The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (24 page)

As he flipped through the recipes, Donna’s voice played out in his mind.

He remembered her deep chuckle, her sly smile, even the sadness in her eyes.

Damn it, he missed her. Not that she’d ever know this.
 

Because she’d never know about him. By passing on the transfer, he’d made sure of that.

Even if somehow their paths were to cross, he knew she’d never love anyone but Carl.

Especially after she read this letter.

At least it got his mind out of the thong drawer, if only for a moment.

Jack stared down at the drawer then slammed it shut. He’d walk down to the shelter another day. He had to pack for Los Angeles.

“Sure, now that the investigation is over, feel free to walk it over to Donna,” Ryan said to him, without batting an eye.

Was he joking? “She doesn’t know of my existence,” Jack sputtered. “How would I explain why a complete stranger has her recipe book?”

Ryan shrugged. “No one told you to take it in the first place. If you feel it should be returned, it’s your problem, not Acme’s.”

“So, I’m supposed to knock on her front door, and hand it over by saying, ‘I’m the guy who vetted you for the Acme gig you turned down?’”
 

Ryan winced. “It’s certainly not the route I’d take. She didn’t even know she was being investigated. It might make her feel a wee bit…threatened. ”

Jack knew Ryan was referring to the incident with the serial killer, McInnis.

They both knew what happened when Donna got angry. Not a pretty sight.

“If you feel it’s important to do, you’ll figure something out.” Ryan waved away Jack’s consternation. “But do it on your own time—which is not any time in the next forty-eight hours.” He tossed a folder in front of Jack. “A Mexican drug lord, Arturo Rodriguez, is getting married this weekend. According to the border guard he’s paid off, he’s having his bachelor party on this side of the fence—the Aero Club, in San Diego. He’s booked it for tomorrow night under the name of ‘Mr. Jones and party.’ The Mexican government wants it to look like a heart attack. The DEA hopes we can oblige, so that we cut off any notions of retaliation.”

Jack nodded, taking it all in.

Sort of. What he was really thinking about was how he might be able to sneak the recipe book back into some unopened box in her garage.

He’d climb over the far backyard wall, enter the garage through the side door, and be out in no time. Piece of cake.

Then he’d head down to San Diego to take care of Rodriguez, which would be a bit harder, what with all his bodyguards, and it being a public place—not to mention it would have to look like natural causes.

Mrs. Stone had made the right decision to stay out of the game.

Maybe it was time for him to cash in his chips as well.

He was not alone.

He’d just gotten up on the brick wall when he saw the figure emerge from the little girl’s playhouse in the middle of the yard.

What…the hell?

Jack went flat on the wall. It was a full moon, but whoever it was hadn’t seen him—not yet, anyway. The man, dressed in black, had a ski mask over his face, and was wearing infrared goggles.
 

He was also holding a semiautomatic rifle.

As the man made his way to the back door that led into the kitchen, Jack slipped over the wall—

Landing in a pile of leaves.
 

The intruder had just opened the screen door when he heard the crunch of leaves and turned around.
 

Jack dropped onto his belly. Despite having a suppressor on his Glock 21, the last thing he wanted to do was have a shoot-out in Donna’s backyard.

The other guy wasn’t so concerned. The man’s head turned as he scanned the yard. Jack didn’t move a muscle. Hell, he didn’t breathe. But when the man raised his rifle and aimed directly at him, Jack knew he’d been spotted.
 

He was a sitting duck.

Jack saw the flash from a gun—not from the rifle, but from another gun pointed out the French door of the upstairs balcony, off the master bedroom.

Donna shot at the intruder.

She must have hit him, too, because the man groaned in pain. It wasn’t a fatal shot because he stumbled toward the wooden picnic table, upturning it and ducking behind it just as a second shot ricocheted off one of its planks.

It took the intruder a second to realize what was happening. When he did, he shot back at her. She must have ducked, but he was spooked enough that it gave Jack the few crucial seconds he needed to pull out his gun.

That’s when he heard the child crying inside the house. It must have been the youngest daughter, Trisha. Had she been hit with a ricocheting bullet?

A second later, the yard and house lit up, and an alarm wailed.

The guy limped away, through the side of the yard.

Jack didn’t follow. Donna’s security system was hooked up to the Hilldale police. A symphony of police sirens could already be heard. They were getting closer by the second. A single man trying to leave the gated community, either by car or on foot, would surely be questioned.
   

From his cell, he called Nola’s phone. She picked up after three rings.
 

“House of Utopia,” she answered in a singsong voice.

“I’m parked in the White BMW sedan in the alley between Avery and Maple. Meet me there so that you can escort me out of the ruckus.”

Nola let loose with a husky chuckle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

By the time she strolled into the alley, the sirens had stopped, but even from where he stood he could hear the hum of the crowd milling around the police cars in front of Donna’s house.

Nola hopped in beside him. “Did you set off Donna’s alarm?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t alone. Someone almost did a B and E on the Widow Stone’s place—and he was packing heat.”

“You think it’s the Quorum, don’t you?”

Jack nodded.

Nola pursed her lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch it on the monitor. But a girl’s got to take shower sometime—”

“Don’t blame yourself. The place has been a graveyard for a year now. I wish Donna’s dog, Lassie, was a real watchdog. Arnie and I had no problems making friends. She didn’t even bark at the shooter in the backyard.”

Nola shivered. “And they say it’s safer in Suburbia. Ha! These houses sit on almost full-acre lots. Even if you’re able to scream, no one will hear you. I’m going to requisition an attack dog from Acme. One with sharp fangs. A German shepherd.”

“I’m sure Ryan won’t have a problem with that.” He started the car’s engine. “I guess we can’t avoid the hubbub, since it’s the only way to the security gate. Once we’re a few blocks beyond it, I’ll let you out, and you can walk home.”

Her mouth puckered into a pout. “And you call this a real date?”
 

Nola sat close enough to put her arm around his shoulder. When they drove slowly past the crowd, she muttered, “Slow down and look the other way while I speak to an old boyfriend.”

The beau was one of the cops on crowd control. He lit up when he saw her.
 

“What’s all the fuss, handsome?” she asked sweetly.

He frowned to see her with a male companion, but when she smiled up at him, he only had eyes for her. “Your neighbor across the street had a possum or something set off her alarm. At least, that’s what she thinks.”

So, Donna was doing her bit and covering for Acme, Jack realized.

“See what passes for excitement in these parts?” Nola pouted out loud before upping the wattage on her smile tenfold. “Speaking of excitement, don’t be such a stranger, Officer. You know how I feel about hard…metal.”
 

Jack sighed as he rolled down the street. “You never fail to amaze me,” he muttered.

She nodded, satisfied. “That’s what they all say.”

He’d just hit the 405 going south when he remembered he still had the box he’d taken from Donna’s Aunt Phyllis. If Donna ever went looking for her recipe book, even if she couldn’t find it in her own garage maybe she’d remember her aunt’s pack rat mentality and check the old lady’s garage. Besides, Phyllis’ house was in Pasadena, right off the I-10. From there, he could hit the road to the I-5 and take it south into San Diego for the fun and games of the Rodriguez hit.

I can’t believe Ryan would think Donna would find this sort of life exciting, he thought. But he had to admit, it beat hanging diapers out to dry.

Chapter 19
Bona Fides

The items carried on an agent as proof of his claimed identity is called his “bone fides.”

It may be formal identification, such as a driver’s license, a passport, a marriage license, or an employee pass—all forged.

It may be photos of an agent, digitally altered to superimpose images of him with others of merit, who, in reality, he’s never met before.

It may be written endorsements from others.

So, how do you know if the person you meet is “the real thing?”
 

Assume the worst. Ask questions later.

That way, your heart stays in one piece.

Welcome to Relationship 101.

By the time he circumnavigated LA’s highways to Phyllis’ tiny cottage in Pasadena, it was after two o’clock. As he’d hoped, the house was dark and still inside. The door to the garage wasn’t even locked.
 

He found one of the boxes marked SHIVES, nudged aside the tape holding it shut, and crammed the recipe book deep inside. Just as he slid it back onto the shelf, he was hit with the glaring garage light.

Aunt Phyllis stood there with a baseball bat in her hand. “Jeez, guy! You’re lucky you’re not a raccoon.” She squinted at him. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in here?”

“We met when I was doing the research on your…er…sister’s husband. For my client’s last will and testament.” Jack gave her a wide smile and prayed she’d remember.

Aunt Phyllis squinted even harder. “Ah! You’re that guy? Heck, wouldn’t have known you if I passed you on the street. I’m blind as a bat without my glasses.”
 

“You’d given me some mementos and I wanted to make sure to return them to you.” He pointed at the box now holding Donna’s cookbook.