No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (19 page)

“This isn’t going to cost me a fortune, is it?” Paul complained.

“I hear it’s pretty reasonable,” I replied, knowing nothing of the sort.

He brightened. “So, what’s it called?”

“The Ali Kabab House. It’s on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo.”

“Ali Kabab?” he said, frowning. “It sounds Middle Eastern.”

“Well, I wasn’t feeling like Mexican,” I said, shrugging. If I had to go out with Paul, at least I could try and see if I could accidentally run into Mr. Middle Eastern Guy again, but this time on a more even playing field.

“It sounds weird,” he said doubtfully. “How about a steak house?”

“Come on, Paul, be adventurous.”

“Excuse me,” came a nasal voice from behind Paul. “Mail time.”

Paul looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Come back later. Can’t you see we’re having a private conversation here?”

“Sorry,” the guy mumbled.

“For God’s sake, Paul, let him past,” I said irritably, leaning back in my swivel chair. Paul could be such a jerk sometimes.

Paul scowled, but stepped aside. A guy wearing a baseball jersey, jeans and an Orioles baseball cap shuffled into my cubicle with a pile of mail. He kept his back to me as he dropped the pile on my desk.

“So, are we on or off?” I asked Paul.

“Come on, Lexi. What’s wrong with good old American food like a hamburger or pizza? Why do you want to eat something so exotic?”

I held my ground. “Look, I agreed to go disco dancing. Humor me, here.”

I heard a snicker and both Paul and I looked in surprise at the mail guy. He turned around to face me slowly. “I like exotic food,” he said softly.

My mouth fell open. It was Slash, barely recognizable behind a pair of thick black-framed glasses, his dark hair stuffed beneath the cap. He had hunched his broad shoulders and looked short and stooped. But the same twinkle was in his smoky brown eyes, his chin was still partially unshaved. He smiled openly at me. The Italian accent was completely gone and I could have sworn I heard a nasal New York twang.

“No one asked you jack,” Paul said.

“Paul!” I exclaimed. “What’s your problem?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere,” Slash said, turning away.

“No, wait,” I said hastily.

Slash paused, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes flashed a warning, reminding me to hold my tongue.

“Ah, where is the regular guy—you know, Herman?” I asked. Herman was a young man with Down’s Syndrome who brought our mail around every day. He was friendly, efficient and dependable, and I never had known him to miss a day of work.

Slash shrugged. “Busy day, I guess. He needed some extra help. Besides, he owed me one.”

I laughed. “Unbelievable.”

Slash grinned again, tipped his hat and disappeared from my cubicle. I saw him go past, pushing the mail cart, still slouching his shoulders.

Paul watched him go. “What’s with him? He must be new. Can you believe how he just interrupted our conversation? Just who did he think he was talking to?”

I rolled my eyes. Paul could be a snob
and
a jerk. “So are we in agreement about the restaurant or not?” I asked.

Paul frowned. “Oh all right,” he said grumpily. “If you insist on the strange cuisine, I’ll concede. I am a gentleman after all. Ali Baba it is.”

“Ali Kabab,” I corrected.

“Whatever. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I nodded, barely even thinking about Paul anymore. I still couldn’t believe Slash had strolled right into my cubicle. It meant he must have security clearances up the yin yang. Maybe he
was
who he said he was.

I reached over and picked up my mail, flipping through it. At the bottom of the pile, I pulled out an oversized index card. Written on the card in thick black ink were four words.

You can trust me.

At five o’clock I left work and drove home, my muscles feeling a little better and the headache finally gone. But there was a lot on my mind, especially now that I knew Basia had called me from Sweden.

The apartment smelled of lemon cleanser and polish. I walked through the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom and the bathroom. All the papers, knickknacks and junk had been picked up off the floor and the furniture gleamed. But best of all back in the bedroom, a huge pile of clean, folded laundry sat on the middle of my clean and made up bed.

Smiling, I stared at the laundry. This was the best thing that had happened to me all week. Still grinning like a happy idiot, I went to the bathroom and ran hot water in the sparkling white tub to soak my stiff muscles and relax before I had the date from hell with Paul.

I spent a good thirty minutes in the tub before turning on the shower to wash and condition my hair. After toweling off and blow-drying my hair as straight as possible, I slipped on a pair of normal cotton underwear and donned my new red dress again. Only Finn had seen it and I wasn’t worried about running into him at the Ali Kabab House or the disco club.

To ensure my muscles stayed loose, I downed two more ibuprofen. I stared at my pale face in the mirror and, sighing, pulled out the make-up box again. I opened it, set aside the eyelash curler and found what I think was rouge. I scooped the cream out with my finger and rubbed it on my cheeks. I looked like Heidi with the red apple cheeks, but at least I had color. After some consideration I dabbed at my cheeks with a tissue until they took on a more natural hue. I wasn’t bold enough to try lipstick, but I did get brave and used mascara on my lashes with minimal smearing. Finally I stepped into my red pumps and stared at myself in the full-length mirror.

Other than the flat chest, not too bad, I decided.

As I passed through the living room I noticed my phone message light was blinking. I pressed the button.

“Hi, Lexi, it’s Finn. Call me on my cell phone as soon as you can. It’s urgent.”

I went to my purse, dug out his card and dialed his cell phone. The operator told me the number I had called was presently not available, but I could leave a message. So I did, telling Finn I’d be out for most of the evening but would try to call later. Actually I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet because I needed to figure out a way to ask him if he’d be willing to plant the program in the company network. I wasn’t sure of the ethical problems it would raise for him. Everything depended upon how desperate Finn was to discover the truth.

Because I had a few minutes to spare, I called the Karate Academy but got another answering machine with Lars’s voice on it. I didn’t leave a message because I wasn’t sure what to say.
Call me. I think you know where Basia is.
Probably not the best approach to take with a guy built like Lars who could probably break my neck in two without even breathing hard.

At precisely seven o’clock, Paul rang my bell. He had showered and shaved and looked nice in a pair of khaki Dockers and a short-sleeved, light blue, button-down shirt. He looked at me and whistled.

“Wow, you look amazing.”

He didn’t say anything about my cheeks, so I took that as a good sign. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing my purse and punching in the code on the alarm.

“What’s with the new security?” Paul asked, looking over my shoulder.

I shrugged, trying to make light of it. “I just decided I needed to feel safer.”

“Because of all this weird stuff going on.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh,” he said, but didn’t ask any more questions. Once Paul had been informed that my weird stuff was on a need-to-know basis and had the attention of the higher-ups in the agency, he pretty much followed the plan. He’d make a good foot soldier.

The Ali Kabab House was in a renovated townhouse. A neon sign blinked Open in one of the windows. The lawn was green and trimmed and someone had planted azaleas and pansies in a small garden. We climbed the steps to the restaurant and Paul opened the door for me. Guess chivalry isn’t dead everywhere.

Inside we waited by a podium that said Please Wait to be Seated. It looked like there were two parts of the restaurant, an upstairs and a downstairs. Downstairs were a dozen small tables with white tablecloths, small flickering candles and gleaming silverware. The place was small, but cozy and clean. The walls were adorned with thick Turkish-looking tapestries and artwork featuring desert landscapes.

There were four people sitting at a table when the waiter serving them drinks spotted us at the door. He rushed over to greet us.

“
Masaa al-khair,
good evening,” he said with a smile. He was thin and dark-haired, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black jeans. He held a small pad in his hand. “Table for two? Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non-smoking, please,” Paul said.

The waiter led us to a small table near the window and I chose the chair that would give me a view of the door. I didn’t expect Rashid Bouker to waltz in the door, but sometimes luck is a funny thing, and it seemed like a good idea to be prepared just in case.

The waiter offered to get us something to drink and Paul ordered a glass of wine. The hangover still fresh in my mind, I ordered a club soda with a lime. I could tell Paul was disappointed. He was likely wishing I would get tipsy so he could take advantage of me.

The waiter gave us a few minutes to look over the menu. When he returned with our drinks, I told Paul I was ready to order. Paul’s face was all scrunched up as he stared at the choices, and I could tell he wasn’t finding much on the menu appetizing.

To help him out I went first, ordering the lentil and chard soup with rice, and some meat pastries with pine nuts called
sambousik.
Paul looked at me like I was from another planet. Maybe I was. But I smelled a yummy aroma coming from the kitchen, and besides, I felt like living my life a bit dangerously in case the end was near.

Paul hemmed and hawed until he reluctantly ordered the meatball soup and a roasted lamb dish. He didn’t look thrilled about his choices, and probably was wishing a steak would magically appear.

The waiter brought our drinks and we chatted about nothing in particular until our soups arrived. About five minutes into the conversation I was reminded of why I had decided not to go out with him the last time we were on a date. There was no spark, no chemistry at all, and Paul liked to talk about himself. Before long my eyes began to glaze over and I felt depressed. I had the most pathetic love life on the face of the earth. My mother was right. I was an embarrassment in matters of the heart.

Before dissolving into a mush of self-pity, I set my napkin on the table and stood. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room,” I said abruptly.

Paul looked at me in surprise and I realized I had cut him off in midsentence. “Sorry,” I mumbled apologetically. “I’ll be right back.”

I headed toward the stairs in search of the restroom. When I reached the top landing, a large room opened up to my left. The corridor went on straight ahead of me. I heard voices and laughter, so I peeked inside. A round table in a corner was filled with a half-dozen young men. A veil of smoke hung heavy in the air. I squinted, trying to see if I could make out Rashid Bouker when an arm from behind snaked around my neck and a hand clapped over my mouth. I was dragged backwards down the corridor, squirming and kicking my legs until my attacker whispered in my ear.

“Silence, Lexi.”

I recognized the voice and stilled. Slash.

Even though I had stopped thrashing, he kept his hand firmly over my mouth. He dragged me to a room, opened the door and yanked me inside. Releasing me, he flipped on the light and glared at me.

We were in a small bathroom that contained a chipped porcelain sink and a single toilet. A roll of paper towels sat on the sink next to some liquid hand soap. The ceiling light was a single dull bulb.

I waited until my heart stopped doing the tango before I hissed, “Just what in the
hell
do you think you are doing?”

Slash was angry too, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. I was the one who had just been assaulted and dragged into a bathroom.

“What am
I
doing?” he repeated, his voice furious. “The question is what are
you
doing here?”

I noticed he was dressed in black, this time in a cotton T-shirt, jeans and a leather jacket. The jacket was an unnecessary fashion statement because it was eighty degrees out, but in any event, he didn’t look anything like the mail guy in my cubicle today.

“I happen to be on a date,” I said angrily. “You knew I’d be here.”

“I did not,” he snarled.

“You heard me talking about this restaurant with Paul in my cubicle today,” I insisted. “You’re stalking me.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that because a hot, red flush crept up his sexy unshaven neck and his eyes flashed daggers at me. But I was mad too, and he had nearly taken ten years off my life with his grab-and-drag stunt. I took a step back, but it didn’t put a whole lot of distance between us given the fact that the bathroom was extremely small.

His hands clenched at his sides. “I’m
not
stalking you and I didn’t hear you talking about
this
restaurant today,” he said coldly. “If I had I assure you, you wouldn’t be here. Just so you know,
I
was here first.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right. Why on earth would you be here?”

“Because I’m part of a stakeout, damn it. And you walked right into it, dragging along that idiot boyfriend of yours.”

“A stake-out?” I repeated in disbelief. “Do you think I’m dumb enough to believe that? Wait, don’t answer that. And, by the way, Paul is
not
my idiot boyfriend.”

Slash’s eyes narrowed. “Then just who is he?”

“A colleague. I owed him a favor and he’s collecting.”

His expression darkened. “Collecting what?”

“That’s none of your business,” I snapped, trying hard not to look embarrassed which was difficult because my cheeks were likely a flaming crimson color.

“It’s very much my business,” he retorted.

“Why? Because you are on some kind of stakeout? How lame an excuse is that? I’m not a complete imbecile, you know.” My voice had risen considerably.

“How cursed am I that you showed up here now?” he said, his voice matching mine.

For a minute we glared at each other until Slash finally leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. The black leather jacket creaked slightly and I caught a faint scent of his expensive aftershave.

“I mean it,
cara,
what are you doing here?”

“I told you. I’m on a date.”

“Why here?”

“Why not? The last time I looked, America was a free country.”

His nostrils flared, but his voice came out calm and controlled. “You’re digging around.”

“Digging around?” I gave him innocent eyes. “Me?”

He wasn’t buying it. “You found out that Rashid Bouker likes to frequent this restaurant, didn’t you?”

I crossed my arms against my chest, mimicking his stance. “Maybe.”

“This is serious,
cara.
Go home.”

“Since when have I been any safer at home?” I snapped. “And where do you come off, telling me what to do? I thought you were some kind of computer genius for the NSA and now you tell me you’re on a stakeout. What are you really, a spook for the CIA?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not CIA.”

“A cop, then.”

“No cop.”

“Military?”

“No.”

“Then who the hell are you?” I demanded. I was mad and scared. When I get mad or scared, I become pushy and sometimes use cuss words. It’s my tough act.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” Slash warned. His face was impassive, but I saw a muscle in his jaw ticking and I knew he was trying to control his anger. Or maybe he was trying not to laugh at me.

“So you think this is the solution,
cara?
Strolling into the restaurant and sitting in the window so Bouker won’t miss you? What kind of plan is that?”

I felt defensive. “Maybe I wanted to talk to him on neutral ground.”

“He’s dangerous. You could get hurt.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, but despite the fact that I’m female, I can handle myself quite well, thank you. I already did so once with him without your assistance.”

Slash closed his eyes, the expression on his face pained and angry. “You’re not going to leave the restaurant, are you?”

“No.”

“Then you should know. Bouker’s already here. He arrived just before you did.”

“He did?” I tried not to sound too surprised or scared.

“
Si,
he did.”

“Is he in that room I was looking into?”

Slash nodded. “I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m trying to find out more about Bouker. Who he meets and with whom he does business.”

“Are you alone on this stakeout?”

“No more information…for your own good.”

He put a finger on my lips and the contact sent a jolt of heat racing through my veins. For one mindless, insane moment, I wished he would yank me into his arms and kiss me blind until I forgot about psycho guys with guns who kept breaking into my apartment and that I was on the date from hell with Paul. Then I remembered Slash was one of those strange guys who had magically appeared when all of this had started happening and it kind of ruined the moment.

“So, what exactly did you plan to say to Bouker if he spotted you tonight?” Slash asked, jolting me back to reality.

“How come you get to ask all the questions?”

“Behave,
cara,
and just tell me. What crazy plan did you have up your sleeve with Bouker tonight?”

I considered it. What would I have said to Bouker if I ran into him? Actually, I hadn’t thought that far in advance. I shifted nervously on my feet. I saw Slash nod like that’s what he had expected all along.