A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  “Yuri, this is all most intriguing—if weird—but I'm still saying no.”

  He stood abruptly. “And I'm giving you my card. Go home. Look at your life. See what is missing. Whatever it is, I can provide it or help you attain it or show you how to live well without it. This is my promise to you. You come and work for me, you become my family and that is something I take seriously.”

  “I kind of like my life,” I said, and he cocked an eyebrow. Wrong answer, it said. I should have cried, “My life is magnificent! Overflowing with miracles!” but oh, well. He opened the door for me and I squeezed by, aware of the magnetic field around him.

  I nearly collided with a woman coming out of the ladies' room. Miss Lemon. I maneuvered myself so that I could hold the door for her, out of the way of her crutches. She thanked me, then recognized me. “You! You're one of the ones that didn't vote for me.”

  “You're right, I didn't. I'm sorry, I—”

  “And you!” She'd caught sight of Yuri behind me. “You … creep. We're gonna appeal. We're gonna get a better jury. You can't do that in America, run over people. Why don't you all go back to Czechoslovakia, you and all those clients?”

  “Slovakia, Miss Lemon,” he said. “Or the Czech Republic. There is no Czechoslovakia, not since 1992. In any case, I come from Belarus.”

  I eased my way around Miss Lemon and left them to their geopolitical discussion. In the third-floor jury room I turned in my juror ID, donated my fifteen bucks a day to some charity that needed the money even more than I did, then returned to the first floor and phoned my brother again. This time, he answered.

  “P.B., what'd you do last night?” I asked. “Mrs. Winterbottom said—”

  “I went to the beach,” he said. “I slept in the sand.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm doing research,” he said.

  “What kind of research?”

  “String theory.”

  I was now walking past the metal detector, stepping outside to the kind of fabulous spring day that Santa Monica has pretty much year-round. “P.B., that's fine, but you have to adapt your research methods to the house rules. Factor in curfew. Mrs. Winterbottom will kick you out if you don't. I'm serious. Then what will we do?”

  “Nothing. It won't happen,” he said. “This is my home. I have to nap now.”

  He hung up and I dropped my phone into my purse, feeling sick. P.B. was two stops away from homelessness. If he got kicked out of Haven Lane, he wouldn't bother taking his medication, which would bring on delusional behavior and then he'd be sleeping on the sand out of necessity. This was my most-recurring nightmare.

  “Wollie. Wollie Shelley.”

  I turned to see a conservatively dressed man at the end of the sidewalk. There was something mildly familiar about him. “Hello—do I know you?”

  “Bennett,” he said, and shook my hand. “Graham. We met once before. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  THREE

  My first thought was that Simon was in some kind of trouble, but then I realized that if he were, the FBI would hardly come and tell me about it.

  And then I recognized the guy.

  It had been six months since I'd met him, for a few minutes one autumn night. He was aggressively normal looking, middle-aged, average height, medium brown hair. The only memorable thing about him was his authoritative air; he was a man accustomed to command. He outranked Simon. I remembered that too, because he and Simon had argued that autumn night, and Simon had lost. That didn't happen often.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” he said. He set the pace, neither slow nor fast, but without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where I was parked. In fact, I hadn't planned on going to my car. I was headed on foot to meet two friends for lunch at the Santa Monica farmers' market, but I didn't feel a need to mention this to—

  “I'm sorry.” I said. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Graham,” he said. “Bennett.”

  Did that mean Graham Bennett or Graham, comma, Bennett? I was about to ask, but he spoke first. “You reached a verdict in your case.”

  “Yes, we found in favor of the defendant.”

  He nodded, as if this didn't come as news. “We've been waiting ten days. We didn't want to contact you until the case was over.”

  “The FBI has an interest in Lemon v. Milos?” I said.

  “Not in Lemon. Milos. Wait.” He stopped. I did too. I looked around, wondering what the problem was, then saw, far ahead of us, a black Porsche pulling away from the exit gate to make a right on Civic Center Way. When it disappeared from view, he motioned for me to continue walking. “Yuri Milos is going to offer you a job.”

  This was old news, I could've told him. “How do you know?”

  “That's not relevant to this conversation.”

  “What are you doing, tapping his phones?”

  Silence. Yes, I decided, they're tapping his phones. A motorcycle approached and Graham/Bennett put up a hand, claiming the right-of-way for us. “We've been watching Milos in recent weeks, but he's cautious. His people are either well-trained or in the dark about his activities.”

  “Which are what?” I asked.

  “Nothing that need concern you at the moment.”

  “Why should any of it concern me?”

  He looked at me. “I need you.”

  He was not speaking romantically. I couldn't imagine Graham/Bennett speaking romantically even in the dark, stark naked, after a bottle of wine. “For … ?”

  “I need you to work for Yuri Milos.”

  This time I stopped, alongside an SUV covered in Lakers bumper stickers. “I can't.”

  “Yes, you can. The job description isn't particularly onerous.”

  “I don't mean work for Yuri Milos, I mean work for you. That's what you're asking, isn't it?”

  He nodded toward the east end of the parking lot, getting us moving again. “We haven't been able to get a break in this case. But over time, people get careless, or we get lucky. This time it was luck. Recently, we heard Milos mention you. His son recognized you in the courtroom. One of my people remembered that you'd done us a favor last year. I believe we called you Kermit.”

  “Not to my face,” I said. “Look, that was a sort of misunderstanding. I wasn't actually working for the FBI, I just thought I was and then it turned out—”

  “It turned out well. I was there.”

  “It was the worst night of my life,” I said. “Or at least in the top five.”

  It was clear from his look that Graham Bennett or Bennett Graham had limited interest in what constituted a bad night for Wollie Shelley. “I've been trying to place one of my people on Milos's staff,” he said. “Unsuccessfully. He's a micromanager; even the domestics are known to him personally, down to the crew putting in a new pool. This is the first opening and he thinks you're a perfect fit. Would I prefer you to be an agent? Yes. But I'm not likely to get this kind of opportunity again.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that this is a great opportunity for you, Mr.—”

  “And for you too. There are advantages to working with us.”

  This stopped me. “What advantages?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I stopped again by another parked car, this one a Ford pickup covered with American flag bumper stickers. “I would naturally love to serve my country, but I'm more of a jury duty type. Or Get Out the Vote type. Working the phone banks at telethons, knitting socks for soldiers. I'm not an action-adventure sort of person—”

  “That's not my understanding.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aren't you illustrating an action hero comic book?”

  I stared. Jeremy's proposed project. “No, I—how do you know about that?”

  He looked at me blandly. “It would save us time if you could avoid asking that question repeatedly. I'm in the business of information. These aren't parlor tricks.”

  �
�Okay, but—”

  “Since you don't yet have a contract for this comic book project, it's not income-producing. Nor is your greeting card business giving you a living wage.”

  “Yes, thank you for pointing that out.”

  “You need a job. Have you any other prospects?”

  “No. Work for some Belarusian entrepreneur with three wives and become a secret agent for you. That's it.”

  “Cooperating witness.”

  “Yes. CW,” I said. “That's right. It's all coming back to me now. Look, I'd rather sling hash or work retail for minimum wage and here's why: I have no physical courage. I'm not athletic, I can't lie well or keep secrets, I'm not especially curious, I don't even slow down to watch traffic accidents. And I wasn't a Girl Scout, so I can't change a tire or do Morse code. I have none of the traits you look for in your spies—”

  “Cooperating witness. Your duties for us would require little risk or ingenuity. You would simply overhear conversations. Note family dynamics. Look around the property. You may not have an appetite for this work, Miss Shelley, but you do have a brother.”

  That got my attention. “Yeah? So?”

  “Living in a facility that's subsidized by federal funds. I don't imagine it's easy, coming up with the monthly fees that keep Percy at the facility.”

  His use of my brother's name startled me. Then chilled me. “No, it's not,” I said. And I was nearly the sole support of my brother. Our Uncle Theo helped too, but aging wallpaperers aren't rolling in money.

  “Milos is generous to his employees. Your salary would be substantial.”

  “That's a reason to work for Milos,” I said, “but not to work for you.”

  His eyes narrowed. Graham/Bennett wasn't a man who liked insubordination, even from nonsubordinates. “Then I'll give you a better one. Your brother can be unpredictable and intractable.”

  “Many paranoid schizophrenics—”

  “He's been arrested.”

  “But he's never been convicted of anything. He has bad karma with police, and—”

  “Haven Lane has very high standards of acceptable behavior, and I doubt your brother can toe the line over the long haul. It would be useful, wouldn't it, to have a friend on the Santa Barbara City Council? Or to know a local judge? A word from someone like that would carry weight with the board of directors at Haven Lane. Have you friends like those?”

  No, Uncle Theo and I had no influential friends. Ours were normal friends, the kind who would invite you over for beer or donate a kidney, but not the kind who could fix a parking ticket or an election. “So you're saying that P.B. would get to stay at Haven Lane, that you'd pull strings to make that happen.”

  “It's possible,” he said.

  “No. I want certainty. I need your word.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “And also,” I said, plunging onward, “assuming you promise to help my brother, it can't be contingent on me doing a bang-up job for you, because as I mentioned, I haven't any aptitude for this stuff.”

  “That's not what I heard from Simon Alexander.”

  I did a double take. “This was Simon's idea?”

  He gave me a searching look. “No one outside the case knows I'm asking you to work for us. Agent Alexander in particular could have a negative response.”

  This was a massive understatement.

  “Given your history,” he added. Simon and I had met when I'd inadvertently waltzed into the middle of an investigation, and it hadn't been pretty. “I understand that you and Alexander became—enmeshed— some months ago.”

  “Enmeshed. Is that the federal government's term for … dating?” I asked.

  “It's what can happen when an agent recruits a cooperating witness, exposes them to danger, and feels a heightened sense of responsibility for their well-being.”

  As opposed to True Love, which is what I liked to think was going on with Simon and me. Either way, Bennett/Graham seemed to think of this in the past tense. “And you don't want him getting re-enmeshed.”

  “There's no policy on it.”

  Maybe not, but I was right. My romance with Simon didn't have company endorsement. Its covert nature had allowed me to get on Lemon v. Milos in the first place. Number eleven on the juror questionnaire was, Do you know anyone in law enforcement? I'd told the judge I knew some cops and had once dated an FBI agent. When the judge asked if I was still dating him, I said no. Which was technically correct. Simon and I hadn't dated for some time, if by “dating” one meant dinner and a movie or even holding hands at Costco. Simon and I did have sex, but Judge Cohen hadn't asked me about that.

  “Let's go back to my brother,” I said. “If I decline the opportunity to work for you, will that jeopardize his future at Haven Lane?”

  “I'm not a fortune-teller, Miss Shelley.”

  This wasn't the unequivocal no I was looking for.

  “However,” he continued, “I can tell you that it's better to have me and the resources of my agency working on your brother's behalf than to have us … indifferent to his future.”

  I looked into his expressionless eyes. “That sounds … threatening.”

  He said nothing.

  I made a decision, one I would probably regret. “Okay, I'm in. But, Mr. Bennett—”

  “Graham.”

  “Okay, Graham. How do I—”

  “Mr. Graham.”

  “Oh.” No first-name basis for us, then.

  “I'll initiate our contacts at the beginning,” he said. “You'll be given a number to call if problems arise, but for now, we simply wait for Milos to approach you.”

  “That just happened. A half hour ago.”

  He looked surprised, then stern. “You didn't mention this at the outset because … ?”

  “Because I wasn't working for you then. I'm trying to be less self-disclosing with strangers.”

  “Is there now anything else you'd like to set the record straight on?”

  Like the fact that I'm sleeping with one of your colleagues? I thought. “No.”

  “Good. Let's clarify something. No one is to know that you're working for me. This can't be overstated. No one. Not your uncle, not your brother, not your dog, if you have one.”

  “I don't.”

  “I know. Any deviation from rule number one jeopardizes your safety and my case.”

  “I understand. Can you clarify how much danger I'm in?”

  He didn't skip a beat. “As long as you follow instructions to the letter, none at all.”

  The thing was, I didn't believe him.

  FOUR

  The Santa Monica farmers' market was a cultural crossroads, hip couture meets country overalls, the appeal of produce bringing together people who had no other reason to rub elbows. I was reminded of how rural California was; it was easy to forget in the heart of L.A.

  I found my friend Fredreeq picking out French green beans from a Bakersfield vendor. Fredreeq, who dresses for occasions, wore a yellow gingham dirndl skirt, a halter top, and a matching scarf, looking like Heidi might have looked on a warm day in the Swiss Alps, if Heidi had been sexy, and black, and a soccer mom.

  “Hey! You're late,” she said. “Don't you have to be back in half an hour?”

  I hugged her. “I don't ever have to be back. We reached a verdict.”

  “Hallelujah. Watch it; don't bruise the apricots. So did you fry the guy?”

  “It's rare to impose the death sentence for slip-and-fall cases.”

  “You spent three weeks of your life in a courtroom because someone slipped?”

  “Well, the victim did dislocate her hip, requiring multiple surgeries and ongoing physical therapy for injuries sustained while exiting a vehicle in order to fend off the sexual advances of a Hungarian soccer player who was driving without a California license, here under the auspices of a media training company. A complex and compelling case.”

  “Ridiculous. Come on. Joey's over there.”

  Joey Rafferty stood out in a crow
d because of her masses of wavy red hair. In baggy jeans and a flannel shirt, she looked like a farmer, albeit a wraithlike one.

  “Rafferty!” Fredreeq called. We made our way over to a stand of spring greens. “Forget this rabbit food. You look peaked. Let's get you something fattening. There are good-looking nuts on Fourth Street.”

  “Hey, Wollie,” Joey said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “You're late. We thought you'd been sequestered or something.”

  “No, trial's over. Sent him away for life without parole.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I said. “But did you believe me, just for a minute?”

  Joey shook her head. “Nope.”

  “This way,” Fredreeq said, taking the lead. “Nuts ahead.”

  “Hey, let me ask you guys,” I said. “Could I get better at lying? Is it something you're born with, or are there tricks that anyone can learn?”

  “Anyone but you,” Fredreeq said.

  “No, there are tricks. You'll never pass a polygraph, but you could improve with practice.” Joey produced a raw carrot from her purse, brushed dirt from it, and took a bite.

  “Is that a Prada?” Fredreeq asked Joey. “Are you transporting root vegetables in a Prada?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “See what I did there?” Joey asked. “A simple, decisive ‘no.’ I didn't go into unnecessary details. I didn't say, ‘No, this bag is not a Prada, it's a knockoff’ or ‘No, a carrot's not a root vegetable,’ because either one is going to provoke further questions.”

  “So that was a lie?” I asked.

  “Of course. But Fredreeq bought it. Not because it was plausible, but because my delivery was pretty good.”

  “You're right, I should've caught that. Low blood sugar.” Fredreeq pulled an apricot from her plastic bag and took a bite. She offered me one. I shook my head.