Dating is Murder

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “—didn’t want you thinking it was me. People so damn irresponsible, no accountability— Where’s the phone?” She made a call to her husband, Francis, asking about stores that carried car paint. I wondered where Joey was hiding and told myself not to worry, that she was a toothpick, that her hair took up more space than her body.

  Fredreeq sounded prepared to talk indefinitely, but the receptionist eventually told her she had to close up. Thank God. Fredreeq said good-bye, drawers opened and closed, a window cranked shut, a phone machine message changed, and, finally, a key turned in a door.

  Uh-oh.

  I waited for Joey’s faint “Wollie?” before I crawled out from under the desk. It took me a full minute to stand. Was this what arthritis felt like? I looked around and said, “Joey?”

  A muffled sound came from a file cabinet. It was a vertical job not much more than four feet tall, moved out from the wall about fifteen inches, due to a fortuitously placed pipe. It rattled and from the back Joey emerged, looking like I felt, hair disheveled and body parts unfolding with difficulty.

  “How did you fit back there?” I asked.

  “Squatting and bent over. I may have to spend the night at a chiropractor’s.”

  “We may have to spend the night here.” I went to the glass front door for a closer look. “What if we need a key to get out? I didn’t think about that. Did you?”

  “It crossed my mind, but that’s not what worries me. It’ll be Christmas before we get through these boxes. This is insane. I can’t believe I’m asking, but is it worth it?”

  “It’s worth it. I’m telling you, Marie-Thérèse knows about Annika. If I had a problem, who would I tell? You. This girl is the Joey Rafferty of Annika’s life, and in one of these boxes is her address and a phone number.”

  There were over a hundred boxes. Had these people been in business since World War II? The au pair program hadn’t been around nearly that long. I picked one at random, and looked at my watch. In less than seven hours we had to be in Beverly Hills for B.C. “Do we leave things tidy?” I asked. “Are we trying to cover our tracks?”

  “We could turn a leaf blower loose in here and no one would notice. I say we just start in. Maybe put a check mark on the boxes we’ve looked at.”

  It was 5:22 P.M. At 6:49 we turned on the radio to liven things up, and listened to the latest report of volcanic activity on the Big Island of Hawaii. At 8:03 we stopped the au pair search and began a food search. “Protein bars. Oyster crackers. That’s what normal people keep in an office,” Joey said. “I bet this place is a front for something.”

  “I found Sweet ’n Low,” I said, rummaging through the receptionist’s desk.

  “Is that the edible stuff?”

  “No, the blue’s edible,” I said. “This is the pink, cheaper but toxic tasting.”

  “It’s my first breaking and entering. Next time I’ll bring snacks.”

  By eight-thirty, in addition to countless au pair applications, we’d found tax receipts for Marty Otis, yearbooks from Millard High in Wisconsin, and old issues of Playboy and Hustler.

  At nine-fifteen, Joey said, “Eureka.”

  “You found her?”

  “No, I found Polaroids.”

  I crawled across the icky tan carpet to her. She passed me pictures. People smiled—or not—into the camera, dressed in swimsuits, leotards, or skimpy loungewear. One man in knee socks and boxer shorts wore some sort of harness that reminded me of Margaret, a ferret I’d once known. Not quite pornographic, but not au pair photo collages. The subjects ranged in age from teens to seniors, all body types, races, and genders, and were rated with one, two, or three stars, drawn in the upper corner with a felt pen. Each photo was numbered. “Look at this three-star guy in the Speedo. I think he’s worth another half star. You know—” Joey crawled across the carpet. “I bet these numbers correspond to files—I saw a box of files somewhere—”

  I didn’t stop her. This wasn’t getting us closer to Marie-Thérèse, but she was happier now than she’d been in three hours.

  “Aha!” she said, moments later. “Quite the entrepreneur. Let’s check out this Web site.” She seated herself at Marty Otis’s desk. “Good. Bills. His address. We’ll keep that.”

  “What’s the story?” I asked.

  “Wait a second. Let me figure out how this computer—please, God, don’t let there be a password—” She logged on to the Internet, still mumbling to herself. “I bet he charges a huge fee on that end and pays chicken feed on this end. Yes! Speedo, on the home page. Hello, Speedo. Mind-boggling what people will do for a few thousand bucks.”

  “No kidding,” I said, thinking about Biological Clock. I was glad not to be on camera tonight. Espionage is less stressful than trying to look beautiful, act charming, and keep viewers from changing channels. Of course, if we got stuck in San Pedro and missed the shoot, that would be more stressful. The FBI probably frowned on calling in sick, and calling Simon at all would entail telling him some form of the truth, which—

  And then, there it was. The name I’d been seeking so long that once I found it I almost missed it. Small, rounded printing. Marie-Thérèse. Last name DuCroq. Twenty years old. Staying with a family called the Johannessens in Minnesota. Arrived early January.

  Elated, I showed the application to Joey, then used the copy machine to reproduce the contact information. We worked quickly now. I got the office back to the approximate state we’d found it in, and Joey tore herself from the computer to deal with the lock on the door.

  “This doesn’t look so bad,” she said. “I mean, you do need a key to open it, but let’s try a credit card. Oh. I didn’t bring a purse in. Did you?”

  I had my backpack. Joey said not to use a card I really needed, so I handed over my Blockbuster Video card, then my Costco membership, and, finally, reluctantly, my library card. When all three were mutilated, I started searching drawers for a spare key.

  “You know, Gun Girl never had this hard a time,” Joey said, still working the lock. “I realize that was TV, but . . .” She stood back and surveyed the glass. “I suppose it’s a bad idea to smash the whole thing.”

  “Yes. Bad. Try it, though.”

  “Looks pretty flimsy. I bet I could just—”

  For such a skinny thing, Joey was strong. She gave the double doors a shake that simulated a mild earthquake.

  It didn’t open them, but it did set off the alarm.

  34

  In my next life, if I’m a woman again, I’m going to be petite. I realize it’s a drawback when you’re at a rock concert or a parade and trying to see over the person in front of you, but for getting through bathroom windows, it’s indispensable. Also, shoes look better in size five than they do in size eleven.

  In the bathroom we found the plunger, which we broke while trying to smash the front door. Then we found the window. Joey squeezed through first, barely making it, which should have alerted us, but it’s her nature to jump first, ask questions later, and I was distracted, watching our back. I expected armed security personnel to come bursting in—Secret Service, for all I knew, since au pair agencies are regulated by the State Department. When I heard Joey’s “All clear” I threw my backpack through the window and followed it, arms first, then head, with my feet balanced on the toilet tank. My head made it. My rib cage didn’t. Okay, my breasts.

  “Joey, I’m stuck.”

  “You’re not stuck.” She grasped my upper arms to pull me into the alley. “Just inhale. No, exhale. On the count of three. One, two—”

  “Stop.”

  “Just try it. Come on. Big breath, then let it all out. Flatten yourself.”

  I exhaled. It worked. Joey was able to get another six inches of me out into the night air. The downside was that I was stuck tighter. It was an old double window in a half-open position, big enough horizontally for my shoulders, too small vertically for my chest.

  “Again,” Joey said.

  “I can’t. This is not physically
possible.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s not.”

  “It has to be,” Joey said. “I did it and you can too.”

  “You did it because you’re Olive Oyl. I’m Betty Boop.”

  “You’re not stuck. You can’t be stuck. I won’t let you be.”

  I now saw the kind of toddler Joey had been, forcing the round peg through the square hole with the plastic hammer, breaking the toy. “Joey, I like your can-do attitude, but without a breast reduction, this is it for me. I’m having a little trouble breathing and I might panic.”

  “No panicking. Okay, we’ll put you in reverse. Here we go.”

  “Ow! Ow! Stop. Don’t push. Major pain.”

  “Sorry.” Joey raised her hands and stepped back. She was just a touch below my eye level, in the alley. She looked up and smiled. “Go at your own speed. Plenty of time.”

  I struggled to get myself back into the bathroom, but all I could do was wiggle the bottom half of me like a mermaid. The windowsill dug into my sweatshirt, bruising my armpits, and random bits of hardware scraped my back. “It’s like when you try on a ring that’s a little tight and then your knuckle swells up and you can’t get it off.”

  “Canola oil. That’s what we need. Or—uh-oh.” Joey turned to look down the alleyway. “Is that a car door? Do you see headlights?”

  “I can’t see anything from here, I— Okay, go. Run.”

  Her head whipped around so fast I was hit in the face with a wave of red hair. “Are you nuts? I’m not leaving you here.”

  “No, listen,” I said. “There’s no point in both of us getting arrested—”

  “We won’t. I’ll talk our way out of it.”

  “What if you can’t? Someone should be on the outside, arranging bail or whatever.”

  “I’ll be a decoy,” she said. “I’ll run out front, head them off, they won’t know—”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll be stuck here for the weekend while you’re in jail. Sssh. Listen.”

  We listened. Silence. The alarm had stopped. Did I hear voices in the office behind me? “Joey,” I whispered. “Don’t argue. Take my backpack and go. No, leave the backpack, but take the stuff on Marie-Thérèse, the folded page—do it. Don’t get sentimental on me.”

  Joey, torn between the unthinkable—abandoning me—and the illogical—sacrificing us both—hesitated. Then she grabbed my backpack, tucked the photocopied page into her jeans pocket, and looked me in the eye. “Tell them you work here, you were working late, you forgot your key. Tell them Marty Otis will confirm it. But stall. I need half an hour.” She gave me a fast kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave San Pedro without you.”

  She slipped down the alley as a voice behind me in the bathroom said, “Hold it right there. Don’t move.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  The voices in the bathroom turned out to be two people, from the security company. I assured them that I wasn’t a dangerous criminal and that I was, incidentally, female, something the bottom half of me apparently didn’t make clear. One of them actually informed me that my feet, standing on the toilet tank in sneakers, were men’s feet. I suggested they reach under my heavy sweatshirt and check out my breasts, straining to get through the window. They declined. I told them to come around to the alley and meet the rest of me. One did. The other stayed behind to guard my legs.

  A flashlight appeared first, then a uniformed woman, her hair in a tight ponytail that meant business. She shone the light in my face. “Bernie, she’s right! She’s female! You stuck?” I nodded. “Bernie, she’s stuck!” She pointed the flashlight at the window. “You armed?”

  “Heavens, no, I don’t like guns. I was here working, going through that mountain of boxes you waded through.” This was true enough. “And the receptionist locked me in, not knowing I was here, and I couldn’t find the key and I accidentally set off the alarm. Um, Ms.—”

  “Sims. Wait a second. You sound like—” The light blinded me, and I heard an gasp. “Criminy. It’s you. Bernie! It’s the woman from that show—that late show—what’s it called?”

  “Biological Clock,” I said.

  “Biological Clock! It’s her. The blond one.”

  “What?” Bernie’s voice, muffled, came back.

  “That reality show, where we pick which ones should have a baby!”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s her, the blonde!” The light hit my face again. “You work here? You’re a TV star.”

  “We all have day jobs,” I said. “We get paid for the show, but not a huge amount.”

  A second flashlight came around the corner. Another uniform, this one a guy with close-shaved hair. Another light in my face. Then: “Who’s she supposed to be?”

  “The one on that TV show, Biological Clock. The blond contestant.”

  “Who, her? You’re nuts. She doesn’t look anything like her.”

  I said, “We wear a lot of makeup. Everyone on TV does.”

  “No kidding,” Ms. Sims said. “I saw Courtney Thorne-Smith one time in Century City and you couldn’t even tell it was her.”

  Bernie was not convinced. Nor was he willing to accept at face value my story about working late. And neither of them seemed to understand how a person who turned up on television could also turn up in San Pedro.

  “My backpack’s on the ground there,” I said. “You’re welcome to check out my ID, but first could you help me out of this window, because I actually have to get to the set—”

  “No,” Bernie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Liability. We’re not trained for that sort of thing.”

  “It doesn’t take much training,” I said. “If you go around inside and grab my legs—”

  “No. If something happened, you could sue.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Bernie shook his head. “You might.”

  I closed my eyes, then opened them. “Bernie, people die of asphyxiation when their bodies are stuck in positions that interfere with their breathing. I’m not saying that will happen here, but I’m not feeling well. I could pass out, and then it will be tough getting me out of here because I’ll be unconscious and unable to assist in my own rescue.”

  The woman spoke up. “She’s right, Bernie. That’s how Jesus Christ died. He was hanging on the cross so long he couldn’t get air to his lungs.”

  “We’re not authorized to physically engage with—”

  “Bernie,” I said, “never mind that I have a show to do. Have you heard of Good Samaritan laws? You can’t ignore someone whose life is in danger, you have to help if you’re able, or you’re criminally responsible. Body parts might have to be amputated if I hang here much longer.” I was straying from the truth, but my feet did happen to be asleep.

  “Bernie,” Ms. Sims said, “for gosh sakes, let’s get her out. Call it in and give me a hand.”

  “Call it in?” I asked. “To whom? Who are you calling?” But Bernie was already on the phone and his partner was on her way inside.

  Good Samaritan Sims lacked the upper-body strength to pull me through the window, and Bernie, impervious to pleas, wouldn’t help. So we settled in to wait for the Harbor Division police. I felt like a West African goliath frog, whose throat swells to five times its size in order to croak. I felt like a circus woman, preparing to be shot out of a cannon. I felt like an idiot. My only comfort was that Simon was not witnessing this.

  There’s a psychotherapeutic technique called rebirthing that was big in the 1980s or ’90s, where a therapist hypnotizes you so that you can reexperience the trip down the birth canal in order to work through the trauma of it all. I had never done this technique. Now, thanks to two San Pedro law enforcement officers pulling with all their strength, I would never have to.

  Eventually, I was sitting at the receptionist’s desk of Au Pairs par Excellence, rubbing under my arms and repeating the story I’d told the security response team, this time im
plying without actually saying “I work here.”

  The cops listened with no indication of whether they believed me. They were mildly interested to learn I was a contestant on a reality TV show, which I needed to get to—fast. They were somewhat more interested in how far I was from West Hollywood, my home address. Their attitude was as polite and respectful as one could ask of two men who had intimate knowledge of my waist and thighs and size eleven feet.

  “Do you have any proof that you work here?” the younger of the two asked. He had a curly-haired cherubic look; I pictured him sitting for Leonardo da Vinci, the model for the archangel who tells the Virgin Mary the good news about her pregnancy.

  “Like a paycheck or a time sheet?” I said. “Gosh, I don’t. You can call Marty Otis. He runs the show. Here’s his home number—” I pointed to the speed-dial list on the telephone, where “Marty—home” was listed as No. 4, right between FedEx and Gianni’s Pizza. I was pleased with myself for having noticed it and hoped I gave the impression of familiarity with the office.

  “Is that the 9032 number?” Bernie, of the security company, asked. “That’s what we got on file. Already tried it. Got a machine.”

  The older cop, Asian, tired-looking, and a little crabby, nodded. He tried the number, left a message for Marty Otis, then turned to Bernie. “All right, we’re headed back to the station. You people got keys, right? You can lock up after us.”

  “So you’re all finished with me?” I asked.

  “No, you’ll come with us.”

  I didn’t ask if I was under arrest. It’s the kind of thing Joey or Fredreeq would get clear on right away, but I’d function better pretending we were buddies driving to the station to sort out details. I’d hate for them to go into good cop, bad cop mode, when we were doing okay with good cop, crabby cop.

  There were two cars in the seedy parking lot, neither of which was Joey’s husband’s BMW. No one asked me which car was mine, which was good, because I had no idea how to explain being without wheels so far from home.