No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery)

by Julie Moffett

  “Shit,” one of the bouncers replied. He looked to weigh about four hundred pounds, had no neck and wore a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Guess that was the disco fashion these days. “We haven’t had one of those for six months. Anybody hurt?”

  “It seems that everyone’s okay,” Slash volunteered.

  Sure, easy for him to say. A bullet hadn’t whizzed over his head.

  “Should I call the police?” the other bouncer asked. He was thin and tall with a scraggly beard and mustache. A cigarette dangled between his fingers.

  “Already here. I’m an off-duty police officer,” Slash said, pulling a badge out from his pocket and flashing it at the guys. “The police are already in pursuit.”

  The no-neck guy looked relieved. “Lucky break for them,” he said, nodding his head at Paul and me. Slash nodded.

  The crowd from the club began to dissipate, most of them returning to the dance floor, apparently disappointed there were no bodies or gore to see. Ho, hum. Another drive-by shooting. Welcome to the nation’s capital.

  Paul looked over at Slash and then held out his hand. “Thanks for saving us, officer.”

  I was still standing there dumbly staring from Paul to Slash. Half of me was in shock that I’d been shot at. The other half was mad that Slash had followed me. Worse, Paul had no idea that the guy standing in front of him was the same guy who had shuffled into my cubicle earlier today carrying the mail.

  Slash handed Paul a business card. “Call me tomorrow and you can file an official report about the shooting,” he said. “Hopefully it will help put these guys away for a long time when we catch them.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” Paul said, looking kind of shaken. “Thanks again.” Paul held out his hand and Slash shook it.

  “No problem,” Slash said. “You kids take care.”

  Kids? Without even a glance at me, Slash turned and walked away across the parking lot. Numbly, I let Paul take my arm and head for the BMW. When we reached the car, Paul let out a stream of cuss words.

  “Wait! Someone slit the tires,” he practically screamed in my ear. “Officer, come back,” he shouted at Slash.

  Slowly Slash turned and walked back toward us. “What’s wrong now?” he said, a concerned look on his face.

  “Someone vandalized my car,” Paul said and I thought he might cry. I guess this was turning into the date-from-hell for him, too.

  Slash walked around the car and looked at the tires. “Rotten luck. Come on, I’ll give you guys a ride home.”

  “But what about my car?”

  “You can file another police report tomorrow. It should be covered by insurance.”

  Paul looked glum but he followed Slash across the parking lot.

  I simply stood there, staring at the both of them. My brain, fogged by alcohol and the realization that someone had just shot at me, was having a hard time properly processing the events going on around me.

  Paul turned and motioned to me irritably. “Come on, Lexi.”

  I wanted to stomp my foot like a two-year-old and demand answers to my questions. What the hell had just happened, why was Slash at the disco; and did someone just try to kill me? Instead I stumbled across the parking lot and caught up with them.

  Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see that Slash drove a sleek black SUV. Paul sat up front and I climbed in the back and sank into the soft leather seat. The car smelled nice, new and expensive.

  We drove in silence until Slash dropped Paul off. He didn’t seem to think it odd that Slash had taken him home first. I was just thankful that Paul seemed to have forgotten about the good-night kiss with the tongue he’d made me promise him. I guess it would have been awkward for him with Slash sitting there watching. Lucky for me, I guess the BMW was more important than a little tongue.

  Paul seemed almost dazed as he got out of the car. “I’ll call you,” he said to me and I nodded without saying a word. “Thanks again, officer,” he said to Slash.

  As soon as Paul shut the door, I leaned forward toward the driver’s seat. “Start talking,” I warned Slash. “Or your ass is grass.”

  Slash turned around in the seat and looked at me incredulously. “My ass is grass?” he repeated. “Is this some kind of coarse American expression?”

  “Cut the bullshit. You’re not even Italian.”

  “I adore it when you are tough with me, cara. Keep talking dirty.”

  “This isn’t funny,” I shouted. “Someone just tried to kill me.”

  Slash ignored me and backed the car out of the parking lot. He didn’t say anything else until we were on the main road headed for my apartment. “I know someone tried to kill you,” he finally said. “It was a good thing I was following you, si?”

  The Italian accent was back and I was mad at myself because I had missed it.

  “You said you weren’t following me,” I cried.

  “I wasn’t until Bouker had his little chat with you. Then I got nervous.”

  “You heard what Bouker said to me? What are you, Superman with radar hearing or something?”

  Slash abruptly pulled off on the side of the road and twisted around in the seat. “Lean forward, cara,” he said softly, crooking his finger at me.

  “What for?”

  “There is something I want to show you.”

  My heart stopped beating and my breath froze in my throat. He was going to kiss me. Every nerve in my body went on high alert. I should have done something like told him to go to hell or pushed him away, but instead I leaned forward and lifted my mouth to meet his. I felt Slash slip his hand around the nape of my neck and then trail his fingers down between my shoulder blades to the low dip of my dress. Anticipation thrummed through every pore of my body until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then he palmed something from the back of my dress and brought it around, dashing any hope I was going to experience a spectacular lip-lock.

  He turned on the overhead light and I blinked. In the palm of his hand was a miniature listening device stuck on the back of what looked like a decorative button.

  “You bugged me!” I shrieked.

  Slash looked pained. “I was protecting you.”

  “You said you weren’t a cop.”

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s not what you told those bouncers back there. I saw your badge.”

  “I lied in the name of national security.”

  “What?” I screeched. “I saw that van chasing the people in the sedan that shot at me. If they aren’t the police, then just who are they?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  The two-year-old in me suddenly made her appearance and I stomped my foot hard, rocking the SUV. “Why not? And don’t give me that crap about a need-to-know basis. This is my life we’re talking about.”

  Slash remained calm. “Hush, cara. I know you’re frightened. But you’re safe now. I’m with you.”

  With that, he turned around in the seat and eased the car back on the street. I sat in my seat, hands clenched in my lap, feeling bereft, cranky and mortified. I vowed to never ever talk to him again.

  “You know,” he said softly. “I really am who you think I am. I’ve been honest with you about that.”

  I broke my vow of silence almost immediately. I have zero willpower when it comes to vows, which means I would have made a lousy nun even if you don’t count the no-sex part.

  “I don’t know who I think you are,” I said staring out the window. The tires whooshed across the pavement and the engine hummed softly. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I am the man the Zimmerman twins summoned, the man known as Slash. I’m also the person who can help you find your friend. Computer security is my expertise, among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  He fell silent and I sighed. It was impossible to stay mad at a guy who looked amazingly like Enrique Iglesias, especially when he spoke to me in that deep, husky, Italian accent. “All right, at least tell me this. Are you really pro
tected around the clock by the FBI?”

  “Si.”

  “It’s true about you being some kind of national treasure?”

  “That, unfortunately, is a burden not an honor.”

  “Then just where are these agents that are supposedly protecting you?” I still felt sulky.

  Slash pointed in the rearview window. I twisted around in my seat and saw a set of headlights following us. “That’s them?” I asked. “You didn’t lose them?”

  “Not tonight, cara.”

  His voice sounded tired and for a moment, I tried to put myself in his shoes. Would I be happy about having someone follow me around every minute of the day ready to kill me if I fell into enemy hands? Maybe being a national treasure wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Slash drove to my apartment building and parked the SUV. I climbed out and stumbled, but Slash was by my side quickly and steadied me with a hand under the elbow. Across the street a dark sedan with the motor running and lights on had pulled over to the side of the road.

  I looked at Slash. “The FBI?”

  He nodded, so I lifted my hand and waved at them. To my surprise, the driver lowered his window and gave me the thumbs-up. Just your friendly neighborhood FBI agents. How weird was that?

  “Come, cara, I’ll walk you to your apartment,” Slash said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He looked unusually worried and thoughtful.

  “Why? Do you think there is someone waiting for me there?”

  “I doubt it. The FBI has been watching your place. It’s clean.”

  “The FBI is watching me now?”

  He didn’t say anything and my apprehension mounted. A million questions were on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t ask them because I knew Slash probably wouldn’t or couldn’t answer them.

  We climbed the stairs and I put my key in the lock, turning it. Slash let me disarm the alarm, but before I could step farther inside, he pushed past me, one hand inside his jacket. Suddenly I realized why he wore a jacket in eighty-degree weather.

  “I thought you said the place was clear,” I whispered loudly.

  He shrugged. “I don’t always trust the FBI to be thorough.”

  “Oh, that’s comforting,” I hissed. “They don’t say that in public service announcements.”

  He rolled his eyes and disappeared into the dark of my apartment. In less than a minute, he returned and flipped on the hall light.

  “It’s secure,” he said. Then he smiled. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  “It’s called maid service,” I said, shutting the door behind me. “But my place had better not get tossed again or I won’t be able to afford it.”

  Slash leaned back against the wall, looking both sexy and dangerous in his black leather jacket. He was silent for some time before he spoke.

  “I think we need to talk, cara. Do you feel comfortable doing this now?”

  I dumped my purse on a chair and turned around. “Do I have to do all the talking or are you finally going to tell me something?”

  “I’ll tell you what I can. That’s the best I can offer.”

  “Do I really have a choice in the matter?”

  “No.”

  “Then why ask?”

  He exhaled a deep breath. “Because I like you.”

  That made me feel a little bit better. But I was still cranky and more than just a little tipsy. “What about the listening device? Will the entire FBI be listening to our conversation?”

  Slash slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the button. He snapped it in half between his fingers. “From now on, this is between you and me.”

  “How do I know you’re not wired somewhere else?”

  He spread his arms. “Do you wish to frisk me?”

  As tempting as it was, I shook my head. “Just take off your jacket.”

  He lowered his hands and shrugged it off. Sure enough, he wore a black leather shoulder holster with a gun tucked snugly inside. He wore it with ease, as if computer hackers did this kind of thing all the time.

  “Have you ever…you know, killed anyone with that gun?” I asked.

  “Why is that important for you to know?”

  “Seeing how you’re starting to come around a lot, I think I’m entitled to know.”

  He walked closer to me and took my hands in his. His skin was warm against mine, his grip firm and reassuring. “If you must know, I have killed men. But mostly in self-defense.”

  Mostly. I noticed how he’d casually slipped that in. I wondered about the other times, but I was too chicken to ask.

  “All right,” I said, pulling my hands from his and trying to ignore the chill that ran up my spine. “At least you’re honest. I respect that.”

  “Come then, let’s sit. Shall I make us some coffee?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

  He looked amused. “I assure you that I am a man of many, many hidden talents.”

  I wasn’t going to touch that comment with a ten-foot pole, so I did the smart thing for once and kept my mouth shut.

  Slash walked into my kitchen and I could hear him rummaging around, opening cupboards and looking for the coffee. I should have gotten up to help him, but I really needed a minute. I had a lot to think about. It was one thing to be threatened with a gun, but someone had actually shot at me tonight. If I hadn’t reached down to fix my sandal, I could be dead.

  How did Slash fit into all of this? Was he really Italian? Or American? Computer hacker extraordinaire or a talented con man? From a pure informational point of view, I didn’t know much about him other than he had a hell of an expensive computer set-up, could slip silently past my alarm, had apparent run of the NSA, and looked comfortable wearing a gun he’d admitted using to kill people. How reassuring was that?

  Despite everything that had happened, I was still no closer to finding Basia and extricating myself from this mess she’d gotten me into. Now the FBI was watching me, Yemen Embassy officials were warning me that my life was in danger and people were taking potshots at my head.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  I glanced over at the small table where my telephone sat and noticed my message light was blinking yet again. I pressed the play button and listened. All three messages were from Finn saying to call him as soon as possible. The last time he threatened to buy me a cell phone himself. I reset the machine. I wasn’t in any condition to call Finn now. He would just have to wait until the morning.

  By the time Slash finally returned with two mugs of coffee, I felt like I had a slightly better grasp on my sanity.

  “Do you take milk?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It’s in the fridge.”

  Slash walked back to the kitchen and returned carrying the milk. I poured a dollop in my coffee and offered him some.

  He shook his head. “No, I take it black.”

  I should have figured as much. He sat down on the couch next to me, the gun just sitting there in its holster next to my hip. I moved away slightly, blowing on my coffee and holding the mug with both hands.

  “So what do you want to talk about?” I asked.

  He turned on the couch to face me. “Events are starting to move quickly and I want us to work together. I told you a little about the situation last time we spoke and I’m prepared to tell you more. But I need your help, as well. We need to find some measure of trust here, cara.”

  “Wait, can I ask you something before you reveal anything sensitive?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is this some kind of NSA training exercise? Because if it is, I’d rather just take a failing grade. I don’t have any grand ambitions to do undercover work and I’m obviously not cut out for this kind of thing.”

  He looked at me in surprise and it seemed genuine. Then again, he was a master of deception, so what did I know?

  “Why would you think this is some kind of test?” he finally said.

  “Well, Elvis said it was possible. And my b
oss knows something is wrong. He warned me today not to play the prima donna. He said his unit was a team and under no circumstances should I engage in heroics, whatever that means.”

  Slash sighed. “Jonathan Littleton has been warned to keep an eye on you, but with a loose grip. He’s being deliberately kept out of the loop and he doesn’t like it. Undoubtedly he was trying to find out what you are involved in.”

  “I see.”

  “Now consider this. Rashid Bouker is an embassy official from Yemen. How likely is it that we could, or would, for that matter, involve him in some kind of NSA employee training exercise?”

  Good point. “Okay, so this is the real deal, then,” I said. “But if I find out this has been some kind of NSA character test, I’m not going to be happy. I’m happy with my character just the way it is.”

  “This is no NSA test. I promise you that. We both know this isn’t standard operating procedure, but I don’t have time to do it by the book. I’m going to read you into restricted access information right here. Everything we discuss from this moment on is highly classified. Are you okay with that?”

  “Wow, I feel like I’ve been knighted or something. Are you sure you have the authority to read me in?”

  “I’m sure. Are you ready?”

  I exhaled a deep breath. “Ready.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s go through the list of who we know Al-Asan has impregnated.”

  “Whoa, just a minute. Did you just say ‘list’? Do you mean Al-Asan impregnated someone else besides Basia’s cousin?”

  “Si.”

  I didn’t ask how or where he got the information, mostly because I didn’t want to know.

  Slash reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Believe it, cara. There are seven women involved in this procedure. First we have Hilda Strauss, age twenty-two, from Munich, Germany. German intelligence noted a meeting between her and a member of Al-Asan’s entourage a few months earlier in Heidelberg. She was in Genoa, Italy the same day Al-Asan’s bodyguards were killed.”

  “Let me take a wild stab at this—she was visiting a medical establishment connected with Bright Horizons or other CGM staff.”

  “That is the most likely scenario.”

  “What about Judyta Taszynski? Was she in Genoa on that day, too?”