Undercover Genius (32 page)

The enormous satellite van full of expensive tech rolled
straight into the smaller local TV news van in front of it. And kept rolling.
That should solve Graham’s problem. Eventually.

I ran for the house as the smaller truck angled into the
street, connecting with a car. The semi-sized vehicle gathered momentum and
rammed the next bumper in line. I was on the porch before the crashing,
swearing, and screaming reached its peak.

Mallard held the door open for me. We nodded curtly, and I
left him admiring the street scene.

Too angry and exhausted to take pleasure in the chaos I’d
created, I dragged up to my shower. Let Graham steam in his own juices. This
introvert had had all the personal interaction she could handle for one
morning. I wanted food and cold drink and my dark quiet corner of the basement.
Maybe I should be a spider like Graham, weaving webs in darkness.

I didn’t need to inquire how the news vans had found Patra’s
address. I’m sure it was on her employment application and merely a matter of
some enterprising clerk selling the information.

It was Patra I wanted to strangle. She had no right to
expose us to the world with a byline on that article. In our family, discretion
was second nature. As far as I was concerned, she might as well have pulled up
her shirt and flashed the world.

She’d better stay out of my reach for a long time. I was too
furious to even care if the cops had found dangling Leonard or left him to
hang.

Once I was showered, clean, and cool again, I donned a
T-shirt and my denim dress. I braided my wet hair as I wandered to my window to
see how the van wreck was going. We were on a slight hill, and those big
semi-sized satellite trucks carry a lot of weight. Cars and little Econolines
had been shoved willy-nilly into the narrow street or up against fences.
Security alarms wailed. Police lights flashed down the street, but the patrol
cars couldn’t get any closer. I could hope they’d collared Leonard but whether
he was back at the precinct yet was a matter of debate.

A few smart cameramen were filming the melee. The talking
heads were screeching at each other or their cell phones. People eased out of
their houses to investigate. We seldom saw our neighbors so I studied them with
interest. Looked like they were a motley international lot — made me feel
right at home. Maybe we should have a block party.

Abruptly, a voice blared from a loudspeaker directly over my
head. I nearly jumped out of my sandals and raced for the stairs before I
recognized Graham’s tactics. He’d probably have a Batman floodlight shining on Leonard
by now except it was still daylight and there was no smoke.

The loudspeaker was playing tape #1143 of Sir Archie
Broderick, Paul Rose, and the vice president of the United States being warned
that the media was manipulating Congress in support of defense and oil
industries. The part where Paul Rose warns that Graham is breaching national
security was abruptly followed by a tape of Paul Rose introducing himself at a
campaign rally, just in case anyone was tone deaf and didn’t figure out who the
speakers were.

Few of them would recognize Graham’s voice, but I could see
shock as the entire mob recognized Rose. And possibly the former VP’s
distinctive drawl. These were D.C. reporters, far more familiar with
politicians than I was.

Now that he had their attention, our resident tarantula
proceeded to play Patrick Llewellyn’s tape of Broderick minions and a general
discussing manipulating the media to foment revolution — supporting
Patra’s article if anyone recognized the voices, which they probably wouldn’t.

Except bless Graham’s evil heart, he produced an audio clip
of General Smedbetter introducing himself, followed by the voice of the Brit PR
flack Whitehead accepting a position as an attaché to the British ambassador.

I winced as Nick’s new boss was greeted by Sir Archibald
himself. Ouch. Maybe Tex would take Nick back.

The only voice identity missing from Patrick’s original tape
was the smooth-talking American politician. We’d no doubt identify him as one
of Rose’s cronies eventually. Rose seriously owed the evil triumvirate if
they’d covered up the Iraqi scandal for him.

Contrary creature that I am, I was starting to enjoy the
circus.

Cameramen climbed on top of their wrecked vans to get better
pictures of the house. Downstairs in my office, a faint alarm shrieked. The
cheap spy trap in the attic across the street had been set off. I grabbed my
spy glass and scanned the windows, but it looked like workmen in the attic,
taking in the street entertainment. No goons with holsters and no Leonard,
thank heavens. If nothing else, the circus outside prevented Sir Archie or
DeLuca from gunning for us — and I had Graham to thank for that.

He was doing his job, keeping us safe. My grandfather would
be proud — or bust a gut at the chaos usually created by me and my
siblings. Maybe our antics were starting to grow on Graham.

I still had to figure out how a D.C. gangster like DeLuca
came into play and why Smitty would murder Reggie, though. It didn’t seem to
fit the big picture, although it looked like poor Bill was the connection
between the loose ends.

Watching the world go by wasn’t the kind of physical release
I needed from the frustration of this maddening day. I still didn’t have all
the answers, but I was betting Graham did. I picked up a water gun I’d removed
from EG’s possession and filled it up.

My phone rang and Patra’s number appeared on the screen.
Holding my breath and trying not to scream, I answered.

“Your spider in the attic is totally whacked,” she said in
greeting. “I’m in a bar across from Poo Manor, watching the news reports. I
don’t think I’ll go back to the house. Where are you?”

“In said house,” I growled, “surrounded by howling animals
ready to eat us all alive — because of
you
.
Go away, little girl.”

She chuckled. “I’m probably out of a job, so I guess I’ll
have to. Maybe I’ll visit Magda in Paris. I speak passable French. Think anyone
there will hire me?”

“I’m sure Magda will be delighted to introduce you to Chaos
International. What if I ask Graham if that job in Atlanta is still open?”

“That would be
great
,”
she said.

I could almost see her perk right up. I’m not entirely
certain why I’d made the suggestion given the bedlam she’d created, but I’d
rather she was safe with us than with whatever Magda was doing far, far away. I
was reluctantly starting to appreciate the advantage of allies.

The loudspeaker broke into a rock version of the national
anthem, complete with screaming guitars. With a sigh, I headed for the stairs
to Graham’s lair to pull the plug.

“Find Nick at the embassy,” I told Patra, still carrying the
phone. “He’s probably been fired and will need a shoulder to cry on. I’ll get
back to you after I figure out how to warn EG and head her off,” I said. “And
if life is really good, Leonard Riley is singing down at Bill’s precinct. You
probably should avoid that area for now, but give Sean a call. He might still
be there.”

“Oh, I’ll do better than that. Sam’s here with me. I’m
sending him back into BM to pick up a recorder from the men’s room. While all
the good little sheep followed the leader to the street, Sam opened some kind
of line into BM’s archives. He’s downloading as fast as the cable will allow
before security gets back to their desks. Expect fireworks.”

“I’m in awe. Let’s adopt him. Gotta go.” I clicked off and
stuck the phone in my denim pocket. Graham’s office door was closed.

I opened it anyway. Our insane landlord wasn’t in his web.
His monitors were broadcasting footage of the madness below as well as the herd
of BM employees and fire engines in the street at Patra’s workplace. I’m sure
his scanner was picking up police calls to Bill’s apartment and possibly
screams of rage at the British embassy. I took a quick look around at the
monitors in hopes of seeing General Smedbetter and Sir Archie running for their
lives, but there was no footage of the airport.

Figuring he couldn’t have got far, I headed for the gym.

Graham was stripped to boxing shorts and gym shoes and
whaling the tar out of the heavy bag. Sweat streaked down his broad back, so
he’d been at it for a while. The man was as frustrated as I was if he hadn’t
even bothered watching the crowd reaction to his coup de grâce.

I’d changed into a dress and sandals so I wasn’t ready for
fun and games — not his kind anyway.

My kind, I could handle. I squirted him with the water gun.

The water gun didn’t stay in my hand for long. I hadn’t
expected it to. It accomplished exactly what I’d wanted — Graham’s full
and undivided attention.

He continued to grip my wrist even after the plastic toy
flew across the room. Despite the sweat, he wasn’t breathing heavily, but when
he dragged me up against his muscled chest, I could feel his heart pound.

“I can’t decide whether to thank you, pop champagne, or beat
the bottle over your head,” I said, before I stood on my toes, wrapped my arms
around his neck, and kissed him.

He reacted with gratifying speed, wrapping his big arms
around me and hauling me against him. His mouth was hungry, as hungry as mine.
So okay, now I knew adrenaline junkies got high on lust. My skirt rose high as
I wrapped my legs around his hips and hung on while he spun my head into new
dimensions.

We were both breathing heavily by the time the loudspeaker
silenced. Sirens screamed in the distance. Men yelled. Horns honked. A few
unmonitored security alarms continued shrieking. Graham returned me to the
floor. I took a deep breath and stepped back.

“Whatever we’ve got going is a very bad idea,” I warned.

“Probably,” he agreed with unnecessary alacrity. He reached
for me again. “But I appreciate your way of expressing gratitude.”

I dodged and grabbed the water gun. “Until you’re ready to
accept us as more than flies in your web and come down to dinner like a human
being, we’re just not doing this. I’m aware that I’m as nuts as you, but at
least I’m trying. You’re not. So stay in your attic and spin dangerous webs, if
you want. I have to go back down and deal with the real world. I just wanted
you to know that we recognize and value your efforts.”

I backed out and left him standing there with water running
off his chest. A magnificent sight. My knees still trembled and my female parts
screamed in protest, but I didn’t do casual sex anymore. I’d tried it. It
wasn’t satisfying. Usually, I could do it better myself. Graham was a whole
different set of problems, and I just wasn’t ready to deal with them yet.

Mallard was down in the kitchen watching the news on his
flip-down kitchen computer, humming to himself, and preparing an enormous
lasagna. I could smell peach cobbler cooking. I didn’t remember having lunch,
so I snatched an apple.

“Life is complicated,” I said, trying to get my head and my
priorities straight.

“For complicated people,” Mallard agreed. “I will be happy
to fetch Miss Elizabeth Georgiana.”

“You think you can escape past that madhouse?” I nodded in
the direction of the front of the house.

“Certainly. They are too busy untangling their vehicles to
bother with the street behind us. Is Miss Patra safe?”

“Miss Patra needs her panties smacked, but from all reports,
yes, she’s safe and unemployed. I’d meant to ask Graham about that CNN job, but
I’d better wait until he cools down.” Literally as well as figuratively. “I’m
assuming Nick is safe, although he may be ticked. He should be home for dinner.
I need to run down to a police station and offer a few clues.”

“Very good. I’ll hold dinner until you’ve returned. There’s
an excellent ham sandwich in the refrigerator. Don’t be too late.”

My jaw probably dropped. Mallard never made sandwiches for
me. I had to be usurping Graham’s lunch. I nearly whistled in awe as I stole
the magnificent creation from the refrigerator shelf — on a baguette, with
ripe tomatoes and curly lettuce. And some kind of fancy cheese, and mustard. I
really could get into living like this.

“Bless you,” I mumbled through chewy fresh bread.

Mallard merely smiled as he admired the news footage of Senator
Paul Rose dodging cameras.

I was more interested in catching criminals who ran over
honest hard-working geeks than caring if a politician got crucified by the
media.

Looking dowdy but semi-respectable, I scanned on-line news
articles as I took the train to Bill’s precinct. Carla hadn’t added anything
new to her website, but a few of the rowdier independent news sites had some
hilarious footage of the melee in front of our house. They particularly liked
videos of the national VIP news anchors, trailing wires and mics, awkwardly
scrambling to escape crashing vehicles and dodging the excited mob in the
street.

Several news websites carried a few paragraphs here and
there on Graham’s revelation about Paul Rose and Broderick Media being involved
in murder and revolution, but his loudspeaker voices didn’t come equipped with videos
of train wrecks. Images painted a thousand words and all that. Voices
apparently generated a big yawn. But with a few of their secrets out in the
open, the baddies had no reason to burn out Patra anymore.

The more legitimate local news websites were slow to add
material, but they had a few headlines about Archie being implicated in a
political scandal and possible affiliated crimes, nothing in depth. Yet. They’d
screw their rival to the wall as soon as they had enough evidence not to get sued.

I smiled in anticipation. With Patra’s friend Sam
downloading BM archives, we were in a lovely position to eventually give them
Archie on a skewer.

Of course, the D.C. media stayed far, far away from the
favored local presidential candidate. For now. Not my concern. I wanted Bill’s
killer.