No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery)

by Julie Moffett

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you having done?”

  I didn’t see how I could lie about it. “A home security system.”

  He looked at me incredulously and then laughed. “You’re a real card, Lexi. All right, let him in.”

  I returned to the door and let Jesse in. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I said.

  “No problem. We aim to please every customer at SuperProtect.” He lifted a paper. “You want the standard alarm system?”

  I looked over at Beefy who had walked into the hallway and leaned casually against the wall, watching us. “Not anymore. If possible, I want the best system you have.”

  “That would be our wireless system. But it doesn’t come cheap.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get my money’s worth,” I assured him.

  “All right, ma’am. The wireless system it is.”

  I felt depressed when he called me “ma’am”. I was going to turn twenty-five next week with nothing to show for it except that kids now called me “ma’am”.

  “Where shall I put the main pad?” Jesse asked.

  I motioned to the wall near the front door and he nodded, returning to his truck and coming back with a large toolbox and an alarm pad.

  Beefy jerked his head to the side, motioning that I should return to the kitchen. He had a gun, so I did what he wanted. He sat down at the table, so I opened the fridge and got out a Diet Coke.

  “Hand me one, too,” Beefy said.

  “I’ve got regular Coke, you know,” I said.

  He patted his stomach. “No, thanks. I’m watching my weight.”

  Sighing, I tossed him a can. He caught it and popped the top. “We need to finish our conversation,” he said.

  “Okay,” I agreed. Anything to get him out of my apartment. Then I could turn on my spanking new alarm system and keep him, and everyone else, the hell out.

  “So, you know how I can reach this Middle Eastern guy, Lexi?” he asked.

  The question took me off-guard because my hand shook, spilling Diet Coke on the table. “What do you mean?” I asked, wiping up with a napkin.

  “Did he leave you a way to contact him if you received the documents?”

  “You mean, a business card?”

  “Stop playing dumb.”

  Why did people keep saying that to me? Was it that obvious? “Yeah. He gave me his phone number.”

  “I see. And are you sure you didn’t call him first to come get the documents? You can trust me with the truth.”

  Yeah, and pigs flew, too. “I am telling you the truth,” I insisted. “I didn’t call either of you. Someone came and stole the papers last night while I slept. Check my phone records if you don’t believe me. No phone calls to either your number or his.”

  Beefy smiled slowly. “I already checked. One call to Basia’s apartment and one call to her mother in Chicago. Neither overly productive, I presume. You don’t own a cell phone, so you’re clear on that front. Unless you got one of those pre-paid jobbies.”

  “Hey, you snooped around in my phone records?” I said, outraged even though I had just given him the suggestion to do so. First the mail and now my phone records. Wasn’t anything sacred in America anymore?

  “I snoop a lot of places,” he said. “Now be a good girl and go and get his number for me.”

  Standing, I stalked back to my bedroom, past Jesse who was wiring the window in the bathroom, and grabbed the piece of paper with Mr. Middle Eastern Guy’s number on it. I jotted it down for Beefy and strode back into the kitchen.

  He took the scrap of paper, studied it and then carefully put it in his shirt pocket. “Well, I guess this concludes our business,” he said.

  “Forever?” I asked hopefully.

  He smiled and his gold tooth gleamed. “That remains to be seen.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Beefy stood just as Jesse came into the kitchen.

  “You’re all set, ma’am,” Jesse said to me.

  “So quickly? Are you certain you covered every possible entrance? What about the sliding glass door on the balcony?”

  Jesse smiled proudly. “I install fifteen of these systems a day, ma’am. You are completely covered. Like I told you, we aim to serve at SuperProtect.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said, taking a sip of my Diet Coke.

  “You want me to show you how it works?” Jesse asked.

  I looked at Beefy and then shook my head. “Not yet. My, ah, friend is just leaving.” I turned to Beefy. “Right?”

  To my dismay, he stepped to my side, putting an arm around my shoulder and squeezing. “Oh, honey, I can wait. I wouldn’t miss this demonstration for the world. Go ahead, young man, show us how it works. We have no secrets from each other.”

  I spewed a mouthful of Diet Coke on Jesse and then choked. Beefy slapped me hard on the back until I could breathe again. Jesse removed a tissue from his jeans pocket and calmly wiped his face as if women spewed on him every day.

  He handed me the alarm manual. “I’ll show you how the pad works. You can read about the fine details of the system later.”

  Jesse very professionally and adeptly explained how the system worked and then told me my security code. I practiced punching it in, watched it turn red and then learned how to disable it. Probably thinking he was a riot, Beefy tried it a couple of times, too, until he got the hang of it. Then I wrote Jesse with the High Karate aftershave a check for money I didn’t yet have in my checking account and he left.

  Beefy exited shortly afterward, as well. Thank goodness he hadn’t shot me. Yet. I wasn’t so optimistic about the future.

  As soon as my apartment was empty, I turned the deadbolt, set the chain and turned on the alarm. Then I flipped through the manual trying to figure out how to change the password. I had just found the instructions when my phone rang.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “I’m trying to reach Lexi Carmichael,” a deep male voice said. My mind instantly recognized a soft brogue, Irish perhaps.

  “This is Lexi,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Finn Shaughnessy and I’ve been frantically trying to reach Basia Kowalski. I’ve been unsuccessful so far. I wasn’t sure where to turn next when I remembered she spoke of you often.”

  “All good stuff, I hope.”

  “Actually she spoke of you in quite high regard. I apologize for sounding so desperate, but frankly, I am. Do you happen to know where I can reach her?”

  Finn. I remembered the name from Basia’s answering machine. Just another person looking for Basia. Take a number and get in line, buddy, I thought.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaughnessy,” I said politely. “I don’t know where Basia is.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said. “Would you mind passing on a message to her if she does happen to contact you? She was doing some translation work for my company and I really need to speak with her as soon as possible. It’s most urgent.”

  My interest perked at that. “What company do you work with?”

  “CGM, Inc. I’m a lawyer. The company is based in Richmond, but I work out of a satellite office here in Washington.”

  “Ah, Mr. Shaughnessy, would you be willing to meet me for a drink sometime this evening? I know it seems odd, but I’d like to talk to you in person about Basia and the kind of work she was doing for your company.”

  He paused on the other line. “So you do know where Basia is?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I’ve got a little problem and it turns out that we might have something in common here.”

  Another pause and then he answered, “All right. Can you come into D.C. this evening?”

  “I think so. What time?”

  He was silent for a moment and I heard him shuffling some papers. “I’m busy with a client until seven. How about we meet at seven-thirty at Murphy’s Pub? It’s not far from Union Station. You know where it is?”

  “I know. But ho
w will I find you?”

  “I’ll be the only real Irishman there,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find each other.”

  “Okay dokey,” I said and then wondered if I could possibly sound any more juvenile. I seriously needed to get out more. “And thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

  “If it helps me find Basia, it’ll be worth it,” he said and hung up.

  I replaced the receiver in the cradle and leaned against the wall. My life just kept getting stranger and stranger.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and read the instructions on how to change my alarm password. When I figured out what I was supposed to do, I keyed in the code 25ME. It wasn’t brilliant, but I could remember it. Anyway, I planned on changing it weekly, just to be on the safe side.

  After that, I picked up the phone and dialed my brother Beau’s work number. Beau is the middle child and now a robbery detective in Baltimore. My mom named him after fashion icon Beau Brummel. That’s Mom for you.

  I’m lucky I didn’t get named something worse. She named my oldest brother Rock in honor of her favorite actor Rock Hudson, a move that she later regretted after learning that Mr. Hudson was gay. But the deed had been done and the name stuck.

  It’s weird for me to admit it, being their sister and all, but my brothers are pretty cool despite their surfer boy good looks—tall, tan, athletic and dark blond. Frankly, I consider it rude that they completely commandeered all of my mother’s beauty genes, leaving none for me. Oh well, some of us have to live with the knocks life deals us.

  Yet in spite of my envy, I am close to my brothers. There is a five- and six-year difference respectively between us, but they are decent guys. Neither one of them is married, not that they have ever once in their lives lacked for female companionship. My mother makes a point of reminding them about their bachelor status every time they come home. They laugh and say she’s the only woman for them. Then she melts and forgets all about nagging. I still haven’t figured out how to do that.

  My brother’s phone rang and rang and I wondered if the robbery division of the Baltimore Police Department really had employees or it was just a front to discourage burglars. I counted eleven rings before someone picked up.

  “Burglary Squad,” I finally heard. I recognized Beau’s voice. He sounded out of breath.

  “I’m glad this wasn’t a real emergency,” I replied. “What were you doing? Chasing a robber around the squad room?”

  “Yeah, someone took off with my donut. How the hell are you, sis?”

  “Hunky dory, as usual,” I said cheerfully. “Look, Beau, I’ve got a favor to ask. I wondered if you could run a name for me through the system.”

  “Christ, you’re the one who works at the NSA,” he said irritably. “Run it through your own system.”

  “It’s not a matter of national security. I just want to know if this guy has a criminal record.”

  “What guy?” He paused and then laughed. “No, wait…let me guess. You’re thinking about dating again.”

  “Ha, ha,” I replied. “Beau, it’s important.”

  He sighed. “We’re not supposed to run unauthorized checks, Lexi. You know that.”

  “You owe me,” I reminded him.

  “For what?”

  “I lent you two hundred bucks last Christmas so you could buy that ruby bracelet for your girlfriend.”

  “It was a hundred and I paid you back.”

  “Two, and no you didn’t.”

  “Did too.”

  “Did not.”

  He fell silent, obviously remembering that I was right. “All right,” he said in a resigned voice. “What’s the name?”

  “Lars Anderson,” I said, spelling it for him. “He runs a karate studio in Laurel. I think he’s a naturalized U.S. citizen from Sweden.”

  “A karate instructor? You sure know how to pick ’em, sis.”

  “I’m not going to date him,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, whatever. You now owe me big.”

  I wished people would stop saying that to me because it had started to be the story of my life. “Thanks for being so accommodating, Beau.”

  “Just a public servant at work, ma’am.”

  I cringed. I’d been called “ma’am” twice in one day and it stunk. “Glad to hear my tax dollars are hard at work.”

  Beau snorted. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”

  “Thanks, bro,” I said and hung up.

  I wandered back to my bedroom and surveyed the mess. Beefy was right. My apartment was a pigsty. I needed to clean it up big time. But even more pressing, I had to do laundry or I wouldn’t have anything to wear tonight to meet with Finn nor to wear to work tomorrow. But I didn’t have any quarters and I really didn’t have the desire to sit in the laundry room for two hours waiting for the cycles to complete. That left only one dreaded option.

  Shopping.

  I was so going to make Basia pay for all of this when I found her. I grabbed my bag, set the alarm and went out to my car. I drove to the mall, fretting that I’d have to use my already maxed-out credit card for any purchases.

  Once there, my first order of business was to buy a cinnamon sugar pretzel and a large ice tea with extra ice. I sat on a bench and watched shoppers go up and down the escalator. At one point, a toddler escaped from his mother’s hand and made a dash for the up escalator. In a move worthy of a gold medal at the Olympics, the mother did an amazing long jump and grabbed his arm just before he started up.

  After I’d drunk the tea, sucked on the lemon and licked all the sugar from my fingers, the inevitable had arrived. I had to buy some clean clothes. I threw my stuff in the trash and headed for the first clothing store I saw. Better start with the necessities like a new bra and some underwear. I found the lingerie section and wandered through the racks. I found a pack of white cotton briefs on sale, three to a pack, and picked them up. I heard a disapproving voice over my shoulder.

  “Men prefer something prettier and sexier,” she said.

  I turned to see a saleswoman frowning at me. She was middle-aged with short dark hair and black-framed glasses. She was dressed in a navy blue schoolmarm-type dress with a high neck and lace collar. I thought it odd that of all people, she would know what men liked. On the other hand, she worked in the lingerie department and that had to mean something. Her gold store nametag read Norma Jensen.

  Not that I had a man to impress, but I was open for suggestions. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

  She smiled and turned, walking to a nearby rack. “This,” she said. There were rows of silk and satin, most of it barely scraps of material.

  “I can’t wear something like that,” I said, scandalized.

  The frown returned to her face. “Of course, you can, dear,” she said, studying my form. “You’re young and men go wild over thongs.”

  I liked the part about men going wild, so I lifted up a blood-red thong and peered at it.

  “Which way is the front?” I finally asked.

  She turned the material around. “This way.”

  I studied it harder. “How can you tell? It’s just string.”

  “Exactly.”

  Uncertain, I hesitated. “Won’t it be uncomfortable?”

  “Oh, no,” she assured me. “They are so lightweight, it will feel like you aren’t wearing anything.”

  I wouldn’t be wearing anything if I had these panties on, but I figured she was a trained professional, so she knew what she was talking about. I’m not sure how, but she talked me into trying them on over my briefs. The thong wedged right into my behind while a little triangle of material covering exactly diddly went in the front. I’d never seen such impractical, illogical underwear in my entire life. However, I reminded myself that my life needed a change, and change was good.

  Thanks to Norma, I bought four thongs in different colors and two push-up Wonderbras in size 36A, red and black. I left the department with big hopes and headed for the clot
hes area.

  I felt more on solid ground here and bought a pair of jeans, two white T-shirts, a black skirt and two white blouses. Apparently I’d used up my exciting quotient with the underwear. But then, on my way out of the department, I spotted a mannequin wearing a red silk dress. It was daring, bold and so not me, but I needed something to wear to meet Finn this evening so I forced myself to try it on. It fit in all the right places and made my lanky form look almost feminine. I’d never owned anything red in my life before today and I didn’t have red shoes, so I paid for the dress and then wandered over to the shoe department where I found a pair of not-too-high red pumps. Done, thank God.

  Relieved I didn’t have to do laundry but more worried than ever about my credit card balance, I drove home. The alarm was blinking red and buzzed when I opened the door. I keyed in the new password, the buzzing stopped and the light turned green. What do you know; it worked.

  To be on the safe side, I checked my apartment for uninvited guests. Empty except for the mess I’d left. I set my packages down in the bedroom and reset the alarm. No one was going to surprise me now. I was impregnable, defended by the best SuperProtect could offer.

  I stripped off my T-shirt and shorts and decided to take a shower. It was getting late and I wanted to give myself an hour to get into Washington to find a parking space and meet Finn. After showering, I toweled off and blow-dried my hair. I stared at my pale face in the bathroom mirror and figured I might as well put on makeup. Reaching under the sink, I pulled out the box that held every bit of makeup my mom had ever bought me. I lifted out the top item and determined that it was an eyelash curler. I held it up to my eyelashes and squeezed, pinching my eyelid. After I had finished screaming, I shoved the curler back into the box and returned it and the makeup to the cabinet under the sink. I combed my hair some more and put on a dash of lip balm. That would have to do for the makeup department.

  A bit nervously, I slid into my thong underwear, the Wonderbra and the red dress. I smoothed down the dress and then stepped into my new red pumps. Examining myself critically in the mirror, I wondered how it was mathematically possible to appear flat-chested even with the Wonderbra at work.