No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery)

by Julie Moffett

  “I’m Lexi Carmichael,” I said, holding out my hand to the one in front.

  She shook my hand and smiled back at me shyly. “You let us in, yes?”

  I nodded. “Follow me.”

  We trudged up the three painfully long flights of stairs where I unlocked the door and turned off the alarm. The three girls walked in and gasped at the mess.

  “This isn’t my fault,” I said, but I don’t think they understood.

  The woman I had shook hands with whipped a cell phone out of her pocket and punched in some numbers. She spoke in rapid Spanish with someone and then hung up.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Big mess. Long time here. This cost extra.”

  My stomach took a dive. I had a feeling I’d be lucky to get out of this for under three hundred dollars.

  “How much extra?” I asked warily.

  “One hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars extra?”

  “Big mess,” she repeated as if I were an idiot. Maybe I was. “Long time here.”

  I looked around. She was right. It was a big mess and one I didn’t want to deal with.

  “Okay,” I said, suddenly afraid they might leave. They looked ready to bolt and seemed hopeful I’d change my mind. “I’ll pay extra. But don’t forget to do the laundry.”

  The head lady nodded and said something to the other two girls. They took off for the bathroom and bedroom respectively while I whipped out my checkbook, added up all the extras and gave the woman her check.

  “Just lock up before you leave,” I said.

  “What about alarm?” she asked. “You give me code?”

  “Forget it. Just lock the door.” Who did the alarm really keep out these days anyway?

  I left my apartment, entered the McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered a cheeseburger, large fries and a Diet Coke. I unfastened the top button on my skirt and ate in the car as I drove back to work. To hell with eating right. I was stressed out and depressed. It was no fun being in the poorhouse, having sore muscles and getting stuck with a guy who thought disco dancing was cool.

  When I got back to my desk the message light on my phone was blinking. I pressed the button.

  “Hi, Lexi. It’s Elvis. Got the info you requested. Call me.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Elvis,” I said.

  “I’ve got rather lukewarm news to report,” he said. “There’s not a whole lot of data available on Bouker other than he’s the military attaché to the Yemeni Embassy in Washington. That means he’s likely their spook. He was assigned to the post just over a year ago. He’s married and has three kids ages eleven, nine and three, all boys. He lives in a condo on Massachusetts Avenue. His kids go to the Islamic Saudi Academy in Northern Virginia and are taken there by a driver every day. On the weekends, he frequents a Middle Eastern restaurant on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo called the Ali Kabab House. He’s got an international driver’s license and likes fast cars. As far as I can tell, he’s traveled to Pennsylvania, California, Arizona and Florida, presumably on vacation since he’s been in the country. Not surprisingly, the FBI keeps tabs on his movements. He looks pretty clean, meaning no known or obvious associations with terrorists. Seems to be your run-of-the-mill embassy guy.”

  Except for the fact that he broke into my apartment and threatened me with a gun. “Thanks, Elvis,” I said. “Oh, and there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you about.”

  I filled him in on my meeting with Finn Shaughnessy and told him what Slash had suggested about using Finn to plant a program in the company network that would give us immediate access to CGM.

  “Cool. You think this Finn guy would do it?” Elvis sounded excited.

  “I don’t know. If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll ask him.”

  “It’s a good idea. Hold on, Xavier wants to talk to you.”

  I waited until Xavier came on.

  “You said you got a call from Basia yesterday,” he said, “so I asked a friend of mine at the phone company for a favor and he tracked down the number for me. I don’t know if Basia is still there, but the number came from a swanky restaurant in Stockholm.”

  “Stockholm? As in Sweden?” I asked in surprise.

  “The one and only.”

  “That was good thinking, Xavier.”

  “And that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said and hung up.

  The revelation startled me and I sat in my chair thinking. Another Swedish connection. I was on to something and he was big, blond and had a black belt. My gut instinct had been right. Lars Anderson was involved in this somehow because no way in hell did I consider this a coincidence. But how could I get him to talk? I didn’t think my roundhouse kick would be threatening enough.

  I placed my elbows on my desk and rested my head in my hands before nearly jumping out of my skin when I saw Paul standing quietly at the entrance to my cubicle.

  “Now what?” I said crankily. I sincerely hoped he hadn’t overheard anything important while I was talking to Elvis and Xavier.

  “I came to see if you had decided where you want to go for dinner tonight.”

  That had been the last thing on my mind. I closed my eyes and suddenly had a brilliant idea.

  “Actually, I have,” I said, smiling. “I’d like to try a restaurant in D.C. that I’ve heard a lot about.”

  “This isn’t going to cost me a fortune, is it?” Paul complained.

  “I hear it’s pretty reasonable,” I replied, knowing nothing of the sort.

  He brightened. “So, what’s it called?”

  “The Ali Kabab House. It’s on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo.”

  “Ali Kabab?” he said, frowning. “It sounds Middle Eastern.”

  “Well, I wasn’t feeling like Mexican,” I said, shrugging. If I had to go out with Paul, at least I could try and see if I could accidentally run into Mr. Middle Eastern Guy again, but this time on a more even playing field.

  “It sounds weird,” he said doubtfully. “How about a steak house?”

  “Come on, Paul, be adventurous.”

  “Excuse me,” came a nasal voice from behind Paul. “Mail time.”

  Paul looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Come back later. Can’t you see we’re having a private conversation here?”

  “Sorry,” the guy mumbled.

  “For God’s sake, Paul, let him past,” I said irritably, leaning back in my swivel chair. Paul could be such a jerk sometimes.

  Paul scowled, but stepped aside. A guy wearing a baseball jersey, jeans and an Orioles baseball cap shuffled into my cubicle with a pile of mail. He kept his back to me as he dropped the pile on my desk.

  “So, are we on or off?” I asked Paul.

  “Come on, Lexi. What’s wrong with good old American food like a hamburger or pizza? Why do you want to eat something so exotic?”

  I held my ground. “Look, I agreed to go disco dancing. Humor me, here.”

  I heard a snicker and both Paul and I looked in surprise at the mail guy. He turned around to face me slowly. “I like exotic food,” he said softly.

  My mouth fell open. It was Slash, barely recognizable behind a pair of thick black-framed glasses, his dark hair stuffed beneath the cap. He had hunched his broad shoulders and looked short and stooped. But the same twinkle was in his smoky brown eyes, his chin was still partially unshaved. He smiled openly at me. The Italian accent was completely gone and I could have sworn I heard a nasal New York twang.

  “No one asked you jack,” Paul said.

  “Paul!” I exclaimed. “What’s your problem?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere,” Slash said, turning away.

  “No, wait,” I said hastily.

  Slash paused, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes flashed a warning, reminding me to hold my tongue.

  “Ah, where is the regular guy—you know, Herman?” I asked. Herman was a young man with Down’s Syndrome
who brought our mail around every day. He was friendly, efficient and dependable, and I never had known him to miss a day of work.

  Slash shrugged. “Busy day, I guess. He needed some extra help. Besides, he owed me one.”

  I laughed. “Unbelievable.”

  Slash grinned again, tipped his hat and disappeared from my cubicle. I saw him go past, pushing the mail cart, still slouching his shoulders.

  Paul watched him go. “What’s with him? He must be new. Can you believe how he just interrupted our conversation? Just who did he think he was talking to?”

  I rolled my eyes. Paul could be a snob and a jerk. “So are we in agreement about the restaurant or not?” I asked.

  Paul frowned. “Oh all right,” he said grumpily. “If you insist on the strange cuisine, I’ll concede. I am a gentleman after all. Ali Baba it is.”

  “Ali Kabab,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  I nodded, barely even thinking about Paul anymore. I still couldn’t believe Slash had strolled right into my cubicle. It meant he must have security clearances up the yin yang. Maybe he was who he said he was.

  I reached over and picked up my mail, flipping through it. At the bottom of the pile, I pulled out an oversized index card. Written on the card in thick black ink were four words.

  You can trust me.

  Chapter 9

  At five o’clock I left work and drove home, my muscles feeling a little better and the headache finally gone. But there was a lot on my mind, especially now that I knew Basia had called me from Sweden.

  The apartment smelled of lemon cleanser and polish. I walked through the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom and the bathroom. All the papers, knickknacks and junk had been picked up off the floor and the furniture gleamed. But best of all back in the bedroom, a huge pile of clean, folded laundry sat on the middle of my clean and made up bed.

  Smiling, I stared at the laundry. This was the best thing that had happened to me all week. Still grinning like a happy idiot, I went to the bathroom and ran hot water in the sparkling white tub to soak my stiff muscles and relax before I had the date from hell with Paul.

  I spent a good thirty minutes in the tub before turning on the shower to wash and condition my hair. After toweling off and blow-drying my hair as straight as possible, I slipped on a pair of normal cotton underwear and donned my new red dress again. Only Finn had seen it and I wasn’t worried about running into him at the Ali Kabab House or the disco club.

  To ensure my muscles stayed loose, I downed two more ibuprofen. I stared at my pale face in the mirror and, sighing, pulled out the make-up box again. I opened it, set aside the eyelash curler and found what I think was rouge. I scooped the cream out with my finger and rubbed it on my cheeks. I looked like Heidi with the red apple cheeks, but at least I had color. After some consideration I dabbed at my cheeks with a tissue until they took on a more natural hue. I wasn’t bold enough to try lipstick, but I did get brave and used mascara on my lashes with minimal smearing. Finally I stepped into my red pumps and stared at myself in the full-length mirror.

  Other than the flat chest, not too bad, I decided.

  As I passed through the living room I noticed my phone message light was blinking. I pressed the button.

  “Hi, Lexi, it’s Finn. Call me on my cell phone as soon as you can. It’s urgent.”

  I went to my purse, dug out his card and dialed his cell phone. The operator told me the number I had called was presently not available, but I could leave a message. So I did, telling Finn I’d be out for most of the evening but would try to call later. Actually I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet because I needed to figure out a way to ask him if he’d be willing to plant the program in the company network. I wasn’t sure of the ethical problems it would raise for him. Everything depended upon how desperate Finn was to discover the truth.

  Because I had a few minutes to spare, I called the Karate Academy but got another answering machine with Lars’s voice on it. I didn’t leave a message because I wasn’t sure what to say. Call me. I think you know where Basia is. Probably not the best approach to take with a guy built like Lars who could probably break my neck in two without even breathing hard.

  At precisely seven o’clock, Paul rang my bell. He had showered and shaved and looked nice in a pair of khaki Dockers and a short-sleeved, light blue, button-down shirt. He looked at me and whistled.

  “Wow, you look amazing.”

  He didn’t say anything about my cheeks, so I took that as a good sign. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing my purse and punching in the code on the alarm.

  “What’s with the new security?” Paul asked, looking over my shoulder.

  I shrugged, trying to make light of it. “I just decided I needed to feel safer.”

  “Because of all this weird stuff going on.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh,” he said, but didn’t ask any more questions. Once Paul had been informed that my weird stuff was on a need-to-know basis and had the attention of the higher-ups in the agency, he pretty much followed the plan. He’d make a good foot soldier.

  The Ali Kabab House was in a renovated townhouse. A neon sign blinked Open in one of the windows. The lawn was green and trimmed and someone had planted azaleas and pansies in a small garden. We climbed the steps to the restaurant and Paul opened the door for me. Guess chivalry isn’t dead everywhere.

  Inside we waited by a podium that said Please Wait to be Seated. It looked like there were two parts of the restaurant, an upstairs and a downstairs. Downstairs were a dozen small tables with white tablecloths, small flickering candles and gleaming silverware. The place was small, but cozy and clean. The walls were adorned with thick Turkish-looking tapestries and artwork featuring desert landscapes.

  There were four people sitting at a table when the waiter serving them drinks spotted us at the door. He rushed over to greet us.

  “Masaa al-khair, good evening,” he said with a smile. He was thin and dark-haired, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black jeans. He held a small pad in his hand. “Table for two? Smoking or non-smoking?”

  “Non-smoking, please,” Paul said.

  The waiter led us to a small table near the window and I chose the chair that would give me a view of the door. I didn’t expect Rashid Bouker to waltz in the door, but sometimes luck is a funny thing, and it seemed like a good idea to be prepared just in case.

  The waiter offered to get us something to drink and Paul ordered a glass of wine. The hangover still fresh in my mind, I ordered a club soda with a lime. I could tell Paul was disappointed. He was likely wishing I would get tipsy so he could take advantage of me.

  The waiter gave us a few minutes to look over the menu. When he returned with our drinks, I told Paul I was ready to order. Paul’s face was all scrunched up as he stared at the choices, and I could tell he wasn’t finding much on the menu appetizing.

  To help him out I went first, ordering the lentil and chard soup with rice, and some meat pastries with pine nuts called sambousik. Paul looked at me like I was from another planet. Maybe I was. But I smelled a yummy aroma coming from the kitchen, and besides, I felt like living my life a bit dangerously in case the end was near.

  Paul hemmed and hawed until he reluctantly ordered the meatball soup and a roasted lamb dish. He didn’t look thrilled about his choices, and probably was wishing a steak would magically appear.

  The waiter brought our drinks and we chatted about nothing in particular until our soups arrived. About five minutes into the conversation I was reminded of why I had decided not to go out with him the last time we were on a date. There was no spark, no chemistry at all, and Paul liked to talk about himself. Before long my eyes began to glaze over and I felt depressed. I had the most pathetic love life on the face of the earth. My mother was right. I was an embarrassment in matters of the heart.

  Before dissolving into a mush of self-pity, I set my napkin on the table and stood. “I’m going to fi
nd the ladies’ room,” I said abruptly.

  Paul looked at me in surprise and I realized I had cut him off in midsentence. “Sorry,” I mumbled apologetically. “I’ll be right back.”

  I headed toward the stairs in search of the restroom. When I reached the top landing, a large room opened up to my left. The corridor went on straight ahead of me. I heard voices and laughter, so I peeked inside. A round table in a corner was filled with a half-dozen young men. A veil of smoke hung heavy in the air. I squinted, trying to see if I could make out Rashid Bouker when an arm from behind snaked around my neck and a hand clapped over my mouth. I was dragged backwards down the corridor, squirming and kicking my legs until my attacker whispered in my ear.

  “Silence, Lexi.”

  I recognized the voice and stilled. Slash.

  Even though I had stopped thrashing, he kept his hand firmly over my mouth. He dragged me to a room, opened the door and yanked me inside. Releasing me, he flipped on the light and glared at me.

  We were in a small bathroom that contained a chipped porcelain sink and a single toilet. A roll of paper towels sat on the sink next to some liquid hand soap. The ceiling light was a single dull bulb.

  I waited until my heart stopped doing the tango before I hissed, “Just what in the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Slash was angry too, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. I was the one who had just been assaulted and dragged into a bathroom.

  “What am I doing?” he repeated, his voice furious. “The question is what are you doing here?”

  I noticed he was dressed in black, this time in a cotton T-shirt, jeans and a leather jacket. The jacket was an unnecessary fashion statement because it was eighty degrees out, but in any event, he didn’t look anything like the mail guy in my cubicle today.

  “I happen to be on a date,” I said angrily. “You knew I’d be here.”

  “I did not,” he snarled.

  “You heard me talking about this restaurant with Paul in my cubicle today,” I insisted. “You’re stalking me.”