1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Read online

  I wonder how they’d treat me if they thought Jack was my husband. They’d be jealous, for sure. But I know better than to presume it would earn me their friendships, let alone their respect.

  Not that it matters. As soon as I lay down the law to Ryan, Jack Craig will just be a fond fantasy for Hilldale’s mères terrible.

  An even bigger problem is explaining to my children that he’s not who they think—and hope—he is:

  Their father.

  “Explain to me again why you feel it’s necessary for this jerk to squat in my house and sully the name of my deceased husband?”

  Ryan looks up from his desk. The weariness glazing his eyes is a symptom of his perennial state of anxiety. He stands up, stretches, and then walks over to the door in order to close it.

  Does he think Jack’s feelings will be hurt? Well, boohoohoo. Fact is, Jack could care less what either of us thinks. He’s too busy flirting with Ryan’s assistant, Natasha.

  “I don’t see it that way, Donna. For the past six years Jack’s been leading our international field work on the Quorum. He’s analyzed their strengths and weaknesses, and because of the mole he’s planted, we now have important intel of their lead players, and their procedures. In fact, if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have discovered their next attack may be here, in a few weeks.”

  “Here, in LA?” The thought that Carl’s killers are so close catapults my heart into my throat.

  Ryan nods. “It’s one of sixteen key metropolitan areas where we know they’ve got active cells. The one correlation between all of them is that they’ve set up in affluent suburban communities. The online chatter tells us that there is a high concentration of Quorum operatives located in the OC In fact, our intel shows that the Quorum has made Hilldale its satellite headquarters for whatever operation is in play in Los Angeles.”

  That news stuns me into a chair.

  “Hilldale? Why my neighborhood, of all places?”

  Jack smirks. “One thing terrorists have learned well is to hide in plain sight. Doing just that worked for Osama bin Laden for several years, didn’t it?”

  I ignore his answer. Still, I feel the dread that comes with knowing that the Quorum is so close.

  But I also feel exhilaration.

  Bring. It. On.

  “Donna, you’re an integral part of this mission.” He looks me in the eye. “You know the natives, the terrain, and the scuttlebutt. And of course, your special skills are second to none.”

  I smile appreciatively.

  “Well, maybe second to another,” he adds, hesitantly. “As an assassin, Jack is every bit your equal.” He places a hand on my shoulders. “If they fall for the notion that Jack is Carl, we can flush them out. And finally we’ll have them right where we want them. That’s why it’s so important for you two to make this work.”

  “Sure okay, I get it. Jack Craig walks on water. But we have one big logistical issue: whereas the kids don’t remember their father, Aunt Phyllis surely does. And she practically lives at our house.”

  Ryan’s smile is naughty. “I’ve already taken care of Phyllis. She’s the grand prize winner of a six-week all-expenses paid trip to China from her favorite radio show. You’ll probably get a call from her later this afternoon with the big news.” His smile fades into a grimace. “By then, this mission will be over—one way or another.”

  Ryan has all the bases covered. If I want in on this mission, I have to accept it.

  I do so, with a shrug. “Well then, I guess I owe him an apology.”

  “You can thank me later.” The teasing tone in Jack’s voice, coming from behind me, sends a tingle up my spine. As he slips past me, he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear: “Kissing and making up is half the fun.”

  Instead of turning around, I glare at Ryan. What else can I do? He knows I’ll do anything to take down the Quorum.

  Even if that means putting up with Jack Craig’s shenanigans.

  “If you don’t mind, Donna, I’d like you to host another asset, too,” Ryan grabs a file and slides it across the desk to me.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and see that the picture inside is that of Emma Honeycutt. “No problem there! Emma’s a wonderful tech. If it weren’t for her ComInt, I wouldn’t have found that Iraqi agent on that Laguna Beach job. She can set up in the bonus room, over the garage.”

  Ryan nods. “Well, she’ll have her work cut out for her with this mission, too. As you and Jack eliminate possible suspects, she’ll be your ghost surveillance and electronic intel. Her cover will be that of a foreign exchange student whom you’re hosting.”

  “In our neck of the woods, that won’t raise too many eyebrows. In fact, exchange students are coveted—especially if they’ll double as au pairs.”

  Ryan laughs. “Considering her aversion to children, I’d hardly expect her to be up for babysitting duties, too.”

  “If she wants to nip any offers in the bud, warn her to wear short skirts and to pretend to speak Swedish. That way the neighborhood MILFs will see her as competition for their husbands’ affections and avoid her like the plague.”

  “Will do. And of course Abu will be close by, on foot, acting as your eyes, and conducting passive probes.” He frowned. “Should you need any special toys, Arnie Locklear will drop them, but he’ll be finessing a cover, depending on the situation.”

  Finally, something that brings a smile to my lips. Arnie’s disguises are legendary. On a job in which I stopped an assassination attempt on the Pope during his recent visit to San Francisco, Arnie was able to slip me through security by posing as a nun. Him, not me.

  Ryan glances over at Jack. “Why don’t you bring her up to speed with what we know?”

  Jack turns to me. For once, he looks serious. “It’s not much, but we ran across some chatter that they’ll strike sometime within the next four weeks. We also know that they’ve just purchased some plutonium from a Chinese gangbanger in Monterrey Park: one of the Chin Wahs - a kid named Xie Tong.” That lascivious smile of his has crept back onto his lips. “He’s big into titty bars. We’ve already set you up to take the day shift tomorrow, at one of his favorite hangs, the Spearmint Rhino. Find out where he got the stuff.”

  I look at Ryan. “Do we want him eliminated?”

  He shrugs. “An ‘accident’ that won’t tip off the Quorum that we’re onto them would be preferred, so if you torture, don’t leave marks. Although frankly I think the LAPD Gang Taskforce would hand a medal to anyone who took him out.”

  “Consider it done.” I smile innocently. I start for the door, and then turn as I pass Ryan. “I have one last question. Is it true that you came up with the idea of ‘marrying’ me to Jack?”

  Ryan blinks twice. That is his tell: no, it was not his idea.

  I turned to Jack. “That’s what I thought. So it was Jack’s idea. Why am I not surprised?” I’m trying hard to keep the hatred out of my voice. I turn to face him. “You’ll sleep in the guest room, at the end of the hall. And just so it’s on the record: I won’t put up with any of your silly little games. I’m locking my bedroom door.”

  He shrugs. “No need. I already told you: you’re not my type. Trust me; as soon as we wrap up this mission, I’m out of your picket-fenced Siburbia.”

  “I guess that’s why you haven’t even bothered to address the most important issue of all: how my family will react when, inevitably, you leave us.” My stare dares him to look away. “Mr. Craig, my children have lived without their father for almost six years now. They have little if any memory of him, and a lot of emotional trauma over their loss. Take this as fair warning: if you hurt them, you’ll find yourself paying a very high price for it.”

  I don’t wait for another one of his smart-ass comments. I just walk out the door.

  When we get home from Acme, the kids have already set the table. It was not lost on me
that they’ve used the good china and silver, that they are bathed and dressed in their Sunday best.

  It is a very special evening: Daddy is finally home.

  Until bedtime, they watch our every interaction: how we address each other (yes, I’m gritting my teeth every time he calls me “Dear”); and if and when we touch—or more accurately, how we don’t.

  Hell, we’re barely exchanging smiles. Just . . . small talk.

  Granted he’s polite and friendly, but all night long he keeps them at arm’s length: emotionally, anyway. If he talks to them at all, it’s to quiz them about our neighbors and their friends’ parents: how long have they lived in Hilldale? Are they allowed to come over and play in their friends’ houses? Are their parents nice to them?

  The way he questions them is subtle, but the bigger issue, at least to the children, was why he’s more interested in everyone else.

  What they want instead is for him to take an interest in them, to get involved in their lives.

  In other words, they want him to act like a father, to return their love.

  I know I should be glad that he’s agreed to keep his distance. Like me, he realizes that, in the long run, that’s best all the way around.

  Still, it hurts to see my children try so hard to win his affections.

  For most of the evening, Mary seems wary of him. I presume she was unable to reconcile the man before her with her memories of the real Carl.

  But then, as we clean up after their meal, she murmurs as casually as possible, “Mom, would you mind asking him if he’ll take me to the Father-Daughter dance?”

  I freeze with my hands in hot sudsy dishwater. “Well . . . sure, if you want. But I think it would mean more, coming from you.”

  I can’t tell her that he’d laugh in my face if I ask.

  I pray he won’t have the same disdain for her; that at the very least he’ll come up with a good excuse that lets her down easy.

  Or says “yes.”

  But no, he won’t do that. Because we have a deal.

  Even if it means making Mary cry.

  She nods slowly, taking in my motherly advice, my false hope. “I guess you’re right. Okay, sure. I’ll do it. This week, in fact.” As she puts down her dishrag, she straightens her shoulders, as if steeling herself for that momentous task.

  When he blows her off, she’ll hate him.

  Maybe that would be best. That way, when inevitably the time comes for him to walk out on us, she won’t give a damn.

  Eventually she and I will work through it. In therapy. Hopefully before I’m old and gray.

  If I live that long. As you can imagine, my job is rife with occupational hazards.

  Chapter 5

  Divvying Up Household Chores

  Granted, your hard-working hubby is doing his fair share just by bringing home the bacon. But by encouraging him to take on a couple of those tasks himself, he’ll soon have more respect for all you do on your family’s behalf.

  If his excuse for turning you down is that he’s “too tired” or that “it’s women’s work,” there is a simple way to convince him otherwise: food poisoning.

  Afterward he’ll readily insist on cooking all the family meals—or better yet, treating you to dinner. Now, how romantic is that?

  Trisha is slapping me awake. “Mommy! MOMMY! Can Daddy take us to school today? Please? Pretty please?”

  I groan as I open one eye. It’s still dark outside. The florescent face of my bedside clock shows me that it’s four-thirty.

  Before Jack entered our lives, there is only one other man who could get her to rise before the crack of dawn: Santa Claus.

  “We’ll see, honey. Maybe if you ask him sweetly.”

  The stuffed polar bear that has been her constant companion since birth bumps along the carpet as she makes her way back to the door.

  “Trisha, don’t go ask him now! He’s sleeping!”

  “No, he’s not. His room is empty. That’s why I thought he was in here, with you.” She turns, with a frown on her face. “Don’t mommies and daddies sleep together?”

  “Yes . . . I mean no, not all the time.” I’m stuttering like an imbecile. I wonder where Jack went. “Listen, little one, just go back to your room. Daddy may still be gone when it’s time for school. You know, he’s got to go to work. But tell you what: I’ll make chocolate chip pancakes in the morning, and then we’ll sing ‘That’s How You Know’ on the way to school. Won’t that be fun?”

  Trisha nods listlessly. Her tiny mouth turns down at the sides, and her head hangs low. That wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for.

  Even if he comes home in time, he’ll turn her down. Granted I’m sure he’ll come up with a good excuse and say no as kindly as possible, but she’ll feel rejected just the same.

  I sigh as I try to fall back asleep, but I can’t. There’s too much on my mind. I go through the day’s agenda: After I drop the kids at school, I have to run over to Monterrey Park, to eliminate the Chinese gangbanger. Then there’s the never-ending carpool . . .

  Hopefully by the time I get back, Emma will have moved into the bonus room—

  Last on the list, but certainly not least: Jack will break Mary’s heart by refusing to take her to the Father-Daughter dance.

  I put the pillow over my head so that no one will hear me cry.

  At least the kids are in a great mood. I listen to their happy patter as I dole out the pancakes.

  Every other sentence has the word “Dad” in it.

  Mary is glowing. I presume that all night long she fantasized about introducing her father to her friends at the dance. He would certainly be the handsomest man there.

  But he won’t be going.

  Through a mouth full of bacon, Jeff wonders out loud if his father will be watching his ballgame this afternoon. The Wildcats are playing the Torrance Tornadoes for the county title.

  My answer is to choke on my coffee. He thinks I’ve teared up because it went down the wrong way. I recover by nodding nonchalantly and muttering, “Hurry, kids, we’re already late!”

  My children are dropped off by age, eldest first. I savor Mary and Jeff’s kisses as they scurry off.

  When I walk Trisha into her preschool class, her peck on my cheek is proffered with some advice: “Maybe if we’re all nice to Daddy this time, he won’t go away again.”

  I know she’s hoping that I can take the hint.

  Okay, yeah, I guess there’s no harm in trying.

  I hold on my plan to release bedbugs in the guest room.

  The odor hits me as I enter the house. It’s as if someone has died in here.

  Seeing the look in my eye, Lassie skedaddles, making a dirty paw print trail as she jumps through the dog door in the kitchen.

  Cautiously I make my way upstairs, wading through a trail of muddy clothes that stretch down the hall from the guest room to the hallway bathroom. As I sweep them up off the floor and toss them into a laundry basket, it dawns on me that I better nip this crap in the bud, and fast.

  I don’t bother knocking on the guest room door. Instead I kick it open.

  At least he’s dressed this time: khakis and a golf shirt. Just one of the guys.

  He’s standing by the window with a pair of binoculars, scanning the street beyond. From the studious look on his face I’m guessing he’s trying to get a bead on a possible target—

  I look around. The place is a mess! The bed hasn’t been made. His suitcase is open, and clothes thrown all over the room. Computers, cameras, and guns are piled on my antique secretary. He ate his breakfast in here instead of the kitchen or the dining room, and there are dirty dishes all over the place.

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. “Excuse me—”

  “Later, doll. Busy now—”

  Angrily I pick up one of the dirty plates he’s left on my
Chippendale dresser and hold it up in front of the binoculars. “Oh, and by the way, today it’s your turn to do the dishes—including these.”

  “You’re kidding, right? I was told you had a maid to do that kind of stuff.”

  “Marta only comes once a week. Even so, you make a bigger mess than the rest of us combined. This room is a pigsty! I think you can handle something as simple as making up your own bed and doing your own laundry—and for that matter, cleaning your own bathroom—which, by the way, stinks to high heaven. What did you do, take the evening tour of Hilldale’s sewers?”

  “Something like that.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t the only one. Somebody’s already setting up an escape route down there. They’ve lasered through the locked grate that dumps the rainfall runoff in the pipe beyond the golf course. I guess they figure that, if something goes wrong they can’t just very well waltz out through the front gate. I set up a surveillance cam that feeds to Acme, so we can watch for activity.”

  “Wow! Good thinking.” I hand him back his binoculars. “Well, I guess you’re tired after your trek. If you take a nap, you know how to set the clock’s alarm, right? I should be back in time to pick up the kids—”

  He’s not even listening. Instead, he’s staring out the window again—

  I see why: he’s got his sights set on Nola Janoff as she washes her vintage car, an ice-white 1954 Mercedes 300SL with gull wings and a lipstick red interior. Her red-with-white polka dot bikini clings to every part of her body, now that she’s drenched in suds.

  On the other hand, the car is hardly wet.

  I doubt I could say the same about Jack.

  I snatch the binoculars from his hands. “Hey, don’t blame me. Jeff turned me on to her. I hate to break it to you, but your boy has X-rated taste.”

  “Believe me, I know. It’s why I’ve made him change bedrooms with Mary.” I shake my head angrily. “And frankly, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t encourage his prepubescent fantasies. Nola does enough of that already.” She pays my son too much to mow her lawn; not in money, but in money shots, as she sunbathes on her back, strapless.