The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide (15 page)

“As we all now know, the assassination attempt on Asimov was merely a ploy: one that could have been suggested by Carl to the Russians, giving him the immunity he needed while getting close enough to assassinate the real target: the soon-to-be-appointed Russian ambassador, Jonah Breck.” He smiles. “Having you there as back-up and an alibi was brilliant. Ryan Clancy’s report on that particular mission states quite clearly that both you and your husband stayed in Breck’s home, and that you had  ‘intimate relationships’ with 
both
 men.”

“If by ‘intimate’ you mean I played honeypot, I readily admit to doing so, in order to stop what we were told was to be an assassination attempt on President Asimov, as per the instructions of my employer, Acme Industries, and its client—who, by the way, also happens to be your boss, Mr. Reynolds.” 

“Acting as Breck’s slut also gave you and Carl access to his computer.”

Being handcuffed to my chair may be the only thing keeping me from grabbing the table and breaking it over Reynolds’ head. If he comes close enough, I’ll still be able to kick out his teeth. 

“And both of you tracked him to his private island,” he continues. “How do we know that killing him there wasn’t a scheme hatched by you and your husband, to stop him from proving his innocence?”

“If that were the case, then why am I working so hard to take down Carl?”

“I’m not a marriage counselor, Mrs. Stone. But if you ask me, I’d say you have jealousy issues. Your husband runs off with Valentina Petrescu, so you get back at him by partnering, both professionally and intimately, with her ex-husband. At the same time, you pretend to do everything in your power to see that Carl hangs. And yet, you still love him.”

“No I don’t! I hate him.”

“According to this, you don’t.” He tosses another file in front of me. Its caption reads

D. Stone  - Sessions with Bob Hartley, MD, PsyD

“I can’t believe you stole my file from my shrink!” I try to snatch it back, but Reynolds jerks it out of reach of my tethered hands.

He laughs. “Nothing is private when national security is at stake, let alone the heartsick ramblings of a jilted stay-at-home mom who fancies herself a player in the game of espionage. I guess that’s why you jump into his arms whenever he’s within reach.”

 “What? I hate it when he touches me!”

He stares at me in mock shock. Then slowly he pulls a folded note from his inside jacket pocket. “Really? You mean to say that you don’t, and I quote, ‘moan during our love play’? Or that your nipples don’t, quote, harden at the sight of him? Tell me Mrs. Stone, are you damp right now, thinking about him?”

He’s got Carl’s letter. “You son of a bitch! Where the hell did you get that?”

Reynolds’ lips are stretched wide in a victorious smile. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Bing, was kind enough to pass it forward. She presumed, rightly so, that anything showing your—how did she put it? Oh yes, ‘depraved nature’—might shed some light on the charges against you. And by the way, she asked me to break the news to you that you’ve been kicked off the Hilldale Welcoming Committee. Apparently being greeted by a terrorist suspect sends the wrong kind of message about the ’hood, not to mention what it does for property values. Case in point: Abbottabad.”

He turns to leave, still chuckling as he reads the letter.  

He doesn’t realize I’ve stood up behind him. And that I’ve flipped the chair over my head so that I can hold it, upside down, despite being chained to it.

I’m just about to bring it down over his head when I see Jack and Ryan, standing in the doorway. They stare at me, eyes open wide. Jack warns me with an adamant shake of his head.

Slowly I drop the chair back behind me as Ryan holds up a computer thumb drive. “Major Reynolds, we have some evidence that proves Mrs. Stone is telling the truth.”

Disgusted, Reynolds’ eyes roll skyward. “Bullshit! I’ve got an air-tight case against her.”

“You’re wrong,” Ryan says firmly. “I’m sure you’re aware that the footage you received wasn’t complete. That’s because these images were edited. In fact, we found a splinter feed across the street from the hotel, in an abandoned warehouse.” He points to the pictures on the table in front of me. “Mrs. Stone’s actions were altered 
after
 she encountered the dead men. For example, you’ll notice the stills were cropped in such a way that you can’t see everything going on in the hallway, which would certainly verify Mrs. Stone’s contention that the real assassin was there, too.” He points to the bottom of one photo, where the time stamp is visible. “Take note of the time, because it comes into play later.” 

“Give me a break,” Reynolds mutters.

I’d like to break him, alright: across his skull, with this chair. 

“On the other hand, Acme’s feed, as seen through Mrs. Stone’s contact lenses, show her downstairs from as early as seven-forty to nine-fifty,” Jack explains. “After greeting the Quorum suspects and handing them the keys to the rooms where the FBI interrogators were stationed, she ushers them to the elevator. See for yourself.”

He swipes the screen on his iPad. Instantly, a video showing the hotel’s lobby appears on it. I sit at the front desk. A time stamp appears on the bottom left hand corner of the screen, showing that it is seven-forty, which was when Carl, disguised as Dominic Gerstner, comes through the front door. Granted, my demeanor changes slightly. It’s obvious I’m uncomfortable in his presence, but at no time do I look as if I recognize him. 

Each subsequent guest encounter is documented just as I remembered it. Reynolds can also hear Jack’s, Abu’s, Ryan’s and my comments on what they witness through my eyes.

Reynolds shakes his head in disgust. “Even if this feed is legit and Carl was there, do you think I believe for a moment that she didn’t know what kind of carnage was happening on the floors above that pretty little head of hers?”

Jack bristles. “I don’t care what you believe. You say you want facts. Now you have them, even if you don’t want to believe them. And they show she had no part in the killings, which is all that matters in a court of law.”

 “There is one fact against her,” Reynolds retorts. “Donna Stone ushered those men to their deaths.” 

“No one expected Carl to be there,” Ryan mutters.

“There’s still no proof he was even there,” Reynolds counters smugly. 

“Maybe there is,” I say. “Carl left his hat behind. I put it behind the concierge desk. Surely the FBI investigators took it, along with the rest of the evidence.” 

Reynolds nods grudgingly. “If so, we’ll pull what we can from it.” The faint buzz of his phone stops his train of thought. He taps it on. He’s speaking too low for us to hear him, but the information he hears puts a frown on his face. “Dominc Gerstner’s body was found, floating in a Marina del Rey harbor.”

“Has the time of death been determined?” Ryan asks.

“It was found at six o’clock that evening.”

“If that’s the case, then he couldn’t have been at the hotel,” Jack points out. “Carl took his place.”

Reynolds turns to me. “You’re free to go—for now. But at the very least, Acme ran a shoddy mission. The deaths of my agents prove it.”

I want to say the right thing, but really, what would that be? “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover the shame and grief I feel over their loss, not to mention losing the one chance we had to take down the Quorum, once and for all.

Chapter 12

How to Deal with His Old Flame

Long ago, she broke his heart. He claims he’s over her, but how can you be sure he’s telling the truth? Here are some surefire signs she still lights his torch:

Sign #1: For some reason, he’s forgotten to erase her telephone number from his cell phone. Worse yet, when you erase it, somehow it miraculously reappears. 

Solution: Buy him a new cell phone, because this one is obviously broken.

Sign #2: When he goes out for a drive, his GPS tracker shows he’s been by her place. When you confront him with this, he gets angry and insists you’re crazy.

Solution: Replace the GPS tracker.

Sign #3: Sometimes he doesn’t come home at night. When this happens, he claims he’s having car trouble.

Solution: Buy him a new car.

Sign #4: His unconscious doodles look an awful lot like her name, with the word “Mrs.” in front, and his surname behind it. When you point this out to him, he claims you’re seeing things.

Solution: Buy new glasses.

Sign #5: When the two of you make love, the name he shouts out is hers. When you point this out to him, he breaks down and admits you’re right.

Solution: Break boyfriend’s hand. Specifically, the hand he uses to doodle. 

Then give your next boyfriend the new cell phone, and the new car (equipped with a new GPS tracker). 

Keep the new glasses. You look stunning in them.

“Are you sure you want another glass of that stuff? Aren’t you on your third?” Jack puts down the pot he’s washing in order to move the martini shaker just out of reach.

I snatch it back.

The next thing I know, Jack has slapped it out of my hand. He’s sober, which gives him the advantage of dexterity. That, and he’s not seeing double.

When I lunge for it again, he pours the perfect combination of good gin and olive-infused vermouth down the kitchen sink.

“Hey! That was the last of my Hendricks!”

“Good. Now you can sober up.”

 “What do you care? What does anyone care? How did Ryan so eloquently put it? Oh yes, now I remember! I’m on ‘hiatus.’” 

Which is another way of saying I’ve been terminated from the mission.

Jack nods toward the children, Emma and Arnie, all of whom have stopped eating their dessert in order to stare at us. Jack hisses, “He tried his damnedest to keep you in play.”

“Bullshit. He sold me down the river.” Nonchalantly I walk over to the wine rack. Jack is too busy stacking dishes to notice that I’ve palmed a seventy-dollar Booker Syrah and a wine opener. Who needs a glass? Besides, I’ve only got two hands.  

As Jack tosses the pot into the sink, a green wave of Palmolive suds washes onto his jeans. “Damn it!”

Trisha’s lip trembles. It’s rare to see Jack lose his cool. 

He waves at her. “Nothing to worry about, honey. Daddy just got a little wet. Hey, Mommy says it’s fine if anyone wants a second helping of ice cream.”

He tosses a new carton of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Peppermint Crunch to Arnie, then follows it with the scooper.

While the kids are distracted by the thought of a mommy-approved sugar high, Jack continues, “Had Reynolds gotten his way, we would have lost five years of reconnaissance. Your termination on this mission was the only compromise he’d accept.”

“In other words, Ryan didn’t fight for me.”

“Don’t blame Ryan. Blame Carl. He’s the one who set you up.”

I shrug. Thank goodness Arnie found the splitter in the hotel’s security feed.”

 “Wish I could take credit for that one but it was Jack’s lead,” Arnie says through a mouthful of ice cream. “Any more fudge sauce?” he and Jeff ask at the same time. Then they glare at each other. 

Once again, they are rivals. 

I sigh. “Arnie, don’t you have a home?”

“Emma and I…I mean…” He looks over at Emma. They blush in unison. 

“They’re shacking up,” Jeff mutters in disgust.

Suddenly I notice what Arnie is wearing: a 
Star Wars
 bathrobe over flannel pajama bottoms patterned in binary code.

Ha. I guess their little date went well after all. I hope he’ll learn to like soy cheese.

Hmmmm.
 Wait a minute. “Arnie, what did you say? The lead on the splinter feed was Jack’s?” 

Arnie opens his mouth, but then his eyes shift to Jack and suddenly it shuts tight.

Now, that’s a first. 

Ah, I get it. 
Valentina is back.

Jack ducks just in time to miss the wine bottle, which crashes into the wall behind him. 

He lifts his head, if only to raise a brow and nods in the direction of Mary, Jeff, and Trisha.

It’s too late. They get the drift: Mommy is pissed off. She is also pissed.

My state of anxiety produces a psychic tsunami, knocking over everyone in its wake. Jeff, frightened, misses the Nerf ball he’s been tossing at the wall in an attempt to best his record of eighteen one-handed catches. It ricochets off the ceiling before slamming into Trisha’s Lego Princess castle. 

As the pretty pink fortress explodes into eighty-eight separate pieces, Trisha bursts into tears and runs out of the room. 

Mary glares at me. “Mom, get it together, okay? If not for yourself, then for the rest of us!”

She storms upstairs after her sister.

Emma and Arnie have already snuck away. I guess curt words and flying wine bottles don’t fit into their fantasy of true love.

Mary is right. I am ashamed. If I’m going to have it out with Jack, I need to do it in the privacy of our bedroom. Or in a dark alley.

“When did your ex come crawling back out of the woodwork?”

Jack shakes his head as if he’s got the headache from hell. “It wasn’t her idea. It was mine. Donna, she’s afraid for her life. She knows he wanted her dead for testifying against him. I had to convince her that helping us put him back in prison is the only guarantee she’ll have for survival. ”