The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (8 page)

“Who is ‘they,’ Mr. Rooney? Can you in fact identify other members of the organization?”

“Yes….no!...Well, okay, one, maybe. I only met him once. But when they need something, he calls.”

“So you can recognize his voice.”

“Yes, I guess I can.” He buries his head in his hands. “But you don’t understand! He’ll…he’ll kill me!”

“By cooperating, you’ll get immunity from prosecution. We can protect you. You and your family will be put in Witness Protection.” I pause then add, “I’m sure you’ll want them safe at all costs.”

He pauses at the far edge of the roof in order to stare at me. He stands still for so long that I feel he has hardened into one of the Rodin sculptures we just recently admired. 
The Head of Sorrow
 may be etched in despair, but Benjamin Rooney’s frown is deepened by fear.

Finally he nods. “Yeah, okay. Call your people. Tell them I’ll talk.”

He looks up, as if cursing the heavens over this twist of fate. Twinkling stars blanket the sky above Central Park’s vast white gray lawn. 

I don’t need to reach for my cell. Arnie and Jack already hear all and see all. In fact, they both shout “Shit…he jumped!” into my ear when, like me, they watch Benjamin topple over the side of the roof.

I run to the edge and look over. His head, turned to one side, lies in a pool of dark blood. His body, arms and legs akimbo on concrete, is laid out like an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

In no time at all several people have already gathered around him, including a few MMA security guards, Jack and Abu. Abu blends in because he’s also wearing an MMA security guard uniform, while Jack is in one of his expensive suits, as if he’s just an upper East Side swell taking a stroll on a mild spring evening. 

After the shock of what they see in front of them melts, their eyes instinctively move skyward, toward the roof.

Toward me.

Just as I duck out of sight, I see Abu trying to direct their attention back down toward Benjamin. Playing along, Jack kneels over the body but whispers, “I’ve pocketed his cell phone. Get out. 
Now
.”

I’m already running down the nearest stairwell.

 “When you reach the ground floor, head outside. I’ve disarmed the alarms,” Arnie says. “And I’m already erasing the webcam footage of Rooney and his ‘date.’”

“Good, because at least two guards saw me with him.” Even in wig and contact lenses that are different from my real eye color, a digital video picture would make it easy for someone to place me. 

The Feds, for example, who think I’m home in Hilldale under lock and key.

I don’t stop until I reach the ground floor. Hearing footsteps, I duck behind a statue just as two guards run past me up the stairwell.

 “Take the path around to the left, to the 79th Street Transverse Road,” Jack says. “I’ll meet you on the corner.  Move quickly. The cops and an ambulance are already on the way.”

My heart is racing, not because a black-and-white has just passed by or from fear or exertion, but because of my own anxiety over Rooney’s death. He seemed sincere about playing ball. In fact, he seemed relieved. 

But nothing in life is black or white. No one is all good, or all bad. I got the feeling he was just some guy too smart for his own good, who had found himself in over his head.

I’d done what I could for him. I’d given him a way out from his pact with the devil.

So, why did he choose to jump?

I wish I hadn’t been the last person he’d kissed, let alone the last person to see him alive.

Chapter 6

How to Handle His Promise, “I’ll Call You…”

The date was fantastic. Sublime. Perfect.

You’ve given him... what, all of twenty-four hours to contact you for a second date, which will also confirm your gut instinct that the two of you were meant to live together for eternity…. Right?

So why won’t he return your calls? (fifteen so far, and counting….)

Was just one date enough for him to make up his mind that he’s “just not that into you?”

That is not acceptable.

No time for a pity party! He loves you. He really, really loves you. Here’s how to get him to realize his mistake:

First, put a webcam on his house, so you can track his comings and goings, which will allow you to intercept him and ask him, “What the hell? Why haven’t you called?”

Next, put a GPS tracker on his car, in case he somehow gets away from you. That way, you can pretend to run into him, allowing you to say, “Wow! Fancy meeting you here… So, why haven’t you called me?”

Finally, when he gets the restraining order issued, apply for a legal name change, so that you can keep close to your precious. In time, he’ll suck it up and accept what you’ve known all along:

You complete him.

“Well, that didn’t go so well,” Ryan says.

Like, duh
. “Go ahead, be blunt. Tell me what you really think.” 

It takes a moment, but finally he gets the fact that I’m joshing with him.  He shakes his head. “Not funny, Donna.”

“I’m sorry, Ryan. And yes, I get it: I screwed up. I should have turned Benjamin Rooney. Frankly, I thought I’d done just that. When he jumped, I didn’t see that coming.”

 “No need to apologize. I was watching along with you, and it threw me for a loop, too.” Ryan rubs his eyes, as if doing so will wipe away his concern over the turn of events. “Well, we should have more luck with the others. In fact, a second Sugar CEO has already contacted you, and not a moment too soon. Emma has picked up some new chatter on Carl. Apparently he’s planning a surprise retaliation to prove he’s back in full force.”

“Do we know where, or when?” Jack asks.

“Emma is trying to connect the dots, but she’s had no luck as of yet.” 

I sigh. “I guess I should get Jeff out of her hair.” 

Yes, it’s true, Jeff has discovered girls. Make that women. Well, one in particular. While he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to the giggling ten-year-old hussies who call our house asking for him, he’s been panting after Emma since she moved into the bonus room over the garage. Who knew his very first crush would be a kohl-eyed Mohawked nymphet with two nose rings and a penchant for platform boots and tight black leather jeans?

Note to self: Lock son in a closet during teen years. 

Second note to self: Do the same for daughters.

Jack laughs when he sees the look of fear on my face. “Relax. Frankly, I think Emma enjoys the attention. She’s even taught Jeff how to break simple code.” 

Arnie turns around to stare at us. It’s dawning on him that there’s a competitor for Emma’s affections. 

Dude: you snooze, you lose. Even to a ten-year-old.

  I’m still not sure if I should be worried, or pleased. “Well, knock me over with a feather! Unless it’s a video game, Jeff’s attention span is shorter than that of a gnat.”

 “In this case, it may play to his favor,” Ryan says. “The key to cryptanalysis is frequency analysis. Certain letters of the alphabet appear more often than others. Code breakers recognize the same symbol—or in this case, letter—and work through combinations. The same goes for video gameplay. Repetition is what players look for.” He smiles. “Apparently Jeff is a quick learner. A chip off the old block.”

Two blocks, in fact. But I’ll pass on reminding him that he’s Carl’s child, too. “If Carl is on the warpath, it’s got to be with the Quorum’s blessing. Can’t we mine Benjamin’s cell phone for pertinent intel?”

 “Every message Benjamin archived or has received since we hacked his phone has been vetted for originating sources, known contacts, and coded messages. Thus far, we’ve found no red flags that indicate a covert Quorum missive on the event. Of course, we’ll keep monitoring it.”

Emma clatters down the stairs, Jeff on her heels. “I’ve got some news,” she interrupts. 

All heads turn toward her. Usually this sort of triumph is accompanied by a smile, but today Emma is as grave as a pallbearer. 

 She’s about to speak, but Jeff beats her to the punch. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, it’s going to happen on Mom’s birthday! What are the odds of that? And I was the one who figured it out!” 

He looks over at me, waiting for the shower of praise that usually comes from his tiger mom. But all I can offer up is a pat on the back and a shaky smile. That son of a bitch, Carl! Contrary to his twisted way of thinking, making my birthday a national day of mourning is not the ultimate birthday gift.

Jack is perceptive enough to realize my face has lost its rosy hue. He’s about to say something, but just then my computer wails the Five song,
Sugar Daddy
.

 “Yee-hah!” Arnie shouts. “We’ve got a live one, folks.”

About damn time. I need a distraction from Carl and his sentimental bullshit. Since Jack walked into my life, Carl has been a lover scorned, and he’s got one hell of a way to show it.

I’m kidding myself. This isn’t about me. It’s not even about “we.” It’s always about Carl, and Carl alone.

Too bad he feels the need to invite the whole world to his pity party.

The email from my second Sugar CEO is filled with sweet teases. Dig it:

“You’re a worldly young woman, who will fit in easily at the whirlwind social events that it is my good fortune and privilege to fund and attend. 

A typical date with me? Why not join me this Saturday for a private picnic at the Horse Park, in Woodside? Afterward, you’ll watch me and my polo team defeat the Argentine national champions. If you’re ready to play princess to my Prince Charming, email back and I’ll pick you up: not in a pumpkin carriage, but in my Bentley.”

Well, la dee dah.

“At least this guy has dropped a few clues as to who he may be,” Jack says. “How many big San Francisco-based corporate honchos who own a string of polo ponies can there be?”

Arnie takes up that challenge. Fourteen keystrokes later he murmurs, “Too many. Try eleven….nope, twelve.”

It’s nice to see someone is living the dream.

 I shrug. “A polo game won’t be intimate enough for the conversation I’ll be having with him. I’ll have to get him talking on the drive over from San Francisco, or during our private picnic. But neither venue makes it easy for me to get him to turn on his fellow Quorum directors. And it certainly doesn’t put me front and center with his computer, for validation.”

“Arnie, hustle up with a phone app that will do the trick.” Ryan turns to me.  “To speed things along, you may have to slip him an SP-117 Mickey. That way, we’ll have both audio and video admissions of his Quorum activities. After you’ve given him the anecdote, he’ll feel refreshed, but he won’t remember a word he said—that is, until you reel off his indiscretions, perhaps when you’re alone with him again, after the match. That should convince him to cut a deal.”

Jack puts his arm around my waist. “Abu and I will trade off on surveillance, both on the road and on the polo grounds. As backup, plant an audio-enhanced GPS microdot somewhere in the back seat, where it won’t be detected. That way, we can listen in after he drops you off. It’ll be interesting to hear whom he calls first, after you’ve turned the screws on him.”

I know who Jack is thinking of:  Carl.

If so, we’ll be able to trace the call and capture him.

Then I can go back to living a normal life. Like other women, my family is not just a valid excuse to give up my day job, but a noble one as well. 

But isn’t my assassination vocation just as noble? Or is it futile? Let’s face it, there will always be bad guys. I can’t shoulder this burden forever. 

I want to watch my kids grow up. I want to be there when they go off to college, get married, and have children of their own.

I want Jack at my side, forever.

Until death do us part.

The next time he hears that line, I want him to think of what he has with me, not what he lost when Valentina walked out of his life.