Murder.com (28 page)

"So, what the hell was that all about?"
Kelly said as she led the way into my little house. Once inside, my
friend and co-leader helped herself to a glass of wine and sat at
my tiny breakfast bar.

"Dead guy," I muttered as I made a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich. We had tons of the stuff left over since
we'd cut the camping trip short. Little girls love peanut butter. I
had to admit— they really had something there.

Kelly nodded, "Yeah, I got that part. But
why
was there a dead guy?"

I shrugged, my mouth glued shut. "Don't
know." Only it came out like, "nnnt no" due to the aforementioned
peanut butter. I really shouldn't talk with my mouth full.

"You don't think it's a little odd that you
retire from the CIA and a dead Middle Easterner shows up at Girl
Scout Camp the same weekend you are there?" Kelly crossed her arms.
I should never have told her, in that drunken haze, about my past.
She waited. I'd have no chance to stall with another bite of
sandwich.

I swallowed. "Yes. I think it's odd. But it
might just be a coincidence." That was a lie. There was no way it
was a coincidence. I mean seriously, al-Qaeda's number four? In
Iowa? And me being former CIA? Not a chance.

Kelly studied me. "Are you going to be
alright?"

I nodded. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about
me." After all, I'd handled things like this before, on my own, and
in a Third World country. No sweat. And this wasn't my problem
anyway. Let the authorities take care of it. I didn't do that
anymore.

Kelly drained her glass and walked to the
door. She paused and looked around my little, beige living
room.

"When are you going to get some drapes?" she
asked, looking at the sheets I'd had hung in the windows. They had
Dora the Explorer on them because I got them on sale. It had really
seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd always thought Dora was
undercover CIA, recruiting kids to be double agents.

I shrugged. "Soon? I just moved in,
remember."

She laughed. "Yeah, one year ago. It's time
you had drapes." And with that she was gone.

I leaned against the door and looked around
my house. She was right. I didn't have any drapes. I had very
little furniture. After being recruited by the CIA right out of
college, I'd never really had a place with things like furniture
and curtains. I kept a very sparse apartment in DC but spent most
of my time in dingy hotel rooms and safe houses all over the
world.

When I was "retired," I moved back to the
small city my dad grew up in and bought the first house I looked
at. This house. The realtor told me it was something called a
"craftsman." It was small and quiet and had a nice little fenced in
yard in back. I bought a little car to put in the little, attached
garage. I bought groceries and paid the utilities. But furnishing
it was completely out of my wheelhouse.

Instead, there was a green couch in the
living room that I'd bought at a consignment store on impulse. A
flat screen TV sat on the floor. The kitchen had a built-in
breakfast bar, so I didn't think I really needed a table and
chairs. I did buy an expensive queen-sized bed with a mattress made
of something called "memory foam." Years of sleeping on floors and
crappy mattresses got old quickly when I finally stayed in a five
star hotel in DC while visiting Mom and Dad.

I knew I needed furniture and drapes and
stuff. I just didn't know how to do it. Do you just go to a store
and ask for drapes? Do you need measurements? Where do you measure
from? And should they be beige like the walls and carpet or green
like the couch?

Every time I thought about these things, I
needed to go and lay down. But today was the day. Today, I'd think
about getting drapes. I wandered over to the large, picture window
and started examining it. Which is when I noticed the moving van
across the street.

Huh. I didn't know my
crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor had moved out. A U-Haul was backed
up into her driveway, and men were unloading furniture. There was a
lot of it too—tables, chairs, a desk, various lamps of various
sizes, rugs, you name it—they had it. Must be a family or
something.

I found myself strangely fascinated watching
this whole bizarre process. For a brief second, I ran into my
bedroom and got a pen and pad of paper. I needed to take notes on
this. Maybe I could learn something.

Oooh! A potted tree! I liked that idea! I
should do that. I made note of the stuff with great glee. The desk
and desk chair were nice. I just used a laptop so I worked on the
couch or in bed. But maybe it was time I put together an
office.

Not that I had anything to do in it. I
didn't have a job. I didn't need one. The settlement from the
Agency would take care of me for at least the next ten years. The
only thing I had was the Girl Scout troop that met every other
week. Huh. I wondered if that was weird. Maybe I should have a job
or a hobby or something. It seemed to be what normal people who
hadn't previously been CIA operatives did.

A car pulled up in front of
crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor's house but didn't pull into the
driveway. I drew back into the shadows behind Dora and her monkey
(who was clearly her case officer) and realized that curtains
really might be a good idea after all. I'd have to get on it. But
first I needed to check out the new people. Slouching behind the
cover of the sheets, it kind of felt like the old days, spying on
that politician in Spain or that drug runner in Colombia.

Whoever was in the car across the street
wasn't in a hurry to step out. When I'd first moved into the
neighborhood, I noticed people mowing their lawns, walking their
kids to school, or walking their dogs, just doing normal things.
Until day two. That's when I first saw
her
.

The woman had to be in her seventies, with
bleached blonde hair up in a ponytail and a ton of makeup on. It
was sixty-five degrees, and she was out mowing her lawn. In a
bikini. I watched open-mouthed as she worked her way up and down
the lawn, smiling and waving at any men who were out and about. She
did not wave at the women. I also noticed that about halfway
through the yard, she let both shoulder straps "accidentally" fall
to her elbows.

She was in pretty good shape for an old
lady. But the saggy skin and varicose veins were enough to make me
want to go back undercover. For the first few weeks, I was
fascinated. After a month, I wanted to burn the image from my
brain. Forever. It was worse than some of the things I'd seen in
the field. And that's saying something.

The black SUV with tinted windows finally
moved forward up into the driveway. This was it—the big reveal. I
slid back even farther into the Dora sheet/curtain. The driver-side
door opened, and a man, maybe in his early thirties, stepped out.
He stretched for a moment, then looked at the house.

Oh yeah, and he was GORGEOUS. Short, black
hair, athletic build, handsome, boy-next-door face, and lean
muscles in all the right places. He wore a fitted, black T-shirt
and blue jeans. Was this my new neighbor? If so, the view just got
a lot better.

I stared as he walked around to the
passenger side and opened the door. He reached in and pulled out a
large duffle bag. Slinging it oh-so-casually over his shoulder, he
closed the door to the SUV and went into the house. His house. My
new neighbor's and the possibly future Mr. Wrath's house.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped backward,
tripping over my own feet and crashing into the green couch. What
the hell? How did I miss someone coming to my own door? That was
just bad spy craft, retired or not. I stumbled across the living
room and looked out the window next to the door. Oh, my God.

"Hello Riley," I said as I opened the door,
trying to act as if it was totally normal that my previous boss and
handler was standing on my doorstep.

"Hey Wrath." Riley smiled lopsidedly. He was
a very attractive man in his late thirties, with wavy, blond hair
and deep blue eyes. I always thought he looked more like a surfer
than a CIA case manager. I motioned for him to enter and followed
him into my house.

He was standing in the entryway, staring at
my living room. "Did you just move in here?" Riley frowned. "I
thought you'd had this address for a while, but maybe I'm wrong."
He knew he wasn't wrong. Riley was a notorious fact checker. He
double-checked everything before he did anything. We called him
"Nerd OCD Boy" behind his back.

I scowled. "No. I just haven't gotten around
to decorating yet." Riley pissed me off. He always did. Even when
he wasn't speaking, he usually irritated me. Still, he was a good
guy to have in your corner when the chips were down and the
Russians were fully armed outside your door.

Riley shrugged. He just stood there looking
at me. Oh right. This was one of those host thingies that I had no
experience with. I rarely had guests in my tenement in La Paz or my
yurt in Mongolia.

"Come into the kitchen. Can I get you some
coffee?" I didn't really have coffee. Never touched the stuff. I
was more of a tea drinker. Ninety-percent of the world drank
tea—well, at least the places I'd been stationed in did. So I drank
tea.

Riley followed me into the kitchen and
climbed up on one of the breakfast bar stools. "Nothing for me,
thanks." He grinned at me, and I felt my hackles rise. "Although I
must admit—it is interesting to see you being so…" He waved his
arms around. "Domestic."

"Fuck you, Riley. What are you doing here?"
I asked as I got out the bottle of wine Kelly had opened earlier
and poured myself a glass. CIA case officers never checked up on
retirees. Something was up.

"Dead Ahmed," he answered. "Found in your
neighborhood. What's up with that?"

Riley rarely messed around. He always got
right to the point. Of course he'd notice a dead terrorist showing
up where I was in Iowa. Any good employee of "The Company"
would.

"Oh right," I said, looking off into space
as if I just remembered the dead al-Qaeda operative at Girl Scout
camp. "Him."

Riley nodded, "Right. Him. Ahmed Maloof. Why
was he there?"

I shrugged, "Don't know, and don't care. Not
my problem. Not anymore, at least." I took a gulp of wine and
pointed at him. "I don't work for you guys. I'm retired.
Remember?"

Riley smiled his easy, surfer smile. He
really was cute, if you liked that California golden boy look, that
is. "You can't be surprised I'm here, Finn." He said.

"Actually, I am." That wasn't entirely true.
It was only a matter of time before he or someone like him showed
up. "I had nothing to do with it. And don't call me Finn. I'm
Merry
now."

I started working with Riley ten years ago.
Our first assignment together was in China. I'd thought he was cute
back then. But then I discovered that Riley was a serial
lady-killer. I think I found him in bed with women more than a
dozen times. The attraction wore thin after that.

My former boss held my gaze for a moment. He
was reading me. Trying to figure me out. Riley had the reputation
of being a sort of mind reader. He was very good at it.

"Actually," he said slowly, "we think you
did have something to do with it. I've been sent to
investigate."

I slapped the breakfast bar hard. "Are you
serious? You think I was involved? Why in hell would I do that? I
got kicked out of Langley. Or did you forget that?"

"I didn't forget that, Finn," Riley
answered, ignoring my request for him to call me Merry, "and
personally, I don't think you killed Ahmed. But I do think there's
a connection."

"There's no connection, Riley. I've been out
of the agency for a year now. And I haven't worked the Middle East
in a long, long time. I barely knew the guy." Uh-oh. I'd slipped up
there. Maybe I should quit with the wine.

Riley grinned, "That's right. You barely
knew him. But you did know him. And that makes you a person of
interest."

Dammit! You make one mistake with a
terrorist years ago, and nobody lets you forget it, ever! How the
hell was I supposed to know my driver in Kabul was Ahmed's brother?
The Kabul Office should've known that before they hired him.
Anyway, I was a professional, and I was retired. Enough of this
crap.

"You need to leave now, Riley, before I get
mad and get my ice pick. Remember how good I am with an ice pick?"
My voice dripped with fury. And the ice pick thing was just thrown
in to aggravate him. I was hell on Earth with an ice pick, and he'd
once seen the results of my work. I was also good with a shotgun,
and throwing knives, and once I did this thing with a didgeridoo
that would probably be classified as a serious violation of the
Geneva Convention—but that's another story for another time.

Riley rose to his feet, placing his hands
defensively in front of him. "Fine. I'll go." He reached into his
suit jacket and pulled out a blank piece of paper with a phone
number on it. A local number. Damn it.

"I'll be staying at the Radisson. Call me
when you want to talk like a normal person." He set the slip of
paper on the breakfast bar before heading for the front door. He
turned in the doorway and looked at me.

"You know, Finn, you really should get some
drapes." Then with the flash of his oh-too-white smile, he left,
closing the door behind him.

Perfect.

So the agency thought I was involved in
Ahmed's death. That could mean I was being framed. I had no idea
that bastard was even in the country, let alone in the Midwest. Was
someone out to get me? That would totally suck.

The drapes would have to wait. I pulled out
the laptop and did some research. You might be surprised to know
that most CIA intel comes from research. No kidding. In the
internet age—you could get more info online than you could in the
field half the time. I kind of resented the fact that I'd missed
cold war espionage by a decade. I'd be willing to bet it was way
more fun than what I had to deal with.