“Code in.”
“Neco. 8122765.”
“Waiting … go ahead.”
“I need blueprints. Sending you the address now.”
Monica lit a third cigarette. She would savor and finish this one. When she was done, she would get her photos developed, and then make sure her father had the van secured. Then a nice lunch somewhere. Broiled salmon maybe. After that? Why, after that she was heading to the spa, if you please.
63
The Image Spa had once been a sizeable one-story home, long since renovated to accommodate its needs. Monica entered just after 3 P.M. Her hair was red, her eyes blue.
“May I help you?”
Monica approached the front desk where a single receptionist stood smiling. Monica performed a quick read of the woman: late 30’s, brunette, average features, way too tan, way too much eyeliner, tabloid magazine next to the appointment book, the newest Droid smartphone next to the magazine, no ring on her finger. Two or three more bad dates away from platinum blonde hair and fake tits.
Monica smiled genuinely. “Hi. I just moved into the area and was wondering if I could take a look around.”
“Absolutely.” The receptionist handed Monica a brochure. “Here is a list of all the services we offer.”
Monica took the brochure and pretended to scan it with interest before turning her back to the receptionist and wandering off.
“If you have any questions,” the receptionist called to her back, “please let me know.”
Monica waved a thank you over her shoulder, her mind too preoccupied to speak. She was comparing the blueprints in her mind to the layout before her. Massage should be to her right, deeper into the spa, past reception. She strolled onward, opened a door with a sign that read: Shhh … Quiet Zone, and then stepped into a waiting room that was all things serene. A woman sat in a cushy chair dressed in nothing but a white robe, her face in a magazine. The woman lifted her head and smiled at Monica.
Monica smiled back and whispered, “Waiting for a massage?”
The woman nodded.
“Lana, right?” Monica asked.
“Yes.”
“Is she any good?”
“She’s the best. I won’t go to anyone else.”
Monica made a surprised face that said wow, the blueprints still sliding throughout her mind like an old microfilm reader:
One door to the only massage room—you see that. You also see the fire exit at the extreme end of the waiting room. Behind the fire exit will be the spa’s less-than-glamorous side—a dumpster, a recycling bin … the new van.
You see the second door—the showers. Crucial. Its interior should have a connecting door leading directly into the massage room, so clients won’t have to walk back out into the waiting room before taking a shower after their massage. People feel disheveled after a massage; their hair is greasy and mussed, their faces mushed and half-asleep. They aren’t ready to meet the world yet. They need the rejuvenation that is a hot shower. And conversely, many are self-conscious of odor, therefore showers are often desired before a massage. Win-win.
Still, she needed to double-check on the connecting door between the two rooms.
“Is there a shower?” Monica asked.
The woman said there was and pointed to the second door.
Monica put on a worried face and pretended to run a hand through her hair (wig), as if she’d sooner die than be seen with a messy coif. “You mean you have to come back out here before going into the shower?”
“No,” the woman said as if she understood Monica’s concern completely. “Lana walks you into the showers. There’s a connecting door in her room. The tiling is exquisite.”
“I’m sure it is. Are there lockers?”
The woman nodded.
Monica smiled, said thank you, and then left the waiting room and approached reception again.
“Any questions so far?” the receptionist asked.
Monica only said, “It’s beautiful,” and kept walking, the blueprints sliding through her mind like the old microfilm reader again:
Facial and body treatments should be through the doorway to the left—right near the spa’s entrance.
She made a left.
• • •
Monica appeared at the front desk five minutes later. The receptionist was checking her smartphone.
He hasn’t called yet, has he? Probably shouldn’t have slept with him on the first date, ya dumb slut.
And then, like so many spontaneous opportunities in her career, a beautiful one hit Monica square on. She’d needed a distraction before leaving the spa. There was already one planned she felt confident in, but this new one was just too irresistible to pass up.
The receptionist quickly put her smart phone back on the desk as if caught by her employer. She smiled wide at Monica. “So what do you think?”
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Monica said again. “I will definitely be coming back soon to schedule—” She stopped there on purpose, her eyes fixed excitedly on the smartphone resting by the receptionist’s right hand. “Is that the new Droid?”
The receptionist picked up her phone and displayed it proudly. “Yeah—I just got it last week.”
“I’ve been looking into those. Can I see it?”
“Sure.” The receptionist handed it over.
Monica gave it a harmless going over, leaned her elbows on the counter, and knocked a container of brochures onto the desk. A good many fluttered to the floor. “Oh! I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the receptionist said as she squatted down behind the desk to collect the brochures.
Monica went to work on the smartphone—found Contacts, found the phone’s vCard, memorized a number, brought the screen back to where it had been when she’d first handled it.
The receptionist rose from behind the desk with all the brochures.
Monica faked embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.
The receptionist smiled as she placed the brochures back into their container. “It’s okay. No problem whatsoever.”
Monica held the smartphone in her right hand, in the receptionist’s line of vision. Below the desk, in her left hand, Monica was punching a number into her own phone without looking.
“Here’s your phone,” Monica said when the girl was finally done with the brochures. “It’s nice. I may just have to get one.”
The receptionist took her phone back. “Thanks. Did you want to schedule something today?”
“Not yet. I want to go home and check my schedule first. But you can rest assured I’ll be back.”
The receptionist smiled. Monica said goodbye and headed for the entrance. She had planned on dialing the front desk en route to the door in hopes of a distraction, fairly confident it would work. If it didn’t, she could have easily talked her way out of any actions that followed. Now, she dialed the receptionist’s smartphone instead, positive the blocked number flashing on the screen of her Droid (perhaps it was HIM, calling from some private line at work!) would elicit hope and excitement … and a turn of the back for some privacy.
It did. The receptionist snatched her phone and immediately gave Monica her back before answering. Monica opened the entrance door to make it sound as if she’d gone, then banked left into the facial and body treatments area. She immediately brought her phone to her ear and began listening to the eager receptionist’s voice go on like a skipped record: “Hello? Hello? Hello?”
Monica grinned and hung up.
64
“You ready?” Domino asked Amy.
It was like asking a kid if she was ready for ice cream. Amy, dressed in humble sweats and a sweatshirt with her purse over one shoulder, nodded immediately.
Four of them were at the front door: Domino, Amy, Briggs, and Allan. Patrick watched from the kitchen.
Domino touched Allan’s shoulder. “Anything seems funny you pull out. I want you frosty every second. A goddamned snowman.”
Allan said, “Yup.”
Domino turned to Briggs. “Keep the tail as far back as you can—watch for anyone following. Stay in the lot for a spell after they arrive and do a sweep. Call in when they’ve arrived safe.”
Briggs nodded.
No one but Amy was smiling. Patrick spotted this and shook his head from the kitchen. Amy approached him.
“Would you stop worrying?” she said.
Patrick was out of words. He had made his point—several times. Over the course of their relationship he’d always made a concerted effort to see things from his wife’s point of view during a debate, to be an understanding husband. But this—this he just didn’t understand. And Amy said he wouldn’t understand. Because he wasn’t a woman. Deep down Patrick wondered if that was a line of manipulative bullshit his wife was feeding him. Or maybe Amy’s reasoning held some merit, and short of switching brains with her, he’d never understand. But did that change anything? Whether he understood or not, the issue—the main issue—was that she was taking what he felt was an unnecessary risk for something as menial as a massage.
No, he didn’t get it at all. But it was happening all the same. She was going.
“No, I won’t,” he replied.
“Patrick, this is no different than going to the park, or going shopping. I think it’s safer even.”
Patrick’s expression demanded elaboration.
“I’ll be in one spot the whole time. When we’re in the park or in a store we’re moving around, there are tons of people …”
“You’re safer in crowds. Domino said so.”
Amy stood on her toes and kissed him. He accepted the kiss but did not pucker.
“I’ll be back soon. I’ll be back a new woman, you wait and see.”
Patrick’s expression stayed flat.
“And I’ll be so relaxed and rejuvenated,” she continued in a sensual whisper, “that I just may reward my understanding husband with something special tonight.”
Their sex life had been less than eventful since arriving back from Pittsburgh—no easy feat for an uninhibited couple that had once managed to have sex on a public beach during the day. Patrick’s libido had started to nudge anxiety aside these last couple of weeks, if only for a nice quickie. But what Amy was doing now put everything below his waist on lockdown. She was using sex as a tool. It angered him and he wouldn’t accommodate her.
Patrick took a step away from her and said, “Enjoy your massage.”
Amy cocked her head, studied him, but ultimately shrugged and said, “Okay. Love you.”
His anger swelled from her indifference to his manner. He did not reply as she turned and left with Allan and Briggs.
65
A slender woman stepped out of the facial and body treatment area inside Image Spa. She wore a white robe with white slippers (both bearing the Image Spa emblem), had a white towel wrapped around her head, and her face was covered in a green mud mask.
The woman walked with a casual grace towards the massage area at the far end of the spa, glancing at the reception desk as she passed. The receptionist, busy with a potential customer, never once glanced in the robed woman’s direction. The robed woman smiled and opened the door with the sign that read: Shhh … Quiet Zone.
66
Christopher Allan and Amy Lambert were waiting for the OK from Dan Briggs. Briggs was doing a sweep of the lot and surrounding areas.
“Looks good,” Briggs’ voice echoed into Allan’s earpiece. “I’m still going to hang around for a bit though.”
Allan tucked his chin and spoke into his collar. “Okay. We’ll be here for a bit—probably around two hours. Give me a head’s up when you’re heading back.”
“Will do.”
Allan opened the front door to the spa and entered first. He and Amy approached the front desk.
“Hi, Amy, how are you?”
“I’m doing okay, Julie. Really looking forward to my massage.”
Julie’s eyes ping-ponged between Amy and Allan. “Well Lana should almost be ready for you, you can head on back now if … um … are you two together?” Her eyes locked on Allan. “Are you scheduled for something too?”
Amy shook her head. “No, he’s a friend of my husband’s—visiting from out of town.” Amy felt fine telling the lie, and yet, uncomfortable with the actual truth dressed up as breezy wit that followed. “He’s my bodyguard for the day.” She smiled wide and it felt all wrong, like her teeth had gone crooked.
Fortunately, Julie returned a genuine smile, looked at Allan, and motioned straight ahead towards the chairs that occupied reception. “You can have a seat there if you like, sir. Would you like some tea or—”
“Water, please,” Allan said. “But I’d like you to bring it to me once we’re settled. Thank you.” Allan spoke with such assuredness that Julie immediately began nodding, as if she’d received an order as opposed to a request.
“No problem,” Julie said. “If you two head on back, I’ll bring you your water in a minute.”
“Thanks, Julie,” Amy said.
Allan nodded a thank you then led Amy towards her massage.
• • •
Amy and Allan entered the tranquil waiting room. The space was empty and Allan used the opportunity to pull his gun from his belt and give it a quick check. Amy watched the man with a hesitant eye as he stuffed the gun back into his waist line before whispering into his collar.
“We’re inside, Briggs. You there?”
“Here. She getting her massage?”
“Not yet. I’m gonna secure the massage room first. They have a waiting room right outside. I’ll be on guard there. I’ll hit you up the moment I’ve checked the massage room and she’s on the table.”
“I’ll be here.”
The door to the massage room opened and a short woman dressed in dark blue scrubs stepped out. The woman had blonde hair and pale-blue eyes with only the faintest of lines in her milky skin, despite her fifty-plus years.
“Hello, Amy,” Lana said, her Russian accent thick, but more exotic than a burden; she spoke strong English. “It is good to see you.”
“Hi Lana, it’s good to see you too.” Amy looked at Allan, then at Lana. “This is my husband’s friend, Christopher.”
Lana extended her hand and Allan took it. She shook it hard. “It is nice to meet you, Christopher. Are you interested in massage?”
Allan said, “I am, actually. Would you mind if I had a look?”
Lana smiled. “Of course you may.”
All three entered the room. It was quaint but purposeful. A massage table dressed in sheets and blankets stood in the center. Candles already lit in three of the four corners flickered the only source of light. A sound system overhead whispered out gentle beats and rhythms coupled with ocean waves, and a tall rectangular dresser in the fourth corner presented an array of oils and creams on its countertop. What you saw was what you got—underneath the massage table was clearly visible, and the drawers that ran the length of the rectangular dresser would fail to house a small dog, never mind a person. Only one potential risk stood out: another door on the opposite end of the room, and Allan pointed to it.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“Shower room,” Lana said. “My clients like to sometimes shower after or before massage.”
Allan squinted. “Before?”
Lana only nodded.
“What if you’re with another client?” he said.
“There is another entrance outside in waiting area.”
“Was that the second door I saw?” he asked.
Again Lana just nodded.
“So if someone wanted to, they could enter this room through that second door?”
“If I am with client? No—I lock the door.”
“Is there anyone in the showers now?”
“Yes—my last client should be.” Lana studied Allan. A tiny smile appeared on the corner of her mouth. She turned and looked at Amy as she continued. “You do no
t have to play this ‘he is my husband’s friend’ game with me, Amy. I know you well. You are good, faithful client. I know what happened to you. And I know what happened just.” Lana looked at Allan but continued speaking to Amy. “He is your protection until the bad man is caught, yes? It is okay, I do not mind. I am not afraid.”
Amy glanced at Allan, then back at Lana. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he’s my protection.”
“Okay then,” Lana said. “And I am guessing you want to look in shower room now?”
“Yes,” Allan said.
“Okay. Give me a minute. I will go in and tell my client. Then you come in and look.”
“Thank you,” Allan said.
Lana walked through the connecting door to the showers.
• • •
Lana walked past a row of lockers and onto the tiled floor. Three shower stalls were straight ahead. Left and right were empty, the curtains bunched to one side on both stalls. The middle stall’s curtain was drawn tight. The water was running.
Lana approached and raised her voice to the curtain. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“I have a man coming through.” She did not want to tell the truth and scare her client. “He is looking for his wife’s ring. She left it here maybe. Are you almost done?”
“Actually, I’m not. I only just got in. He can come in and look, I’ll just stay in here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Just please let me know when he’s gone.”
“Okay, I will.”
Lana returned to the massage room.
• • •
“Okay, so my client, she is in the shower,” Lana began. “I tell her you are looking for your wife’s ring she lost. My client, she says she will stay in the shower while you look and I will tell her when you leave.”
Allan said okay, and followed Lana into the showers.
• • •
Monica was pleased Lana had not questioned her identity as Elizabeth when she spoke to her through the shower curtain. As she had predicted, the running water and a cupped hand over her mouth had dulled the intricacies of her voice.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 49
