Undercover Genius (35 page)

“I’ve got a place in Cambodia. Weather is good, servants are
cheap.”

I didn’t recognize the voice under these conditions, but the
speaker’s clipped accent sounded like General Smedbetter.

“Offshore account?” a plummy voice with a British accent
asked. “Cambodia won’t do you any good without money, and I’m not counting on
collecting my pension.”

Smedbetter and Whitehead smoking in the boy’s room.
Fascinating. What was the British attaché doing in Broderick offices? Cohorts
in crime was my guess.

“Several accounts,” Smedbetter agreed. “You’ll be taken care
of. Take the keys in the desk. The house in Mali will be ready. Better get out
tonight and use your other ID.”

The voices trailed off as they left to collect keys and fake
passports and plane tickets. Crap, just what I’d figured.

This had probably been recorded yesterday. I hoped Sam had
sent the file to the cops. Just in case, I sent it to Graham. I’d played Lone
Ranger for as long as I cared to and didn’t want to get involved again. I was
pretty sure the cops were already looking for General Smedbetter after Leonard’s
confessions, but they wouldn’t understand yet how dangerous the man was. He was
an American military hero, after all. Not going there.

Instead, I met EG at the Metro and took her clothes shopping
so we could dress for our
repast
.

I hate malls, so I’d done my research. The boutique
consignment store I’d located was all that I’d hoped. EG went wild in the
children’s section, and I found a dinner dress that I could live with — just
a sleek, knee-length silk in deep vibrant Microsoft blue. I added some
imitation sapphires set in silver and a matching clasp to keep my mass of hair
out of my face if I got brave enough to let it down.

I was daring fate, and I knew it.

EG went for purple everything, including a pair of cowboy boots.
I allowed her the purple lace tank top atrocity but not the mini-skirt that
went with it unless she bought leggings. She agreed to leggings if she could
wear the cowboy boots. I was no fashion arbiter. If that was her idea of dinner
wear, I was fine with it as long as she was decent.

We also added to her school clothes with purple jeans and a
purple sweater. I hoped that was an improvement over black.

We could hear Nick and Patra in their rooms, rummaging
about, as we carried our treasures up the stairs. Had Mallard told them to
dress for dinner too?

“What are we celebrating?” EG whispered, understanding the
implications of everyone being home and getting dressed.

“Patra getting fired?” I suggested.

She snorted with laughter and ran down the hall to her cave.

I dislike the fussiness of silk and stockings and heels, but
I’d learned from the best, and could appreciate the need to celebrate
occasionally. Life is dangerous and often dreary and survival ought to be
recognized with good cheer. We’d certainly survived a hurricane this past week.

I opted to twist my long black hair into a loose stack on
top of my head and clip it with my fake sapphires. With more hope than good
sense, I added just enough eyeliner and mascara to emphasize the exotic tilt
inherited from my mother’s Hungarian ancestors. I wanted to look good — just
in case.

My gown had long sleeves but not much back. I probably
needed a shawl or some such flummery. I wore the fake jewels and turned up the
heat instead.

I met Nick emerging from his Ali Baba cave. He’d spiffed up
in a tailored navy suit and designer tie. He offered his arm. I accepted.

“Do we know what we’re celebrating?” he asked as we
descended.

“Your deployment to Outer Mongolia?” I suggested.

“No such luck,” he said cheerfully. “Seems the ambassador
has been suspicious of his chief attaché for some while. Patra’s archieleaks
files provided the ammunition he needed to turn Whitehead in to Brit
intelligence. I’ll be assistant to the replacement attaché.”

“Very good placement,” I said, squeezing his arm. “I don’t
suppose the Brit equivalent of Homeland Security can nail Whitehead for
anything, can they? Do we even know what he did beyond encourage Archie’s
minions in their cover-ups?”

“Phone hacking, providing information warning BM of events
that might have proved detrimental to Broderick interests overseas, the usual
chicanery as far as I know. He was on retainer to Broderick Media in the UK and
acted in their interests when necessary. Stupid stuff.”

“And the walls come tumbling down,” I said in delight.

We entered the dining room to discover five place settings
prepared — Waterford crystal, the Lenox china, and the best silver, with
enough pieces to feed two armies.

Patra and EG were staring at the name cards placed at one end
of the table.

The antique dining room table was large enough to hold a
dozen people, easily. We usually sprawled up and down it with our computers and
newspapers and books. Mallard had set all the name cards near the head of the
table, where Nick normally sat.

A fabulous bouquet of hothouse flowers replaced the bugged
candelabra. Mallard had truly gone all out.

“Do I
have
to sit
here?” EG asked, indicating the card across the table from where Patra stood.

I circled around next to her. My place card was on her
right. The head of the table was to my right. Nick was directly across from me.
We both looked for a card at the fifth setting, but there was none. I wasn’t
holding my breath, but I did offer a smug smile and check to make certain my
blue gown showed what little I had in the way of curves when I sat down.

Mallard arrived carrying a silver platter of dazzling
appetizers. We took our seats across from each other without quarrel. He poured
wine and offered EG sparkling water. Even EG quit whining and politely placed
her hands in her lap and waited instead of diving into the mouth-watering
creations in front of us.

We waited some more. I wanted the candelabra back so I could
smack it and tell it the food was getting cold. Fortunately for our resident
spider, Mallard’s appetizers were already cold. Otherwise, I would have said to
heck with manners and dug in.

Mallard returned, solemnly bearing a wide-screen laptop as
if it were the pièce de résistance. He removed the china and silver at the head
of the table, opened the laptop, and stepped back, as if awaiting more orders.

The screen lit up. Graham, wearing white tie and a tux,
filled the center, looking like some really ripped version of James Bond. In
the background wasn’t his usual spider’s lair but what appeared to be gold
tapestries and a polished desk. Not that anyone else at the table but me would
recognize his image. They might recognize Graham’s voice from his intrusive
habits though.

“I regret that current events prevent me from joining you at
dinner as planned,” he intoned. “Elizabeth Georgiana, your purple plume is very
fetching.”

We all stared at EG. She was definitely wearing a plume in
her purple-streaked hair. The damned man could see us!

“I thought as long as you were dressed for a celebratory
occasion, I might offer a little information that may or may not please you to
add to the festivities.”

He didn’t smile. With his dark hair properly combed, the
scar along his hairline was barely visible. Nick and Patra were gaping. I
scowled and forked an appetizer off the plate.

“Please, go ahead and eat,” he said dryly.

“Darn right I will,” I told him. “And don’t think this
counts for anything.”

His eyes crinkled as if he almost smiled. “Of course not.
Heaven forbid. To feed your insatiable curiosity, I provide this.” He switched
the screen from him to a video but we could still hear him. “This came in from
the coast of South Africa.”

We watched an enormous yacht bucking waves in a torrential
rainstorm. It was hard to make out anything through the gray waves of wind and
rain. An unidentifiable newscaster began speaking.

“It’s been reported that Sir Archibald Broderick has been
washed overboard from his yacht, the
Titan3
.
The reports are as yet unconfirmed. SOS signals have been received and the ship’s
crew are reporting they’re taking on water. Navy ships are on their way.”

EG was clueless and happy with her cheese puff, but Nick and
Patra gasped in horror.

“Convenient,” I said dismissively. “He’s probably meeting Smedbetter
in Cambodia. Broderick has homes scattered around the world. They won’t find
him, even if they’re looking, which I assume this video will prevent.”

“Perceptive,” Graham said, flashing back to himself. A
shadow crossed behind him, so he wasn’t alone. I memorized the background so I
could search for it later. “Tying up another loose end . . .” He
changed the image again.

This time, we saw a large group of people with candles
kneeling outside the prison where Brashton had died. The news announcer
intoned, “Members of the Righteous and Proud are praying tonight for the health
of their leader, Dr. Charles Smythe, who is said to have suffered a heart
attack while awaiting trial for murdering Reginald Brashton.”

Graham silenced the announcer to interrupt. “He was offering
to hand over all his audio files in exchange for a manslaughter charge. The
authorities are considering it, should he survive. I’ve advocated a witness
protection program.”

“What are the chances it wasn’t a heart attack?” I asked,
reaching for another of the pesto bruschettas. The platter had almost been
wiped clean already. This was better than popcorn but the entertainment left a
bit to be desired. EG was glancing down at her lap. I suspected a hidden
tablet.

“Tests are being run,” Graham agreed. “Smythe has been
removed to an undisclosed location. Nicholas, there is a bug in the attaché’s
desk lamp. The feed goes to security and is filtered for sending to the
ambassador. Use it wisely.”

Nick flicked a finger to his forehead in an informal salute,
not offering a single snarky comment. I sent him a glare.

“Patra, the CNN job is yours, if you want it,” Graham
continued. “It involves travel, which I understand isn’t a problem for you.”

“I’m in,” she said cheerfully, tipping her wine to the
screen. “Do I have you to thank?”

“Your intrepid reporting has been noticed,” Graham said
dryly. “Although expect your Hollywood connections to be more important than
your father’s revelations.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Hollywood was a safe place for
Patra. Politics was not.

“He’s hooking you,” I whispered in warning. “You’re going to
owe him.”

Patra and Nick shrugged. Graham continued smoothly, “I’ll
leave you with one final note.”

The screen flashed to an image of Oppenheimer filing a
motion before a judge. How the devil did Graham get his spy cameras inside a
courtroom? The damned man knew exactly what our lawyer was doing despite my
efforts to keep our inheritance battle undercover.

The judge pushed a file across his desk. “I find judgment in
favor of your client in the case of the yacht, counselor. It’s apparent the
funds to purchase it came directly from your client’s inheritance. We still
cannot rule on the remainder of the monies until the audit has been completed.”

I gaped, then remembered to cover my mouth as the judge
banged his gavel and handed over a legal-looking document potentially gaining
us another half million dollars. We’d done it! We were millionaires!

“Enjoy your dinner,” Graham intoned, shutting off the
courtroom.

Before I could respond, he lifted his arm to close his
laptop — and flashed his diamond cufflinks.

I lifted my wine glass in toast. Patra shrieked in
excitement. Nick straightened his tie and clinked his glass to mine.

A million dollars wouldn’t buy back our house, but our
landlord had become our ally. Almost. I could live with that for a while
longer.

The Family Genius mysteries were conceived in the
tradition of tall tales with a soupçon of satire and a dash of wicked humor. Do
not expect reality, or even CSI.

The timeline for Ana’s stories takes place over a period of
roughly a year — an election year. Unfortunately, I’m not capable of
writing fast enough to produce an entire series of books within that same interval.
So the series will not take place in real time. Current events and technology
will remain static even though changes have multiplied since I conceived the
original concept — and occur rapidly every day that I write. Anyone with a
modicum of political knowledge will realize that ten years after 9/11/01 does
not correspond with a Senator Paul Rose — or anyone similar — running
for office. All characters are fictional and entirely the product of my warped
imagination.

UNDERCOVER GENIUS

A Family Genius Mystery, Book 2

Patricia Rice

Copyright © 2014 Patricia Rice
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
February 11, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-61138-344-7

Production team:
Beta Readers:
Mindy Klasky, Jennifer Stevenson, Elisabeth Waters
Proofreader:
Phyllis Irene Radford
Cover Designer:
Pati Nagle/Mandala
Ebook Formatter:
Vonda N. McIntyre

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical
events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,
characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

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