by Sex, Nikki
Alone under the table, Carmen's mind was in a mental bliss, somewhere far, far away.
11. Three Weeks Later
Kurt slammed shut the door to the demountable office he was currently working in, on site of the new hotel his company was building.
His super efficient personal assistant had taken the day off so Kurt didn't have to worry about concerning anyone with his bad mood and quick-temper. Frank Holdsworth had been with him for four years and was the absolute best.
Shit! Shit! Shit! he thought. What should I do now?
Kurt's ex-girlfriend, Laura Thomas was in the hospital. Three days ago she had run a hot bath in her mother's home where she was living, had gotten in, and then had slashed her wrists. Right now her condition was stable.
But Laura had almost died.
Kurt was not usually burdened with indecision. One of his best qualities was his ability to assess a situation and deal with it without endlessly second guessing himself. Yet the stand-off with his ex-girlfriend, the woman who had taken him to court for "physical abuse and suffering" had really put him into an uncertain spin.
A large part of him wanted to send Laura flowers, or to go see her. Another part of him wanted to shake her and demand to know what the fuck she had been thinking. Had she done this simply to make him feel guilty for not answering her phone calls?
If so it had worked.
The round of paparazzi and news spots about his fall from grace had all started up once more. Only now there was speculation that perhaps he had driven Laura to suicide. Trial by public opinion was a real pain in the ass. Kurt had hired a Public Relations firm to come up with a solution to the whole court issue. Now they could work on these new circumstances, too.
Meanwhile, he still hadn’t found Carmen. Meeting Carmen had been such a high, and thinking of her still quickened his pulse. The woman had grounded him. He simply had to see her again. He had to explain. But where the fuck was she?
Kurt's cell rang, and he was surprised when he found that André Chevalier was calling.
"André," he said happily. "How are you?"
"Tres bien, mon ami," André said. "And you?"
Kurt shrugged. "You know, same old, same old."
André laughed, it was a light and engaging sound. "For years I live in America, and still you use the terms I do not know," he said. "What does it mean, the same old, same old?"
Kurt had to smile. "Sorry, André," he said. "It means that I am in the same old shit. I'm in trouble with the press again. But you know what? This time I'm not so bothered about it."
"Ah, yes, the woman who made trouble for you is very unwell because she tried to kill herself, I understand," André said. "And this does not please you?"
"No, André," Kurt said. "It doesn't please me in the least. I don't wish her ill."
"Tres bon, mon ami," André said. "Eh bien. The fact that this does not make you happy delights me. It confirms what I know to be true, Kurt, that you are a good person. You do not waste your valuable time and attention on such foolishness as resentment and revenge." He cleared his throat. "I have called to tell you that I have a full report on your Carmen."
"You're kidding!" Kurt said, utterly incredulous. "You mean her fingerprints were in the system?"
"Mais oui."
For once André did not sound so cheerful, if anything he seemed uncomfortable. That was unheard of for the carefree Frenchman. "So what's the story?" Kurt said. "Is she in trouble with the police or something? What?"
"I have your fax number," André said. "Are you there in your office in front of the machine? I ask because the report is confidential, and you will wish to be the only one to see it."
"Sure," Kurt said. "I'm right here. Send it along."
"Bon," André said. "When you read it you may call and we will speak of this if you care to do so. But I must tell you my friend that two Drug Enforcement Agency officers have been to see me. Of a certainty, even now they are coming to make the visit with you. They became aware of the fingerprint search you initiated for Carmen Wilson, you understand. I could not lie to them."
"Shit."
"Just so."
Kurt took a deep breath in, his body humming with nerves. What had Carmen done? Why was she in trouble with the DEA?
Christ, I finally find a girl I really like, and she turns out to be a criminal? he thought. Not only a criminal, but involved in drugs?
There was no way that she was a drug user, he would have known that. Shit. Did that mean she sold drugs? Kurt thought it would have been better if Carmen had simply been a prostitute as he had originally understood her to be.
"Thanks, André," Kurt said with a heavy sigh. "I'll let you know what happens when I see the Federal agents and figure it all out."
"Bon chance, mon ami," André said and hung up.
When the fax came through it made fascinating and depressing reading. How could the woman who made him laugh, the generous, giving, fun woman he had enjoyed such fantastic sex with have a record like this?
Subject: Carmen Juanita Wilson
Subject was raised in Santa Anna California off Main and 17th. Home owned by grandmother, Juanita Garcia, a first generation American married to a US Citizen with one living child, Carmen's mother, Margret. Juanita Garcia's property was willed to Carmen upon death. Taxes past due, home may soon be lost.
Carmen's mother, Margret produced three children, Carlos (28), Mary (deceased) and Carmen (22). Catholic family. Carmen's mother was seventeen when she had her first child, and was married after that. Second child died at birth. Mother a functioning alcoholic. Unreliable employee, works part time at the local 7-Eleven.
Father – details sketchy. White male, apparently stabbed to death in a drug deal when Carmen was four years old.
Brother, Carlos Michael Wilson is a soldier for the Mex mafia La eMe. Long history of fraud, pimping and drug trafficking. (see appendix C).
Grandmother dead, Carmen looked after her when she was sick. Grandmother left house to her. Brother is apparently an affable sociopath, manipulative, excellent at con games and gang soldier who is constantly in trouble with the police. He is currently wanted for fraud.
Carmen Wilson attended Santa Anna High school. Best friend is Amber Mason, whose father rides with the Hells' Angels M.C. Carmen and Amber were both excellent students, each obtaining a full scholarship for University of California Irvine. Carmen has completed two years of law school, achieving top grades (Appendix A). She unexpectedly dropped out during her third year.
Police Record:
Currently wanted for questioning in relation to $3,000 stolen from her ex-boyfriend. Fingerprints confirm high probability of having committed offense.
Restraining order placed on ex boyfriend (Robert Ellis L.A. Property Mogul) prior to this event, but disallowed by judge. Details unable to be obtained - an unusual circumstance. Someone high-up paid off?
Extensive juvenile history including:
Hit and run felony and driving without a license (age 14) Spent six months in Juvenile detention when her family didn't make bail.
Possession with intent to sell (heroin)
Possession of stolen goods.
Kurt sat back in his office chair, his mind in a funk. How could this be Carmen's adolescent police record? It simply didn’t make sense. Kurt still had no idea how to find her. Sometime in the next few days the DEA would arrive, and maybe then he would know more.
Her record was terrible, and Kurt figured he was a crazy man, but it honestly made no difference.
I still want her, Kurt thought, without even one small doubt in his mind. I need to see her again.
And then he smiled. I really need to fuck her again, too.
12. Close Call
The day was cold and overcast, but there was no sign of rain. A steady biting wind was blowing and that made Carmen’s mind up for her.
Spending the coldest season of the year in New York may not be such a good idea. Carmen figured that maybe, just li
ke the birds, she would go south for the winter. Florida was supposed to be nice this time of year. Like pretty well everywhere else, Carmen had never been to Florida.
Carmen Wilson was doing some much needed grocery shopping at the 'Super Stop and Shop' right near the shared apartment where she was living in Queens.
Dressed in a large dark hoodie and dark track suit pants, Carmen was careful not to draw attention to herself, keeping her face away from cameras and down low so that people never really saw her. She had used the "Super Stop and Shop" before, and had already cased the joint, well aware of all entry and exit points
She also knew who exactly was in the store. It was like a game of concentration that she had played since she was a child and she was pretty good at it.
For example, the balding man with the shopping cart full of popcorn, pizza and beer was divorced. There was a line where his wedding ring should be. He looked sad and lonely, so Carmen deduced that it was a recent separation. He was still coming to terms with the situation.
The tall skinny man with the pop tarts, chocolate and candy was divorced with young children. Divorced dads always added kid's junk food to the grocery cart, but they didn't buy the kids food until closer to the weekend. It was Thursday evening, so tall skinny guy was divorced with children. Elementary, my dear Watson.
Bachelors ate junk food, obese people really ate junk food. Skinny, constantly dieting chicks ate little – except chocolate.
Paranoid, Carmen studied every single person in the shop for suspicious tendencies. Was that portly fellow a private detective? Was that sour faced lady working for the government? Was that Hispanic man a member of La eMe the Mexican Mafia?
As Carmen added items to her cart, she became wary of a woman who seemed to be following her. The woman looked about thirty-five years old, with brown-blonde hair and hazel eyes.
Her clothes were wrong somehow. It was as if she had gotten dressed up to go shopping, and yet she was attempting to look casual.
Carmen suddenly knew that the woman was after her.
But how in the world had they found her? Carmen's mind whirled with possibilities.
Walking calmly, Carmen left her shopping cart in an aisle and moved toward the back of the shops and down a hallway to the toilets. The woman began to pursue her, moving a little faster now but still trying to act casual.
There were two toilets in the back of the store, a single room for each, one with a large sign: Men. The other proclaiming: Women.
As soon as Carmen was in the hall she opened the female toilet door and locked it, so it appeared that someone was inside. Then she went into the male toilet and locked the door, going to the window, and opening it.
She heard someone pounding on the door to the ladies room.
It was a tight squeeze, but she slid through the window, jarring her ankle slightly with the drop.
Once she was outside she heard a man yell, "Stop! Police!"
That was all she needed. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone intended to shoot her. Carmen took off in a dead run down an alley that she had scouted previously. All her paranoid preventative measures were coming together, and despite the adrenaline rushing through her, she was calmly, logically reacting to the situation.
As she rounded a corner she threw off her hoodie and track pants, stashing them in a nearby dumpster. The clothes she had on underneath were hot pink.
Carmen took a blue New York Yankee's baseball cap out of her pocket. With careful precision she twisted her long loose hair up and efficiently hid it under the cap.
An angry man raced by, out of breath. "Did you see a girl go by?" he called out from over his shoulder when he saw her. "Someone in dark pants and a hoodie?"
"Shore," Carmen said with an exaggerated New Jersey accent. "What dya want her for?"
"Never mind that!" the man snapped in an angry, frustrated tone. "Which way did she go?"
Carmen pointed a direction and the man ran off. Carefully, with exaggerated calm, she got out a yo-yo and began to roll it up and down while making her escape. Despite appearances, her mind was on high alert. Adrenaline pumped through her body, making her hand shake.
What was going on? Carmen wondered. Who was after her now?
Those people were not private detectives, nor were they Mex Mafia. Had Robert reported the three thousand dollars she took from him? But so what if he had? No cop was going to follow her all the way to New York.
It was a mystery and it was also a real problem. Carmen couldn't go back to the apartment now. They must have gotten her address from someone at her old job, or… what? Either way, they had known exactly where to find her. Carmen had told Voula that she was going to the local 'Super Stop and Shop.' Voula had clearly told… who?
Well. It looked like she was staying in a shelter tonight. It was just as well that she had a bit of cash on her.
There was only one thing to do now. Carmen needed help. She needed a lawyer, and for that she had to have money.
With a little thrill of pleasure Carmen realized that now she had a valid reason to contact Kurt Nielsen once more. In fact she had to call him. The man had said that he would help her, and she was in trouble. In fact she seemed to have landed in deep shit.
Carmen felt in her bra, the place where she had carefully placed his treasured letter and phone number.
Kurt Nielsen, she thought happily. The glorious green-eyed 'God of Thunderous Orgasms.'
Despite all her alarming problems, Carmen found that she was smiling.
13. Phone Call
The Drug Enforcement Agency Officers hadn't been very forthcoming after showing Kurt their official identification.
Kurt had been sitting at his office desk, attending to some paperwork when the DEA agents knocked and were invited in. They had arrived at his small demountable office site unexpectedly, of course. Who expects the DEA to turn up on one's doorstep after all? Although Kurt did have a heads up from André. The two agents presented themselves, a man between thirty and forty, and a woman of similar, yet indeterminate age. She was clearly the senior officer.
"Kurt Nielsen? Pleased to meet you," she said with a West Coast accent, putting her hand out to grasp his. The woman's voice was husky, like she was a heavy smoker. Although she looked as if she had seen every possible human vice a hundred times, her hazel eyes were kind.
Kurt liked her instantly.
"We're sorry to bother you," she said. "I am agent Lois Cohen and this is agent Jack Huber," she said, gesturing to her companion.
Kurt thought that Cohen looked tired. She was slim and medium height, with shoulder length brown-blonde hair. Dressed in civilian clothes, she was wearing jeans and brown flats with a thick sheepskin jacket. Apparently she was used to warmer weather.
With short dark hair and dark eyes, Agent Jack Huber was of a similar age and height to Kurt, except with a slimmer build. The man was also dressed down in jeans and wore a black leather jacket. Kurt figured that Huber was trying to appear like a civilian. But with that suspicious and alert cop gaze, Kurt didn't think it was working.
Huber seemed to radiate a cynical aura. He studied Kurt with a skeptical eye, and Kurt was glad that the man was Cohen's underling.
"How can I help you?" Kurt asked.
They explained how they were following a fugitive, Carmen Wilson. They knew that Kurt had recently met with her because he had run her prints, so they were following that lead up. Kurt had asked if he needed a lawyer, and they told him that he was in no trouble with the law, and that they would appreciate his assistance.
"Is she going to jail?" he asked.
"We are not at liberty to say," Cohen replied.
"Maybe I am not at liberty to speak to you either," Kurt said, expecting at least a little bit of quid pro quo.
"Mr. Nielsen," Cohen said calmly. "We can go through the court, but I am persuaded that you wouldn’t want any negative publicity."
Kurt hid a flinch - at least he hoped he did. Shit, he thought. Well, the wom
an has me there.
Kurt gave some details of how he had met Carmen and become friendly, explaining that she was a hotel maid when he was staying at the Ritz-Hilton. The male agent's expression turned even more cynical and Kurt glared at him, his intimidating scowl coming naturally.
Kurt decided that if the man made one negative comment Kurt would deck him – Federal Officer or not.
Thankfully, Huber looked away from Kurt's dangerous gaze.
What they wanted was access to his phone. A court order wasn't needed if he was willing to assist the officers. They had reason to think that Ms. Wilson may contact him.
"Why?" he asked.
"She is on the run and only just gave us the slip," Huber said with a growl. "I still don’t know how she did it. She is amazingly cunning, but with her stellar upbringing and history this is no real surprise."
"Jack," Lois Cohen snapped. "That sort of frivolous condemnation is unnecessary. We are hoping to obtain assistance from Carmen Wilson, willing assistance. Attitudes like that will get us nowhere. Besides, you have to admit, the woman is a survivor. She is quite a stubborn and determined young lady."
"Lady?" Huber muttered in a tone of contemptuous disbelief. "More like a sly, manipulative bitch."
Kurt rose to his feet, rounded the desk and had the man up against the wall by the throat before he was aware of his instant rage.
"Disrespect the Lady again in my presence," Kurt said, glaring at Huber, "…and government agent or not, I'll not be responsible for my actions."
"Enough," Agent Cohen snapped. "Let him go Mr. Nielsen."
Kurt released his hold, his eyes never leaving the agents face. Huber's face had turned scarlet - more from fury than lack of air. Huber glared back at Kurt, his hands bunched in tight fists at his side.
Kurt noticed that the male agent kept his mouth shut, but a small smile was playing about Lois Cohen's thin lips. Kurt wondered if her partner had been a thorn in her side. Was she glad to see someone put him in his place?
"Jack," she said turning toward her partner. "I did warn you."
Cohen smiled at Kurt and her eyes were kind and understanding. What was this? he wondered, momentarily put utterly off his stride. Good cop, bad cop?
