by Valerie Clay
“What boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend,” I answered truthfully.
“Then who’s that guy I’ve seen going in and out of your place? The one with the dark hair, obviously spends too much time at the gym?”
I had to smile at that one. Judah gave me a quizzical look.
“What? Oh him. No, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s just my neighbor. Actually, I think he’s gay. Our relationship is strictly platonic.” I shot a quick glance over at a frowning Judah as I waited for a response.
More silence. Darling was deliberating, trying to decide what to do, so I got my nerve up and pushed him a little. “If you’d rather not get together, I understand. I just thought it would be nice to meet you.”
He finally spoke. “You seem to like the Beach Café. Be there tomorrow at four-thirty. Come alone.” The line went dead. It was over. Relief flooded over me as I flipped my phone shut and turned to Judah.
“Okay, it’s done,” I said with a forced smile. “Four-thirty tomorrow afternoon at the Beach Café.” I got up on wobbly legs and headed for the kitchen. “I think I should drink some water.”
Judah followed me into the kitchen. “Nice job, Victoria. Very believable. Clever touch about the gay thing. Uh . . . you don’t really think I’m gay though, do you? That was just a line to throw him off, right?”
“Well, I really don’t know. But it’s none of my beeswax, is it?” I said as I pulled a pitcher of water out of the refrigerator and filled my glass to overflowing. “Would you like some?” I offered as I turned around to face him. Half of the water sloshed out of the glass and landed on Judah’s shoes. He didn’t seem to notice.
He looked at me in bewilderment. “Wait a minute. You don’t know?”
I took a sip of the cool, refreshing water, then replied thoughtfully, “I mean yes, you did kiss me that one time, but then you stopped. So, I thought maybe you weren’t all that into women.”
He crossed his arms, took a wide stance, and frowned at me. “Not into women? This is a joke. You’re kidding, right? I’m not gay.”
“It’s okay with me, Judah. Your sexual orientation is your business.” I took another sip of delicious water and gazed up at him with wide, virtuous eyes.
“What? Again, I’m not gay. Do you need proof?”
“You don’t need to prove anything to me, honey,” I replied, sweet as pie. “I don’t judge.” I put my glass down on the counter and turned my back to him so he couldn’t see me smiling. I tried to walk away, but he grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me around, and before I could say anything, his mouth came down on mine and he kissed me with an intensity that left me weak and light-headed.
“Would a gay man kiss you like that?” he asked when he let me go.
I staggered backwards. “I, uh, I don’t —”
Slipping his arms around my waist, he roughly pulled me to him again, and kissed me, longer this time, his soft tongue gently teasing the inside of my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved into him. Time stopped, and I think there may have been an earthquake or two.
“Well?” he demanded after the mind-numbing embrace.
I backed up against the wall. The room was spinning. Or maybe the room was still and I was spinning. It was hard to tell. “You win,” I said breathlessly. “I’m a believer.”
He looked at me skeptically. “You never really thought I was gay did you? You were just playing me.” Hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop the big, goofy grin that curved across my lips.
He shook his head in annoyance. “You’re crazy, woman. Do you know that? Crazy.”
I cracked up. Crazy like a fox, I thought.
“I gotta go,” he said frowning. “You’ll be safe tonight. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”
He left in a rush and I slid the new deadbolt lock closed behind him. Leaning against the door, I smiled into the darkness. The warm, bright, and golden darkness. After a couple of moments, I floated into my bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth by candlelight, then floated out to the living room and fell into blissful sleep on the couch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“So what do we do? Anything - something. So long as we don’t just sit there. If we screw it up, start over. Try something else. If we wait until we’ve satisfied all the uncertainties, it may be too late.” —Lee Iacocca Former Chairman of Chrysler Corporation
*******
Sometime during the night the electricity came back on. When I finally woke up and peeled myself off the couch, the candles had all burned out, but the lights in my kitchen radiated a soft glow into the living room. That, combined with the dim light filtering through my curtains from an overcast sky was blinding. My head was cracking. A painful glance at my mantel clock told me it was nine A.M.
Taking tentative steps, I made my way into the kitchen, turned off the excruciating lights, and ferreted though my vitamin drawer for some aspirin. With a huge glass of water and a few bites of leftover chicken, I downed two pills. Note: You should never take aspirin on an empty stomach. It’ll burn a hole right through that sucker. I could remember my health tips, but little else. What happened last night, and why was I feeling so nauseous?
Passing unsteadily back through the dining room, holding my head, I tripped over my shoes and discovered several puzzling clues to the mystery: my watch, dangling around the neck of an empty tequila bottle, a winning poker hand resting face up amongst the other cards, and my pink romance candle, now a smooth, hardened glob dribbled over the sides of its rose quartz base. Ah yes, it was all beginning to trickle back to me through a murky haze. There was a card game, a terrifying call with a sicko stalker, and Judah’s steamy kisses. The memory of his warm lips on mine sent a thrill rippling through me. All at once I was overcome with a strange mixture of fear and romantic euphoria. Possibly, I was losing my mind. Probably.
I slogged back to the kitchen, started the coffeemaker and threw in an extra scoop of ground espresso beans, then hit the shower. The hot water helped clear my head, and by the time I toweled off, the aspirin had begun working its magic. Bit by bit I returned to the land of the living, and I realized it was time to make my call to Hutch.
“You did good, Vic, I’m proud of you.” Hutch’s deep voice boomed into my hypersensitive ears. I grimaced and held the phone away from my head a few inches. “Stay by your phone. I’ll call you back with the plan.”
We said goodbye and I decided to turn on the radio to find out what was happening in the rest of the world. On my favorite soft jazz station, with the volume lowered to a scarcely audible level, the smooth-talking DJ announced that the morning clouds should burn off by noon. The weather would be unusually mild for a Seattle spring day, with highs reaching into the low seventies. I smiled. It was a perfect day for a takedown.
After forcing down a slice of buttered toast and coffee, I carefully applied some makeup and combed my hair. Inside my tiny walk-in closet, hands on hips, I looked around, perusing my wardrobe. What does one wear to a police sting, I pondered, feeling almost human again. I wanted to look casual, yet still somewhat upscale. My grandmother, quite the fashionista in her time, used to tell me, “For pity’s sake, young lady, don’t leave the house looking like a scallywag. You never know who you’re going to meet.”
Words to live by.
After some protracted deliberation I finally decided on my dark navy jeans, black ballet flats with flowers on the toes, a white, stretchy knit top and a lightweight, cream linen blazer.
This simple take-down should be over in a matter of minutes, I thought to myself. I walk in, the officers nab the perp, and I’m golden. Hutch is a pro. That’s obvious. What could go wrong? Maybe I’d hit a movie afterwards, or go shopping.
Feeling fidgety waiting for the detective to call me back, I busied myself by tidying up my living room, then put away the playing cards and dropped the empty tequila bottle into my recycling bin.
Finally, it was time to bite the bullet and tackle the revolting bed situation. I
hadn’t slept in it since I discovered my home had been violated, but let’s face it, I couldn’t sleep on the couch forever. For moral support I put my new Tina Turner CD, Tina Live, on the stereo, turned up the volume a tad, entered my bedroom, and stared at my bed with steely determination. You just have to rip the sheets off the bed, I told myself, the way you rip off a Band-Aid. Yank it fast and hard; less pain in the long run. As Tina belted out “River Deep—Mountain High” I stripped back the top edge of my bedspread then I grabbed the bottom sheet and peeled it up over the top sheet, pillows, blankets, spread, and all. After rolling them up into an enormous enchilada, I awkwardly pulled the tangled wad of linens off the bed then dragged it down the hallway and into my kitchen. Amazingly, I was able to stuff the whole kit and caboodle into a black, oversized garbage bag, the kind I would use for grass clippings and leaves if I had a lawn.
While I was at it, I crammed in a twenty-pound bag of rice that had been taking up precious storage space in my cupboard for years. Easier than I thought, I realized as I tied the ends together and hauled the heavy bundle out onto my front porch. “And, haven’t I been hankering for some new bedding anyway?” I rationalized out loud. This was really a redecorating opportunity in disguise. A very good disguise.
Not wanting to leave the mess on my front porch, I lugged the bulging sack of tainted linens and rice down my stairs and across the parking lot to the garbage enclosure. The top of the dumpster was higher than my head (a board decision that always mystifies me) so I had to resort to a track and field-like hammer throw maneuver. I grabbed the top edges of the bag, spun around to gain momentum, then released my hold. The bag flew through the air, bounced off the edge of the dumpster and rebounded back, knocking me to the ground. This is what my life had become. Sitting on the filthy concrete next to the dumpster, my soiled bed linens bursting out of a ripped garbage bag, I realized I had hit a new low.
I pulled a rotting banana peel off my right hip, stood up and tried to get my head back in the game. I wasn’t going down again. On my second try I spun around like a demented whirling dervish, then watched as the overstuffed bag easily cleared the top and tumbled into the tall dumpster. Success was mine.
By the time I’d finished changing into new jeans and making up my bed with fresh linens, it was well after two o’clock. I still hadn’t heard from Hutch. Had something gone wrong? I was debating whether or not to call him again when my phone finally rang. The caller ID said “Redmond Police” and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello, Hutch. Got a plan yet?”
“Vic, it’s all set. Get there early, about four o’clock. There’ll be two FBI agents sitting at a table in the bar. One agent, a blonde guy, will be wearing a navy blue Mariners T-shirt, and the other, a female posing as his date, has long dark hair and will be wearing sunglasses. As you walk into the bar area, scan the room nonchalantly and when you spot them, push your hair back behind your ear. The female agent will take off her sunglasses and set them on the table. That’s how you’ll identify each other. Then take a seat at the bar and wait for Ogborne. After he arrives, talk to him for a moment, order a drink, then excuse yourself and go to the Ladies Room. Stay there until someone comes to get you. Got that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Okay, repeat it back to me.”
“I get there at four o’clock, and look for an agent in a Mariners T-shirt and his date in sunglasses. Then I take a seat at the bar. After Bill comes in, I go to the Ladies Room and wait.”
“You forgot the signal and the drink.”
“Oh, right, sorry, I’m a little nervous. I signal the female agent by pushing my hair behind my ear, and she takes off her sunglasses. After Bill arrives, I order a drink then go to the Ladies Room.”
“Perfect. Do you have any questions?”
“Only one—are you going to be there?”
“I’ll be there after this thing goes down. Don’t want to spook him. Just follow the plan and you’ll be fine. Oh, and keep your cell phone turned on, in case we need to track you. You can do this, girl, I know you can. I’ll see you later.”
I’d only just ended the call when my phone rang again.
“How’s your head?” Judah asked.
“I’ve had better days. How’s yours?”
“The same.”
I smiled, remembering the taste of his mouth and the way his strong arms encircled my body last night, wrenching me close to him. “Where are you?”
“Next door. Thought it best not to come over, in case he’s watching.”
I felt a little disappointed, but grudgingly agreed. I told him about my instructions from Hutch, and that I’d call him the minute the entire ordeal was over.
“You won’t need to call me because I’m coming with you,” Judah said, his voice flat.
“No, Judah, you can’t. Bill made it clear that I come alone. He’s seen you and he’d recognize you in a second. You’d scare him off, and then we’d lose him. You need to stay here and let the FBI handle this. Promise me that you’ll stay here.”
“I don’t know . . . .”
“Promise me!”
“Okay, okay, I promise. But call me the instant it’s over, or if anything goes wrong, or—”
“I will, the minute it’s over.” I smiled into the phone at the sweet concern in his voice. “Anyway, what could go wrong? The FBI agents are specialists in these kinds of things.”
“Just remember to keep your phone turned on,” he said. “They can track you if your phone is on.”
“Yes, yes, I know, Hutch told me the same thing. Don’t worry. I can handle this.” Was I trying to convince him or myself?
After we hung up, I frowned. This should be an easy sting. So, why do they keep saying they can track me? Warning bells started to go off in my brain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.”—Mark Twain, American author
*******
During my thirty-minute drive to the restaurant, what little conviction I had left, trickled away like the sands in an ancient hour glass. I was having second and third thoughts. My stomach churned. By the time I arrived at the parking entrance for the Beach Café, sweaty palms made it difficult for me to get a firm grip on the steering wheel. In the Central Plaza of Carillon Point’s building complex, six bell towers chimed four o’clock as I approached the ramp, stopped, and pulled a ticket from the dispenser. The bright yellow security gate slowly lifted and I accelerated forward, beginning my descent into the underground garage. I was right on schedule.
The closest available parking space was near the back of the garage, so I pulled in, killed the engine, and paused a moment to regroup. I plucked my cell phone from my bag and verified one last time that it was turned on, then stared at my pink Taser stashed at the bottom of my purse, partially obscured by my wallet and a small emergency bag of dark chocolate malted milk balls. I hesitated, debating what to do with the weapon. Would I be able to grab hold of it in a hurry if necessary? Probably not. Stupidly, I wore a jacket with no pockets and my jeans pockets were too small to hold a Taser. I mentally kicked myself. The only option I had was to stuff it under my waistband in the small of my back. At least my jacket would cover the tell-tale bulge. I just prayed I wouldn’t accidentally taze my ass.
With shaking knees, I climbed out of the car, closed the door, and hit the lock button on my remote. The sound of all four doors bolting shut, separating me from my last bit of refuge, made me flinch. I scanned the surroundings. At first glance, the area appeared empty except for a lone valet driver who hopped into a silver Mercedes sedan and sped off to park it in some remote area of the multi-level parking garage. The owner of the Mercedes opened a side door to the Woodmark Hotel and disappeared inside. And then it was as quiet as a graveyard.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my chin, steadied my nerves, and headed for the restaurant. The instructions were simple enough. Even a child could follow them. With each
step, I mentally rehearsed them in my mind: locate the FBI couple; push my hair behind my ear; take a seat at the bar; wait for the killer to join me. I glanced at my silver bangle watch. If everything went according to plan, I should be out of there and on my way to the mall by five o’clock. As soon as I saw the agent with the Mariners T-shirt and his partner, I knew I would feel a whole lot better.
Each row of empty cars I passed increased my unease; the clicking of my footsteps, a hollow echo throughout the cavernous garage. All of my senses were heightened—every sound causing me to glance nervously this way and that, scrutinizing every shadow. What was I doing here? Why had I agreed to do this—to be bait for a psychopath? I wanted to turn back, run away, but it was too late now. The plan was in motion and people were counting on me. All I had to do was play out my part and whatever happened, it would all be over soon.
I kept going.
Just as I was about to clear the last row of cars, I heard a faint rustle of clothing and sensed the presence of someone directly behind me. My heart skipped a beat, and I knew without looking it was him. His right hand came around hard across my mouth, and I felt a sharp stab of pain in my side where he jabbed his knife. I shrieked but his hand muffled all sound of it.
“Scream and you die right here. Do you understand me?” he whispered harshly in my ear. I turned my head toward him and nodded, fear and shock surging through my body. The change in his appearance was staggering. Gone was the shaggy beard, and his once long gray hair was now reddish-brown and close cropped. In place of an old T-shirt and faded jeans, he wore a designer navy polo shirt, khaki slacks, maroon Top-Sider shoes, and sunglasses. The perfect image of a successful businessman having a casual meal on the waterfront.
Very slowly he removed his hand from my mouth and gripped my shoulders. When he felt confident that I wasn’t going to scream, he pushed me towards the restaurant entrance. I went without a struggle, clinging to the reassuring thought that the FBI would be inside, secretly waiting for me.
