A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  The ranger arrived in a cloud of dust, bringing his sports utility vehicle to a stop close to us. He hopped out.

  He hitched up his pants repeatedly as he approached the body. I had a moment of relief, embuing this man with all the powers of law and order, Man's dominance over Nature, sanity, authority, and the State of California. But he got to the body and said nothing, just kept hitching up his pants over and over. It occurred me that (a) he needed a belt and (b) he would know all about mountain lions and snakebites and the importance of staying hydrated while hiking, but was perhaps of no use when it came to dead bodies. Humans, anyway. Probably he was at home with animal carcasses.

  Yuri greeted the ranger with a handshake and shoulder clasp. “Jeff, how are you?”

  Ranger Jeff grunted, then squatted, gesturing toward Crispin. “Better than him. What's the story? How'd this happen?”

  “I don't know,” Yuri said. “He's not one of ours.”

  “You found him here? On the trail?”

  “Down the hillside, fifty yards. My dog discovered him.”

  Ranger Jeff squinted up at Yuri. “Dogs aren't allowed in the state park, you know.”

  “Write me a ticket. Olive Oyl saved you a search-and-rescue operation, I think.”

  “No question there. Where is the dog?”

  I looked around and realized that not only was Olive Oyl nowhere in sight, but the rest of the team, with the exception of Kimberly had disappeared too.

  “Just around the bend, in the shade,” Yuri said. “With my daughter.”

  “The heat is getting to them,” Kimberly added. “And the stress.”

  “You three moved the body up to the trail yourselves?” The ranger looked at Kimberly, then at me, raising an eyebrow.

  I was about to speak, but Yuri jumped in. “He wasn't heavy,” he said. “I have a few clients here too, but I'm keeping them out of the sun. They're not conditioned yet, and some are jet-lagged, just in from Europe.”

  I stared at Yuri. Lying to a park ranger—a government official!—and so casually, was shocking to me.

  “This a new bunch?” Ranger Jeff said, standing.

  “Yes,” Kimberly chimed in. “You may have heard of them. Nadja Lubashenko, Zbigniew Shpek—”

  “The heavyweight?”

  “That's the one,” Yuri said. “Jeff, you have my phone number and address. If the police have any questions …”

  The ranger gestured to Crispin. “Why'd you move the body?”

  “I'm happy to talk to you at length,” Yuri said, “but may I send my team home?”

  “What happened to his face?” Ranger Jeff asked. “One hell of a mess, isn't it?”

  “Yes,” Yuri said. “Look, my daughter is very upset. I'll have a case of heat exhaustion on my hands if I don't get her out of here.”

  Ranger Jeff hitched up his pants some more. “I don't know that anyone should leave, seeing how this is a crime scene.”

  “Crime scene?” The words popped out of me. “Was he—killed? The dead man? Are you sure? I mean, of course he was killed, he's dead, but was he … you know, murdered?” My voice sounded loud and unnatural.

  Ranger Jeff looked at me, then squatted again, peering at Crispin's face. “Never saw an animal do this kind of thing. Wonder how long he's been dead?”

  “I'd say a day or so,” Yuri said. “Overnight, maybe.”

  Ranger Jeff looked up. “How would you know something like that?”

  “The war,” Yuri said.

  What war? I wondered.

  “Infantry?” the ranger asked.

  “Medic,” Yuri said.

  “Well, you've seen your share of dead. Yeah, send your people home. Except your girl. She's the one who found him?”

  “It's my girl I'm worried about. She will talk to the police later today, anytime they like, and meanwhile, I will stay. I can show you where we found the body. You can see the path we took.” Yuri pointed to where the earth had been matted and trampled.

  “Yeah, you shouldn't have moved the body,” Ranger Jeff said. “How come you did that, by the way?”

  “I was acting on instinct, wanting to get him up to the road, away from the wild. I wasn't thinking in terms of foul play”

  Why was Yuri claiming he'd done this? Did he really need to protect everyone? Foreigners, after all, could hardly be expected to know local crime scene laws. Unless they watched a lot of American TV.

  Ranger Jeff stood. “I tell you what, I don't know that the sheriff's going to like that much. I don't know that I should be releasing witnesses either.”

  “We're not witnesses,” Yuri said, “to anything but our dog discovering this poor man. Let my team go and I promise, they'll all be available for questioning, if it's found to be necessary. The sheriff's department knows where I live. Carol and Lee Baca have been to my house for dinner. I am happy to put in a call to Lee, if you like.”

  I wasn't sure who Carol and Lee Baca were, or if in fact they'd been over for dinner, but this carried some weight with Ranger Jeff. Within minutes, all of us but Yuri were going down the mountainside, heading for home.

  Kimberly kept us going at a good pace. Fortunately, it was downhill, so Bronwen and I were able to keep up, planted in the middle of the bunch, which was now in a much tighter hiking formation. Conversation was sporadic and mostly in Russian. Kimberly didn't complain, so I assumed that discovering Crispin's corpse had bonded us sufficiently for the English-only rule to be suspended.

  I walked alongside Bronwen until we reached a narrow stretch and then I moved ahead. At one point I stumbled, crashing to one knee before my hands reached out to break my fall. Bronwen, behind me, called out, and Stasik, ahead, was suddenly at my side, hauling me to my feet with surprising gentleness.

  “I'm okay,” I said, touched by the communal concern, and continued on the path. Moments later I looked down to see blood soaking through my camouflage pants and staining the sock peeking out of my hiking boot. I started to cry. I didn't know why; I wasn't in pain. I tried to suppress my tears, but that made it worse, like trying not to laugh at a funeral, but eventually I got myself under control, relieved that no one had noticed, as we were now starting to spread out. It was a stoic group, except for Parashie, and I was determined to suck it up and fit in. I reached in my pocket for a Kleenex and found, instead, my cell phone.

  I turned it on and it sprang to life, pulsing with messages. The first was from my brother. “Wollie,” P.B. said. “I need you to buy me Super-strings and the Search for the Theory of Everything. And where are you? When are you coming? These people here are bugging me. Mrs. Winterbottom is a witch. Not the good kind.”

  I considered calling him, longing for familial contact. P.B. wasn't known for his sensitivity, but he could be helpful in times of stress. But while my brother was a man of few words, Mrs. Winterbottom was a woman of hundreds, even thousands of words, and none of them were the sort I'd want to hear right now, and chances were, she'd answer.

  The next message was from Uncle Theo, wanting to know when we'd be visiting P.B.

  The next message was from Simon.

  “I'm frustrated,” he said, “about the accessibility issue, the lack of immediate feedback, and the manner in which we concluded our last call. For a variety of reasons, but most are summarized on invoice 27WSGN388. Call me.”

  There was now a new lump in my throat. Other couples have pet names; Simon and I had invoice 27WSGN388. The numbers meant nothing. The letters stood for “We Should Get Naked.”

  It took a lot not to call Simon, if only to listen to his outgoing message. But if I heard it I'd be weeping all over the trail, and I couldn't tell him even a fraction of what was going on anyway. I hit “save” and went on to message number four.

  “Wollie,” Joey said. “I've been talking to Fredreeq about that model who's gone to that great catwalk in the sky. We have an idea about that. I also found out stuff about your new colleagues. And your middle-of-the-night Romeo. Call me.”

 
Could I? Bronwen was far enough behind to be out of earshot, but Felix was in front of me, Stasik having jumped ahead of him. He was holding up well, especially for a self-described Formerly Fat Person. There was a spring in his step. I'd have thought that someone so religious might be more subdued in the face of death, but maybe the opposite was true. Maybe Felix was happy that Crispin was now with Jesus. I would ask him, when the moment was right, how that all worked. Maybe I could pray my way out of the guilt I felt.

  I slowed my pace, putting distance between Felix and me, and hit the “return this call” key. Joey answered.

  “Joey,” I whispered, “the middle-of-the-night Romeo is lying dead on the trail in the Santa Monica Mountains.”

  “No!” she yelled.

  “Yes!” I hissed.

  “What happened?”

  “I don't know. The dog found him. No one but me seems to know who he is and I feel so responsible for his death and when the cops show up and start questioning us—”

  “Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Say nothing. Tell no one.”

  I glanced behind me. Bronwen was on her own phone, oblivious to me. “But that's withholding evidence, isn't it? And also, I'd feel better if—I feel so guilty that—”

  “Wollie,” Joey said. “You're undercover. You don't have the luxury of confession. Five'll get you ten that the cops don't know about the FBI investigation, and you shouldn't be the one to break it to them.”

  “But what am I supposed to—”

  “Take off if you see them. Is there a back way out of this commune you're living in?”

  “Not really. It's a gated community. I suppose I could escape on foot and just hide out here. In the canyon. With, you know, the mountain lions.”

  “Better them than the cops. Until you talk to your fed.”

  “Simon?”

  “No, your other fed. The one I'm not supposed to know about.”

  “You're not supposed to know about Simon either,” I whispered. “Joey, I don't want to do this anymore. I'm scared.”

  “Of course you are; you'd be nuts if you weren't. But your best bet is to stay on the job and keep quiet. If you leave MediasRex or come clean with the cops, either one, you might need the witness protection program.”

  “What?!” I squeaked. Felix, ahead of me on the path, turned. I shook my head at him, giving an “oh, never mind me” wave, until he resumed walking.

  “I'm only saying,” Joey said, “that you can't just quit. You're a spy. You have to come in from the cold. That's a different thing.”

  Her words shocked me. If she was right, I was trapped. “How do I do that?” I asked.

  “Talk to your handler. Meanwhile, there are three basic skills in intelligence work: improvise, adapt, and overcome. You can do the first two easily. The last one—well, in a pinch, walk with your right hand in your purse. People will think you have a gun.”

  “Really? I'd never think that.”

  “Not you. Gun people.”

  “What if I don't have a purse with me?”

  “Always carry a purse. A pocket works too, but it's more subtle. Remember: improvise, adapt, overcome. Hand in purse, team player, contact your handler. And keep inhabiting that character you've constructed. Better give her some superpowers.”

  I hung up and dialed the number I knew by heart, the number for Yogi Yogurt. I gave my name and asked for a quart of Very Vanilla. The voice on the other end told me to drop by at ten o'clock that night to pick it up. “Can you wait that long?” he asked.

  Seven hours. “If I must,” I said.

  Anyone could keep it together for seven hours, right?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ihad no appetite for dinner that night, even though others, notably Zbiggo, packed away food like a bear going into hibernation. Grusha grunted approval at him as she cleared plates between courses. At me, she merely grunted.

  I described to my nearest dining companions, Zeffie, Felix, and Nadja, the peculiar thing I'd seen on the hike before being distracted by Crispin's corpse—team members crashing through the brush. All three looked at me with the same opaque expression. As this was also the look of people listening to a language other than their own, I couldn't tell if it was a suspicious reaction or not. Nell, across the table, also scrutinized me in silence. She hadn't been on the hike. Nor had Uncle Vanya. In fact, I hadn't seen him since driving him home from Hamburger Hamlet. I asked Nell about him, but the question seemed to distress her, and she simply shook her head. “Gone.”

  I was curious too to know who was responsible for Poprobuji 31 Aromat, tebe legko budet osmotretsya—Udachi, but couldn't figure out how to casually inquire whether anyone had written on my bathroom mirror in lip pencil the color of Grusha's borscht. As I pondered this, the police showed up.

  Their arrival was presaged by the doorbell, followed by Grusha entering from the kitchen to whisper to Yuri, who was in the middle of a lecture on dressing for Good Morning America as opposed to the Late Show with David Letterman.

  Yuri stood. “Excuse me. Representatives from the sheriff's office have arrived.”

  A stream of Russian erupted from Parashie, which Yuri managed to stem by walking behind her chair and putting his hands on her shoulders and massaging. “I will meet with them in the library,” he said. “Continue dining. Parashie, they may want to speak with you later, but I'll be there with you. Finish your dinner and start your homework. If we need you, I'll come get you. All right?” Yuri looked at her, waited for her answering nod, and then smiled at us all. He was quite relaxed, a lecturer giving tips on how to handle a sheriff's interview as opposed to a Tonight Show interview.

  I waited until he'd left the room before I stood up, mindful of Joey's warning to avoid the cops at all costs. “Excuse me,” I mumbled to Felix. “I'm just going to—”

  Felix stood too. “I am feeling a little tiredness. I will lie down.”

  There was a general scraping of chairs, suggesting that half the team shared Felix's Sudden Fatigue Syndrome. My big fear was that Grusha would take this as an affront to her cooking, as the entrée had not yet arrived. I would make my escape now, before she discovered the defection.

  “Not that way, Wollie,” Nadja said as I headed out. “You will run right into them.”

  I turned to her, startled, and saw Stasik shake his head at her.

  “I mean—nothing.” She looked confused.

  I was confused myself. How had Nadja known I was avoiding the cops?

  Oh. Because everyone else was avoiding the cops.

  “Thanks,” I said to Nadja. “I'm just going to use the ladies' room. I forgot where it is; you're right, it's this way. Bye. I mean, see you in a minute. For dessert. Probably.” I was chattering, not wanting her or Stasik to think I noticed anything amiss in her comment.

  I was actually grateful for the directional help, being still fuzzy on how things were laid out in the Big House. I left the great room and turned right, toward a tiny half bath.

  I locked myself in and took stock of the situation. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it certainly seemed that there was some big secret that everyone but me was in on, and that Nadja had momentarily forgotten I was not privy to. And it had to do with avoiding the police. I knew why I was avoiding the cops, but why were they? They couldn't all be undercover agents, confidential informants for the FBI.

  Well, just one more unanswered question to add to my bulging mental file. I might as well hop into the Suburban and go early to Yogi Yogurt. I had a sudden yearning to be in public, surrounded by normal people.

  I opened the door a crack, just in time to hear Nadja's voice in the hallway, speaking in Russian, until Stasik cut her off. “English,” he said. “It's bloody irritating, but it's what you're here for. And stop freaking. She's the stupid girl, not you. She didn't notice a thing.”

  Great. Stasik thought I was stupid.

  I shouldn't care, I told myself. I could use it to my advantage, their underestimation of me. That would actually be smart. But my
feelings were hurt and I felt left out. What power did these people have over me that I would actually long to be part of the inner circle, to be a valued member of Team Felony? Get a grip! I yelled at myself, and for emphasis actually grabbed onto the pink granite powder room sink. You're an undercover agent, damn it. You don't need feelings, you need instincts. And guts. And maybe some superpowers.

  I splashed cold water on my face for further emphasis, came out of the bathroom, saw that the coast was clear, and followed the hallway to its end, a door that led outside.

  I'd never been out here before, in the backyard. I was about to head right, toward the House of Blue, when I heard voices coming from that direction. I went left. I didn't want to encounter any more team members just now.

  A flash of yellow rubbed against me, knocking against my legs with a wagging tail, then sashayed off. Olive Oyl. I followed her. She was company, she liked me, and she didn't think I was dumb.

  She led me to the next house over, Green House, the one I hadn't yet been in. She went straight to a small door almost below ground level as the hill sloped down. A storage area, I guessed. Olive Oyl scratched at it, wanting in, then turned to whine at me.

  “No,” I whispered. “I'm not going in there. I'm sure there are mice. Or worse, rats.”

  Olive Oyl barked again, suggesting that mice and rats were what she had in mind. “Ssh,” I said. “It's probably locked.”

  But it wasn't. The knob turned, and before I could stop her, the dog barreled her way in. I heard a movement in the brush, and after a moment of indecision, I went in too.

  There were no visible rats, but I did imagine rat droppings. Too dark to tell, until I found a flashlight hanging on the wall near the door. I turned it on. The room was damp and cool and smelled of dirt. Paradise for a dog, probably, but not me. I suspected snakes, too, and worms, and whatever else lived in dank surroundings. Slugs. Mushrooms. There was a lot of junk stored there, gardening supplies and a lawn mower. Olive Oyl went farther into the room, whining and barking some more until I went to investigate. She then knocked over some kind of weed-whacking equipment, which in turn knocked over a bunch of other stuff, revealing a wall. Olive Oyl, on a mission, barked at it.