No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (20 page)

“Go finish your dinner and get out of here as quickly as you can,” he finally said. “If Bouker sees you, pretend you don’t recognize him.”

Now I was feeling pretty stupid. Slash was right. I was in over my head. I had come here tonight with no plan, no strategy, no nothing. Amateur sleuth or idiot agent, take your pick, that was me. I should have left this whole mess to the professionals, whoever they might be.

I sighed. “Okay. I guess you’re right. Paul is probably wondering what I’m doing in here for so long.”

Slash snorted but said nothing.

“What is that snort supposed to mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t like Paul.”

“Do you?”

“Not really,” I said defensively. “But I’m allowed to say that because I’m on a date with him.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t. Look, Paul is an okay guy, but an awful date.”

“Because he’s not the man for you,
cara.
”

“Oh, great. Now you sound like my mother. When did you become such an expert on my love life? You’ve known me for two days and now you think you know who is right for me?”

He smiled and reached out to touch my hair. “
Si, cara.
Italians are masters at matters of the heart.”

The air in the bathroom practically snapped, crackled and popped with sexual tension. I was afraid to move or breathe for fear that if I did, I’d throw myself at him.

After what seemed like a thousand years Slash spoke softly. “Go on,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if he meant for me to go on and get out of the bathroom or go on and throw myself at him. Just in case, I decided to play it safe. I let out my breath and fumbled for the doorknob.

Before I turned it, I had one more question to ask. “How did you get to my side of the office at the NSA today?”

He looked at me steadily, those brown eyes intense. “If you believe I am who I said I am, then you already know the answer to that.”

He was right. I let out a breath. “Well, what you did wasn’t an easy feat, getting past all those security checkpoints. I suppose it means you have a lot more connections than I expected.”

“I do, and you know I won’t hurt you,
si?
”

“At the very least, I believe that.”

“Good,” he said, his voice softening. “Because I
am
one of the good guys.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose that remains to be seen. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Very soon,
cara,
” he promised.

I threw him a hard look over my shoulder. “By the way, if you come to my place, knock first, would you?”

That mouth twitched again. “If you insist.”

I opened the door and peeked out, looking down the corridor. I didn’t see Rashid creeping around the hallway, but there was a very large woman in a blue-and-white flowered dress waiting patiently by the door to use the bathroom. I blushed.

“Sorry to take so long,” I told her and then watched her expression turn to one of shock when Slash stepped out behind me and nodded politely.

She moved quickly past us and slammed the door shut. I could hear it lock. “You’ve forever ruined my reputation,” I told him, rolling my eyes.

“All the women say that.”

Now it was my turn to snort, but he probably didn’t hear because he had taken a few steps in front of me and was blocking me from the view of the room where Bouker supposedly sat. When we reached the top of the stairs, he gave me a gentle push.

“Go on alone,” he said.

“But where are you going to go?” I whispered.

“Don’t worry about me,
cara.
I’ll be where I need to be.”

I turned and walked down the stairs. When I was halfway down, I looked back over my shoulder. Slash had vanished.

Paul was waiting anxiously for me. “What took you so long?” he demanded. Our food sat untouched on the table.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My nose needed a lot of powdering.”

We started to eat, and the food was surprisingly tasty. Even Paul seemed impressed.

“This was a good idea,” he said a bit grudgingly.

“Sometimes I have better ideas than other times,” I said. It was the understatement of the millennium.

Just then the woman who had gone into the bathroom after Slash and me walked down the stairs. Embarrassed, I avoided looking at her. But to my horror she walked over to our table.

“Excuse me,” she said. I hoped that maybe if I didn’t look at her, she wouldn’t look at me either. No such luck.

“Was that Enrique Iglesias?” she asked, her face splitting into a big grin. “I’m a huge fan.”

I nearly choked on my food and grabbed my water and took a large swallow.

Paul looked at her, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

I waved my hand, my eyes watering. “Nothing,” I interjected. “No, it wasn’t Enrique Iglesias.”

She looked disappointed, but thanked me and walked away. Paul turned his frown on me. “What was that all about?”

“There was some guy waiting to use the restroom who looked like Enrique Iglesias,” I explained. “I guess she hoped it was him.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

That was a good question. “His nose,” I said. “It was definitely smaller than Enrique’s.”

Paul’s frown deepened, but he didn’t say anything more. I guess he had finally come to the realization that I was one strange cookie.

We finished our dinner and I begged off dessert. Paul ordered a dish called
um Ali’
or Ali’s mother. He gave me a taste and it was wonderful. It seemed to be some kind of pastry pudding with raisins and coconut steeped in milk. I was proud of him for being so adventurous.

Paul insisted on paying so when the bill came, he whipped out his credit card. The waiter took it and disappeared. After a few minutes, he reappeared.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “There is a problem with this card. Could you come with me for a moment?”

Paul and I exchanged surprised glances. “That’s a perfectly good card,” he protested. “I pay my balance every month.”

“Of course you do, sir,” the waiter said. “It’s simply that we appear to be having some kind of problem with our machine. Please, sir, would you come with me for just a moment?”

Paul looked at me and I shrugged. He stood and followed the waiter back toward the kitchen where they disappeared behind a pair of swinging double doors.

I picked up my water and took a sip just as Rashid Bouker sat down in Paul’s chair.

“Hello, Miss Carmichael,” he said.

I froze in midsip and then smiled. “Excuse me, do I know you?”

Bouker leaned over the table and spoke in a low tone. “There is no time to play games,” he said, his voice heavily accented. “You are in grave danger. You would do best to get out of town as quickly as possible. Vanish. The only reason you are still alive is that they still hope you can lead them to Miss Kowalski.”

My heart had begun to hammer pretty darn fast in my chest and the hand holding the water glass trembled. “Who are
they?
” I asked.

“This is your last chance. Heed my words,” he said and then stood. From the corner of my eye, I saw Paul returning to the table.

“Who was that guy?” he asked, walking up to me and jerking a thumb toward Bouker.

I swallowed hard. “The manager,” I said. “He told me to try the lamb next time. Is everything straightened out?”

Paul nodded. “It was just a glitch. The damn machine was on the blink. It only took a minute to fix.”

Apparently a minute was all Bouker had needed to pass on his warning. He’d already gone back upstairs. I looked around to see if I could see Slash, but he was nowhere in sight. I wondered if he had even seen the exchange, although I didn’t see how that could have been possible since he was upstairs and we were downstairs.

Clueless to my building anxiety, Paul smiled. “Let’s go dancing,” he said cheerfully, taking my arm and leading me outside.

“Groovy,” I said glumly. I really wanted to go home, but instead I had to go shake my booty.

Paul drove to Club 56, a sort of retro disco club in Silver Spring, Maryland. It was dark, packed and everyone there looked Paul’s age. I felt nervous and out of place, which for me was pretty normal.

We made our way through the crowd until we found a small table. A huge revolving disco ball hung above the dance floor, throwing out flashes of red, green and white. K.C. and the Sunshine Band were singing loudly about the way they like it and I resisted the urge to cover my ears.

“How about a drink?” Paul shouted at me.

“Okay,” I shouted back. If I was going to be in here for more than five minutes, I absolutely needed a drink.

“Great. I’ll surprise you with something,” he said and disappeared toward the bar.

Terrific, that was just what I needed in my life—more surprises.

Paul returned shortly with a tequila sunrise for me and a vodka and tonic for himself. I took a sip of the tequila and it went down pretty smoothly. I took another sip. Maybe if I were tipsy, this disco dancing stuff wouldn’t be so unbearable.

After a couple of minutes, Donna Summer began singing about her hot pants and Paul dragged me out onto the dance floor. My muscles were still kind of stiff, but the tequila was loosening them right up. I tried to imitate the other dancers around me but felt like a robotic puppet. Apparently the puppet dance was in because people smiled at me and Paul seemed satisfied with my efforts.

After several songs, including a slow one, I collapsed in my chair and Paul brought me another tequila. I drank that one and began to feel really good. For at least an hour I hadn’t thought about Basia, Slash, Rashid Bouker or my life being in imminent danger. When the Bee Gees started to sing about staying alive, I jumped out of my seat and dragged Paul to the dance floor.

“They’re playing my song,” I yelled to him over the music.

Two and a half hours later, I was drunk and exhausted. Even Paul looked worn out.

“You’re a hell of a dancer, Lexi,” he said.

I smiled. Who knew I had talent at disco dancing?

He leaned over the table. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

We pushed our way out of the noisy club. The outside air was hot, oppressive and sticky, but at least it was fresh. I filled my lungs, took a step and stumbled. Paul grabbed on to my arm, holding me firmly.

“The car is this way,” he said.

As we walked toward his BMW, I noticed that a dark sedan at the other end of the parking lot had started its engine and begun to slowly drive toward us. The sedan didn’t have its lights on and I thought that was strange.

“Look at that,” I said to Paul, stopping in my tracks and swaying slightly. “No lights.”

“Whatever,” Paul said, pulling me along clearly thinking I was drunk and babbling about nothing.

Okay maybe I was drunk and babbling, but the least he could do was listen. Call it a hunch, call it female intuition, but I suddenly had a creepy feeling about that sedan.

I tried to stop Paul but he kept moving briskly and my foot slipped out of my pump. I yanked my arm free from Paul’s grasp and reached down to grab my shoe when the sedan backfired and I felt a flash of heat slide across my bare back. Someone shouted and I straightened just as a dark form came flying out from behind a parked car and slammed into me.

“Get down, get down,” someone yelled as I tumbled against Paul and all three of us crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

There was a lot of shouting going on, most of it in my ear. From the corner of my eye, I saw the sedan flip on its lights and screech out of the parking lot with a nondescript brown van I hadn’t noticed in hot pursuit. People were running outside from the club to see what was going on.

Someone pulled me off the asphalt and into a sitting position. I tried to shake off the buzz from the alcohol and catch my breath from the body slam so I could figure out what was going on. When my vision cleared, I realized Slash knelt next to me holding my hand. Paul was just picking himself up off the ground and dusting off his khakis.

“What the hell was that?” Paul shouted.

I was still looking in shock at Slash.

“A drive-by shooting,” Slash said, pulling me to my feet.

Once again the Italian accent had vanished. “I saw the guy pull the gun and tried to warn you,” he said in sort of a midwestern twang. “Are you okay, miss?”

My mouth fell open. “Miss?” I croaked out.

“You mean someone shot at us?” Paul said, horrified. “My God, what kind of sick people live in this country?”

“Did you call me miss?” I said to Slash again. Maybe I was more tossed than I thought.

A crowd had started to gather around us, including a couple of bouncers from the bar. “What’s up?” one of the guys asked Slash. I guess he looked in charge.

“A drive-by shooting,” Slash explained.

“Shit,” one of the bouncers replied. He looked to weigh about four hundred pounds, had no neck and wore a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Guess that was the disco fashion these days. “We haven’t had one of those for six months. Anybody hurt?”

“It seems that everyone’s okay,” Slash volunteered.

Sure, easy for him to say. A bullet hadn’t whizzed over his head.

“Should I call the police?” the other bouncer asked. He was thin and tall with a scraggly beard and mustache. A cigarette dangled between his fingers.

“Already here. I’m an off-duty police officer,” Slash said, pulling a badge out from his pocket and flashing it at the guys. “The police are already in pursuit.”

The no-neck guy looked relieved. “Lucky break for them,” he said, nodding his head at Paul and me. Slash nodded.

The crowd from the club began to dissipate, most of them returning to the dance floor, apparently disappointed there were no bodies or gore to see. Ho, hum. Another drive-by shooting. Welcome to the nation’s capital.

Paul looked over at Slash and then held out his hand. “Thanks for saving us, officer.”

I was still standing there dumbly staring from Paul to Slash. Half of me was in shock that I’d been shot at. The other half was mad that Slash had followed me. Worse, Paul had no idea that the guy standing in front of him was the same guy who had shuffled into my cubicle earlier today carrying the mail.