by Lori Avocato
Nick reached into the pocket of his chocolate suede jacket. He pulled out a little box. “Open mine next.”
Jewelry. Damn.
I really wasn’t the jewelry type.
It kinda hurt that Nick didn’t know that. Despite the kids’ fussing, I took it to open it myself. Slowly I pulled the red ribbon and started to lift the top off of the box.
Nick leaned over. “Happy Birthday, Pauline.”
Some days I wished Nick had some kind of pet name for me. Not a donut though.
I kissed his cheek and pulled the top of the box off. A key chain. Not any key chain but one with a black remote box that I figured locked and unlocked my Volvo’s doors. It also had a panic button on the top. Maybe Nick thought I’d need that in my line of duty. (Guess he knew me well enough not to buy me a gun, since I could hurt myself or someone else, having a history of shooting an elevator—twice.) I smiled at him. “This is a perfect gift, Nick. Really perfect.” And it was. It was Nick’s and my relationship.
The envelope poked into my skin.
As soon as everyone left, I kissed Nick appropriately, and he also appropriately said he’d call me—and I knew he would.
Then, unable to wait to open the envelope until I got back to the condo, I ran into the bathroom. I was worse than a kid on Christmas morning.
I slipped the envelope out of my blouse and stared at it. Then I told myself I was so interested because it came from the mysterious Jagger. That was it. He wasn’t the giving-birthday-presents type. No, Jagger was so different, in a wonderful, mysterious, sexy sort of way that I couldn’t imagine what he had slipped into this white envelope.
My fingers shook. Pausing, I reached for Mother’s can of Renuzit air freshener, sprayed, inhaled and felt a bit of comfort. Her overuse of the pine scent (throughout my entire life) had led me to an addiction. It’d become a nostalgic salve for my soul. Inhaling, I held the envelope to the light to see what I could.
Nothing.
I felt stupid and swore I’d never let anyone know how foolish I was, shaking, inhaling and gingerly tearing at the seam to open it. The silence of the room filled with the drip drip of the sink faucet and the singing of the paper tearing.
Then, I pulled the envelope open.
Papers. It was filled with papers.
I looked up and saw the reflection in the mirror of some writing on the back of the envelope. So, I turned it over before I took out the papers.
Monday morning. Nine sharp. Front of your office. Dress in blue scrubs. Don’t bring a purse.
Jagger’s handwriting.
Jagger’s instructions about the case.
His stupid case.
He had to ruin my birthday present by writing directions on the back. I seethed for a few seconds then let inquisitiveness take over.
I yanked at the papers.
Holding them up in front of me, I read the first few words.
And cursed.
Big time!
Two
I leaned against the blue sink in my parents’ bathroom and let out a string of more curse words—some I don’t think have ever been used in any X-rated videos yet. Then I sprayed my mother’s Renuzit again and inhaled. I didn’t actually inhale the spray as it dotted the air, more like breathed in a bit of the scent. Usually that familiar fragrance calmed me.
Not now though.
The papers dangled in front of my eyes. But it wasn’t Jagger’s handwriting on these papers.
It was slimy Fabio’s.
Case #3. Psychiatric fraud. Fabio was going on a trip to the Mohegan Sun casino, so he’d written info on picking up the file at eight Monday morning. I hoped he lost his brown polyester shirt and brown polyester pants on the slot machines. Then I thought it really wasn’t fair to wish bad luck on Fabio.
He was giving me my third case. Another chance to earn some much-needed money.
I looked down at the envelope and sighed. Jagger’d made it seem as if this was a birthday present. Or, had my thirty-five-year-old mind had a moment of insanity and foolish hopefulness, and I only wished it were?
I had to reign in my Jagger-thoughts.
Pauline Sokol, medical insurance fraud investigator, was about to solve another case—and hopefully this time I wouldn’t almost get killed.
It’d happened before—twice.
“You’re going to be late, Suga!”
As Goldie called out to me a few more times, I looked at myself in the mirror. My undies were pink today to match the bra. Not that I thought anyone would be seeing them unless I, God forbid, got into an accident, but I stood there in my room partially undressed because I didn’t want to don my scrubs.
They lay on the bed looking so very blue and innocent.
Wearing them meant going back to a career I’d burned out on after a long thirteen years. Oh, it had been fulfilling and what I was cut out for at the time, but nursing was a tough job. Emotions got involved. Skills had to be tweaked constantly. And the hours were murder. I’d be another gazillionaire if I had a penny for every time I’d had to do shift work while my friends partied. Weekends. Nights. Holidays.
I’d had it.
The scrubs glared at me.
I cursed Jagger with one of those X-rated curses I couldn’t believe I even knew. My mother would be in the confessional on my behalf if she heard my language or at the very least she’d have the priest over to “exorcise” me.
“Suga!”
I grabbed the top of the scrubs. “Be right there, Gold.” Goldie was a fellow investigator at my firm, so he’d offered to give me a ride to work today since my Volvo was in for a much-needed tune up. I didn’t exactly have a lot of liquid assets, so until I got paid, the car just might be held hostage by Tony the mechanic. Tony was an old friend and ex-patient and gave me good deals, but even good deals needed cash for payment, and I hated owing friends.
The bottom of the scrubs glared at me. “Stop it!” I shouted. “Just ’cause Jagger needs help, doesn’t mean I have to like wearing you.” Admittedly I was glad to have been “instructed” to wear the drab blue since it seemed to be a “mourning” color.
Anxious to see the file about my case, I ignored my outfit in the mirror, grabbed my purse and headed down the stairs.
Goldie sat in the white beanbag chair holding Spanky, a shih tzu-poodle mix weighing in at five pounds and eight ounces, although lately the little pooch tipped the scales closer to eight and had to be put on a diet. Miles and I were co-owners of the dog. Since Goldie had recently moved in, we allowed him to adopt a third of little Spanky. At this rate, we’d get more pet for our money with a school of goldfish.
But we all made wonderful doggie stepparents.
I slumped down on the white sofa.
Goldie looked at me. “You look gorgeous, even though I know that outfit is killing you.”
“I feel as if I have on a second skin. One that I’d shed months ago and did not want back. More like snakeskin.”
Last night I’d told him about Jagger needing my help, since Jagger hadn’t said to keep my mouth shut. Besides, I could trust Goldie and Miles with my life. Whenever I mentioned Jagger though, Goldie always gave me some kind of lecture. This time it was “Jagger’s like chocolate. He’ll make you feel on top of the world—then mess your hips up at the end. But you can trust him with your life.”
And trust him I did.
If I sat down and analyzed why, I’d probably be shocked to realize that I shouldn’t, in fact, trust him. But I did, and that made my learning this job a hell of a lot easier—and safer.
On the way to the office, Goldie and I stopped to get coffee at Dunkin Donuts. That was Jagger’s and my “hangout.” Whenever we had business to discuss, we headed there. He always ordered for me without asking since, I admit, I am not one for change. Hazelnut decaf, light and sweet. French cruller. That was me.
Jagger was black coffee sans donut.
Most mornings at the office, Goldie would fix me his New Orleans favorite of chi
cory coffee with hot milk and plenty of sugar. But since I had to be there so early, he needed the caffeine on the way.
“Any idea what Fabio has for you today, Suga?” Goldie pulled his banana yellow sixties Camaro into a space outside our office building.
“Nope.” I got out and yanked my Steelers jacket tighter. Although the March weather had turned milder, I still needed a jacket, and my favorite football team came in parkas, windbreakers and sweatshirts.
Could a girl be any happier?
Inside the building I gave a nod to the receptionist. “Hey, Adele, how’s it going?” I walked into her cubbyhole of an office. She’d been with Fabio for years, but he’d never given her a bigger space. Schmuck that he was.
“Morning, chéri. Adele is wonderful today.” She leaned back in her chair and gave me a wink, a smile and a wave of her white-gloved hand.
Adele was an ex-con from Canada who’d gotten her hands burned in the joint and always spoke of herself in the third person. When I first learned this, I was appalled, intrigued, and sometimes weirded out about that third-person thing, not to mention the ex-con part.
I’d never known anyone who’d gotten more than a parking ticket. As a matter of fact, when the hospital was building a new parking garage and we had to be shuttle-bussed into work, I myself had gotten fifty-one parking tickets because I stubbornly insisted on parking closer to the hospital in a stupid space that had a meter. I’d run out as often as I could to shove coins in, but often got caught up in patient care and forgot.
But Miles knew a cop … Poof. There went my tickets.
I took a sip of my coffee. “You certainly seem in a good mood, Adele.”
“He’s out of town. Two weeks. Two glorious weeks.” She motioned with her head toward Fabio’s office. Black tendrils bounced with her movement and her black, very low-cut dress allowed the cleavage to jiggle.
I think Adele shopped at Frederick’s of Hollywood.
I smiled to myself and thought it a shame that someone like Adele had to go to prison when she had stolen only to get enough money to help her dying mother. A modern-day, kick-ass female Robin Hood. Damn shame.
Then it hit me.
“Fabio is gone already?”
“Two weeks, chéri!” She swung around, and the wire from her headset caught on my arm. coffee spewed from the cup onto the floor. Not that it mattered on the already stained royal blue rug. It looked like some kind of modern art.
“Damn! Are you all right, Adele?” I grabbed a tissue from a box, covered with a crocheted cat, on her desk.
“I’m fine.” She puffed up her black hair. She liked to change the color several times a year. I liked her in red, myself.
Adele was always managing to get hung up on some wire when I was around. But she always made me laugh and had welcomed me to the job so graciously and warmly that I considered her a second mother.
Stella Sokol would not like that.
I couldn’t even imagine what she’d say or do about it, although penance, prayers and pine-scented Renuzit surely would have something to do with it.
“I hope Fabio left my file for me. I thought he’d still be here to give it to me and fill me in on the details.” I sat on the edge of her desk, careful to stay clear of any Adele wires.
She pointed to a manila envelope beneath the cat tissues. “He was in such a hurry to go, he left it here. He said luck would stay with him at the casinos after he mumbled something about getting lucky last night.”
We looked at each other and let out a collective “Eeeeeeyew!”
Goldie came around the corner. “What the hell? What’d I miss? Tell me, girlfriends. Tell me!”
We laughed and filled him in.
Goldie added a few “yucks” and a screech, and then said maybe Fabio had won the daily lottery and not … what we were thinking.
“That’s more than I like to think about Fabio at this time of the day—or any time for that matter.” I looked at the cat clock above Adele. One paw was on eight. One on the ten. “Shit. I have to go.” I’d almost forgotten about meeting Jagger.
I only hoped his little “chaperone” deal was finished by noon. I looked at my envelope.
Because I had my third case to begin.
After my goodbyes to Adele and Goldie, I hurried outside. When I saw the black Suburban pull into the lot, my heart did a stupid happy dance.
Too much caffeine in my decaf coffee. Had to be it.
Jagger pulled up next to the curb and looked at me.
“What?” I shifted from foot to foot. “I wore the damned scrubs like you said.”
“No purse. I said don’t bring a purse for this job.”
Shit. I’d forgotten. I really had to pay more attention to the details. Especially Jagger details. “I’ll go give it to Goldie—”
“Get in.”
He looked anxious to leave, so I hurried around the other side of the car and got in. Nick always opened the door for me. Jagger, well, was Jagger.
“Take out your essentials and leave the purse under the seat,” he said as we spun out of the parking lot.
I gave him a dirty look, figuring his eyes were on the road, but he stopped at the light and looked at me. “Essentials. No crap like makeup, perfume, or money. You won’t need money.”
“Fine.” I’d learned a long time ago not to argue with Jagger. Okay, what I really learned was when I argued with him, I lost. I opened my bag, took out a comb, lipstick, tissue and tried to nonchalantly take out a Tampax—just in case.
When he jammed on the brake, the Tampax flew out of my hand, harpooning itself in the lambskin collar of Jagger’s aviator jacket.
He pulled to a stop sign, turned and shook his head.
I reached over and grabbed the Tampax without a word. Somehow that made me feel empowered. If I’d broken down into hysterical sobs, as I wanted to do, or died of embarrassment, which was my second choice, Jagger wouldn’t respect me. One more shake of his head and we were off.
Another thing I’d learned about Jagger was when he shook his head at me once, he was perturbed. Two shakes, well, no one would want Jagger shaking his head at them twice. Exasperated was the word that came to mind for two shakes.
We turned onto Interstate 91 headed north.
“You said this was only going to take a few hours. Where are we going?”
“Airport.”
“Airport!” flew out of my mouth so fast a hiccup followed. I ignored it like the harpooned Tampax. “I’m not flying anywhere.” Not being a frequent flyer, I needed a few doses of my Xanax before stepping down the long jetway to confinement, and I didn’t bring any. Sadly, Pauline Sokol was not a world traveler.
“No, you are not.” He turned off the airport exit and before I knew it, we’d pulled up to the curb beneath the “arrivals” sign.
“You can’t park here,” I said after reading all the warning signs. “You know how tight security has gotten since 9/11.”
This time he merely looked at me. No head shaking.
Made my day.
“That state cop is coming over. You better drive around the airport a few times.”
The cop came near, leaned over, looked at me. “No stopping—”
Jagger bent forward.
The cop looked at him, tipped his hat to me and said, “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
When I was with Jagger, the same physical things often happened. Heart arrhythmia. My high IQ tanked. And jaw problems. The “problem” was that my jaw would drop down to my chest when he’d say or do something oh-so-very Jaggerlike.
“What the hell? Why didn’t you have to—” No need to finish. It was foolish to ask Jagger anything. He was as closemouthed as a clam dug out of the Rhode Island beaches. I should have known and not wasted my words.
“There.” Jagger motioned with his head toward the far door. “There she is. Mary Louise Huntington. Go get her.”
I looked up to see a young woman with blonde hair about my length coming out of the door
. I stepped out of the car and squinted. “Holy shit. She looks like me!”
“Atta girl, Sherlock.”
Pleased that I’d figured something out but having no clue as to what, I started walking toward the woman, who was now followed by a nun. Another state cop came out of the far door near the baggage claim amid a crowd of people. A flight must have recently landed.
When I got closer to the woman, I said, “I’m here to escort you.” To a mental institution, but I didn’t say that out loud. “I’m with him.” I turned around and pointed.
That jaw thing happened again.
No black Suburban.
No Jagger.
No idea what the hell I was doing.
I only hoped the woman, who looked even more like me close up, wouldn’t freak out and give me a hard time.
“I need to pee,” she said and turned around. The nun was nowhere in sight now.
“Oh, wait,” I shouted as I followed her inside. She hurried toward the ladies’ room near the baggage claim carousels. “I’m supposed to stay with you.”
I bumped into an elderly woman, coming out of the ladies’ room.
“Watch it, bitch!” she shouted.
Appalled that a granny would speak that way, I offered an “excuse me” and went inside. Mary Louise must have gone into a stall. I leaned against the sink and waited. “Er … you all right?”
Silence.
Jagger surely would be back from driving around the airport by now. He would do more than shake his head if I messed this up.
“Look, Mary Louise, is it? I need to know that you are all—”
The door opened.
My jaw dropped to my nipples this time.
Mary Louise Huntington stood in front of me as if I were looking in a mirror.
“I … did you notice how much we—”
She took off her jacket. Beneath she wore drab blue scrubs.
Just like mine.
What the hell?
Before I could say a word, she hurried out the door again. I followed close behind. “Oh, no, lady. You are not getting me into trouble with Jagger.”
The nun approached, dropped her black carry-on bag and bumped into me. “Oh, sorry, Sister. I’m not usually … ouch!”
