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Authors: Harley Jane Kozak
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these people are paying for.”
I was too. But I kept that to myself.
EIGHT
W hile 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
I was too. But I kept that to myself.
EIGHT
W hile 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
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