A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  “What's the job?”

  I turned off the map light. “I'm working for a company that does media training and I'll be working odd hours.”

  “How odd?”

  “Tomorrow there are clients arriving at the airport and I think I'm picking them up. A lot of my duties involve transportation. At any rate, I have to be available to them.”

  “What hours?”

  “I'm not sure, but I get the impression … twenty-four/seven.” I mumbled this.

  He switched on the map light. There were those eyes again, blue, blue, blue, with laserlike intensity. “You're a chauffeur?”

  “Among other things. Why?”

  “Because you dislike driving, and you're not particularly good at it. What other things?”

  “Showing them around L.A. Whatever. Playing cribbage with them in their off-hours. I'll find out more tomorrow.”

  “Right after you learn cribbage. How did you find this job?”

  “They more or less found me. It came about through jury duty in a circuitous way and the pay's good, and it's just temporary.”

  “How temporary?”

  “Three months.”

  “Three months?”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, cringing. “I'm not hard of hearing.”

  “You're spending the summer babysitting a bunch of—what? Who are these people?”

  “Simon, I don't know all the details, but I'm more than a glorified bus driver. These are international celebrities. It's a prestigious firm, I'm well-treated, it's not menial labor—”

  “What's the name of this firm?”

  I hesitated, then turned off the map light. “MediasRex.”

  He switched the light back on. “What aren't you telling me?”

  “I'm not—nothing. It's just that—see, I knew you wouldn't be crazy about—not that I blame you—the idea of seeing less of you than I already do depresses me, and—”

  “I thought you wanted to focus on your art,” he said. “And your marketing efforts.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “So why are you doing this? It's not a career move, it's a temp job.”

  “I told you, it's—”

  “—money. What are they paying?”

  I looked out the window. “Five minutes ago that moon looked so romantic.”

  “Salary?”

  “Fifty grand. For three months. Not bad for a babysitter.”

  That quieted him. I took advantage of this by turning off the map light one last time. Then I took his face in my hands and moved toward it. When he showed no signs of resistance, I closed the gap, put my mouth on his, and switched to nonverbal communication. We'd been working on these skills a lot over the last six months and were getting good at it. I had to block out a vision of Alik Milos that jumped in uninvited, but Simon didn't seem to notice and I thought I was home free, until his mouth moved to my ear.

  “I'm curious to know,” he said softly, “what else these people are paying for.”

  I was too. But I kept that to myself.

  EIGHT

  While not exactly a fight, the evening's tryst had been downgraded to a logistics discussion. We talked about the “where” and “how”—possible venues for our next rendezvous and the cryptic phone calls that would precede it—but not the “when.” Which was all I cared about. It was cold comfort that my schedule was now as unpredictable as his.

  I did not tell Simon that my new job required me to live on campus, as it were, and in a section of Calabasas without cell phone reception. There was only so much wrath I could take in one night from a man with whom there would be no makeup sex in the near future. Makeup sex had seen Simon and me through some rough moments; now I'd have to find other coping mechanisms. Relationship self-help books, if there were any that gave advice on living with a secret agent. Perhaps there was a Significant Others of Spies support group, but I didn't know how that would work, everyone sitting around sharing only aliases and cover stories. Simon's had to do with the textiles business.

  The good news was that Simon didn't suspect that I too was working for the FBI. Also, I'd kept the name Yuri Milos out of the conversation, although Simon would undoubtedly check up on MediasRex the minute he got to a computer.

  It was in this cheerless frame of mind that I walked up the sidewalk at the Oakwood Garden Apartments. Of all my recent domiciles, this was the one I'd miss the least. Fredreeq and Joey would be popping champagne when they heard I was leaving; Joey felt that proximity to so many divorcés was psychologically unhealthy while Fredreeq was concerned with the spirit world. She claimed that the apartment complex, so near Forest Lawn cemetery, was in fact built on ancient Native American burial grounds, meaning at best it had bad feng shui and at worst was haunted. Tonight I believed her. It seemed the trees themselves were whispering my name.

  “Wollie.”

  That was no tree. I stopped, scared silly. It was late. And dark. The walkway was lined with lights, half of them burned out. A good place to get mugged.

  But muggers didn't usually call one's name.

  “What?” I said.

  A man emerged from the shadows, and I took a step back. “It's me,” he said.

  I peered at him. Bennett Graham. “Oh,” I said. “Hello. What are you doing here?”

  “Let's take a walk,” he said.

  “Let's go inside,” I said.

  “I prefer the outdoors.”

  I did not. While nearly summer, it was still chilly, and Chai's clothes were thin. But Bennett Graham was the boss. I would have to get into the habit of taking sweaters everywhere if this guy was going to keep popping up alfresco.

  “Do you think my apartment's bugged?” I asked, moving along the pathway.

  “Not necessarily. Let's just say I have a worst-case-scenario mind-set. You'll develop one too.”

  “How delightful.”

  We walked toward the pool, which was empty. Beyond the pool, the hot tub held three people who in turn held beer bottles.

  “You met with Milos today,” Bennett Graham said, walking slowly around the pool. “How did that go?”

  It reassured me that he knew I'd been there. I filled him in on my day, focusing on the alarm incident and my impression that a bullet had hit the glass doors. “But I didn't get close enough to see any cracks in the glass, just the sound. And everyone calmed down pretty fast after the initial noise. I mean, they were concerned. But calm. So I may have been mistaken.”

  “Were the doors exceptionally heavy?” he asked.

  “The glass, you mean? How would I know that?”

  “You didn't open or close them yourself?”

  I shook my head.

  “Was anyone armed?” he asked.

  “Armed?” I said, alarmed. “Why would they be armed?”

  “I'm not saying they were. I'm asking if they were.”

  “Not that I noticed, but I wasn't encouraged to frisk them. The guard at the gate had a gun. He looked the type, too. A real Gloomy Gus.”

  Bennett Graham raised an eyebrow.

  “Gloomy Gus. It's a technical term,” I said.

  “Describe to me the rest of the house,” he said. “The layout. The dining room table, for example. Was there a chandelier hanging above it?”

  “I didn't notice a lot except for colors and decor. I'm into art, not geography. But I'm moving in there tomorrow, so—oh. Another problem. I can't get cell phone reception at the house. I guess that's normal for the canyon, but I don't suppose you want me calling you from a landline, right? Having your office number show up on the family phone bill.”

  He'd stopped and was staring at me. “You're moving in?”

  “Oh, great! You didn't know that was part of the job?”

  “Why did you agree to that?”

  “What do you mean?” I squeaked. “I assumed I was to go along with the program.”

  He glanced across the pool to the hot-tubbers. “Keep your voice down, please.”

  “That's it.
I'm staying here. I'll commute. They'll just have to deal with it.”

  Bennett Graham shook his head. “No. This is good. Your access to the house increases exponentially if you're there round the clock.”

  “But it's riskier, right? And how do I connect with you? Since it seems I'm on call round the clock too, driving people all over.”

  “They'll have to give you time off. When they do, get to where there's a cell signal.” He pulled out a business card and jotted down a number. “In an emergency, call this number. It's a yogurt place. Ask them to save you a quart of Very Vanilla. Give your name.”

  I stared at him. This was not my idea of a fail-safe mechanism. “What if they don't have Very Vanilla?”

  “They always have Very Vanilla.”

  “What if they run out?”

  “It doesn't matter if they run out,” he said patiently. “A quart of Very Vanilla for Wollie is their signal that you need to make contact.”

  “Oh. Okay, I see. Listen, wouldn't it be easier to beef up the cell signals in the canyon? Surely the FBI is capable of that.”

  “Thank you for the tactical advice. A quart of Very Vanilla. Then tell them what time you'll be in to pick it up.”

  “What if it's the middle of the night?”

  “You'll get voice mail. Leave a message. It will be forwarded. Then drive there. Here.” He handed me the business card. “From the Milos house, go north along Mulholland Highway for five or six miles. You'll see a Gelson's on your left, in a small shopping center. The yogurt store is in the far corner. I can have someone there in forty minutes, if necessary.”

  “What if you need to reach me?” I asked.

  “Check your cell phone when you can. If something comes up on our end, you'll get a message from a woman named Rebecca, telling you what to do.”

  “Rebecca.” I nodded. My stomach was doing little somersaults. “I want to know what it is that Milos is involved in.”

  “It might be nothing at all.”

  “That's hard to believe,” I said.

  “Why? It happens all the time.” Bennett Graham glanced at the hot-tub party, then did a slow survey of the pool area while adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “We get tips, we go on fishing expeditions, and sometimes we come up with nothing. You do just as much a service exonerating the innocent as you do finding proof of wrongdoing.”

  I wasn't sure if I believed Bennett Graham, but here was the interesting thing: I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe it was a mistake and that Yuri Milos was a man of integrity, guilty of nothing but being European and wealthy and having an unorthodox family. “Okay I'll buy that. So what's the wrongdoing that Yuri Milos might not be doing?”

  “It's not necessary for you to know.”

  “That's stupid. How could I be more useful as an ignorant person than an informed one?”

  “I don't have time to give you a lesson on how intelligence operations are run and why certain practices increase efficiency.”

  “Maybe it works for you,” I said, “but I'm putting myself in some degree of danger here. I want to know how much.”

  “You're better off focusing on your job and—”

  “Ignorance can't be good self-defense, so telling me ‘don't worry your pretty little head’ is just—”

  “It has nothing to do with attractiveness.”

  On the other side of the pool, a shout of laughter was followed by excessive splashing. We both turned to it. Then I turned back to face Bennett Graham. “I'm thinking seriously of quitting. I can't tell you what a bad feeling I have.” And it was true, I couldn't explain how spooked I felt, replacing the departed Chai. Not to this guy.

  “First of all,” he said, and his tone softened, “you've taken the hardest step today. Don't throw that away. These doubts are normal. By tomorrow night, you'll have a different outlook. Secondly, Milos values you. And you're safer living there than you are here in this place”—he nodded toward my building—“with its lax security measures. Milos probably has alarms and movement sensors around the periphery of the house. Cameras too.”

  “Where will these cameras be?”

  “I have no idea. In general, assume that surveillance is ongoing anywhere that power is present.”

  “What's that, the J. Edgar Hoover dictum?”

  “James Bond. Finally, remind yourself of the reasons you said yes to this job.”

  P.B. At least Bennett Graham had the good taste not to mention him outright.

  “Your brother,” he said, quashing that fleeting good impression. “Do you really see him living here with you at the Oakwood Gardens in your small apartment? I don't imagine it's easy to keep him on his medication.”

  For me, it was impossible. And I couldn't leave him alone, even on meds.

  I took a deep breath. “Well, give me a clue, then, would you? Spell it out for me what I'm supposed to be doing in all my ignorance.”

  “Note anything irregular on the premises.”

  “Like what? Meth lab in the basement? A cache of explosives?”

  “Those would certainly qualify. As would large sums of money. I'm also interested in any animosity among family members. As to the particulars, I'd like you to find out the names of the old woman, the housekeeper, and the young girl.”

  “Grusha. She's Yuri's former mother-in-law. Parashie's his daughter.”

  His eyebrow went up again. “You see, you're good at this already.”

  I blushed at the compliment, even knowing he was probably humoring me.

  “Engage these people in conversation,” he said. “See if they have criminal histories.”

  “Do people generally volunteer that?”

  “Do your best. For the incoming trainees, I want names and countries of origin. Passport numbers. Write things down, but keep your notes well hidden. Also, look for a room that has film or recording equipment, or shipping materials, especially to and from Europe. And take note of any regular visitors that have nothing to do with MediasRex.”

  “Wait. Go back to the room. Do you mean like a media center? A screening room?”

  “No,” he said, beginning to walk, forcing me to walk with him. “It may be a basement or even apart from the house. It won't be included in any tour. There might be editing equipment. Duplicating machines. The room will probably be kept locked.”

  “Then how am I supposed to get into it?”

  “Listen. Observe. When your eyes are open, opportunities present themselves.”

  “Observe what's vivid. Notice what you notice. Catch yourself thinking.'”

  “What?”

  “Allen Ginsberg,” I explained, but he only looked at me blankly. “So what is it that's being edited or duplicated in this room?”

  “That's what we'd like to know.”

  “It all sounds very Bluebeardian.” I shivered. The night air was getting to me now, seeping into my bones along with thoughts of the fairy tale that used to haunt my childhood. Talk about an unhappy ending. Like half of Yuri's lovers. “So did you know,” I asked, “that my predecessor died? In a car accident?”

  His eyebrows drew together in a frown, too quickly. “When?”

  “Oh, great. So you didn't know about it?”

  “When did it happen?”

  “I don't know. Recently. Her name was Chai.”

  “No last name?”

  “She was on America's Next Top Model. A few seasons ago. The seventh runner-up. There can't be too many of those walking around.”

  “I'll look into it. Anything else?”

  “Only that I bet Yuri Milos valued her too, yet she came to a bad end. So there goes half the argument you just made a minute ago.”

  “One-third of my argument,” he said, correcting me.

  I looked right at him. “So you didn't know her?”

  He turned to me, but it was too dark to read his expression. “I just said I didn't.”

  “It occurred to me that she might have worked for you.”

  “I told you w
e were unable to place anyone inside the household. Anything else?”

  I shook my head. I wanted him to pooh-pooh my fears, but he wasn't a pooh-pooh kind of guy, he was a worst-case-scenario guy. So I sucked it up and shook his hand and he left me at the pool, in full possession of my anxiety. After a moment I waved to the hot-tubbers and walked back down the path for a last night in my own bed.

  NINE

  I was on the road to Calabasas by seven-thirty a.m., which gave me something in common with half of Los Angeles, slogging along on the 101 North. The other half, from what I could see, was on the 101 South. “Get used to it,” I told myself. “Traffic is now your life.”

  Yes, there'd been bad feng shui at the Oakwood Garden Apartments, but as I'd packed in the predawn hours, listening to the drone of a television through an open window, I was stricken by nostalgia. Whatever heartache or loneliness the residents might feel, whatever restless spirits inhabited that earth, not one bore the combination of secrets weighing me down like a bunch of sandbags. Only one person was in on my clandestine life, and my only connection to him was a frozen yogurt place on Mulholland Highway.

  And I had my doubts about him.

  Coming to a dead stop just before the 405, I used my time calling everyone who needed my change of address. With the exception of Simon; even if I wanted to tell him, contacting him required a series of steps so complex that I hadn't yet tried them. Now that I'd heard Bennett Graham's yogurt arrangements, I wondered if such security measures were second nature to these people, taught in FBI 101.

  My other loved ones had mixed reactions to my move.

  “Ah, Calabasas,” Fredreeq said. “You let me know if you come across any black people there. We'll alert the news media.”

  “A gated community and no cell phones?” Joey asked. “Sounds like rehab.”

  “Calabasas!” my Uncle Theo said. “The word means ‘pumpkin,’ you know. I'm not familiar with Palomino Hills. Your mother once lived in Calabasas, in a treehouse. Before she met your father and me. She was studying Wiccan. I doubt the coven is there anymore.”