“You can’t uh, meet your car urges in other ways?”
“Borrowing them, you mean?”
I winced at the reminder that whoever owned this car wouldn’t be pleased to know I was sitting in it.
“Um, sure.”
“I don’t know. Even with my disconnecting the odometer trick and my boss looking the other way since I’m the best mechanic he’s got, I can only get away with so much. He’s warned me that if a client ever finds out, he’ll throw me under the bus, so to speak. It’s easier to date a jerk with a nice car, and there’s always the hope he won’t turn out to be a jerk.” She grimaced. “Not that I get the chance to find that out for myself half the time. As soon as Mom catches a whiff of a new relationship, she runs background searches and sometimes even tails the guy I’m dating. Then she finds a way to casually mention how he was charged with credit card fraud or visits a certain hotel every Friday night at seven sharp.”
I scrunched my face in sympathy. “Sounds tough.”
“It is.”
The conversation made me think of our New Year’s party where I realized that Oliver and Harper might be kindred souls. They were both good-natured and easygoing with mischievous, nothing-is-sacred attitudes. It was worth a shot, wasn’t it? “What about my housemate Oliver?” I asked.
“What does he drive?”
Uh-oh. This was going to go over like a lead balloon. “A ’91 Ford Festiva.”
“Nope, sorry, I’m out.”
“But he got it because he doesn’t care about material possessions, and it was cheap and economical, which speaks of his character, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, see? We’ll never work out. Nothing in common.”
That wasn’t true. She might be crazy about cars, but she rented a modest apartment, and from what I’d seen, her wardrobe consisted of tank tops, shorts, jeans, and work overalls. “Because your current system of dating guys who also love cars is working so great,” I groused, but I let her be. For now. Perhaps I’d just have to foist them together until they realized what they were missing.
I mused over this between our idle chatter for the next few hours while all of nothing happened in Alyssa’s home. The lights were out. Maybe she wasn’t even there, or maybe she was fast asleep. I yawned. Like I would love to be.
A knock on the window made me yelp, and a flashlight blinded my night-adjusted eyes. It was unsettlingly close to the way I’d been arrested not so long ago.
Harper rolled down the window and retrieved her own flashlight to shine right back, illuminating a tall, bulky man in a security uniform. “Hey buddy, get your paws off the glass. This baby is worth more than you make in a decade.”
I hoped she was exaggerating. What if our gear scratched the dash?
“Then get out of here. There’s no loitering allowed around these parts. My mistress is very protective of her privacy.”
“Who’s your mistress?”
“Miss none of your business. Now move along or I’ll—”
His words were cut off by the window sliding up. Not that we couldn’t have heard him through the glass, but the rude audacity of the gesture shocked him to silence. Harper’s flashlight showed a mulish expression before he turned and stalked away.
“Was that wise? Maybe we should get going. Nothing happening here, and I need some sleep.”
“Or maybe we should stay because he’s trying to get rid of us right before something does happen.”
I shuffled to get comfortable. “Okay, twenty more minutes.”
Harper drank from the thermos I’d packed. “The real reason I didn’t go into the family business is I don’t have the plumbing for it. Did you notice the one thing Connor didn’t give us were a couple of empty bottles? Mom used to have a camp toilet for long, important stakeouts, but that meant you had to drive the van around, and as you might’ve noticed, I’m more of a sports car kind of girl.” Her eyes scanned our surroundings, and I wasn’t sure whether she was looking for suspicious activity or a place to pee.
“I don’t think squatting in a bush in this neighborhood is wise. You know exposing yourself in public can get you on the sex offenders list, right?”
Harper grunted in a decent imitation of Connor. “Sometimes it sucks to be a woman.”
After fifteen minutes of nothing happening, a car pulled up behind us. The bright headlights made it impossible to see anything useful. Not good.
A flashlight bobbed toward us. Had the security guard called backup? But this time the uniform was dark blue and sported a shiny badge over the heart. A police officer. “You want to explain your presence here?”
A quick glance at the equipment on the dash killed any chance of feigning we were just here to make out.
Harper lowered her own flashlight. “We’re investigating the string of vandalism activity in the area.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. I haven’t heard of any vandalism around here.”
“Well no, it’s nothing that’s been reported because it’s so minor. But Mrs. Darwent asked us to look into what she thinks is a group of youths vandalizing…”
Harper hesitated for a fraction of a second, and I leaped in. “Cats.”
Gee, great save, Izzy. Apparently, cats were my excuse for everything at the moment.
My partner went on as if it was what she’d been about to say all along. “Yes, someone spray-painted Mrs. Darwent’s cat. She was too embarrassed to trouble the LAPD with such a thing, as I’m sure you’d understand, so she hired us.”
“Are you a licensed investigator?”
“Ah no. Used to be, but I haven’t renewed my license in recent years. By hired I mean she said she’d bake us my favorite banana cream pie.”
The officer didn’t buy it, but we hadn’t given him cause to arrest us either. “How about you move along? I’ve got a feeling no cats will be spray-painted tonight. And you can tell Mrs. Darwent that she’s welcome to talk to us if they are.”
Perhaps since we’d been planning to leave soon anyway, or because she was busting for the toilet, Harper nodded. “Thanks, Officer, we’ll pass that on.”
The policeman returned to the car but made no move to leave. Waiting for us to go first.
We obliged, at a much more sedate pace than we’d arrived at. I almost hoped the cop would follow us so Harper would be forced to tame her inner madwoman, but no such luck. On the bright side, it meant I would be home in bed faster.
Before I’d finished the thought, Harper got a phone call. “Boss, to what do I owe the pleasure? Ah. Yes. All right. I’ll be there in ten.”
She chucked the phone in her lap and hit the accelerator hard enough to throw me against my seat.
“Uh, what’s happening?” I didn’t manage to keep the nervousness out of my voice.
“Remember that agreement I told you I have with my boss?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the owner of this beautiful car just called and wants to pay a handsome sum to get his baby back tonight. He’ll be at the shop in fifteen minutes, and he better have a car to pick up or I might end up having to move in with Connor.”
I didn’t ask any more questions after that. I was too busy trying to keep calm and stop the expensive surveillance equipment from flying around the interior. I’d been wrong before. She hadn’t been driving The Fast and the Furious style. This was Fast and Furious style. I hoped we wouldn’t run into any more police officers tonight, or we’d be in a world of trouble.
We flew around a bend in the road, and I smacked my head on the window but managed to protect the car’s interior from airborne cameras.
On second thought, if a cop pulled us over, they might save my life.
The tires screeched around another corner, and I cringed, imagining what Aunt Alice would think about my being in one of those cars that wake up the neighborhood with their hooligan ways. After a few more bends, I had something more serious to worry about.
Would Harper lose her job if the Aston Martin was wait
ing idly in the garage with a fresh pile of vomit adorning its fancy upholstery?
Harper’s customer got his car back free of vomit, and I vowed to never go driving with her anywhere ever again. Of course, I promptly broke the vow when I realized I needed her to take me home if I was going to make it to bed. But if Connor offered me a lift to meet Harper somewhere in the future, I would damn well take him up on it.
I crawled into bed thirty minutes before midnight without having discovered a single nefarious thing about Alyssa unless you count the fact that two of her bougainvillea plants weren’t quite symmetrical. Or that she was getting a lot more sleep than me tonight. My alarm was set for the dreadful hour of five a.m., an hour and a half before the sun would bother to rise. I had to talk to someone at the Taste Society about my future with the company, and with a full day of filming scheduled for Zac tomorrow, a stupid o’clock appointment was my only option. Just as well Connor had forced me to take a long nap this afternoon.
For the first time since I’d convinced my handler to give me his name, I suspected he might’ve fallen asleep thinking of me with a smile on his face. He was the type to gloat over his ability to sleep in.
It was dark and cold when my alarm blared, and I staggered through my morning necessities bleary-eyed. Too early even for Meow to come out for breakfast. The one bonus was that traffic was light by LA standards so I made it to MacArthur Park in good time. My instructions were to sit on a certain park bench and wait for the Taste Society contact to approach me. Like a spy in a movie, except I was way less cool and way less competent.
I tried to channel the spy vibe anyway, preparing myself to be so calm and persuasive that the Taste Society rep would have no choice but to admit I was right. Yeah. That’d happen.
My stomach twisted, and my whole body trembled like I was about to face down a nest of horse-sized black widow spiders. If I couldn’t even persuade my nerves around to my way of thinking, how far was I going to get with the Taste Society contact?
I followed the directions to the park bench and sat down, the cold of the concrete seeping through my jeans. The view of the lake would probably have been quite pleasant if I could see it. There were a few street lamps but not enough to push the gloom back far, and it was kind of creepy sitting in an unfamiliar park in the dark.
A jogger who must have been very committed or outright insane thudded past without slowing. Not my contact then.
My mood was heavy, and my mind kept circling around to the question of how far I would go for these girls, when a man sat down on the seat beside me. Considering there were adjacent benches on both sides of the one we shared, and another set of three twenty yards away, he was either my contact or someone with zero social etiquette. Still, my instructions were to wait for him to identify me, so I didn’t say anything.
The man pulled out a chocolate iced doughnut from a Krispy Kreme bag and bit into it.
Okay, someone with no social etiquette then. I wondered whether to move to the next set of benches, but my directions had been explicit. What if the contact assumed I was a no-show and left? Better to wait here and hope Doughnut Man moved on soon.
He was devouring the tasty treat with such focus that there was a decent chance he wouldn’t notice if another person walked up and asked me questions. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him chew each mouthful with slow thoughtfulness, savoring it like someone breaking a strict diet. My tummy rumbled, reminding me that my breakfast of cereal wasn’t its favorite choice. Finally he finished. He wiped his hands on a napkin, returned it to the Krispy Kreme bag, and folded the paper up neatly before putting it into his slacks pocket.
Good, now please leave. I begged him silently.
Instead, he swiveled toward me. “Sorry about that. I got held up and couldn’t face this conversation without my morning Krispy Kreme ritual. Shade 22703, I presume?”
I was too dumbfounded to do more than nod.
“Thank you for coming. Your handler has explained your situation and—”
“I’m doing the right thing,” I blurted, remembering my plan to say my piece before he could announce my fate. “The Taste Society is about protecting people, isn’t it? That’s what I’m doing.”
“Well, technically the Taste Society is about protecting its clients. But I don’t want to argue about it. We’re on the same side here, and I’m sure we can come to an amicable understanding.”
“But—” I stopped when I realized what he’d said. “Wait. We are? We can?”
“Of course.” He smiled, making his thin lips all but disappear. “Why don’t we share our concerns with each other and see what agreement we can come to.”
Gosh. I wasn’t expecting him to be so accommodating. Especially after my dealings with my handler. I took a moment to size him up and reshuffle my thoughts.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He was a small, tidy man in his midforties with a combover and a tie that might’ve been fashionable in the 90s. However, given he was willing to listen to me, I could’ve kissed him.
“My concern is that Taste Society confidentiality suggests I can’t be an informant on my client even if he’s a criminal. I mean, like a really bad criminal.” I wasn’t sure I should mention murder or human trafficking, but I didn’t want him to think I was talking about jaywalking either.
My newfound friend nodded understandingly and tucked his hands in his lap. “Anything else?”
“Ah, nope, that just about covers it.”
“Good, that’s good.” His hands came out of his lap, and he pressed them into his chin as if giving the matter great consideration. “I hope you feel better now that you’ve had a chance to be heard. The feelings of our employees are important to us. But the contract signed by each party is in place and can’t be revoked, so our hands are tied.”
What? My brain hurt from the mental whiplash. “Then there should be some conditions added to the damn contract!”
He thinned his lips, grimacing at my tone. “If you submit a formal suggestion, I’ll forward it on to our legal department for you.”
“But what about with this client? This current situation? I can’t protect a criminal when so many innocent lives are at stake.”
“Are you saying you believe your client should die, Shade 22703? Because I don’t know how it is where you’re from, but in the United States even criminals are entitled to a fair trial.”
I sputtered. “That’s not what I meant!”
“Good, because we believe everyone has a right to be protected.”
“Really? Because as far as I’m aware, the Taste Society only protects the rich. Or do we do pro bono work for poor people at risk of being poisoned?”
He folded his hands again. “That’s out of the context of this conversation I’m afraid, and the Taste Society operates on a need-to-know basis.”
My initial relief had been misplaced. This guy was slipperier than a heavily lubricated worm.
“Fine. Then let’s get back to that amicable agreement you mentioned. Here’s the way it stands. I’m going to continue protecting Zachariah Hill from poison threats, as is my job, but I’m also going to act as an informant in this criminal case for Homeland Security.”
“Then you’ll be in breach of your contract with us, which is grounds for immediate termination.”
I gulped, my recently found financial stability flashing before my eyes. “Right.” Until this moment, I hadn’t truly believed I would lose my job over this. What the hell would I do? It was okay for Batman to run around fighting criminals. He had plenty of money. He was also better equipped to deal with a loan shark who advocated the liberal use of the stick rather than the carrot.
Mr. Slippery patted his combover and cleared his throat delicately. “But since we’re trying to work together here, I’m going to recommend you merely be suspended without pay for the duration of this case.”
He was throwing me a bone. And it wasn’t a bad one in light of termination. A fact I was sure he was aw
are of, the jerkface master manipulator. But it was scary all the same. I didn’t want to think about how long this case could last for.
“Will you, um, be telling my client that I’ve been suspended?”
“We’ll have to. It’s in the contract. But I’m sure you’ve experienced how paperwork can be delayed… or lost altogether.”
Okay, so I was now protecting a probable murderer and human trafficker for free. But at least I’d have a job to come back to.
As if he read my mind, he added a caveat. “Of course, if anything occurs that might negatively influence future relations between the Taste Society and its clients, your suspension will be made permanent.”
So now it wasn’t just the girls’ lives I was trying to save. If the case blew up in my face, it could be mine too.
I thought of those shy, trusting smiles and shook Mr. Slippery’s hand. “Thanks.”
It was only when I left that I realized I should’ve asked if my medical expenses were still covered. I tended to use that perk. A lot.
8
I drove straight from Mr. Slippery to Mr. Murderer’s place and found a parking spot down the street. As I locked my door, a white Prius drove so close it almost sideswiped me. It slammed on the brakes and came to a stop twenty feet up the road. Concerned for me? Or a hired hitman lining me up so he wouldn’t miss a second time? Zac would know when I was due to show up here this morning, so it would be a good opportunity to get rid of me. But what hitman would drive a Prius?
The Prius reversed, and I scurried around my car’s hood for cover, reaching for my pepper spray. Guess I should’ve had my first self-defense lesson yesterday instead of that nap. The window rolled down, and I dropped my weapon. It was the Homeland Security agents who’d talked me into my dangerous informant role.
“Agent Joe, Agent Jeff,” I said, trying to act casual. I scurried around the hood again and slid into the backseat of their Prius. “Nice to see you.”
“Sure, say hi to Joe first, not the guy who bought you juice and took your soggy paper. What did you put it in anyway? That wasn’t water. And I found teeth marks on it.”
Poison and Prejudice (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 4) Page 7
