Undercover Genius (26 page)

“How much of this is related to the murder of the speech
analyst?” Sean demanded, aptly enough.

“Probably most of it,” I said, glad to air my thoughts.
“Bill’s father worked for Broderick and died not long after Llewellyn in the
same war zone.”

Sean whistled. “If Bill’s family has an inside track with
Broderick, then BM isn’t likely to kill one of their own, unless he knew too
much.”

“Broderick can and has killed its own. You just saw evidence
of that today. You’re over-simplifying and not seeing the nest of snakes,” I
protested. “Patra started looking into her father’s death, trying to sell his
memoirs, and suddenly, she’s invited to interview for Broderick Media. How
likely is that? She uncovers a tape possibly implicating Broderick’s conglomerate
with media incitement of revolution and someone recommends Bill Bloom to
analyze it? The same Bill Bloom whose father used to work for Broderick in the
same war zone in which her father was killed?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” he said reluctantly. “But
if Bill was a plant, why kill him? Why not just have him hand over the tape?”

“Based on my psycho-analysis…” I said tauntingly. Sean shot
me a dirty look, but all I had was theory. “I think Bill turned coat on his
family. They didn’t like his Hispanic girlfriend, he moved out, quit talking to
them much. He’d probably been cutting himself off for some time, and his family
just didn’t realize his attitude shift until it was too late.”

“And this has what to do with the price of eggs?” he asked.

“I’m
analyzing
, so
shut up,” I warned. “I think Bill recognized at least one of the voices on
Patra’s tape without even running the speech programs. He called his mother
three times the day he was killed. If that was his father’s voice on the
recording, and Bill called his mother to verify his father was in that war
zone, or to accuse his father of something, what would Carol Bloom do?”

“Complain to anyone who would listen about heartless sons,
like any good mother,” Sean said.

“Good boy,” I said, patronizingly, ignoring his dirty look.
“Carol had Bill’s brother Ken clean out Bill’s apartment after his death. Ken
was thinking of
burning
those files —
like he’d burned his father’s files.”

“Like the files that got burned after Patra and I rescued
them?” he asked, catching on. “And Llewellyn’s files got burned? Damn. We met
Ken when we picked up those papers. Patra suspected he was the one who called
the tail. But why didn’t he just burn the files while he had them?”

“Because someone wanted to know if anyone might come looking
for them. They wanted
Patra
more than
the files.” I was getting unhappier by the minute.

“You think
Broderick
had thugs planted to follow us? He had something to hide in Bill’s place, and
that’s why they went after Patra today?”

“Snakes,” I reminded him. “Nests of them writhing around
each other. Carol also mentioned giving the boxes to R&P. I promised to do
it for her, and she thought that’s who Patra was. Did the R&P believe Patra
helped find evidence against Smitty? I’m sure the Righteous weren’t any too
Proud when Smitty got arrested.”

My phone rang and I grubbed around in my pockets until I
found it.
Nick.
“Get the job?”

“I did, no thanks to all of you,” he grumbled. “They wanted
to know if my family will continue to garner media attention because my
position is one that requires discretion. So after assuring them that we’re the
souls of discretion, I come out and discover Patra is in a helicopter, the
street is full of news vans, and I suppose you’re visiting another planet since
you’re obviously not here.”

“Poor baby,” I said, not quite soothingly. “I’m on my way.
Patra will probably be there soon if Graham hasn’t put her on a plane back to
England. But anyone who hires you for discretion is not quite playing with a
full deck. Let’s tape his voice and compare it to the Brit on Patra’s
recording.”

“I’m not speaking to you ever again.” He hung up.

Sean sent me a questioning look. I smiled, probably wearily.
“Nick isn’t into paranoia.” But I was. I needed the people on Patrick’s tape
identified pronto.

* * *

By the time we’d worked our way through rush hour traffic,
the six o’clock news was wrapped up and most of the news vans had departed.

I eyed a lingering unmarked van with suspicion and dislike.
“Friends of yours?” I asked, nodding toward the seemingly empty white Ford. The
vehicle ought to have a dozen parking tickets if it had been there all day.

Sean studied the van and shrugged. “Not that I recognize.”

Why disturb the snakes? I ignored the Ford but pulled my
hood over my hair as we got out. I’d rather not have my photo plastered on
Entertainment Nightly if it could be avoided.

I actually invited Sean in. He deserved a reward for his
heroic efforts. He studied the mansion longingly, looked at me in my grungy
army coat, then shook his head in regret. “I’m going back to look over Bill’s
files. They’re the only physical clue we have. And you need to sit down with
Patra.”

“You mean someone needs to tie her up in the basement. Tried
that once. I think she charmed a rat into nibbling her free.” I waved him off,
smiling as if I was joking.

I wasn’t, except the rat had been human. Since Patra had
only been ten at the time, Magda had arranged for him to be transported to
Siberia for kidnapping and attempted child molestation. Honest, happy Patra had
simply been puzzled that we hadn’t been pleased that she’d escaped and won the
game with her slimy adult friend.

She was older now, I told myself as I entered the house.
Sean was a decent guy. She could charm him all she liked — not my problem.
My problem was whacking off all the Hydra heads at once. Looked insurmountable
from here.

“May I take your coat?” Mallard asked as I headed for the
stairs. “The others are gathering for dinner.”

“No, you may not take my coat. And tell Graham if I find cat
hairs on it later, I’m buying a pit bull to guard it. I have to clean up. Tell
Nick and EG to start without me.”

Graham kept a cat. Now that I knew he was mobile, I also
knew he was a sneak. What irritated me most was that the damned man still
intrigued me. So I focused my concern on Patra for now. Where had he taken her?

“Shall I tell Miss Llewellyn not to wait also? She’s still
in her room but promises to be down shortly.”

Now
he tells me. I
drilled Mallard with a glare and dashed upstairs to the massive chamber Patra
had taken for herself. She opened the door before I could pound more than once.

She’s taller than I am. Hugging her is awkward. But we did
our best before Patra looked down at my grimy jacket, made a sound of disgust,
and backed off. Since she’d changed into pale blue silk dinner dress, I
understood.

“Who was in the helicopter?” I demanded immediately.

She spun in a circle, admiring the flare of the silk. “Pilot
and a hunk in a suit. It was too dark to get a good look. Very weird and James
Bondish, like something Magda would have arranged. I thought you’d sent them.
You didn’t?”

“No, I just warned Graham. Almost the same thing as telling
Magda. Where did the helicopter take you that you got here before us?” I was
dying of curiosity, but Patra seemed to be high on an adrenaline rush and not
using her head at all.

“Helicopter pad on top of some embassy not too far from
here. A security guard escorted me to the elevator, gave me directions to the
Metro, and here I am.” She finally stopped twirling to face me. “I owe you big
time, I know,” she said with only a little regret at the panic attack she’d
caused. “What happened at the gorge after I left?”

“Sean and I scampered. We’ll have to check the police
scanners. Want to explain what the devil that was about?”

She made a puzzled moue. “Pee said I was a spy. Since I’d
never met him before, I assume he’d been told I was a problem that needed to be
removed. The zombies were mad about Smitty being arrested, but they didn’t know
about it until I was over the edge. They really seemed to think it was all some
weird version of the game. I’ll have to ask around tomorrow and see what I can
find out about Pee.”

I almost had a second heart attack. “While I admire your
fortitude, I recommend you not return to Crap Media in the morning,” I warned,
trying not to scream and bash her head against a hard object.

“But that would take all the fun out of it!” she cried.
“What can they accuse me of — not dying? I want to see their faces when I
show up. Besides, I’ve already written the bones of an incredible exposé on BM.
Sam said he could get the first segment onto the AP wire without anyone
knowing. An exposé on BM coming from BM! Just think about it. It will be fun, and
then I’ll scamper, I promise. Hurry and change so we can hear all about Nick’s
new job.”

My family was officially nuts. This was why running away had
seemed my best move ten years ago. But I didn’t want to run away from my
grandfather’s house. Which meant I had to learn to deal with adrenaline
poisoning. Somehow. Strangling Patra probably wasn’t an option.

I trudged over to my grandfather’s study, locked my coat in
a filing cabinet, and hit the intercom on the lovely old desk overlooking the
street below. “Thank you,” I said, possibly grudgingly, but I meant it.

“She’s worse than Magda. Tie a bomb to her when she leaves
in the morning.”

Graham’s deep dry voice always had the power to stir my
blood. And lately, it had made me grin. In the matter of my family, we were
almost in tune. For now. “I think she’s carrying her own time bomb,” I warned.

“I should have guessed that,” he replied. “Smedbetter is the
one you need to focus on. He has something on Broderick to land him that cushy
job after he got put out to pasture. They don’t exactly travel in the same
circles otherwise.”

Graham checked out before I could tell him I’d look into it.
He knew I would, so telling him so was obviously redundant. Ernest Bloom had
interviewed a General David Smedbetter in the article Patra had sent, and the
initials DS had been in Patrick’s notes well before that. I desperately needed
to dig deeper, but family was waiting.

I didn’t own much of a wardrobe. I might have to consider
some on-line shopping soon. I showered and donned khakis with my best sweater
to pretend I was trying, then dashed downstairs to hear the current topic of
discussion at the dinner table.

This was the part of family that I loved. I almost wished
Graham would join us. EG sipped her soup and held up her iPad so I could see
the video on the rescue operation in Great Falls gorge. The zombies looked
particularly foolish with their faces falling off as they tried to explain why
two of their race members were so far off course.

The guy I’d knocked off the edge had landed in a bush and survived
with a few broken bones. They were still searching the river for Patra’s
tormenter. Oddly, not a soul mentioned Patra’s existence. It just appeared to
be a race gone strangely awry.

Patra snatched the iPad, punched a few buttons, and produced
a story on Smythe’s arrest for murdering the lawyer accused of embezzling
millions. Speculation was rife that Reggie had somehow stolen funds from Smythe
or the R&P. Oppenheimer had disappeared from the picture, although one of
the lesser rags had posted my glamorous dinner photo under
heiress.
Sweet. Not.

“What would it take to get Smythe to rat on Top Hat?” I
asked the table at large.

Nick was really the only one who understood me, and he
narrowed his eyes. “Not going there, remember? Patra’s already been targeted
just for digging around and turning up nothing. And if they could murder our
grandfather in his own home and Reggie in a federal prison, we really don’t
need to be in deeper.”

“We’re getting deeper by the minute. Princess there wants to
return to work tomorrow.” I nodded at Patra, who ignored me.

Nick rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course, she does. Do we
handcuff her or let her learn the hard way?”

“I’m not doing anything either of you wouldn’t do,” Patra
said, helping herself to the grilled salmon.

Sadly, she was right.

“We need to hack the bad guys’ phones the way Broderick
Media does to the politicians they want to destroy,” EG said, shoveling
couscous into her maw while we passed her iPad around.

All our heads turned to stare at our youngest sibling. We
hadn’t told her anything. I suspected she was making a general observation
based on her extensive reading of current events and her curiosity about the
ugly world we lived in. But she’d nailed it.

Patra’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, she produced her smart
phone and checked her list of calls. She pushed it toward me. I glanced at the
screen.

All of her calls appeared dangerous. Worse yet, she’d called
Magda. That wasn’t a big deal on its own. In light of what EG had just reminded
us of . . . If Broderick’s henchmen had hacked Patra’s phone and
knew who she was calling . . . They had damned good reason to
push her off a cliff.

“I don’t suppose this was an innocent conversation involving
cosmetics?” I asked, holding up the phone with Magda’s number showing.

“I reached voice mail. She must have called back while I was
at lunch, and I didn’t notice. I picked this up just a while ago.” Patra took
the phone back, put it on speaker, and punched up her voice mail box.

Our mother’s voice spoke clearly and succinctly. “Dear,
Smedbetter and his coalition cohort, Whitehead, were up to their ugly teeth preventing
media coverage of the Rose atrocity scandal in Kirkuk ten years ago. Broderick
owns
them. Do use safer channels to make
your inquiries next time.” In true Magda fashion, she hung up without farewells
or so much as asking after our health.