A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  Silence.

  Joey was the first to speak. “How well do these FBI people know you?”

  “Now listen up, Miss RadioShack,” Fredreeq said. “You can forget devices. You and I are going to drive tonight to this death trap you're living in and pack up a bag for you and I will explain that I've come to take you away to a family funeral.”

  “Fredreeq, we're not in the same family,” I said. “You're black.”

  “Nobody cares. The point is, you are not staying another night in that place.”

  “I'll make a deal,” I said. “I tell you what I just found out and in return—” A waitress appeared at my side. “Just hot tea, please. Chamomile or something,” I said, then waited till she'd gone. “Look, I'm very close to finishing up. And I know what the investigation's about.” I paused meaningfully. “Film piracy.”

  Joey and Fredreeq looked at me blankly.

  “Okay. I admit, it's a little anticlimactic. But that's the beauty of it. First of all, it makes me less scared. These MediasRex people are pirates. Not axe murderers. It's just a crime against technology. Against Hollywood. That doesn't seem so dire. Which is nice, because some of these people are growing on me.”

  “I don't buy it,” Joey said.

  “Me neither,” Fredreeq said.

  “What don't you buy, film piracy? They just told me.”

  “The feds?” Fredreeq said.

  “They're lying,” Joey said.

  “Why?”

  “To keep you on the job,” Joey said, and Fredreeq nodded. “Did you seem freaked out to them tonight?”

  I thought about having hung up on Bennett Graham. “A bit.”

  Now they both nodded. It grated on my nerves when they did things in unison. “Wiretaps and bugs,” Joey said, “indicate something a little bigger than filched films.”

  “Actually” I said, “film piracy costs three to six billion dollars annually to an industry that this city values very highly. And because this crime involves customs, interstate transportation, and ITSPs, certain judges appreciate its complexity and fiscal impact and are willing to issue warrants for surveillance. Not that it necessarily happened in this case, of course. I must point that out. But it could have.”

  “Thank you for the public service message,” Joey said. “The feds tell you that?”

  “Inspiring, isn't it? And because they have reason to believe the whole operation may be packing up and relocating soon, they need to move in quickly. Which is why I'll be out of there in a day or two. And just today I saw Alik Milos at the UPS store picking up a package from Film Estonia. It all fits.”

  “No, it doesn't,” Joey said. “The piracy thing goes from here to Europe, not vice versa. Californians aren't lining up to see Estonian films.”

  The waitress came by with my chamomile tea. “And what about the dead bodies?” Fredreeq asked, oblivious to her. “I don't care if your employer is a pirate or a podiatrist, if people are dying over at his house, it's not the right job for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said to the waitress, whose eyebrows were raised. “Waiting tables is no picnic either, huh?”

  “Sucks,” she said and moved off.

  “Okay, yes,” I admitted. “There are a few things I can't figure out. Like why Crispin was killed. Also, the trainees all seem to be in on some secret, but they've only been here two days and they've just met. So what's that secret? If it's DVD piracy, why are they in L.A., why aren't they back in their countries selling Spider-Man 6 on the streets?”

  “Why do you think they're all in on something?” Joey asked.

  I told them about the hike, about team members going off trail, scrambling through the brush in a big hurry. “What's that got to do with stolen movies?” I asked.

  “Not a damn thing,” Fredreeq said. “That's geocaching.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Orienteering. Francis and the kids are all over it. It's a big scavenger hunt in the wild, using GPS and Boy Scout skills and all that woodsy stuff. They search for treasures.”

  “Have you ever done it?” Joey asked.

  “I treasure hunt at the mall,” Fredreeq said.

  “It sounds very Outward Bound,” Joey said. “A party game to get everyone loosened up and connected, the kind of thing they do on corporate retreats.”

  “But if that's the case,” I said, “why not just tell me? I'm part of the team too.”

  Joey shrugged. “Anything else that's weird?”

  I described the room I'd found with Olive Oyl. And Poprobuji 31 Aromat, tebe legko budet osmotretsya—Udachi.

  “People writing on your bathroom mirror is something I don't hold with,” Fredreeq said. “Using your makeup? That is just a violation. Excuse me. I'm going to the bathroom to check my own makeup.”

  “The thing is,” Joey said, toying with her Tijuana egg rolls, “I don't see Zbiggo Shpek being in on some big conspiracy. I watched him on pay-per-view a year ago; he was the undercard and, believe me, the guy's no Einstein. And Nadja Lubashenko? I looked her up and she's ranked number sixteen in the world. That's serious. Where does she find time for a life of crime? Do you know how much training triathletes go through?”

  “What about the nonathletes?” I asked. “Did you google them?”

  “Well, Bronwen Bjöeling—she's huge. The idea that she's into stolen DVDs is absurd. My brother wants her autograph, by the way. She's a classic diva.”

  “She is a diva, but we're doing social rehabilitation. How about Stasik Mirojnik?”

  She shook her head. “Came up blank.”

  I reached into my purse and handed her the CD. “I stole this. Country and western. I meant to give it to the—well, anyhow. I forgot. So can you listen to it? But I need it back.”

  “You stole something? I'm proud of you.”

  “It's my character,” I told her. “The one you told me to construct for myself. The tough-cookie character. I gave her kleptomania.”

  “Great. Now, this other woman, Zelda—” Joey dug into her enormous purse.

  “Zeferina Maria Catalina Hidalgo de Abragon.”

  “Yes. Look, I printed out this photo. It's doctors at Chernobyl after the nuclear reactor disaster. A medical aid team from Cuba. There's a Dr. Z. Hidalgo. Is that her?”

  I studied the printout. The face was younger. “Possibly. It does look like her, but no one's said that she's a doctor. I assumed she was just a political wife needing glamorization.”

  “And Felix Seriodkin. That's another ball game.” Joey handed me a stack of pages. “He just sold Jesus Made Me Skinny to a major publishing house here. Big advance, but is it justified? The book's hot in Europe, but we Americans are picky about our diets, so whether we'll buy a weight-loss technique from someone in the third world is unknown.”

  “How about religious readers? Won't the title attract them?”

  “Maybe. But it could repel the agnostic overeaters. Is the guy telegenic?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Attractive. Could he become a televangelist?”

  “Um, I don't know enough televangelists to say. Felix is very sweet. I wouldn't call him attractive, but he might have attractiveness potential. He claims to have baggy skin, but he's getting it removed.”

  “Sounds like a natural for MediasRex. All these people could be legitimate clients.” Joey stuck an ice cube in her mouth. “The question is, are they also part of the illegal ops?”

  “If it's film piracy, my guess is no. But they're into something strange, because they disappear every time the cops show up. These guys are celebrities, with their visas intact and their passports stamped. Yet they're all police-averse.” I told her about Hamburger Hamlet, then hiding from the park ranger, and then again fleeing the dining room table after the borscht course. “And something else strange: the MediasRex staff—there's all this emphasis on communication, but then odd things happen and I ask questions and no one is talking, and I can't stop talking. And I'm the one who's supposed to be closemouthed.”<
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  “You can't stop talking,” Joey said, “because it's in your nature to talk, and you have no other outlet, no cell phone, no e-mail, your computer's crashed, and you're living in the sticks.”

  I dumped a bunch of sugar into my tea and stirred vigorously. “Maybe that's why Chai kept a diary. Which, by the way disappeared.”

  Joey glanced at Fredreeq, walking back to the table, then at me. “Wollie, did you sign a contract with Milos?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, I'm starting to slide over to Fredreeq's side. I think you should quit.”

  “She is quitting,” Fredreeq said, sitting. “Or I'll quit for her.”

  “Joey, earlier you told me I couldn't quit without a witness protection program.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind why. Just tell Milos that you're freaked out, seeing the dead body, you're just not a good fit for the job. He'll buy it. Then walk away.”

  I shook my head. “He won't buy it. He'll know I'm hiding something. And the feds won't let me. They were very unpleasant when I suggested it. So it's easier now to stay than go, and all I have to do is plant the bugs and the feds will get their evidence, make their case, and get me out of there, and I won't have to tell Yuri anything. My ‘handler’ says they're very close. And if the bad guys are behind bars, they're not coming after me.”

  “Yeah, take that to the bank,” Fredreeq said. “And if the feds can't make their case?”

  “I'm out of there anyway. I just need to plant the bugs. And avoid conversations with Yuri, because I can't lie to him. I think he can read my mind.”

  “Can you read my mind?” Fredreeq asked. “Because guess what it's saying—”

  “Okay,” Joey said. “Stay. But give the feds a deadline. Two days and you're out. No extra little errands for them. Because your safety is not anywhere on the FBI priority list. And there's something I don't like about this handler of yours.”

  “There's something I don't like,” Fredreeq said, “about dead supermodels and their stabbed-in-the-eyes boyfriends.”

  “Anyway, I've got something for you,” Joey said. “I don't want to undermine your confidence, but since you're functioning as unofficial law enforcement, at the very least you need what every other cop takes for granted.”

  “What's that?” I asked.

  Joey stuck her hand in her purse. “Backup.”

  I turned down Joey's offer of a gun, but let her walk me to the Suburban, parked in front of the restaurant. Once I was alone and had started the car, I was bombarded by images of every scary movie I'd ever seen where some murderous maniac sat in the backseat. In the dark. With a knife. Waiting.

  I whipped around. No. No one in the backseat. But what about the cargo area?

  This wasn't paranoia, I told myself, turning off the ignition and pulling out the key. Simon called it “situational awareness” and was always trying to impress upon me its importance, even for civilians. I hopped out of the Suburban, walked around to the back, and—

  “Wollie.”

  “What?” I screamed.

  “Did I scare you?” Alik Milos crossed the street, laughing, and when he'd closed the distance between us, hugged me. “What are you doing out so late?”

  “Just hanging with some friends. Girlfriends,” I added for some reason.

  “Sagebrush Cantina?”

  “How'd you know?”

  “You're parked twenty feet from it. Come have a drink with me.”

  “Where? What's open at this hour?”

  “Private party. I was leaving, but now I'd rather stay.” He took my hand and we crossed the street.

  Calitalia was simple and sophisticated, wood and bamboo and neutral colors, a far cry from Club Red Square, but here, as there, Alik seemed to know everyone. The private party was on its last legs, or dregs, and half-empty wineglasses dotted the mostly empty tables.

  Alik found us a private corner and brought over two glasses of wine. “Friends of mine bought a Malibu vineyard. We've been celebrating their chardonnay”

  “Alik, is there anyone in Southern California you don't know?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “You know me. You Myers-Brigged me. I'm the resident NFLP.”

  “INFP.” He smiled.

  “See? You know me better than I know myself. I want to know you.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “It's our second date, after all.”

  I hesitated. “This is a date?”

  “It doesn't feel like a date?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How about if I kissed you? Would that feel like a date?”

  The room grew hot. Yes, that would do it. I hadn't kissed anyone but Simon for a long time, hadn't wanted to kiss anyone but Simon. But I realized with alarm that I could kiss Alik. That I would like to. “You know I'm older than you.”

  “Yeah, I know your stats.” His hand stretched across the table and the tip of his finger touched my forehead. “And I know this, a little.” His fingertip moved to my heart. “It's this that interests me now.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You're going to make me spell it out?”

  No, I didn't want him to spell it out. I shook my head and took a small sip of my wine, and after a moment he asked about my family and I told him about P.B., the little brother who was never far from my thoughts, and Uncle Theo, and Joey and Fredreeq. I talked about my line of greeting cards.

  “The Good Golly, Miss Wollie cards,” he said, nodding. “And have we inspired any this week?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to mention the Good Luck on Maintaining Your Cover card for secret agents. “I should be working on the Valentine's Day cards for next year, but I find myself sketching—other things.” I didn't want to talk about the tough cookie. My superheroine. Talking about her could drain her of her superpowers.

  “Ah. A mystery. A window into your soul.” He reached into his jacket and took out a pen. “Care to demonstrate?”

  I shook my head. “Not on a second date.”

  “Okay. We'll talk.” He was good at eliciting information, and I had to stay focused to not mention Simon. I took only one more sip of wine, saying quite truthfully that I was, after all, driving. And I watched how he did it, the listening to my every word, the eye contact, the appreciative smile. Everything I revealed seemed to fascinate him. When the moment was right, I said, “Now you. What's going on inside your head?”

  “Funny you should ask. I'm wondering why someone as hot as you is walking around unattached. No strings. Able to move in with us so easily.”

  “I have strings,” I said, a shade defensively.

  “You have a family,” he said. “And friends. Girlfriends.”

  “I have a—there's a guy. In my life. But he's not … we're not …”

  “Committed? Sexually exclusive?”

  I blinked. “Well …”

  “Sorry. I'm sounding academic. Do you have keys to each other's place? Keep toothbrushes and sweatpants there?”

  “Uh …”

  “Does he let you drive his car?”

  “God, no.”

  “Well, that's not a great indicator in L.A. I wouldn't either. No offense. I'm sure you're a great driver. Speaking of that, you okay with the biofuel thing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Donatella didn't tell you? Before she left?”

  “Tell me what?”

  He sat back and laughed. Then he handed me my glass of chardonnay “Brace yourself. My stepmothers sent your car to have its engine converted to diesel and from there to run on vegetable oil. It'll be ready in two weeks.”

  I drove down the highway, alone. Alik had shown good instincts in not pressing me for anything more than a goodbye kiss after walking me to the Suburban. He'd moved from my cheek to my lips, lingering for just a moment longer than friendship dictated. I could've gone further. And longer. I was relieved I hadn't.

  But he'd planted some seeds of do
ubt about my affair with Simon. Not seedlings, just seeds. Still, that combined with this flirting we were doing … was “flirting” the right word? This was more like playing with a gun that wasn't loaded. Or loaded, but not cocked. Although that too might be the wrong choice of words.

  Something occurred to me.

  I pulled over on Mulholland Highway, hit the map light, and found the paper on which I'd sketched the hidden room. I picked it up, ignored my drawing, and flipped the paper over.

  The stylized rectangle was a man's head and, yes, those were ears. But he wasn't wearing a backpack on his back.

  It was a target.

  There was a hole in the piece of paper. Someone had been shooting at this guy and had hit him at least once in the head, and who knows how many times in the back where the bottom half of the paper had been torn away. Before they'd tossed away his head, too, in the garbage can in the secret room.

  The room was an indoor shooting range.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning I awoke bleary-eyed and scared. I dressed quickly and was on my way into the kitchen when Nell came out, teacup in hand. I said good morning, and she mumbled “hello” and scurried past me, sloshing tea as she went. Did Nell practice shooting? Did she deal in stolen DVDs?

  In the kitchen I found Kimberly and wondered the same about her. Then I wondered if my absence had been noticed. “How'd it go last night with the cops?” I asked.

  “Fine. Yuri's friends with those guys. Gives a chunk of change to the Police Foundation every year.” Kimberly was mashing leaves and branches in a bowl. She wore bright teal gym clothes and a jaunty pony-tail; I imagined her brimming with antioxidants.

  “What's the deal with Nell?” I asked. “Parashie says she's agora phobic?”

  “Oh, she's doing really well, now. Two years ago she was nuts. Wouldn't leave her apartment.”

  “I saw her in the library yesterday, teaching. She sounded normal.”

  “When she's teaching, she's fine. Passionate about languages. Dialects. You watch. She'll have Zbiggo reciting Shakespeare by next Wednesday.”