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  To break the spell they cast on him, she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. “Hey, up here.”

  Jack blinked, then murmured, “Um…I’m here to clean your pipes.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she gave him the once-over. Finally, she smiled. “I like a man with a plan. Come on in.”

  As he followed her in, he thought, I owe Ryan big time for this assignment.

  She didn’t stop until they reached the living room, which was painted indigo blue and held a semicircular-tufted white leather couch that faced the window overlooking the pool. One wall was devoted to a mirrored wet bar with rows of liquors rivaling any he’d seen in the world’s best hotels.

  As she bent over to pick up a martini glass from the coffee table, her robe rose just enough for a peek-a-boo view of what lay beneath. This time, before she was upright and had turned around toward him, he’d forced his eyes out the window, toward the glare of the undulating pool. She tilted her head to one side. “Coffee? Tea? Or maybe…” She let this tantalizing proposal linger in the air long enough that it atomized any variety of fantasies, then added “a martini?”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Scotch. Thanks.” He hesitated, then held out his hand. “I’m Jack Craig.”

  She shook it. “Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you.” She headed to the other side of the bar. Scanning the shelves, she saw what she was looking for—a bottle of Glenlivit XXV. She poured a full tumbler of it and handed it to him. “Nola Janoff.”

  Your reputation precedes you, too, he thought. No wonder Ryan conveniently forgot to mention who’d be hosting me.

  He tried to remember the last he’d heard about Acme’s infamous honeypot.

  As if reading his mind, Nola murmured, “It was the Rio incident.” She shrugged.

  “Yeah, right, a few months back.” Jack nodded. “There was something about you getting the goods on Juan Domingo Cámpora, the head of Argentina’s covert-op agency, Central de Reunión de Inteligencia Militar. Wasn’t there also some scandal involving our client—his boss in the Secretaría de Inteligencia?”

  Nola sighed. “José Félix Vidal. Dreamy blue eyes. He claimed he inherited them from his great-grandfather, Joseph Mengele. Considering his bedside manner, I could believe it.” She downed her martini, then poured another out of the shaker. “Turns out both men were selling Argentina’s state secrets to the Venezuelans. They had other things in common as well—a love for fine French wines, Cuban cigars, their country’s thoroughbred racehorses—not to mention a passion for sex acts requiring the skills of a contortionist.” She winked at Jack.

  “I heard you almost didn’t make it out. So, here’s to the fickle finger of fate.” He tapped his glass with hers.

  “Yes, well, Acme passed along my intel to the Argentinean president, via POTUS. Scored a few brownie points for the home team, right?” She shrugged. “But my boy toys weren’t so happy to find out I’d squealed on them. Too bad. That’s what happens when you trust a pretty face.” She batted her eyes in mock innocence. “Yeah, it was a tight situation, but I escaped thanks to a very handsome ship’s purser on a Crystal Cruise Line ship. Ever wonder why so many cruisers fall overboard? I can tell you firsthand. It’s a little game called ‘Walk the Plank,” which is played with a bottle of tequila, an eye patch, and something that should be as long as a cutlass, but always comes up short, if you catch my drift.” She winked at him. “You’d think Ryan would have merited that as worthy enough for a little vacation. No such luck. I guess it’s why I’m stuck out here in suburgatory, babysitting the widow Stone”—she plucked the toothpick holding an olive out of her glass, and sucked on it—“with you, of all people. So, what’s your story? I presume Pope Ryan also assigned you to this mission as some sort of penance. Am I right?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Jack winced at the thought. “Her husband, Carl, was blown sky high, and it may have been because of something he was couriering for me to Ryan. The item in question is still missing. From the chatter Acme has picked up, we have some reason to believe it didn’t disintegrate with him.”

  She frowned. “Good old Carl. May he rest in peace.” Her prayer gave her another excuse to make a toast—and down her drink accordingly.

  “So, you knew him?”

  She snickered. “Not in the Biblical sense, no. Only by reputation—and from what I hear, I missed out on something…big.” She laughed as she held her hands almost a foot apart. “The way he went at it, he was sure to get someone mad at him—if not another shooter or some pissed off dictator, then a jealous mistress or a pissed-off husband.”

  Jack turned toward the other side of the room, where the picture window faced the Stone residence. “So much for an untarnished legacy.”

  “Hey, I’m no saint either, and I’ll admit it. It’s probably why this job is cut out for me.” She slid onto a barstool. “On the other hand, you’re a regular knight in shining armor. The wife must be quite a lady.”

  “She is…was.” He frowned. “We’re no longer an item. My job—it got to her, too.” Time to change the topic, he thought. “I’ve been away from this particular surveillance gig for a year. What can you tell me about her? Any patterns?”

  “What, with three kids? You better believe it. She walks the two oldest children to the elementary school. Afterward, she takes baby Trisha with her to the grocery store—usually on Mondays and Fridays, depending on whether she hits Target, too. The eldest, Mary, now eight, has a couple of after-school activities—ballet on Tuesdays, and gymnastics on Thursdays. Jeff is in first grade. For him there’s little league and soccer practice—on Wednesdays and Fridays, respectively. His games are on Saturdays or Sundays. If there’s a dental or doctor’s appointment, unless it’s an emergency, she schedules them for Mondays. Otherwise any sort of shopping involving the children takes place on that day, too. I’ve also got the elementary school calendar, so that I know what days or evenings she may leave the house for a school function. The kids are fed, bathed, and in bed by eight o’clock. She watches very little television. Mostly, she reads, or bakes—homemade breads, sometimes pies or cakes. And like clockwork, she gets on the treadmill, for at least an hour, sometimes longer. But when she can get a babysitter—usually her Aunt Phyllis—she’ll go for a nice long jog. Or to the firing range. And by the way, she’s a pretty decent shot.”

  “Yes, I seem to remember that.” Jack smiled when he heard Phyllis’s name. She’d certainly be on his call sheet this time around.

  “In fact,” Nola continued, “Phyllis is coming on Saturday, so she’ll probably take a run then.”

  “You seem to have her schedule down pat. Have you noticed anyone snooping around the house when she takes off?”

  “No, not once.”

  He was relieved about that. He still felt guilty about having pulled up stakes. “Nola, have you struck up a friendship?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you can call it that. I go out of my way to be friendly, but because I don’t have kids, I’m not naturally in her fly zone. But I borrow a lot—you know, sugar, hedge clippers—anything to get her talking. In fact, this ice bucket is hers.” She pointed to the cut glass crystal ice bucket sitting on the counter. “From what I’ve observed, she pretty much keeps to herself, except when her kids have play dates—which are a lot.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Have any of the other women tried to cozy up to her?”

  “Yes—and she’s polite, but I notice that if she’s invited to a gathering that doesn’t involve the children—you know, like a parents’ night out, or a neighborhood cocktail party—she’ll have some excuse to pass. She doesn’t want to field questions all night about a husband who doesn’t exist.” She shook her head in awe. “Donna is certainly keeping up her end of the bargain with Ryan. Still, the fact that she’s married to the Invisible Man makes some of these women nervous. I can handle it, but truthfully, Jack, suburbia is not easy on single women—which is what they consider her around here.”

  “But
they know she’s married.”

  Nola raised a brow. “In name only. From what they see for themselves, he’s always on extended business trips, or he’s just left on last night’s red eye, or somehow they’ve just missed him.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t help that she’s also quite a looker—or haven’t you noticed?”

  Jack could feel his face heating up.

  Nola laughed. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect the celebrated Jack Craig to be a eunuch.”

  “I’m not Carl Stone, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Not at all—and thank goodness for that. The last thing the world needs is another one of him—God rest his soul.” Her lips curled into a brittle smile. “Although I’m sure the grieving Mrs. Stone would disagree. Even if Carl hadn’t been a spy, he would have fit right in. Too many of the men around these parts have wandering eyes, and hands. I speak from personal experience—” She stopped short. Her mouth dropped open. “Aw, hell, I forgot! Speaking of which, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to make a quick call, to one of the neighborhood Lotharios. Otherwise, he’ll be knocking on my back door any moment now.”

  “You mean—right now?”

  “Yes, silly!…Oh my goodness! Did you think I always walk around like this? Or that maybe I put this on—for you?” That set her off into peals of laughter. “Frankly, I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  Jack frowned. “I take it, then, you don’t believe in keeping a low profile.”

  “If I did, you wouldn’t have half the intel I just gave you. Believe me, the men here gossip as much as their wives—and they find the demure Mrs. Stone quite intriguing.” She pointed upstairs. “Choose any one of the bedrooms you want—except for the master, in the back.” Her eyes swept over him. “Because believe me, if you do, you won’t get much sleep.”

  He heard her loud and clear.

  He chose the front bedroom that gave him the best view of Donna’s house.

  He missed her.

  He couldn’t wait to get that very first glimpse of her again.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He had just tossed his bag on the bed when the shades opened in one of the second-story windows of Donna Stone’s house—the room belonging to Trisha.

  Donna stood in the window.

  She looked exactly as he remembered her.

  Today, she wore a tank top and shorts. In one hand she held a retractable measuring tape. She lifted her hands to the top of the windowsill, then side by side within the sash. This movement propelled her chest forward. As she eyed the measurement, she mouthed it to herself.

  He was mesmerized.

  He missed her voice.

  He missed watching the way her body moved.

  Just as she lowered the measuring tape on one side in order to measure the height of the sill, something outside the window caught her eye.

  Oh hell, she saw me, he thought. Immediately he ducked below his window.

  She smiled and laughed—not at him, though, but at Mary, who had driven up to the house on her bike and was waving to her mother.

  Jack laughed, too—at himself for forgetting that the windows were tinted in such a way that no one could see inside the Acme rental.

  His smile faded when he remembered why he was there.

  He pulled out his iPad and scrolled the PDFs of all the intel Emma had gathered on Donna to date, until he found Aunt Phyllis’s address, out in Pasadena.

  Time to take a little trip to the other side of LA.

  On his way to the stairwell, he passed the master suite. The door was closed. He was about to rap on it when he heard a duet of moans. Apparently, whomever she had in there with her hadn’t taken no for an answer.

  The longer he stood there, the louder they got. Finally, he got tired of waiting for a break in the action.

  From what he’d just heard, she was in for the night anyway.

  Instead, he scribbled a note in code words that let her know where he was going, and not to wait up for him. He stuck it on the fridge with the only magnet already there: it was glazed with a picture of a pert blonde, circa nineteen-fifties. She held a bow and arrow in her hands. The slogan on the magnet said:

  Stupid Cupid! I’ll Get My Own Damn Man!

  He chuckled as he went out the door.

  Chapter 15

  Pocket Litter

  Like most things, authenticity is in the details. A spy in hostile territory knows this firsthand. In order to alter your true identity, it’s smart to litter your pockets with the sort of items that help your cover.

  For example, if you’re pretending to be a sports fan on the way to a game, wear a fan jersey or hat, casual pants, and put real game tickets in your front pocket. If you’re supposed to be on a business trip, put an airline ticket in your pocket made out in your alias, as well as business cards.

  If you’re parading around as a Congressperson, wear a red or blue tie, an American flag pin, and stuff your pockets with plenty of cash.

  “You’re not just yanking my leg, are you, young man? You mean to tell me someone left my poor deceased brother-in-law, Dave Shives, an inheritance?” Phyllis looked up from the rose bush she was pruning.

  “Perhaps. You see we’re trying to determine if in fact he is the right David Shives.” Jack winced. His fake glasses were giving him a headache. He had perfect eyesight, but because he couldn’t find plain-glass frames, he had to settle for the lowest prescription cheaters he could find from the local drug store. As part of his disguise, he had tinted his hair with a gray rinse, and combed it all the way back in order to look older. An ill-fitting suit, skinny tie, tasseled loafers, suitcase, and a phony business card from a made-up company finished off his “insurance agent” look. “Apparently the man—the Mr. Shives we’re looking for, and the benefactor—were in the same Army battalion unit during the Vietnam War. In fact, Mr. Shives saved the benefactor’s life—something about enemy forces attacking, getting caught in a crossfire—”

  “Huh?” She took off her sunglasses and squinted up at him. “He spent the whole time at the Presidio, in San Francisco. He was the cemetery NCO. You know, sort of like a grave digger and gardener, but fancier.”

  “Um…I think it was during his training—war games and the like.” He ignored her stare. “Um…Anyway, Mr. Shives pulled his benefactor to safety, although the benefactor did suffer an injury. When they got home, they parted ways and lost touch. The benefactor never had a family—”

  “Oh! You mean”—she pointed to his groin—“down there.”

  “Um…yes, that sounds about right.” He pretended to find the fact on his clipboard. “Bottom line is this: In order to determine if in fact he is the right guy, I need you to answer a few questions, maybe dig out a few items that verify—”

  “Whoa, wait up, young man.” She dusted the dirt off her gardening gloves. “Just how much money has this Mr. Benefactor person bequeathed to Dave?”

  “His name isn’t ‘Benefactor.’ I have to say that because I have strict instructions not to divulge the name until I’m sure—”

  “Okay, I read you loud and clear.” She shook her head. “You know, Dave died almost ten years ago. His wife—my sister, Mary—predeceased him a decade before that. Poor thing. Breast cancer took her.” She shrugged. “His illness was man-made.” She pantomimed drinking from a bottle. “I came to live with Dave to help him raise his little girl, Donna.”

  “It doesn’t matter that he passed. His heir—Donna, that is—will inherit the money in his place.”

  She nodded, relieved. “Good to know! Donna’s got three kids, and no husband.”

  “Um…what?” He slid the glasses down the bridge of his nose so that he could see her clearly. Had Donna divulged to her aunt the truth of Carl’s death?

  “It’s the truth—although the poor thing won’t admit it.” She leaned in and whispered, “She tells everyone he’s traveling all the time, but that’s a bunch of hooey! Carl Stone—to be honest, he was an odd duck anyway—took o
ff and left her high and dry. Probably for some little chippie. He always did have a wandering eye.” She arched a brow. “The children are devastated. They just want the truth, one way or the other. I told them myself, just the other day. Well, you can imagine her reaction. She hit the roof! Told me I had no right to make them think poorly of their daddy.” She sighed and brushed away a tear with her gloved hand. “How much did you say the inheritance was again?”

  “I didn’t. Not yet, anyway, until we make sure we’ve got the right woman…I mean, man.” He graced her with an innocent smile. “But while we’re on the subject of your niece, tell me: is she an easygoing sort of girl?”

  “If by that you mean, ‘Is she a slut,’ I can tell you upfront and center that there was none of that Coyote Ugliness in her, no ‘Girls Gone Wild.’ She grew up a sweet young lady—although she did have her fair share of boyfriends.” She raised a brow. “People always want what they can’t have, if you catch my drift.”

  “You mean, she was quite a flirt.”

  “I mean, she was—is—charismatic as all get-out. She wears her wedding band with pride, and the men still buzz around.”

  “I see.” Even as Jack’s heart was sinking, he tried to keep the smile on his face.

  “No you don’t. You think I’m saying she’s a pushover. Far from it! She’s just staying true blue to Carl.” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Jack. “I noticed you’re not wearing a ring. If you want, I could put in a good word for you.”

  “No, I…I mean, no I’m not in a relationship right now—“

  “That works to your favor, young man. Especially now that she may be coming into a little money.” Phyllis winked knowingly at him. “And you’re not exactly hard on the eyes, either. In fact, if you got yourself a pair of contacts and went to a better barber, you’d be fighting ’em off with a stick.” She sighed. “In hindsight, it would be a lost cause. She really does believe in happily ever after. Carl Stone is a dang fool. She’d do anything for him.”