Read Two Lies and a Spy for Free Online

while looking for a set of imaginary keys in my messenger bag. What I pull out instead is a set of lock picks.
    Thanks, Mom and Dad. They were a great thirteenth birthday gift.
    Nobody pays any attention to me. It takes me only a few nervous seconds to jimmy the door and slip into the driver’s seat. Within a couple of minutes, I’ve cracked the steering column and hot-wired the vehicle.
    The Sonata smells like dirty vinyl, wet dog, and stale cigarettes. I ease into traffic and go around the block a couple of times, checking in the rearview mirror at every turn to make sure I’m not being followed. There’s no sign of a tail by Mitch, Gary, or anyone else, so I head back to the other side of town and pull into the parking lot of a Laundromat that’s close to Kennedy Prep. I walk inside, pretend to check on a dryer full of clothes, and then make my way to the east wall, where there’s a long bulletin board plastered with community notices: fliers for a lost dog, an ad that a 2003 Buick Regal is for sale, phone numbers for a pet-sitting service, et cetera.
    I search through all the business cards and scraps of paper on the board until I see what I’m looking for:
    Guitar Lessons from Larry. Basic guitar for students K–12 taught by a qualified graduate student at GWU’s Carson School of Music.
    Oh, that’s very cute, Rita! Luke’s last name is Carson. I shake my head but can’t help a grin. My steps are lighter as I go back to my borrowed Hyundai and drive it to a nearby Kinko’s. There I buy a session on one of their computers and create a flier in response to hers.
    Need a Chemistry Tutor?
    Union grad
    Rate: $10–12.00/hour
    Call 215-Chem, ext. 50
    Rita will understand exactly what I mean: to meet tomorrow, October 10, at twelve noon, at the Starbucks (shop 215) at Union Station, which is at 50 Massachusetts Avenue.
    Rita desperately wants to be a spy—like my parents. A long time ago—eight years, to be exact—Rita, who’s the daughter of Senator Jordan, was kidnapped in a scheme to extort money from her dad. To make a long story short, my parents were the ones who rescued her from the creeps who took her, and they brought her to our house while they helped to round up the rest of the kidnapping ring.
    Poor Rita was traumatized and couldn’t sleep alone, so she shared my room while she stayed with us—and we’ve been best friends ever since. When I tell you that she worships my parents, I am not kidding . . . and the bottom line is that hers kind of ignore her. I mean, they love their daughter, but they’re always at some charity event or on the campaign trail, or her mom is having “work” doneagain—not that she needs it. She’s this gorgeous Indian woman, and she sort of floats everywhere she goes.
    Rita doesn’t get her fashion sense from her mom, though—it’s very edgy and all her own. It’s a little funky, a little neon, a lot of black, and hard to describe. She’ll pair a really high-end item—jewelry or a hat or a couture bustier—with trashy, holey jeans. Or a ripped T-shirt over a purple bra with six-hundred-dollar Donna Karan black pants that her mom didn’t want anymore. I can’t tell you how she does it or why it works, but she always looks like she stepped off a runway.
    Rita has about ten pairs of prescription, designer glasses that are the signature, pièce de résistance of her look. The black-and-white Diors, for example. Or the pink Chanels. The deep ruby-red Marc Jacobs pair . . . they all make her look really smart—which she is—but also sophisticated, like a buyer for a hip, Chelsea boutique. If you met Rita, you’d never guess that she’s one of the best computer hackers out there, because she doesn’t fit the nerd profile.
    I drive back to the Laundromat and put up my flier. Then I return my borrowed car after picking up sandwiches, and head back to the hotel, praying that nobody has tracked us down and that Charlie is still where I left him.
    To my