Project Northwest (12 page)

Having taken a shower and applied her
make-up, all the while self-conscious because of the hidden
cameras, she sat on the edge of the bed, dazed. She took a deep
breath, picked up her cell phone from the nightstand, dialed the
number to James’s office, let it ring twice, and hung up.

Having collected the dirty laundry from the
hamper into the basket, she carefully placed the robe on top and
headed to the laundry room off the kitchen. The whites along with
the robe were in first. She was up, angry, and used the pent-up
energy to clean the rest of the condo before heading to her
apartment. She wanted to flip off any area in the condo that looked
like it might have a camera. Not the devilish type of middle
finger, but the one filled with so much contempt that it makes your
jaw tight, eyes squint and tongue stick out when one does it.

She swallowed her contempt and put her trust
completely in James.
We’ll make it through this
. She kept
reminding herself. Luckily for James, she wasn’t the panicky type,
she was the trusting type and believed love could conquer all.

* * * *

Moments before, James was having a hard time
focusing on the numbers and Shelly could tell his mind was
elsewhere.

“This will all be over soon,” Shelly reminded
him. She said it as if she were trying to convince them both. She
was about to dispense some other valuable advice, when James’s
office phone rang. He looked at the digital display and saw that it
was Bridget’s cell. It rang once more and stopped, the screen went
blank.

“That was her. You didn’t answer, are you two
having a lovers spat?” Shelly nosily inquired.

“Not at all, she is the most beautiful
creature in the world. I’m going to marry her and have a ton of
kids. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” James felt empowered and
relieved—two emotions that were finally in balance. Today was going
to be a great day. He was in love with a remarkable woman.

Chapter Nine

~ Mark DeSantis AKA Mr. Smooth
~

Mark pulled into the
post office parking lot on Royal Oaks at 3:30 P.M., parked his Ford
Explorer, and entered the government building. He hadn’t been in a
post office in years. He had a P.O. Box somewhere in the building,
but his secretary took care of all the business mailing
needs.

The interior was stark, gray-government paint
on the walls with blue trim as an accent placed on the walls and
furniture with no imagination. There were about fifteen customers,
all older or business types, in the lobby. There wasn’t a single
young person in the post office. They instead communicated through
social networks, text messaging, and phone calls. He was sure there
wasn’t a soul under sixty in the lines.

Somehow, and he couldn’t figure out how,
there were three lines and two clerks. He singled out one clerk.
She was bubbly and talkative, not gorgeous but certainly cute. She
was in her early twenties, in shape and he decided to join the line
in front of her. He felt like a ticket holder at some relegated
kissing booth at a local fair. He surveyed the older people in
front of him and noted one man, in his sixties, had at least a
dozen letters—
this will take some time
, he thought.

He scouted the people in the third line, a
line that had somehow situated itself onto an empty clerk position
and watched with amusement as their heads started nervously darting
around. They finally figured out something was wrong and were
looking for direction. Each started piecing through the history to
determine who they had come in after, all of it leading to the
difficult decision to leave their line and merge with one of the
other lines, all at the risk of being impolite or losing their
spot.

“You’re welcome, honey. Next,” the cute
postal clerk announced.

The older lady at the front of Mark’s line
slowly moved toward the clerk, conducting business before she was
even at the counter. “I want to send this to my grandson, but I
want it to get there by Saturday. It’s his birthday,” she spoke as
she shuttled the present across the floor with her left leg while
leaning on the cane in her right hand.

The older women all cooed and congratulated
her on the upcoming family birthday. Mark was fearful she would
turn, a feat he was sure would take an hour in itself, and strike
up a conversation with the rest of the patrons, but, thankfully,
her priority was the package, making it to the counter and he saw
his chance.

He went around the rope barrier. “Miss, may I
get that for you?” he offered as he bent and picked up the present.
“Wow, it’s heavy, I bet it’s a train set.”

“Thank you, young man. Nope, not a train set.
Sent that last year.”

“I bet it’s a chemistry set, then.”

“Yes, yes it is, that’s amazing. You must
have a boy of your own. The set plus a little of my home-made
fudge. Do you think he’ll like it?” she asked as she wrapped her
arm in his.

“He’ll love it, what little boy wouldn’t? If
I weren’t an honest man, I might just take it myself,” he teasingly
suggested.

She chuckled at the thought and leaned in. “I
bet you can’t keep the ladies away.”

“Now why would I want to do that?”

The postal clerk listened to their
conversation and was as equally charmed as the grandmother. Who was
this guy? Nice smile, deep eyes, boyish charm oozing from his
pores, quick wit, and hopefully not gay.

Before she had even met Mark DeSantis, he had
altered her demeanor.

“Sending a present today? Anything perishable
or toxic in the package?” she asked the grandmother as Mark slid
the present onto the weighing surface.

“No, just some fudge and it’s certainly not
toxic.”

“I bet it’s delicious. To get it there by
next Friday you could use parcel post. That would cost $8.95 or you
can select priority mail for $13.95 and it will get there in about
three days.”

The choices appeared to take considerable
thought from the grandmother. James, still standing beside her,
shared his opinion through the old adage ‘
better to be safe than
sorry’
and the grandmother selected to go with priority mail
and was slowly on her way back to the parking lot.

Mark looked back and studied the customers
still in line. Now three lines had democratically merged into two.
The men had sour faces, they knew what he was doing—he was cutting
in line and they didn’t like it one bit.

The women were all smiles.

“While I’m here, is there any way you can
check for a letter for me?” he asked the postal clerk.

“Sure. Your name?”

“Mark DeSantis, it was sent general
delivery.”

“My pleasure, Mark,” said the clerk. She
disappeared behind a make-shift wall, and quickly returned with the
envelope and what appeared to be a business card tucked in her
right hand.

“Can I see your ID, Mark?” she asked, hinting
that it was only a formality.

He showed his ID. She didn’t even look at it.
Say something
, she kept telling herself.

“How did you know it was a chemistry set?”
she finally asked. She wanted to know the answer, but more
importantly, she wanted to keep him there, talking, charming her,
she just wanted more.

“What, and ruin the moment? No, I would feel
more comfortable telling my secrets over a nice dinner.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Yes, but can you blame me? Beautiful woman,
beautiful attitude, I bet you get this a lot?”

“No,” she truthfully replied. Everything
about her body went into a bashful state, yet she somehow managed
to move closer to him and her eyes were locked onto his. They both
slowly smiled.

“You’re cute,” she said in an almost
whisper.

He leaned in close, touched the sleeve of her
uniform, allowing his hand to trail down her arm to touch the card
with her name and phone number on it, and responded in his deep,
playful voice, “You should see me naked.”

The card was suddenly thrust into his open
palm, as if she had to do it quickly, else she would lose her
nerve. He didn’t even look at it, just kept eye contact and said,
“Keep Friday, seven P.M. open for me. I’ll call you with the
details.”

He was back in his SUV at 3:44 PM. The entire
exchange had only taken fourteen minutes. He quickly made
reservations at Spataro and dialed the number on the card. It rang
four times and went to voice mail, just as he had hoped.

“Kara, this is Mark. Meet me at Spataro at
seven P.M. and wear something black and slinky, we’re going salsa
dancing. I’ll be there at six-thirty to watch you walk through the
door. Can’t wait to see you there.”

I’m a bad, bad boy, he told himself, a bad,
bad boy.

He tossed the envelope into the passenger
seat, thought second of it, and tucked the card into his inside
blazer pocket. He scrolled through his contact list on the phone,
selected, ‘Tina’ and pressed dial. Tina answered on the second
ring, “Police Lab. Tina.”

“Hey, you, its Mark, are we still on for
dinner tonight at seven?”

She confirmed. She was leaving at five on the
dot and couldn’t wait.

Three hours later, he was at Cafe Americain,
one of the finest Russian houses in Sacramento, sipping bourbon at
the bar when Tina walked in at ten after seven. She was absolutely
stunning—long black hair with brown highlights teased and curled
inward, highlighting the perfect symmetry of her face. The caramel
coloring of her brown eyes only enhanced her allure. It was
impossible for any red blooded male to take his eyes off her.

She saw Mark, stopped, slowly twirled showing
him the all-encompassing present wrapped in the sexy evening gown.
He stood, picked up the fresh cosmopolitan he had arranged the
bartender to make when given the signal, and slowly walked to her,
taking in every inch of her being. He delivered the drink along
with a gentle, soft kiss on her cheek.

“You are lovely, elegant, and without a
doubt, on every male in this room’s naughty Santa list and it’s
only April,” he calmly said as he drew in close and smelled her
perfume.

“Thank you,” she replied. She brought the
cosmopolitan to her ruby red lips and savored the tartness of the
lime and cranberry. “Am I on your Santa wish list?”

“Yes, since I was eight, I think.” She smiled
and she wrapped her arm in his. He stopped to pay the bar tab by
tossing a twenty, and led her to the reserved table.

Mark and Tina had been casually dating for
about two months and it was mutually understood it wasn’t
exclusive. They used the non-exclusivity to heighten the playful
parts of their rendezvous. Mark was falling in love with each date
and she, reluctantly, familiar with the reputation of Mark and of
private investigators in general, found she was falling for
him—that thought haunted her when she wasn’t with him, but
completely vanished the moment she saw him.

They slowly ate the caviar appetizers for
which Cafe American was known, sipped champagne, and while eating
the main course, they passed compliments saturated with sexual
undertones.

Dessert would have to wait, as neither could
stand it anymore. The clothing had become restrictive, the other
patrons in the restaurant too impeding, they had to have each
other. The check was quickly paid and within thirty minutes they
were in Tina’s bed, their clothes trailed like breadcrumbs from the
front door, to the kitchen, to the hallway. By the time they were
at the bedroom door, they were naked. Tina only took the time to
close the bedroom door.

An hour later, they were both sweating and
enjoying the elation couples feel when they’ve both been satisfied.
Mark took what he considered a big risk. He asked the favor.

“Tina, please say no if you can’t do it. I
will completely understand. But would it be possible to process a
hair in the lab? It’s a favor for a friend, not work related at
all.”

Tina, moving ever closer to being head over
heels, was up for anything. “Sure, I’ll do it first thing in the
morning, but only if you can satisfy my appetite again.”

Mark was more than happy to do so. It wasn’t
an imposition at all, but he was foiled by a knock on the bedroom
door.

“Mom, I’m hungry and you have unmentionables
all over the kitchen and hallway,” said Aaron from the other side
of the bedroom door.

The math was easy, Mark was twenty-seven and
Tina had a thirteen-year-old son. That put Tina in the
thirty-two-year range. Mark realized in the beginning he had
specific thoughts about the packaged family and none of them were
kind thoughts, but as he got to know Aaron and Tina, he’d slowly
warmed up to the idea. Aaron was a good kid, lively, as
self-assured as a thirteen-year-old could be, and smart as a whip
when it came to computers.

“Sure, baby, thought you were staying at
Steve’s tonight. I’ll be right out,” shouted Tina, while getting
dressed and feeling a little guilty. “You hungry?” she asked
Mark.

“I can eat something.”

“Stop playing and get dressed.” She fell onto
the bed and kissed him.

Another talent Tina had among some of Mark’s
favorites was that she could cook, and both he and Aaron always
requested her farmhouse grilled cheese when given a choice. Mark
wasn’t sure how she made it, but the pancetta, cheddar cheese and
fresh tomato on brioche was reason enough to fall in love with
her.

She placed the sandwiches in the oven and saw
two pieces of computer equipment near the kitchen door.

“Aaron, what are those?”

“Oh, two servers I bought off eBay. I’m going
to build a Linux raid server from the ground up.”

“And what will you be raiding?” she asked
with some concern.

“It’s not that kind of raid, Mom, it’s
nothing bad. It’s an acronym, the r stands for redundant. It’s a
storage system.”