No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (6 page)

I breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed, removing my shoes and clothes. I dug around in the piles of clothes on the floor and found a T-shirt and pulled it over my head. I brushed my teeth, threw everything off the bed and jumped in, stuffing my bag with the FedEx mailer under my pillow. A quick glance at the clock showed it was two-thirty. I was exhausted.

Thank God, tomorrow was a new day. I just hoped I lived long enough to see it.

My alarm went off at six-thirty like it always did. Except this morning I could barely pry my eyes open. I slammed down the snooze button and returned my head to the pillow, marveling at how comfortable and soft it was. That’s when I remembered it
should
be lumpy since the FedEx mailer and my bag were there.

I sat up so quickly I got dizzy and snatched away the pillow. No bag. Wide awake now, I removed the other pillow. Nothing. I leapt out of bed and searched around the floor for my bag or the mailer.

Nada.

I stripped off all the sheets, looked beneath the bed and waded through the mess on my floor, even though logic told me the papers were no longer in the apartment. Then an even more worrisome thought crossed my mind. I ran to my front door. The deadbolt was locked, but the chain dangled loose and the chair sat neatly to one side. My black bag sat on the chair, but when I looked inside, the FedEx mailer was gone. My wallet, keys and address book hadn’t been touched.

“No way!” I exclaimed. Had someone sneaked back into my apartment while I was sleeping and stolen my bag right out from under my head?

Not only did the sheer audacity of it shock me, but it also royally pissed me off. I felt violated, invaded and pretty darn stupid. How could I have slept through an intruder entering into my bedroom and sticking his hand beneath my head? Sheesh. And I work for the nation’s top security agency?

Just to be sure, I did a more thorough search of my apartment. No FedEx mailer in sight. I sat down on one corner of my bed and surveyed the room’s mess. It seemed to be a reflection of my life, and I wasn’t any too happy about that.

Sighing, I picked up the telephone and made a call to my boss. I knew Jonathan wouldn’t be in yet, so I left a message on his machine that I wasn’t feeling well. I wanted to spend the day hunting Basia down and getting to the bottom of this mystery.

I took a quick shower and managed to find a clean pair of underwear among the mounds of stuff on my floor. I pulled on a sleeveless T-shirt sans bra and a pair of shorts. Since it was likely to be another sweltering summer day in the nation’s capital, I scraped my hair back in a ponytail and put on a pair of sunglasses and sandals.

Before heading out, I tried Basia’s number again, but her machine picked up. This time I didn’t leave a message.

I walked out to where I had parked the Miata. It was still there. Thank God, at least that hadn’t been stolen while I slept. I checked the trunk and underneath the car before opening the door, then slid in and popped the hood, thinking it might be prudent to check for a car bomb. I braced the hood open and stared at the guts of my car. There were lots of black metal cylinder thingies among the tubes and wires. It smelled like grease and exhaust. After a few minutes of thoughtful contemplation, I decided all those wires and cylinders could indeed be a car bomb or, on the other hand, just the engine to my car. Since I didn’t feel much like staring at it all morning, I decided to live dangerously.

I slammed the hood closed, got back in the driver’s seat and, taking a deep breath, put the key in the ignition and turned it. The car roared to life. No kaboom. I took that as a good sign.

Since it was a hot, sunny morning, I put the top down and drove directly to the only Dunkin’ Donuts in Jessup. I hoped no one from work would be there to see me and report to my boss that I was playing hooky. That was no joke, because the NSA almost single-handedly supports the place. Thankfully, there was no one I knew except the people behind the counter, who call me by name. After perfunctory greetings, I purchased a large Diet Coke and a chocolate éclair. Nothing like a little chocolate to start the day right. I ate the éclair in the car, licking the cream off my fingers while I formed a plan of action. After a few minutes of contemplating, fueled by a serious chocolate rush, I decided to start at the source of the problem.

Basia.

Driving into Washington so early, I missed a good chunk of the morning rush hour. Traffic isn’t so bad if you can slip into the city before seven-thirty. However, upon reaching my destination, I drove around for fifteen minutes looking for a parking place before giving up and parking illegally in an alley. I didn’t intend to stay long, but the parking police in Washington have noses like radar and can sniff out an illegally parked car five miles away. The tickets cost something outrageous like two hundred dollars and your first-born child. Most people don’t pay them out of principle, but that isn’t so easy to do when you work at the NSA.

I hiked the two blocks to Basia’s apartment complex and let myself in with her key. She had mine and I now began to wonder if Mr. Middle Eastern Guy hadn’t stolen it from her and used it to let himself into my apartment.

Basia lived on the first floor in apartment 1A. I rang the buzzer twice and then banged on the door with the heavy brass knocker. No one answered. I tried the door and found it locked. I used the key to let myself in and was not overly surprised to see her place as trashed as mine.

I felt anger rise inside me as I walked through her tiny place, looking at the books, papers, clothes and junk on the floor. There was no sign of Basia and no sign of where she might have fled. I flipped through some papers on her desk, but nothing jumped out at me. Her computer was turned off, so I turned it on to see if there was anything interesting on it.

Her password stopped me for a full twenty-seven seconds—my third try at guessing it was the charm. She’d used her birthday as a password. I’d have to talk to her about that. I scanned her hard drive but wasn’t sure what I was looking for and nothing screamed “important.”

I then rummaged about in her closet and noticed that one of her suitcases was missing. I didn’t see her purse anywhere either. Walking into the kitchen, I saw the phone message light blinking.

The first message was from her boss at Berlitz, wondering why she had missed work yesterday. The second one was from me, the third from some guy named Finn who said he really,
really
needed to talk to her, and two more from her mother. Uh, oh. I guess I had set off the mother alert after all.

There were a few hang-ups in between and the last message was from someone named Lars at Anderson’s Karate Academy reminding her about her lesson on Thursday night. Again I felt a sweep of surrealism. Basia and karate? What was wrong with this picture?

I found the Yellow Pages tossed in a heap on the kitchen floor and looked up the address for Anderson’s Karate Academy. It was located in Laurel, Maryland, not too far from my neck of the woods. I jotted the address and phone number down on a piece of paper and stuffed it in my jeans. And since I had the book open, I flipped through the pages until I came to the section on burglar alarms and monitoring. No way was I going to spend one more night in my apartment that, even locked, apparently had a revolving door. Since the phone was handy, I called a few of the firms listed in the book, finally choosing a home security device from the one company that could install it later in the afternoon.

I left Basia’s apartment, carefully locking it up behind me—as if it made a difference. After yesterday, I’d never feel the same about a lock and key again.

In my car I pulled out a map and noted the location of Anderson’s Karate Academy. Pulling my shades back on, I headed north on the interstate. Since the traffic was coming into the city and I was going out, there was no back up.

It took me about twenty minutes and I drove slowly, looking carefully at the street numbers so I wouldn’t miss it. I soon saw a small strip mall and a sign for the karate studio. It wouldn’t be open at a little after eight o’clock in the morning, but I wanted to check it out anyway.

I parked in an empty spot and walked up to the building. The place was dark, but I pressed my nose against the glass and peered inside. It had ceiling-to-floor mirrors, several large mats and a bunch of cool-looking trophies with guys kicking their legs above their heads. Just as I was about to leave, something moved inside the studio. I squinted and pressed tighter against the glass.

To my surprise, a huge blond-haired guy walked in and sat on one of the mats. He was dressed in one of those white karate outfits with a logo on the back I couldn’t make out. He positioned himself cross-legged on the mat, closed his eyes and didn’t move.

I banged on the window and after a moment, he rose and walked to the door. He unlocked it and shook his head, clearly annoyed by my interruption.

“We don’t open until one o’clock,” he announced.

I detected the faint trace of a Scandinavian accent. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a guy named Lars.”

He stared at me. “I’m Lars,” he finally said. This guy was really huge—six feet four, at least. Thick corded muscles stood out on his neck. He had clear blue eyes and a nice tan, and good health practically radiated from his pores.

“Do you own this place?” I asked.

He looked me up and down, probably noticing the smear of chocolate I’d gotten on my T-shirt from the chocolate éclair. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Basia Kowalski’s,” I replied. “She told me she’d signed up for karate here.”

I was pretty sure I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “I’ve got a lot of students,” he said casually.

“Basia has short brown hair, brown eyes and is very outgoing,” I offered. “She has a class on Thursday.”

He shrugged. “Sounds like a lot of girls I know. But even if I did know who you were talking about, I don’t discuss my clients.”

I decided to play it straight with this guy. “Look, I’m her best friend. She’s missing. I’m worried and I’m trying to find her.”

Lars stared at me for several seconds as if measuring my honesty, then stepped aside, silently inviting me in. I entered and he closed the door behind me and locked it. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and followed him to a small office in the back of the building. The place smelled of sweat, hard work and dirty socks. He motioned for me to sit in a nearby chair, so I did.

“Now, what’s your name?” he asked, sitting behind a desk and clasping his hands together.

“Lexi Carmichael,” I said, holding out my hand. I had this urge to touch him to see if his muscles were real. I was also starting to get a fairly good idea why Basia had signed up for karate.

He reached across the desk and took my hand. His skin was warm and he had a firm handshake. I held on a little too long and flushed in embarrassment when he pulled away.

“So, why do you think Basia is missing?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Then you do remember her.”

“I usually remember all the pretty girls I meet,” he answered, shrugging. “She’s a new student.”

“Yes, well, she left me a certain matter to attend to and things are sort of falling apart. I need desperately to talk to her, but I can’t find her.”

“Why would you think I might know anything about her whereabouts?”

“It’s a long shot,” I admitted. “I just thought it odd that Basia didn’t tell me about signing up for karate. If you knew Basia well, you’d understand that undertaking karate is a life-altering decision for her and one she’d positively have to share with her best friend—me. See, she’s not the athletic type. So I thought maybe her disappearance might somehow be connected to her very odd decision to sign up for karate.”

Lars leaned forward, his big elbows on the desk. “Do you know what Tae Kwon Do is?”

I lifted an eyebrow at the abrupt subject change. “A tasty chicken dish?”

His lips twitched. “Tae Kwon Do is a system of unarmed self-defense that originated in China and was further refined in Korea. In Japan it evolved into the form we now know as karate. I teach both of these martial arts, as well as Wing Chun—a kind of Chinese kung fu.”

“Wing Chun? Wait a minute, I thought they were a rock band.”

He chuckled. “That was Wang Chung, and they have nothing to do with martial arts. And for that matter, nothing to do with good music, either.”

“That’s no kidding,” I agreed emphatically.

“Anyway, karate is more than just a sport to many people,” Lars said.

“So, you’re saying that you don’t have to be athletic to do karate.”

“It certainly helps to be athletic, yes. But it’s not necessary. Many people, especially women, don’t see it as just a sport. They see it as a self-empowering exercise, and in some cases, an exercise in self-protection.”

That stopped me cold. “You mean Basia might have been afraid of someone?”

He lifted a blond eyebrow. “It’s possible, I suppose. Frankly, she never said so to me. Whatever the case, martial arts are excellent ways of improving self-discipline and self-defense, as well as a good way to stay in shape.”

I studied him thoughtfully. “Are you Swedish?”

He smiled. “Good ear.”

“So I’m right?”

“I was born and raised there until a few years ago. I’m an American now, so it’s politically correct to refer to me as Swedish-American.”

“How did you meet Basia? Did she just show up here one day and ask if she could start lessons?”

Again I saw something flash in his eyes. Whether it was alarm or wariness, I wasn’t sure. But it was something out of the ordinary and it made me a bit uneasy.

“She called me, I think. I’m in the Yellow Pages after all.”

Call it feminine instinct or a gut feeling, but I was certain he was lying. But why?

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. “So, she looked you up in the Yellow Pages and then called you to sign up for classes? That’s strange. There are several karate studios a lot closer to her place than yours.”

“I’ve got a good reputation and an excellent word of mouth among my students.”

Yeah, like Basia would mingle with people who took karate. If only he knew how ridiculous that sounded. “How many lessons has she had so far?”

“One,” he said. “Last Thursday.”

“Do you call all your students to remind them of forthcoming lessons?”

That question took him by surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Sometimes,” he said. “Especially the new ones.”