Read Online A Date You Can't Refuse by Harley Jane Kozak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harley Jane Kozak
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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
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
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