The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (14 page)

By the time we make our way to the sidewalk, there’s a line out the front door of the restaurant. In Los Angeles, good eats bring out big crowds–all the better to hide from anyone who may be lying in wait for Pucci.

While I case the block, she loses herself in the crowd. It’s dark outside, but from what I can tell, no one is hiding in any shadows, so I give her the high sign.

We parked near the front of the restaurant, on Melrose Place, just a half-block off Clinton Avenue. But if Problem Dude has a window seat, he can watch us get into our car. So, instead, we walk away from the restaurant and circle around to the alley behind it, where Ago has its own parking lot. This takes us a block out of our way before circling back to Melrose via Clinton Avenue.

It’s a long block, giving me the time to ask Pucci, “Who is he?”

“Joey ‘Toenails’ Ponti. He’s a lieutenant in the Carducci syndicate.”

“What’s he doing out here?”

“You got me on that one.” She snorts. “Either he’s out here running an errand for Carmine Carducci, or he’s bullying his way onto some movie set. The son of a bitch used to brag that he helped De Niro with his wise guy patter for
Casino
. Now he fancies himself a movie consultant on all things Cosa Nostra. As if.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a quiver in her voice.
 

“Do you think he recognized you?”

“Not necessarily. Back in Trenton, my eyes were brown, and I had long, dark hair.” She pats her platinum bob. “If my cover is blown, does that knock me out of the running with Acme?”

“Not necessarily. But it sure as hell complicates matters.” I truly like Pucci–all the more reason I’m somewhat disappointed that she’s using Acme to run away from the life she has now.
 

Then again, at the time I joined, the same could have been said about me.

“Donna, I won’t lie to you–I need this gig. I hate the fact that I’m always looking over my shoulder. If it ain’t to see if the Carduccis are on my tail, I’m dealing with the Feds, who want to make sure I don’t get whacked on their watch.”

It looks as if Witness Protection is getting its wish–

And it’s happening on my watch.
 

The car rounding the corner doesn’t have its lights on, and it’s going much too fast for this small alley.
 

I leap onto a debris box.

Pucci can’t because her heel is stuck in a crack.
 

“Jump!” I scream.

“But…it’s a Jimmy Choo!” She tugs at the ankle strap, but it’s too late.
 

Pucci is low enough that he rolls right over her.
 

She disappears under the car’s wheels, only to be dragged halfway down the block before her bloody, broken body breaks free from the chassis.

My first shot takes out a tire. The second one shatters the rear window. When the car rolls into a lamppost, I realize the second shot also found its mark: the back of Toenails’ head.
 

My initial instinct is to go back and take care of Pucci, but a few people have already crowded around her, not to mention I hear the sirens, which means the place will soon be crawling with cops.
 

The last thing I need is to explain myself from a jail cell. Besides, there were enough witnesses around to get a handle on what went down. And once the cops run Pucci and Toenails’ fingerprints through the Interpol database, they’ll know why.

I hightail it out of the alley until I’m back on Melrose Place. Most of the shops are closed, so I crouch down in the darkened doorway of a closed lamp shop and call Ryan.

“Get out of there, and fast. I’ll call my buddy at the L.A. Sheriff’s Department to give him a heads up.” From his tone, he’s not too happy to hear that he’s got to clean up this mess. “What the hell were you doing at Ago, anyway?”

“A little female bonding. Considering the circumstances, I know that sounds silly. But I really liked her, Ryan.”

“Getting her killed is a hell of a way of showing it.” He sighs. “Who’s up next?”
 

This time, I’m playing it safe. “The Defense Department wonk.”

“Line her up. And remember, she’s not your buddy, she’s your replacement.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.

Chapter 9

Creative Decorations

Decorations play a very important part in setting the theme of your party, and will have your guests talking about your event for the rest of their (hopefully not too short) lives!

 
Best tip: use authentic accessories. Now that you’re an adult, crepe paper, cardboard and papier-mâché just won’t do! If your theme is, say, “Oktoberfest,” surround your outdoor event with bales of hay, and have your guests sit at long tables where they will swill Spaten and other German beers while listening to an authentic oompah band. And if one of your beer-sodden guests tips over a lit torch and the bales catch fire, don’t worry, the fire truck’s red color will blend well with your Bavarian green color scheme!
 

From what I can tell, Mary got my message and is behaving herself.

I don’t take her word for it–not at this point, anyway. Believe me, I wish I could, but I need verified proof. It comes via the following:

1: Despite the mandate that she’s not to do any social networking, I’m still monitoring her email, texts, and Facebook account. She uses the same password for all three, and it was easy enough to crack:
RinTinTin
 

The bad news: she’s broken my rule. The good news: I’m happy to see she’s still such an innocent. She and her friends text about clothes, boys, movies, and music. I don’t pick up any conversations with her mystery man, thank goodness.
 

2: Parental control software. This old standby is tried and true. There are numerous cell phone-tracking services available to parents. Right now, it shows me that Mary is right where she should be–in her world history class.

3: Acme’s satellite surveillance. As long as I’m on the payroll, I have access to it. So what the hell, why not put it to some good use? Although she’s not a terrorist or even close (I pray) I’m able to slide through the order to track. Can I help it if the SS surveillance manager, Clint Zuckerman, has a crush on me? I tune in just before every class break to make sure my hoody-headed eldest is on her way to her next class.
 

So far, so good.

And yes, I hate myself for doing this.

I pray she never finds out, or she’ll hate me even more than she does now, if that’s possible.

Now, for my next unsavory task of the day: negotiating a better event contract with the Savoy.

“You’re positive that Mrs. Bing won’t be joining us?” Henry Massey, the Savoy’s buff, handsome hotel manager, looks nervously over my shoulder and through his office’s glass wall, which overlooks the hotel’s large, elegant lobby.

“You’ll be dealing exclusively with me,” I assure him.

He rewards my comment with a smirk. Worse yet, he walks around to the front of his desk and leans on it, right in front of me, which puts me at eye-level with his man candy.
 

Okay, yeah dude, I now know what Penelope saw in you. Or, I should say, about you.

I lean back to get a little air. “Mr. Massey, there are a few terms to our event contract which need altering.”

His eyes narrow into tiny slits. “Such as?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that the event is a children’s dance. That being said, we’ll have no use for liquor.” Other than the few bottles of wine I’ll have stashed in my suitcase to help me survive the night, but this is something that I need not divulge to him.

“It wasn’t a deal breaker with Mrs. Bing. And, apparently, until now, it wasn’t one with you either.” He points to my John Hancock on the event contract.
 

I hate the fact that I allowed Penelope to trick me into signing it.
 

Seeing me wince, he shrugs nonchalantly. “Sorry, but at this late date, there is nothing we can do about the liquor order. However, I will have the beverages kept bottled and left in their cases, in one of the hotel’s private storage rooms, adjacent to the kitchen. Your security key will be the only one that can access it. And to sweeten the deal”–he lets the word linger between us, as if it’s a tantalizing fragrance, as opposed to a flagrant come-on–“I’ll throw in the Savoy’s Academy Awards Suite. It’s only one of three suites on the penthouse level, along with the Emmys Suite and the Golden Globes Suite.”
 

“Seriously, Henry, I’d much rather have the refund.”

“
Shhhhh
!” He has the audacity to put a finger on my lips to silence me. He opens a drawer and pulls out a gold security card embossed with an A. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Follow me, and you’ll understand why I’m doing you a favor.”
 

He strolls out the door. I follow because I have no choice.

He doesn’t head for the lobby’s elevator bank. Instead, moves beyond it to a small alcove containing a wide double door.

He uses his security card to access it.

Within the alcove is a bank of four elevators: three on one side and one directly across from them. The bank of three are marked with letters over the door: “A,” “E” and “G.” The elevator on its own wall is marked “C.”

He pushes the button beside the one marked A, for the Academy Awards Suite, I presume.

Maybe once we’re up there, he’ll realize I mean business and that there’s no way he can change my mind.

He’s changed my mind.

It’s not the one-hundred-eighty-degree view that runs from the Hollywood sign to the Pacific Ocean that does it for me. (Okay, maybe.) Or even the custom-made California King Bed, with its mattress made from Latin American curled horsetail and Mongolian cashmere, and costing almost two-hundred-thousand dollars. (Okay, yes, it might play a factor.)

As with the other penthouse suites, this one has a private roof-top terrace, with a staircase that accesses the hotel’s helicopter pad. The football-field-sized living room is filled with antique furnishings, as well as a full-wall LED-LCD HDTV, and a Bang & Olufsen full-space integrated sound system. There’s a white baby grand Steinway piano, and a private kitchen with an on-call chef.

This plush entertaining environment is flanked by two bedrooms. Each has its own spa bathroom, with showers large enough for two.

Jack and I will share a bed and a bath.

The other will be blissfully empty.

Okay, yeah, I’m sold. Wait until Jack hears about this!

“Each of the penthouses has two stories. As you see, the bedrooms are located on the top floor for c
omplete privacy
.” He purrs those last two words.

Ignoring the implication, I ask innocently, “I presume Mrs. Bing’s room is on a much lower floor?”

“Yes, and unfortunately, her room is somewhat more modest–but no need to let her in on that secret.”

“Agreed.” I shrug nonchalantly.

I have more incentive than ever to hustle up a few more chaperones. But to play it safe, we will put webcams in all the kids’ rooms. An even better idea: hire a battalion of armed security guards to put in front of every door, on every floor.