluctantly joined the excited crowd in the elevator.

“My article will be in Sunday’s entertainment section. I’m
sure she’d sue if I made it up,” Patra said in her best posh Brit accent,
trying to determine what the real game was here. “Do I call you Number One or
just Pee? Perhaps Wee-wee?”

She thought Pee might murder her on the spot, but the plummy
tone always put them off.

“Profound, Lady Jane,” he said stiffly. “We don’t use our
names in the games.”

“Lady Jane was a wuss.” Who got executed, but Patra didn’t
show off her knowledge. She studied the young crowd in the elevator — none
of the seniors seemed to be involved. “If I get to be a zombie, I want to be
Boudicca.”

“Booty it is,” he agreed.

“Who’s the challenger, PE?” someone crowded into the corner
called.

“The R&P!” Pee called back. “I think they’ve hired a
ringer to get us back.”

Oh goody, Patra thought in gloom. Journalists versus
preachers. How did zombies work into that scenario? The R&P was out to bury
them?

Patra’s email attachment intruded upon my search into
Carol and Ernest Bloom and sent me down a whole new set of bunny trails. Ernest
as a militaristic BM correspondent opened an entire world of options. And this David
Smedbetter not only had initials matching those in Patrick’s files, but he’d
been promoted to general not too long after friendly fire had blown up a mosque
in Iraq and outraged the world.

I wasn’t happy with where the bunny trails led.

Unless I wanted to believe in coincidences, I was thinking
Patra had been set up when she’d found Bill, and conspiracy theories might not
be paranoid, after all.

Ernest Bloom — a BM employee and Bill’s father — had
died in the Mideast just like Patrick Llewellyn, and not too long after
Patrick’s death. No one had done an autopsy, and heart attack had been listed
as cause of death.

Mallard’s voice through the intercom interrupted my muttering.
“There is a journalist at the door, Miss Devlin,” Mallard said in a tone that
indicated
journalist
was synonymous
with
big fat dirty turdy.
“He wishes
to interview you regarding the death of Reginald Brashton.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I opened
another file. “Tell him to bugger off.”

“Yes, miss,” he intoned dryly. Mallard was a fantastic
butler. He just didn’t like being ordered around by anyone other than Graham. I
could scarcely blame him.

I had Bill Bloom’s family tree and a life line of events for
his immediate family arranged across the Whiz’s three monitors when the
intercom buzzed again. EG had my cell number and could call me directly, but
one never knew when the cops or immigration or Magda might arrive at the door.
I tried to keep lines of communication open.

“A gentleman from the
Post
and one from NBC are now camped on the doorstep,” Mallard said with impressive
dignity.

“Did someone shoot Reggie again?” I asked snidely. “Or did
they take out Oppenheimer?” My eyes widened at that horrible thought, and I
hastily switched all three monitors to different news outlets.

Dr. Smythe had been
arrested for Reggie’s murder!

Oh, fun. I’d given Oppenheimer my information on the
witness. He hadn’t wasted any time in checking it out and calling the police.

Why hadn’t he called
me
?

I called him. His receptionist said he was out and took my
number. What the devil was Oppenheimer up to?

“The reporters have not revealed the mysteries of the
universe to me,” Mallard replied as I logged into police scanner calls and
scrolled through the most recent news reports.

I was turning into Graham. Crikey. With a sigh, I used
Oppenheimer’s tactic. “Tell them I’ve just stepped out and you don’t know when
I’ll return, that you’re not my babysitter.”

“With pleasure,” he said in what sounded like gratification.
Nice that I could make someone happy.

“NBC News?” the intercom asked next. Graham. Did I hear just
the faintest hint of amusement or was that my imagination? “Your mother would
be wearing Dior and inviting them in.”

“You may have noticed — I am not Magda,” I growled with
irritation. I
hated
that comparison.
“What’s the story here? Reggie isn’t that important.”

“Dr. Smythe is. That’s quite a coup, and you should have
thought twice before giving up Smythe to your tame tiger lawyer. Smythe has
connections to every conservative politician in the country through R&P.
You really need to learn the game if you wish to live a long life. Get rid of
the news vans. They’re interfering with reception.”

I heard the speaker snap off as if some more interesting
topic had caught his attention.

I called up a local news video under the
Dr. Charles Smythe
Arrested
banner. Oppenheimer stood next to Lemuel, our star witness. Crap. Our lawyer
was grandstanding. He was getting even with the media for blaming him for
Reggie’s murder. Fair enough — we’d hired him because he got in people’s
faces. But I knew this wouldn’t be good.

Sure enough, Lemuel happily described how a Miss Lane had
interviewed him in jail and then bonded him out and found him a job. That was
bad enough. It made it sound as if I’d bribed him to pin the blame on Smythe.
But Miss Lane didn’t exist, so no one could ask me — which worked out just
fine.

Unfortunately, Oppenheimer swung the cameras away from
himself and right back at the notorious Maximillian family, the disgruntled —
and increasingly notorious — heirs whose grandfather had possibly been
murdered
by Reggie. The shyster should
have been a screenwriter. He’d practically scripted the next day’s news
reports.

Curse words sap the vocabulary and turn people into
blithering idiots. I’d encouraged my siblings to be creative in their epithets,
but I
thought
a lot of four letter
blasphemies as I scrolled through the news.

Nick called. He was not happy. “I’m due at the embassy in an
hour. What should I tell them when they ask if my sister bribed a gangbanger to
pin a murder rap on a highly respected US citizen?”

“That you found said gangbanger a job and an apartment?” I
asked with fake cheer. “Tell them that the truth will set them free? Lie
through your pretty white teeth, lad. You learned from the best of them. Lie,
evade, and ask if they need any publicity because you have national news on
your doorstep.”

“I… wait…what?”

I hung up while he was still spluttering. Nick just wanted
to vent his rage. He knew better than I did what to do. He roamed political circles
and knew where half the bodies were buried. He’d figure out the rest in another
year or two. Not me. I just wanted to kill politicians
before
they got buried. Or Oppenheimer. I’d known he was a bloated
parcel of hot air with a brain. I’d hoped he’d use that sharp mind on our
enemies, not us.

I could ask What Would My Lawyer Do? Alternatively, I could
ask what Magda or Graham would do. They were all authorities on evasion.

Personally, I preferred hiding and letting Mallard act as
guard dog. But I was trying to learn assertiveness and action rather than reaction.
Personal growth came from pushing boundaries, not just college courses.

So, my goal was to remove news vans before Graham blew a
gasket, then screw the lid down tight on Smitty so they couldn’t say I bribed a
witness. I am nothing if not focused.