Authors: Patricia Rice
“Broderick supports anyone stupid enough to promote his
agenda,” I corrected. “Stupid people don’t question what he tells them. That’s
not the same as
caring
for what the
Righteous stand for, not any more than he cares for our boys in uniform.
Evidence is required to prove that R&P has any interest in helping BM or
vice versa.”
I kept waiting for Graham to intrude, if only for the sound
of his voice, but after his offer was rejected, he’d apparently moved on. I
needed to rebuild the distance between me and our reluctant landlord.
Exchanging saliva — no matter how much fun — was not the solution.
“I can’t plan anything until I get inside and know what
resources I can access,” Patra explained. “The U.S. office won’t be the same as
the London one, but there ought to be connections I can ferret out. In the
meantime, I need to work on my cover. They’re putting me in entertainment. Who
do we know in Hollywood?”
“Ask Nick. But you’ll have a hard time looking up war zones
while covering celebrities being naughty in the Caribbean. Have you gone
through your father’s files to see who he knew? Maybe you can start with his
friends?” I suggested, reminding myself to get back to the code programs to see
if her father’s papers really were coded or if Graham had sent me off on a wild
goose chase.
Patra brightened. “Dad had an affair with that old Welsh
actress, Rhianna Mattox. Good idea!”
Even I knew who Rhianna was — only one of the best
known Brit actresses on stage and film. She’d have a human shield two blocks
deep around her. I rolled my eyes but didn’t discourage her fantasy. “Broderick
will wet his pants if he thinks you’re hooking up with her. But be careful and
don’t let anyone hear you asking about your father.”
“Don’t patronize me. We have the same mother, and I know the
same tricks you do.” She rose, taking my collection of Bill’s files with her.
Fortunately, I’d already scanned them into my computer. I
had a few years more experience on dirty tricks that she could figure out on
her own.
I built a computer folder six layers deep on all Broderick’s
subsidiaries but still hadn’t found any connection to the textbook companies
and Top Hat, my particular goal.
Then Oppenheimer, our lawyer, called.
I checked the clock, almost time for EG to get home. I
couldn’t go far, but I couldn’t discuss our inheritance problems with Graham
listening to every word. I didn’t care if he looked like Superman. The man was
still a predatory spider. I jogged up the stairs and out the front door with my
cell to my ear, listening to the lawyer’s recital of all he’d done since we’d
last talked.
EG’s silk cobwebs hadn’t reappeared since Mallard had
removed them from the entrance. I passed through, unscathed. Outside, I leaned
against the wrought iron fence separating sidewalk from three inches of lawn and
watched up the street in the direction of the Metro entrance while I talked.
“Brashton is still claiming the house transfer was legal
between the executor of the estate and an objective third-party with no
collusion. He claims the sale was necessary to cover debts,” Oppenheimer was
saying. “Without his cooperation, the burden of proof is on us and the courts
will drag their feet.”
“The
contents
of
this house are worth more than Graham paid. The house itself is worth an easy
ten mil, if not more. No one is that stupid. Tell Reggie boy we know about the
poisoned envelopes, and if he doesn’t come clean, we’ll be talking to the
cops.”
“Poisoned envelopes?” Oppenheimer asked in alarm. “Actual
poison, not drugs?”
“Graham isn’t likely to give us his chemical analysis if he
knows why I’m asking, but yeah, actual poison. Brashton killed our grandfather.
Proving it in court might be tricky, but Reggie ought to cave before it comes
to that, right?”
“Holy Lord Almighty,” Oppenheimer muttered. “I knew you’d be
trouble, but this…”
I envisioned him shaking his shaggy head as he made notes.
Oppenheimer was a wheeler-dealer, but he was damned sharp, and he was enough of
an outsider to be willing to go up against Reggie’s respectable old D.C. law
firm for our case. I didn’t have to like him, just respect his ability.
Oppenheimer asked questions. I explained how my grandfather
received an order of personalized envelopes from Reggie’s office, envelopes
that had been in Max’s bedroom and could have been licked by anyone. While we
talked, I watched EG stroll down the street with Mallard. I tried not to look
shocked.
Mallard did not often play bodyguard for us. What the devil
was going on?
I scanned the street with more awareness as I hung up on the
lawyer. Once upon a time, I would have done this automatically. I was
definitely getting soft.
I observed workmen on scaffolding across the street and a city
bus pouring diesel fumes. This narrow residential road had no parking — everyone
parked in the alleys behind the buildings. Most houses had ornate fences around
their postage stamp patch of green turf. I had a completely clear view of the
street — no good hiding places. Until now, I’d felt really secure here.
My gaze drifted back to the scaffolding and the vacant
windows of the house across the street. The windows were open. Was there one
last workman up there?
I jogged down the street to walk on EG’s other side.
Graham’s paranoia was contagious.
I’d always thought of Mallard as built like a brick house,
sturdy and thick. He dressed the part of butler in a formal black suit, starched
white shirt, and black-on-black embroidered vest. He’d been my grandfather’s
employee in my childhood, so my suspicion that he’s former CIA had no
foundation other than family instinct. My grandfather was not a kindly old
businessman, appearances to the contrary. Paranoid Graham was his protégé.
Mallard was more like their aide-de-camp than any butler I’d met, and I’d met a
surprising number over the years.
“Hanging out on street corners these days?” EG asked with
suspicion as I approached.
“Talking to Oppenheimer,” I said cheerfully, working on that
normal childhood routine. Unfortunately, in our family, normal is relative to
the politics of a third world country. “Have you decided which features you
want on your iMac before we place the order?”
“All of them,” she demanded, as expected. “If we’re rich, we
shouldn’t need to cut corners.”
“We’re not rich, you only get a very small percentage of
that money, and you need to learn to budget for college. You have no need of a
giant screen, extra speed, or more than one drive. You’ll have to decide if
you’d rather have more memory for programming, or high-end graphics for gaming.
You can’t have both.”
This discussion got her in the front door without further
questioning of why we were walking her home. Not that I had any answers for
that either. I sent her upstairs to consult my laptop and make her wish list
fit my bottom line. Then I followed Mallard to his downstairs hideaway,
conveniently placed at the other end of the low-ceilinged cellar from my
office.
“What’s up?” I demanded, strolling into the cellar kitchen
and catching him grating cheese as if he hadn’t just behaved more oddly than my
family on a good day.
“Nothing, of course. It’s a lovely autumn day and I strolled
down to the corner for a breath of fresh air.”
“You should respect my intelligence. You were not down at
the pub. You always smell of cigars and beer when you come back from there.
You’re not carrying shopping bags. And your timing was too convenient. If my
sister is in danger, I want to know about it.”
Mallard did not appear the least perturbed by my analysis.
“If you lie down with snakes, expect to get bit. I saw no reason why a child should
be put in harm’s way.”
“Fine, then I’ll check out that vacant house across the
street on my own.”
“Ana, I would not advise —”
I wasn’t taking advice from someone who refused to answer me
in clear English. I jogged up the back steps into our narrow, walled backyard
and slipped out the rear garden gate into the cement yard of the block building
behind us. I waved at Graham’s camera. Being able to envision the man I was
waving to ought to halt my mischief, but it only made me more reckless. I’d
kissed Superman and survived. I could do anything.
Or maybe I was daring him to leave his lair. My mind is as
warped as anyone else’s.
I trotted past the ugly building to the street behind us. I
hurried up to a corner, where I blended into a crowd getting off a bus. I
followed the crowd past our street, to the alley behind the houses across from
us, a round-about route that was almost a complete square.
The alleys behind the staid old Victorians on either side of
our street really weren’t meant for modern vehicular traffic. A horse and buggy
might rattle down the cobbled dirt, but it would rip the heck out of a
Porsche’s undercarriage.
The vacant building was easy to locate. All the windows in
back were boarded. A workman had propped open the cellar door with a can of
paint, presumably to let in some fresh air. The French doors on the deck had
been boarded up. I had no choice but to enter downstairs.
I’d spent the better part of my life exploring on my own,
without supervision. No sense in changing my habits, although now that I knew
Graham wasn’t immobile… It freaked me out. I admit it.
Entering from the bright outside, I lingered to let my eyes
adjust. I smelled cigarette smoke and fresh paint, but in the light of one
dangling dim bulb, I didn’t see anyone lurking in the cellar. Unlike my
basement office, this underground floor was essentially unfinished. It was a
dismal coal cellar with the remains of an ancient kitchen, which had been
reduced to a pantry for storing canning jars or whatever.
The stairs were in about the same place as our house. I took
them slowly, using the sides to avoid squeaky treads. I could hear workmen
cursing and joking. Sounded perfectly normal. I should have just turned around
and left, but my obsessive need to protect my family wouldn’t allow it.
I located the voices in the front room, so I stayed in the
back, taking the servants stairs up. My theory was that anyone spying on us
would choose an upper story. Maybe I could see what Mallard or Graham had seen
from this height.
I was wearing cheap Keds, so my soles were soundless as I
explored the second floor. The racket of power saws and drills drowned out the
squeak of boards under my feet. My real problem was the scaffolding. I needed
to look out the windows but didn’t want to end up staring a startled painter in
the face.
So I steadied myself on the second-floor hall wall and
peered into each bedroom as I passed, checking things out. I spotted no
workmen, inside or out. I saw no telescopic rifles or lurking men in black.
Starting to feel a trifle foolish, I took the back stairs up
to the third floor. This would have once been nursery, children’s rooms, and
servants’ quarters. In our house, Graham had turned this story into offices and
his suite and the gym. Looked like construction had knocked out a lot of the
walls up here, and it was being reconfigured into open family space. I studied
the area cautiously. Still no workmen, but I could tell this was where the
outside crew had been working on windows. Modern thermal panes were being
installed, carefully crafted not to change the exterior appearance.
I could continue to the attic or abandon my ridiculous
search.
I’m damned thorough and not in the habit of quitting.
I opened all the closed doors, finding nothing more than
closets, plumbing, and construction garbage that needed hauling to a Dumpster.
I really didn’t know what I was expecting to find.
Idly wondering if we could buy an unfinished house for a
million and rejecting the idea in favor of stubbornly wanting our grandfather’s
life for my siblings — possibly over Graham’s dead body — I took the
stairs to the attic.
I was truly off guard by the time I stepped into raw
unfinished storage space, or I wouldn’t have let the lurker catch me so easily.
As it was, he came up from behind and tackled me as I was turning to the dormer
windows. He was twice my weight, so I went down.
He clambered back up, apparently intent on escaping, but I
had questions. I kicked at his ankles, caught my knee around his leg when he
faltered, and yanked, unbalancing him. Yeah, I know, it would have been smarter
to let him go, but I react badly to surprises. And I didn’t like the
humiliation of getting caught.
I grabbed a handy two-by-four and came up swinging. He was
still intent on running. I disabused him of that notion by aiming at his well-padded
midriff.
I connected just enough to make him grab his belly with a
whoof
.
I could have broken his kneecaps, but it had finally dawned
on me that this wasn’t a dangerous muscle man but a middle-aged, out-of-shape
idiot. He’d probably been as surprised as I was and had taken me down by
accident. That
really
irked.
The binoculars around his neck upped my irritation. “Who
sent you to spy on us?” I demanded.
“Bird watching,” he gasped, bent in half and holding his flabby
abdomen.
“Fine, then show me your ID and I won’t call the cops.” Like
I had any more right to be here than he did, but in my experience, idiots
respond to authority.
“Not hurting anyone,” he protested, still gasping for air.
“Trespassing, stalking…” I groped for more crimes, but he
held up his hand to stop me.
“We investigate all new employees,” he said, hauling himself
upright by using the stair rail. “Standard procedure. No reason to be hostile.
I have permission to be up here.”
“Yeah, they think you’re bird watching. Who is ‘we’ and what
new employee?” Although given my research, I’d already worked that one out. I
just wanted to hear him admit it.