Fidelity Files (6 page)

After a quick calculation in my head I told her seven, giving myself a generous time cushion to account for delays, traffic, costume malfunctions, etc.

More typing and then: "Okay, I have a first-class seat on a flight that leaves LAX at five forty-five P.M., getting you into Las Vegas at six-fifty. Will that work?"

"Perfect. Let's book it."

"And will you be staying at the Wynn again this time?"

I thought back to my conversation with Mr. Ireland. "No, my client will be staying at the Bellagio. I'd like to stay there as well."

"No problem. I'll take care of it and e-mail you the itinerary by end of day today."

"Thanks, Lenore."

"With all these trips lately, you've probably racked up more frequent-flyer miles than Superman," she remarked, amused.

I laughed into the phone. "You're probably right."

I clicked off my headset and turned onto the entrance of the freeway, preparing to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for at least the next forty-five minutes.

In all honesty, sometimes I did feel kind of like a little, mini-Superman. Dressed in my kick-ass, body-accentuating costumes, flying from city to city to fight against the evils of infidelity. I even had my very own secret identity. All I was missing was the ability to see through walls... and, apparently, drive through traffic.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and reached up to massage my forehead with the back side of my hand. I was starting to feel the effects of my long day. In this job, the days were never short. And I was exhausted most of the time. But I refused to complain.

After all, it was entirely by choice.

And I've never heard of Superman whining about
his
long-ass days.

AT SIX
P.M.
the gym was packed. Hordes of people trying to work off their guilty pleasures of the day. Older men attempting to lose inches off their waistline, younger men attempting to add inches to the circumference of their upper arms, and forty-year-old housewives with thousands of dollars of plastic surgery trying desperately to compete with the slim and perky twenty-year-olds who have managed to master the art of working up just enough of a sweat on the elliptical machines to make their bronzed midriffs glisten, but not enough to wash off the layers of natural-
looking
makeup on their faces.

I slipped my iPod into its case and secured it onto the waistband of my shorts. As I pushed the locker-room door open, I braced myself for the awaiting crowd of people. I bowed my head and attempted to lose myself in the music blaring out of my headphones as I weaved through the theme-park-worthy line of people waiting to use the elliptical cross trainers and made my way to the row of treadmills.

My weekly exercise routine consisted of two days of thirty-minute cardio and two days of Pilates at a studio in Santa Monica. I would probably only be able to fit in a twenty-minute run today if I wanted to get to my next destination on time.

As I warmed up with a slow jog, I could feel eyes on me. I knew that to everyone else I looked like just another L.A. twenty-something gym goer, starving myself to fit an unobtainable mold so I could attract a rich husband, and then, in five years or so, an even richer one.

But I wasn't anything like them. In fact, I was quite their opposite.

I was just as fit as them. And my naturally olive-colored skin glistened just as much when I sweat. But my motives were so far removed from their world.

Yes, I also worked out so I could attract men.

But not to find a rich husband. To expose an unfaithful one.

In fact, I
had
to look like all of those other girls. Because most of the time that's who these husbands will cheat with if given the opportunity.

I reached down and skipped through my iPod playlist until I found an upbeat song, and then increased the speed on my treadmill. I ran to the beat of the music, and after two short minutes I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

The release felt amazing. Like a rush of energy and power racing through my entire body. After I had run flat-out for twenty minutes, I pressed the
Cool Down
button, and slowed to a brisk walk. I pulled my towel from the handlebar and wiped down my face.

As the preprogrammed cool-down feature of the treadmill gradually decreased my speed, I reached back and tightened the rubber band holding my ponytail in place.

It was then that I noticed the man walking beside me, on the next treadmill over. I turned my head and looked at him. He was already looking in my direction, and when our eyes met, he smiled at me.

I smiled back politely.

He was attractive. Probably in his mid-twenties, with light brown hair, gentle eyes, and a toned body.

Just as I was about to turn my attention back to the floor-to-ceiling
windows in front of me, I saw his mouth move. He was saying something to me,
but all I could hear was the blasting of incomprehensible punk rock lyrics
in my ears.

For a moment I considered just ignoring him, chalking it up to the fact that I was wearing headphones and therefore granted immunity from having to make any type of gym small talk. But, I reasoned, it would probably be rude to turn my head and pretend I didn't see him try to speak.

So I pulled out the ear buds and said, "Sorry, what?"

He chuckled. "Oh, I just said I've never seen anyone run with such passion before. It almost looked like you were running from the bogeyman or something."

I laughed and brushed a strand of damp hair behind my ear. "Yeah, never a big fan of the bogeyman."

"Are you training for something?"

"Yes... life," I replied sardonically.

"That's a good one. I'll have to remember that one."

I smiled.

"I've never seen you in here before."

I picked up my water bottle from the plastic holder on the treadmill's dashboard and took a sip. "I don't usually come to this location. It just happened to be near work."

My treadmill slowly came to a stop, and I watched as his slowed as well, almost as if they had been perfectly timed to stop one after the other.

He looked at me and grinned at the unspoken coincidence as we both stepped back onto stationary ground.

"You work around here? What do you do?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I'm an investment banker. I'm valuing a firm that's located a few blocks from here."

"Wow, an investment banker. That's pretty big time. So you're smart
and
cute. A deadly combination."

I blushed and fidgeted with my iPod. "Thank you. What do
you
do?" I asked immediately, anxious to get off the subject of me and my fake job.

"I'm a video game designer."

"Really? Any I might have heard of?"

He shook his head sadly. "Probably not. I work for a pretty small design company. We haven't really had any huge releases yet. We just completed a game called Powerless. It's kind of like a political Sim City."

I nodded. "Sim City. I've heard of that."

He laughed. "Well, I guess that's a start."

"Actually, I'm still waiting for Carmen Sandiego and Oregon Trail to make their comeback."

He laughed. "Oh my God. You remember Oregon Trail?

"How could I forget? We used to play that every day during recess in the fourth grade. 'Becky has cholera.'" I impersonated the detached bluntness of the game's memorable on-screen updates.

"Becky has died." He followed suit in an equally mundane voice.

We both cracked up.

"Hey," he began with charming timidity. "Can I treat you to a smoothie downstairs?"

I wiped the back of my neck with my towel. "Um . . ." I stammered awkwardly.

"Maybe a PowerBar?"

"I actually have plans tonight," I said with regret. "I should really get showered and go."

He nodded, and then covered his less than obscure disappointment with another smile. "Okay. Maybe another time then?"

"Sure," I said politely. "Another time." I smiled at him and then started off toward the locker room. I heard his pace quicken as he strode up next to me.

"But if you don't normally come to this location," he said, stepping in line with me. "I might not see you next time."

I laughed at his persistence and then stopped and turned to face him, crossing my arms in mock defiance. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"

He fidgeted slightly with his feet and looked down at the ground. "I'm just saying that you should probably give me your number. Just in case I
don't
see you next time."

His approach wasn't exactly smooth, but it was somewhat endearing. I don't normally give out my phone number. Especially to a guy I had just met on a treadmill. But the man standing in front of me wasn't like most of the guys who normally ask me out. He stood apart.

And that was why I said, "Okay, sure. Why not?" And then recited my prestigious Westside 310 number as he eagerly removed his phone from his backpack pocket and punched in the corresponding digits.

He looked up at me and grinned. "I'm Clayton, by the way. So you'll know who it is when I call."

"Nice to meet you."

After a thorough rinse in the locker-room shower, I toweled myself off and checked my phone. I had three new e-mails. I quickly browsed the in-box. One was from my mother, something about an online test to determine your overall botany knowledge. Another from Sophie thanking me for putting up with her drama earlier in the day (a very common e-mail to come to my phone). And the third was the itinerary for my Vegas trip, as promised, from my travel agent.

I quickly threw on a casual change of clothing, slung my gym bag over my shoulder, and made a beeline for the front door.

Enough of these flirtatious trips down elementary-school memory lane. It was time to get serious again. There was work to be done.

I started my car and entered my next destination into the navigation system. Per the GPS lady's suggestion, I turned left out of the parking lot, and in 0.7 miles, merged onto Century Boulevard.

Tonight a man named Andrew Thompson was scheduled to meet his dream girl.

He just didn't know it yet.

ACCORDING TO his wife, Andrew has always had a thing for flight attendants. Flight attendants and football.

"It started out as a joke between us," she had explained to me last week during our initial meeting. "He'd see one on TV or in the terminal and whisper something to me like, 'Honey, we
need
to get you one of those outfits.' It used to be cute." She somberly shook her head. "A lot of things used to be cute... including me."

So tonight I had invented what I believed to be Andrew Thompson's ideal woman. A football-obsessed flight attendant. Prim and proper in the air but down and dirty when she's drinking beer and watching her favorite team play on ESPN. The truth is, most men who are going to cheat are probably going to cheat regardless of what you're wearing or what kind of sports statistics you manage to casually toss into the conversation. But that's not always the case. Some guys will cheat with anyone, while others are more specific. More particular. I have to be prepared for both. That's why fulfilling a fantasy is always the safest bet.

But in the end it was really all the same to me. Cheating is cheating. It doesn't matter how selective you are when you do it.

A big part of my job is research. Preparation. I like to gather as much information as I can before going out on an assignment, because the more I know going in, the faster I can count on getting out. Creating someone's fantasy girl, however, isn't just about knowing in advance that they have a thing for flight attendants or poker players. Just as being a successful door-to-door vacuum salesman isn't only about being able to recite the sucking power ratio of the latest Hoover model. In the time it takes for that house door to swing open, you have to be able to come up with an instant analysis about the person standing behind it. You have to immediately "know" exactly what he/she wants to hear about vacuum cleaners. Otherwise you'll just end up with a door slammed in your face.

I guess if I
were
some kind of female superhero, this would be considered my identifying "superpower." Although I'd have to say that it's really just more of a knack. It's taken me a few years to perfect, but now it comes fairly naturally.

You know those mathematical geniuses who can break any high-profile, top-secret code in a matter of seconds?

Well, I can't do that.

But, what I
can
do is much more difficult. I can decipher any man you put in front of me...in less than thirty seconds.

That's right. Like an open book.

I don't know where it came from. I suppose I was just born with it. My friends call it a "gift from God." I wouldn't exactly go that far. If only they knew what it was really used for.

But, I must admit, being able to decipher men as fast as a cryptologist breaks top-secret codes can definitely come in handy when you're expected to encounter a different man every night as his supposed dream girl.

Andrew Thompson lived in San Francisco with his wife, but tonight he was in Los Angeles for business, staying at the Westin by the airport. I asked the valet at the hotel to escort me quietly to the back entrance of the building, discreetly slipping him a large bill to encourage compliance. He gladly accepted it and walked me around the side to a small, unadorned glass door that he respectfully held open for me. Pulling my black suitcase behind me, I located an empty public restroom on the ground floor and made my way into the handicap stall at the end of the row. I quickly shed my clothes and pulled out my flight attendant's uniform from the suitcase.

It actually belonged to a friend of mine who really
was
a flight attendant for Continental Airlines. I had explained to her that I was going to a fantasy-themed party where you were supposed to come dressed as a popular sexual fantasy. I told her that I wanted to dress up as an active member of the "mile-high club" and hoped that the flight attendant garb would properly communicate that.

She giggled at the idea and readily agreed to let me borrow it.

I zipped up the navy-colored skirt around my waist and pulled the matching jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the gold wings that were pinned to the lapel. I then slipped my Birkin into the suitcase and replaced it with a simpler black shoulder bag. Much more representative of a flight attendant's salary.

I fixed my hair and touched up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and then took a deep breath before opening the door.

Andrew Thompson was believed to be at the hotel bar, watching the college football game. Because, according to his wife, "he never misses it."

USC versus Michigan. Andrew's alma mater, and, coincidentally, tonight... Ashlyn's as well.

I didn't have the luxury of being able to scope out the bar and locate the subject before entering. I had to make a grand entrance. It was all part of tonight's charade. And therefore I had to trust that Emily Thompson's knowledge of her husband's evening, after-work activities would be accurate. Otherwise, my charade would be wasted on a bunch of semidrunk, overweight college-football fans.

As I approached the lobby I could see the entrance of the hotel bar about one hundred feet in front of me. I picked up the pace, jogging frantically through the relatively busy lobby, pulling my suitcase behind me and attempting to dodge other hotel patrons as I desperately made my way toward the faint sounds of cheering.

I burst into the bar breathlessly, slowing my pace and wiping my brow with the back side of my hand. "What'd I miss? What's the score?" I took a deep, much-needed breath.

There were five guys sitting around the bar, staring up at the TV screen. All five of them turned to look at me. The grand entrance was a success.