Mind-Bending Murder Page 24

  "Thanks." Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death. Of course, we'd done such a good job, the police didn't even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain smoking son-of-a-bitch's condoms with pure nicotine (which of course, killed him). That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn't look "tampered with" on the other hand, was not.

  "Maybe it's nothing," I murmured. "Maybe they're going to give us an earlier retirement age." Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don't. I mean, Grandma's pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There's definitely something to be said for loving what you do.

  Dak laughed. Pushing a stray lock of sand-colored hair off his forehead, he replied, "Could be Uncle Lou has found a new poison."

  I perked up. Poison was my specialty. Everyone in the family had a favorite way of killing people, even though we were required to cross-train. With my brother, it was asphyxiation and/or strangulation. And while I should probably worry about that, it made us a good team because we both liked to make each job resemble death by natural cause. Of course, occasionally we ran out of time and had to leave the scene of the crime with a plastic bag still on the victim's head, but that happened only once when I'd been running late from picking up Romi from preschool. And Romi always came first. I had to have my priorities straight, after all.

  Most gigs took place in other parts of the country. We had to maintain discretion. But occasionally, the job had to be local. We were supposed to get more time to plan those. Oh well, Murphy's Law, blah, blah, blah.

  "I haven't heard any gossip," I said absently.

  "Maybe with Delhi turning fifteen, and Alta and Romi turning five, they just want to focus on the ritual?" Dak offered, albeit not helpfully.

  "I don't know…they've never done that before." And there it was. My baby would learn about the family. She'd start practicing with the chemistry set and sniper rifle that came standard with the blood oath. Ooooh, I hoped she would get the new, tricked-out Remington with laser sites! What? It wasn't different from First Communion, a Bat Mitzvah or Quinceañera. Right?

  Dak slapped the table, startling me into spilling my coffee. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it until we get there." He rose and kissed me on the cheek. "I gotta run. I need a new swimsuit for the trip." He punched me in the arm and left with a wink.

  I guess I'd have to start packing soon. The reunions were always held at Santa Muerta, a private island the Bombays owned off the coast of Ecuador. Hmmm, the weather would be hot. And as beautiful as it was there, I wasn't sure I wanted the family to see me in a swimsuit.

  Who was I kidding? Everyone was going to be way too paranoid to notice I'd put on a few pounds. And then, I thought about Romi.

  Picking up the phone, I called my cousin Liv (short for Liverpool, if you're keeping tabs on the place-name thingy. And if anyone had a right to hate her name, Liv took first prize). She answered on the first ring. The Bombays practically invented caller ID.

  "You got it?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Yup. You?"

  "Yeah. I'll be over in five." On that, she hung up.

  Actually, she made it in four minutes flat. Assassins really know how to kill time. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.) I let her in and we went into the kitchen, where I poured her an iced tea.

  I loved my kitchen. I hated cooking, but I loved the kitchen. Considering that I dealt in death so much, I had filled the room with bright, cheery colors. The paint was yellow, and the curtains and potholders were citrus green. It was the room of my denial. And for me, sometimes denial was better than most orgasms. Not that I had been on the receiving end of an orgasm in a while. Try years…

  Liv sipped her tea, then set it down, "I hate this."

  I nodded. "Me too."

  "I'd say it's not fair, but there's nothing I can do about it."

  "Well, we went through it and survived," I mused, realizing I was parroting Dak's words.

  Liv shook her head. "I never wanted this for Alta."

  "Woody took it in stride…" I started.

  She raised her right eyebrow. "I know, but he's a boy. I don't mean to sound sexist, but they're different." She wisely avoided looking at me. (I hated that "boys are different" crap.) "So you're okay with it?"

  "Not really. But there's no alternative."

  And there wasn't. Things are pretty black and white when your options are either live or die. And as far as I knew, no one had ever tried to get their kid out of the ritual.

  Liv tapped her fingers on the counter, her eyes a million miles away. She was gorgeous, kind of in an earth mother/cold-blooded assassiny sort of way with long, black hair, soft brown Bambi eyes (that could turn you into stone when she was pissed off), and no makeup necessary. Who else would name her kids Woodstock and Altamont? She specialized in political kills. Especially neoconservatives. I kind of envied her that. Lately, I'd just been getting crooked lobbyists and tobacco execs. Booooorrring.

  Liv and I had always been close. Being the same age will do that. Her husband, Todd, was one of my best friends. He was a great guy, funny and smart. He was laid back, not minding the "family business" at all. Marrying a Bombay hadn't changed him.

  "What does Todd think?"

  Liv smiled, "He's spent years preparing for this day—the day his baby girl becomes a professionally trained killer. He's more interested in her survival than anything else."

  I nodded, "Since we have to do it anyway, maybe we can train them together…you know…ease them into it gently?"

  She perked up. "Okay. Maybe we can work something out."

  While most women sitting in a kitchen might discuss the weather, local schools, and Oprah, we chatted for about an hour about a new garrote Liv had come up with that didn't leave telltale lines on the victim's throat. Earth-mother beauty or not, that girl was as strong as an ox when it came to throttling someone. We avoided the "other issue" of which family member had a target painted over his or her picture in the Portrait Hall of Santa Muerta. It wasn't really coffee klatch material.

  "Let's have lunch tomorrow," she suggested as she ran out the door.

  Sure, I thought as I rinsed the glasses in the sink, she had a husband to help ease the guilt. I had to make the decision myself.

  What was I thinking? Of course Romi would go and take the blood oath. I wasn't going to risk her life for a simple bloodletting and do-it-yourself murder kit. (Especially if it included the new Remington S-2000. Yum.) Besides, it would be ten years 'til her first kill. So I had some leeway there. I shoved these thoughts aside.

  I had something more important to worry about. The reason for the quickie reunion, basically. I did a mental head-count of the thirty-five blooded members of the Bombay clan. But nothing remotely resembling an idea came to me, so I gave up.

  I resigned myself to waiting. Well, and mapping out the basement to prepare for Romi's training. I made a list of things I would need: fifty-pound heavy bag, strong piano wire, archery set, mannequins, and night-vision goggles. They were put on the shopping list next to potatoes and milk. I could stash the chemistry set in the corner, near the windows for ventilation. But I didn't have a room long enough to shoot a .22 sniper rifle.

  With a sigh, I opened the phone book to find shooting ranges. I had a lot to do today, and finding a swimsuit that would take off twenty pounds simply wasn't on the list.

  'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY

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