Undercover Genius (5 page)

“Maybe we should look for a rear exit?” Nick suggested, eyeing
the mob gathering outside the door. “That’s looking like a pickpocket’s paradise
out there.”

My infernal nosiness really wanted to know what was
happening, but practically speaking, Nick was right.

“Ask your steward friend about an exit,” I suggested. “I’ll
see how bad it is in front.” As a family, we preferred avoiding authority. As a
professional researcher, I liked having information. I lived a life of internal
conflict.

I heard the persistent ring of a phone before I reached the
front door.

I didn’t like coincidences. My trouble alert radar clamored
as I glanced back to see Patra frowning and still holding her phone to her ear.
I hurried and caught sight of the street just as a policeman directing traffic
located the ringing phone in a pile of leaves in the gutter.

I froze as he lifted it to his ear. If we’d been in Africa,
I’d have swung around and herded my chickies out a rear entrance and into the
nearest plane right about now. Self-preservation relies on strong instincts.

But this was the United States of America, and we were
having an innocent family dinner. I had no reason to expect terrorist plots on
our doorstep. But I knew, even before Patra’s expressive features screwed up in
horror, that the man she was talking to was the policeman outside. I had less
than thirty seconds to decide whether we should get involved.

Graham had warned me about Patra’s friends. Patra’s
apartment had been burgled and burnt. And that was her contact’s phone at the
site of a possible crime scene. One and one often equates two.

I blocked her path as she rushed toward the front door.
Yanking her phone from her grip, I swung her around. “Take them out the rear
exit,” I warned. “Let me handle this.”

The childhood habit of obedience in times of terror must
have kicked in. She didn’t argue but hurried back to Nick and EG, following
Nick’s steward friend to another exit and safety.

I hurried out in my long skirt and braids — looking
small, wide-eyed, and innocuous — to meet the policeman waiting for Patra.
“What’s wrong?” I asked anxiously, not having to work too hard at appearing
worried. “Where’s Mr. Bloom? Why do you have his phone?”

Three cop cars and an ambulance blocked the street. I knew
the news wasn’t good. I was too short to see past the crowd and the medics
crowding around a stretcher, so I focused on the officer who was stepping up to
replace the traffic cop.

“I’m Sergeant Cobb, miss. Your name?”

If the phone was Bill’s, he’d have Patra’s name in it. I
took a chance. “Llewellyn,” I replied, looking more anxious and straining to
see the ambulance. “I was supposed to meet Mr. Bloom here. Why did you answer
his phone?”

“How well did you know Mr. Bloom?” the sergeant asked, still
not answering my questions.

“Not at all.” That wasn’t lying. “He was to meet me here
about some speech work I’d requested. Why?” This time I focused on the cop and
donned my suspicious expression.

“Would you be able to identify him?”

There it was, the news I didn’t want to hear. But I
maintained my impatient business mode. “Of course not. I’ve only spoken to him
on the phone.” I should be an actress. I opened my eyes wide as if I’d just
understood his implication and asked in horror, “Oh, you don’t mean… Has he
been in an accident?”

“Hit and run. Your name and address?” The sergeant had his
notebook out.

I didn’t want my family dragged into whatever Patra was
doing, and Graham would most definitely go ballistic if the police started invading
his private hideaway. The authorities needed to believe this was just an
accident, even if I thought otherwise.

“Oh, my.” I held a hand to my heart as if I might pass out
any minute. “How is he? Where are they taking him? This is terrible! We just
spoke. He said he was running late, and oh my…”

Don’t get the wrong idea. I detest dramatics, but I’d grown
up with drama queens. At this point, Magda would faint, and some striking
gentleman would rush up to carry her away. I refused to faint, and I had no
striking gentleman in my ballpark, although now that I thought about it, we
weren’t too far from Mallard’s favorite pub where a certain reporter hung out.

I glanced up, and sure enough, there was Sean O’Herlihy,
God’s gift to the Irish and snoopier than I am. While I can admire his
curly-haired good looks, I had no desire to be carried off in his arms. He was
just ever too conveniently around when I didn’t need him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Llewellyn,” the officer said
sympathetically. I must have looked appropriately pale — not difficult
since I seldom see the sun. “Mr. Bloom apparently jaywalked across a busy
street. In these cases, it’s often a drunk who hasn’t the reflexes to stop
quickly and flees for fear of being charged with driving under the influence.”

I didn’t agree. This narrow road was packed with traffic all
night long. No way could anyone speed or flee while drunk. It would take
impeccable timing and an oddly convenient opening to build up enough speed to
kill, and then get away. I concealed a shudder. What had Patra got herself
into?

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” I managed to gasp. “Did anyone catch a
license plate or describe the car? His poor family! I’m so sorry.” I had to
slip away before he asked my address again, but I’d rather collect information
now than hack it from computers later.

Sean was pushing his way through the throng. I wasn’t in a
mood for explaining Patra or her problems.

“We have partial plates and a description. We’ll find him,”
the officer said confidently. “Now if — ”

No, they wouldn’t. My bet was that the car had already been
reported stolen. Just call me cynical. I interrupted his request. “This is
dreadful. I’m feeling faint. I have a small heart problem…” I held my hand to
my chest. “I need a glass of water.”

I retreated into the restaurant and out the back exit. I had
a notion it was time to circle the wagons around Patra.

My family had scampered for home, leaving me to deal with
the cops, then find my own way back alone. Since I’d been known to maim armed
bandits with my feet, this wasn’t carelessness on their part.

I circled the block first, keeping an eye out for loiterers
or other suspicious characters. Our Victorian home has a lovely landscaped
backyard with a wall around it. A sprawling carriage-house-like structure
surrounded by a security fence occupied the lot behind the wall, providing
additional protection beyond Graham’s security cameras.

Not detecting anyone more dangerous than the drug dealers on
the corner, I slipped down into the basement entrance, then upstairs into the
antique-furnished fortress I called home. I adored the scent of wax and flowers
that always greeted me. After years of living in musty basements and malodorous
tents and tenements, I wanted this place just for the aroma.

Nick and EG were nonchalantly playing chess in the front
room. They didn’t fool me. They hated chess. Patra was nowhere in sight, and
she was the one I needed to talk to.

“Is Patra in her room?” I demanded from the doorway.

“What happened?” EG asked. She’s still young enough to be
straightforward and blunt.

“Hit and run, drunken driver.” I didn’t want her involved in
the family business. But I wasn’t giving her any fairy tales either.

Nick frowned, but maybe he was learning a few maternal
instincts because he didn’t argue. “Patra said she had to go out. I gave her my
phone since you have hers.”

Crap. In our earlier days, when Magda was still finding her
feet, Nick and I had to learn self-defense the hard way. Our younger siblings,
on the other hand, had grown up with the security of nannies and bodyguards.
Patra was naive enough to think the guys on the corner were hanging out,
looking for girls.

EG, unfortunately, was much too perceptive. I didn’t want
her seeing how worried I was. I nodded in recognition of Nick’s generosity in
loaning his phone. I transferred family numbers from my new toy to the one
Patra had given me, and handed Nick my phone so he could hit the streets or
whatever he had planned for the evening. I called Nick’s phone as I headed for
my office.

Patra answered instantly. “How is he?”

One thing about my family, we didn’t waste time with
niceties like polite greetings. “Dead. The cops think a drunk. I’m not buying
it. Get your rear back here before you end up the same way.”

“Why not a drunk?” she asked defensively.

“Let me count the ways — after you haul your tail back
here.” I shut her down and turned off the phone. If she was out playing kissy
face with a waiter, I was heaving her out. I was
not
assuming the role of mother hen again.

I unlocked my office, turned on the Whiz, and checked my
email. Only my immediate family had my phone number so I never had voice mail.
Since leaving Magda and my siblings behind, I’d narrowed my world to a computer
monitor. EG’s arrival was changing that, but not completely. I had access to
the entire planet at my fingertips, so I wasn’t lonely.

No work orders from Graham awaited. Only a few documents
from my researchers. I started sneezing half way through my mail. By the time
I’d read it all, my eyes were streaming. Confound it, Graham knew not to let
his damned cat loose.

I could never figure out how the creature got through locked
doors. Maybe this was our host’s idea of revenge for the bats. I’d have to hunt
for allergy pills. As I stood up, my usual sensitivity to my environment
belatedly checked in. I’d felt safe in my basement hideaway and didn’t usually
bother with extra precautions. But something was wrong.

It took me a minute of careful analysis of what was on my
work table now and what had been there when I’d left, but I worked it out —
Patra’s DVD was no longer in the stack of library microfiche where I’d stuck
it.

I’m pretty good at two and two, even if there’s a big old
minus in between like how a man who never leaves the third floor had broken
through my locked barriers and how a cat with no opposable thumb had opened
doors. I saw no reason to beat the walls hunting for hidden elevators and
secret passages when I could simply go straight to the source.

The problem, of course, was that we were here on Graham’s
charity. He claimed he owed our grandfather a lot, and as long as I helped his
research in lieu of rent, he’d tolerate us. But until we could buy the house
back, we were one temper tantrum short of the door.

Most of the time, that kept my fury and frustration from
pushing him out a window. Oh, and the fabulous gym on the third floor really
helped me express my hostilities. But cats, theft, and chicanery breeched all
my barriers. I was in need of a face-to-face showdown with the sneaky bastard.

I’d installed Patra’s information on the computer so Graham
could see it. He had no good reason to steal the disk. Or send Mallard to steal
it. I marched back up the stairs and noted Nick had already departed. EG was in
my study, on the laptop, and I ordered her to bed.

“There’s still a bat in my room,” she said, looking for a
way around my orders.

“Then don’t expect Mallard to clean your room until it’s
gone. It’s a school night. You’re going to bed.” Because of her brain, it’s
hard to think of EG as a child, but nine-year-olds need their sleep. I watched
her drag to her room at the end of the hall. Once she closed the door, I
continued up to the next floor.

I wasn’t sneezing anymore. In my mood, I took that to mean
the cat hadn’t come down by way of the main staircase. Somewhere, the house had
hidden stairs — which would explain a lot.

Graham’s office door was open. He’d been expecting me. I
stopped in the doorway to let my eyes adjust to the darkened room lined with
wall-to-wall computer monitors.

The screen Graham sat in front of displayed grainy video
footage from the street outside the Cajun restaurant. I’d have admired his
ingenuity if I hadn’t wanted to bash him over his handsome head. I’d never seen
him out of his chair, so I tended to think of Graham in terms of Christopher
Reeve, the broken Superman, with his dark hair, massive shoulders, and strong,
cleft jaw. But Graham wasn’t a patient, kind-hearted Superman by any means.

“They set up a roadblock at the intersection,” he said
without preamble. He scrolled the grainy footage backward to show a Hummer
stalled in a turn beneath a stoplight, blocking the one-way street in front of
the restaurant.

He expected me to know what he was talking about without
explanation. He knew me too well. The appalling video drew me in like a
crocodile to water. Instead of dumping fish guts over his head, I edged closer,
straining to make out details. “How did you get this? Do the police have it?”

“Of course not,” he said impatiently. “They’re looking for a
drunk driving a black Cadillac.”

The aforesaid black Cadillac sedan appeared down a side
street, lingering at a stop sign until a chubby, long-haired male in jeans took
advantage of the temporary break in traffic to jaywalk in front of the
restaurant. At which point the sedan accelerated from zero to sixty in race car
seconds.

“How could they humanly plot this?” I asked. “It couldn’t
have been more than an hour between the time Patra told him where we were and
the accident.”

“The
murder
,” he
corrected. We watched the sedan ram the chubby geek, flinging him into painful
backflips like a broken doll. As he crumpled to the blacktop, the Caddy
vanished down a different side street. The Hummer miraculously came unstalled
and rumbled off out of sight of the camera. The pent up traffic at the
intersection didn’t have time to get up to speed before screeching to a halt
near the bloody victim. At least they hadn’t run over the body a second time.
Graham halted the footage as Good Samaritans ran to the victim’s aid. “I
suggest you ship your sister back to the BBC.”