The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (10 page)

“You mean, as in Superman?”

He nods.

I shake my head, confused. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take a file when you’re already hiding in plain sight?”

Arnie shrugs. “Excellent question. Once we track down the malware’s port of entry, the answer to that may be revealed.”

I shake my head. “We’re talking about what is supposedly the most secure IT network in the whole world. Isn’t it logical to think it was an inside job?”

“It’s a strong possibility, yes. But considering that both it and the LNI are part of the IIO—that is, an interagency intelligence operations technology—and can be accessed by contracted analysts in addition to any one of one-hundred-thousand IC employees, it could have come from any access point,” Dominic declares. “Today alone, each of my fifteen team members is spending the day on the ODNI campus, interviewing twelve people a day—predominantly IC analysts who monitor RTTI. At the same time, Arnie and his team are running security diagnostics on their computers.” He sighs. “In other words, we could spend the rest of our lives interviewing personnel with access.”
 

But we know where it came from: Carl. We’ve just got to prove it.

It’s times like these that I miss Jack. But he’s not here. So, instead, I have to ask myself:
What would Jack do?

He would rally the troops by instilling a sense of urgency.
 

He’d let them know that he never doubts their abilities to finish the job—

Before it’s too late.

I turn to Arnie and Dominic. “Tomorrow, start with the DI’s office and work your way out from there. I want you to handle it personally.”

Arnie turns white. “You mean interview Darth Vader himself?”

“Yes. In fact, treat it as a hostile interrogation. Run every diagnostic you can think of on Carl’s computer, smart phone, and any other device he owns. Run a proctoscope up his ass, if you have to.” The thought of watching them do so makes me smile. “In fact, I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, no problem.” Arnie is practically relieved. “Thanks, boss lady.”
 

I blush. “That’s not necessary. I’m just plain old Donna.”
 

Of course, if it turns out that Carl had nothing to do with it, my name is mud.

It’s a chance I’m willing to take.

I have no other choice.

Chapter 6

User-Friendly

The term “user-friendly” describes either a hardware device, or software
interface
, that is easy to use, learn, and understand. Most aren’t overly complex, have well-organized interfaces, and provide quick access to their features and commands.

Wouldn’t it be nice if the man in your life were as user-friendly as your computer? Is it too much to ask that he stay organized, obey your commands, and understand your every need?

How wonderful would it be if, when he screws up, you could reboot him!

Or, better yet, replace him while he’s still under warranty—

Say, a decade later.

Ha! As if.

Granted, the address Susan wrote down is in Georgetown—

But it isn’t a restaurant at all. It’s a three-story Federal-era mansion on one of the neighborhood’s most elegant streets, just a couple of blocks off the M Street-Wisconsin retail hub.
 

Is this a private residence?

Damn it! He invited me to his home—
where we’ll be
alone
.
 

I stand outside for so long that, inevitably, his security camera zooms in on me. Realizing this, I scurry down the massive marble steps—

Only to freeze as I hear Carl’s voice. “Great, you found my humble little hovel! Come on in!”

Slowly, I turn around. He’s changed into khakis, but he’s still got on the white button-down shirt he wore in his office. However, the sleeves are rolled up.

He looks relaxed. And normal.

Just like the Carl who left me.

I point toward M Street. “I…I thought we were meeting at a restaurant.”

His chuckle is deep. “I figured I should convince you that I’m still parenting material. That being said, I’ve made dinner for us, here.”
 

Still, I hesitate. If I go in there, no telling if I’ll be drugged and sold into slavery—or worse yet, murdered.

It must be easy to read the concern on my face, because he adds, “Trust me, I don’t plan on poisoning you. Granted, I’m not the consummate cook you are, but I have been taking private lessons, from the chef at 1789.” He ducks his head, as if he’s embarrassed.

Carl cooked dinner, for me?

Okay, this I’ve got to see.

Slowly, I make my way up the steps. “
’Entrez vous
, mam’selle,” he says, as he steps aside, sweeping his arm into a bow.
 

Hovel? The damn thing is the West Wing in miniature! The green-and-white marble checkerboard floor is in a foyer that is two stories tall, and the size of my living room. It boasts a circular staircase. On both sides of the door are Empire settees, upholstered in yellow-and-white stripe brocade. Beneath the staircase is a large room, with French doors that lead out onto a private terrace.
 

“Nice pad,” I murmur.

He shrugs. “Got it at auction. Ill-gotten goods of some high-flying perp. One of the perks of my gig.”

Oh, yeah? Well, when you’re whisked to the clink, someone will be saying the same about you.

“After dinner, I’ll take you on the grand tour. But, if you don’t mind following me into the kitchen, I’d like to pull dessert from the oven—a chocolate soufflé. You know how delicate they can be.”
 

“Of course.” I try hard not to stare as I walk with him through the room on the right—a large, formal dining room. Its walls are painted a deep burgundy, whereas the Dentil moulding around the ceiling is painted a stiff glossy white. All of the room’s furnishings are antiques. The eighteen chairs surrounding the table have shield backs. Their seats are upholstered in thick brocade. The oval mahogany dining table has a broad rosewood crossbraiding within an ebony and boxwood line inlay.
 

The table is already set, for two: one end chair, and the chair next to it. Cozy. In front of them are five-piece place settings of Wedgewood’s Renaissance Gold pattern, as well as Waterford cut crystal wine glasses, and the Wallace silver pattern, Grand Baroque.

Ah, so he remembered.

During our engagement, I coveted these styles. He knew it because whenever we passed one of Los Angeles’ fine china shops, I’d sigh longingly. I’d inherited my mother’s china and silver, so we skipped the expense of buying them. In time, I’ve grown to love what she left me. How could I not? Each piece holds a bit of her soul.
 

Carl pretends not to notice the impact the table setting has on me. Instead, he goes through the double doors at the end of the room, into a spacious gourmet eat-in kitchen. It boasts an eight-burner Viking range and three built-in convection ovens, all surrounded by an orgasmic amount of cabinet space and marble countertops.

“I promise you, the rest of the meal is healthier. I want you to know I’ll take the care and feeding of our children seriously,” Carl explains, as he ties a full-length apron around his waist. He then grabs a mitt for each hand, in order to lift the soufflé from one of the built-in ovens. “With that in mind, I hope you’ll enjoy the feast I’ve prepared for you: poached salmon, Yukon Gold potatoes, and braised Brussels sprouts—just like you’d prepare for the kids.”
 

Ouch. My kids are the pizza and burger types. I can’t imagine what their reaction will be to some stranger forcing them to eat Brussels sprouts.

Before I know it, he spears one of the sprouts from the small round Le Creuset casserole dish with a fork, and holds it up to my mouth.

I remember his fear over my butterscotch brownies, but I shake it off. It helps that I’ve slipped a knife off the counter and behind my back. If I feel myself getting woozy, I’ll stab first and ask questions later—

Yum! Wow! Talk about an explosion of flavors!

“Ah! So, you like it?” The cloud of worry in Carl’s eyes dissipates in the warmth of my pleased smile. As hungry as I am, he’s lucky I don’t grab the pan out of his hand and gobble up all of these tasty morsels.
 

I guess he’s testing my resistance, because he hands me the pan, then picks up a large covered tray. “Great, we’re all set. Follow me.”
 

Back into the dining room we go.
 

But if he thinks the way back into my heart is through my stomach, he’ll be sorely disappointed. Of course, I’ll wait until after a second helping of his chocolate soufflé to break the news to him.

So far, so good.

By that, I mean I haven’t been shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, or poisoned by my ex.

Truly, I’m surprised by this turn of events. By now, he should be fuming angrily. All of his points for why we should share joint custody have been countered with my own calm, common sense rationale as to why it just won’t work out.

For example:

Carl: “You know, I can take the kids off your hands during the summer, so that you can take a breather.”

Me: “How sweet of you to offer! But I don’t think the children will take too kindly to me leaving them for three months with a known terrorist, former or otherwise. Both Mary and Jeff have done sleep-away camps, but nothing as extreme as the militant jihadist ones you and your Quorum homies fund. By the way, what kind of badges do your campers earn for suicide missions?”

Or this, halfway through the meal:

Carl: “So, what do you think of Mary’s high school? It’s public, isn’t it? Even in a community like Hilldale, it can’t compete with the curriculum and staff—not to mention the connections—of Sidwell Friends School, which of course she’d attend if she and Jeff and Trisha were here with me in DC. And just think how much further you could climb up the career ladder if you were full-time in your job. Of course, you’d have them every other weekend, and for summers.”

Me: “Just so you know, professional honeypot isn’t a ‘career path.’ The work is dangerous, the hours are lousy, and you associate with lowlifes. But, thanks for always thinking of us! Oh no, wait—you’re
never
thinking about us. Otherwise
you would have never left us in the first place.”

And, finally, noting that my wine glass is empty—yet again—Carl pours what’s left of the three-hundred-dollar bottle of 1991 Dominus Bordeaux into it and muses, “At first, the thought of sharing my children with Jack bugged me. You know, I was worried about how I’d measure up. But now that I’ve accepted it, I look forward to the challenge of making up for lost time, and showing them what it’s like to have a real man around the house.”

Trying hard not to rise to the bait, let alone toss my cookies all over this sparkling white tablecloth (note to self: must get his laundry service to give me her secret as to how she gets real linen so snowy white and so wrinkle-free), I respond, “A real man? Ha! Carl Stone, here’s a newsflash: real men don’t desert their families.”

Game, set, and match to me.

I can tell by the way Carl stabs his chocolate soufflé with his spoon.

I presume he’s wishing it were my heart he was piercing instead.

Well, too bad.

We finish our soufflés in silence. Finally, he pats his mouth with his napkin and rises. “Perhaps we should call it an evening. I’ve had a long day. I’m sure you have too.”
 

“So, you agree with me, to leave the children alone?”

“Not at all.” His tone is ominous. “The judge has ruled. There’s nothing more you can do about it.”
 

He’s claiming the joint custody. Period.

My children will learn that we’ve been living a lie.

They’ll learn who their father really is—that he isn’t Jack, and never was.

They’ll be hurt. Crushed. Angry. At me of course.

“Unless you want to strike a bargain of some sort.” Carl bares his teeth into a smile.