Anyway, things between us ended pretty quickly. It just wasn’t working out.
Yeah, okay, it was Doug’s idea to break up, but I would have done it myself anyway. He just beat me to it. Still, he’d made it sound like it was all his idea and had left me looking like an idiot.
Not a great feeling.
After seeing him last night, it miffed me, for some reason, that he had a new girlfriend already. Yeah, I had a boyfriend, too, but that’s not the point.
How could Dull Doug have a new girlfriend and be involved in something as exciting as terrorism and espionage? It didn’t make sense. Still, if he wanted to ruin his career and his life by selling defense secrets, that was his business.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Doug worked for my dad. If Doug went down, that meant Dad might be implicated.
No way was I letting that happen.
Of course, it was possible that the hot tip Ben had received had been totally out in left field. Maybe if I called my dad I could find out what sort of project he was working on. Then I’d know—provided I didn’t drift off during his explanation—whether or not this whole thing had any merit.
I glanced at my wristwatch. Four minutes before I had to clock in. Plenty of time.
I fished my cell phone out of my purse—a way hot Chanel hobo—and called my dad at his office. His voicemail picked up, so I left a message. Still, I didn’t go inside the store. No sense rushing in and standing around for three whole minutes.
My cell phone rang. I grabbed it, then gasped.
Oh, crap. Ty was calling. I dropped the phone.
Yeah, okay, I knew this wasn’t good. I should have answered on the first ring, thrilled to hear from him. He was my boyfriend—officially—and he was calling to tell me he was on the way home from London.
But I didn’t know if I could take another night of him ruining my afterglow yammering about the stock market in Japan.
I glanced at my watch. One minute to punch in. I grabbed my purse and hurried into the store.
Customers crowded the aisles as I headed toward the breakroom, my cell phone at my ear, waiting to hear the message Ty had left. I almost wished Rita or that idiot Cal would see me and tell me not to use my phone, just so I could yell back that I wasn’t on duty yet.
Maybe that wasn’t the best attitude to start my shift with.
I breezed into the crowded breakroom and got in line at the time clock just as Ty’s recorded voice explained that something had come up and he’d have to stay in London longer. He wouldn’t be home tonight as promised. I breathed a sigh of relief—which was really bad, I know—but there it was.
Then I realized that he hadn’t sounded disappointed. He sounded rushed. As usual. He hadn’t mentioned my finding Tiffany’s body, either. Or his grandmother. And Ada still hadn’t returned any of my calls.
“No cell phones on the sales floor!” Shannon shouted, glaring directly at me.
I kept my phone to my ear, even though there was nothing to hear, as I fed my time card into the clock, then dropped it into my purse.
“Gather around, people, gather around!” Shannon called, waving us toward her.
I’d gotten used to the exercises we did before our shift started. I secured my purse in my locker and took my usual spot at the rear of the group. About ten employees were there today, including Marlene from the sewing department, who was about ninety years old and wheezed her way through the program, and Bob, the janitor who spoke no known language. Christy, that new girl who’d drilled me on the Halt for Holt’s policy, was there, too. She gave me a big smile and a two-handed wave. I ignored her.
I followed along as Shannon led us through the usual routine of stretches and was feeling pretty good—right up to the point where she ruined everything by blabbing about the secret shopper and the contest.
I’m going to have to learn to lower my expectations.
“Those flat screens are slipping away,” Shannon declared, jerking her thumb at the chart on the wall.
The big thermometer chart that indicated how close we were to our goal of achieving 100 percent customer satisfaction, based on the findings of the secret shoppers, currently showed us at 26 percent.
I wasn’t taking a math class this semester, but I knew that wasn’t great.
Prize categories were indicated alongside the percentage range of customer satisfaction we’d attained. Beach towel, toaster, digital camera, topping out with flat screens. Right now, we were barely in beach towel range.
“We have to do better, people,” Shannon told us.
She glared at me when she said it.
“We’ve gotten some low scores,” she said, and looked at me again. “Really low scores.”
A few people in the group glanced at me.
“Some of us aren’t trying,” Shannon declared.
She shot me a serious stink-eye.
“Some of us are going to ruin it for the rest of us,” Shannon declared.
Everybody turned and stared at me.
“Some of us had better get with the program,” Shannon announced, giving me double stink-eye.
Now everyone in the group glared hard at me.
“Everybody get out there,” Shannon said, nodding toward the breakroom door, “and let’s win those flat screens.”
I followed the group out of the breakroom. I thought Shannon might want to speak with me privately—which I’d ignore, of course—but luckily Christy bounced up and started talking to her.
As I passed the customer service booth, Bella rushed up.
“What’d you do?” she asked.
Jeez, where to start?
Bella glanced around, then leaned in and whispered, “The men in black are in the store. They’re looking for you.”
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 7
“You’ve got to get out of here,” Bella declared.
She grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the door to the stock room. As we passed Jeanette’s office, I caught a glimpse of a man standing in front of her desk. One of the men in black, as Bella had called them. A detective, I guessed, but dressed way better than Madison or Shuman. He had a partner, surely—these guys always traveled in packs—but I didn’t see him inside the office.
Oh my God. Oh my God. They must be the new investigators assigned to Tiffany’s murder. Why were they here? To question me? Arrest me?
No way was I waiting around for that to happen. I rushed into the stock room with Bella.
“What’s your locker combo?” Bella demanded. I told her the numbers. “Find a disguise,” she said, and hurried out of the stock room.
I rushed to the mannequin farm nearby and grabbed a blond wig, then hurried to the accessories department area and picked out sunglasses. A second later Bella rushed back in and stopped dead in her tracks.
“What kind of lame-ass disguise is that?” she demanded, shaking her head.
This exact disguise had worked great for me once before—long story—and I was slightly miffed at her attitude.
“Here,” Bella said.
She passed me my purse, which she’d retrieved from my locker, then went to work. She pulled up my hair and wrapped a yellow print scarf around it turban style, then grabbed a fuchsia poncho—if you’re going on the lam, the accessories department is the place to start—and swept it around my shoulders.
“Wear these,” she said, and thrust an oversize pair of yellow sunglasses at me. I slipped them on.
“Take my car,” she said, passing me a set of keys. “I got your keys. Call me when you’re clear. We’ll meet up and swap back.”
I got the feeling Bella had done this before.
Maybe I needed to get to know her a little better.
I’d only seen one detective in Jeanette’s office, so I figured his partner was probably roaming the store, looking for me. I slipped out through the loading dock and circled the building.
I’d seen Bella drive up to the store a million times, so I knew she owned an old red Ch
evy Cavalier—I don’t think they even make those anymore. I found it easily and got inside. Scarves, headbands, combs, brushes, pins, and clips were everywhere.
Girlfriend was serious about hair.
My first instinct was to peel out of the lot but, really, where would I go? If the new detectives assigned to the case had found me here, they knew where I lived. Sooner or later they would catch up with me.
I glimpsed myself in the rearview mirror. Oh my God. I didn’t even recognize myself.
I’ve really got to find out a little more about Bella’s past.
The disguise made me feel safe, so I drew in a deep breath trying to calm myself. I needed to think.
I could call Detective Shuman. He could find out whether a warrant had been issued for my arrest, but would he do that? He’d been pretty cold at our last meeting and, really, he had no reason to help.
Jack Bishop flashed in my mind. He was a totally hot private detective—I didn’t have personal experience, but I just knew he’d never brought up declining stock prices in the global economy after making love. We’d worked together back in the day at Pike Warner. I’d helped him out with his cases a couple of times and he’d returned the favor. If I called him, he’d help. But I didn’t like burning a favor with Jack unless I absolutely had to.
I sat there for another minute, thinking. I couldn’t decide what to do, but I figured getting some distance between me and the homicide detectives inside the store was the best thing at the moment.
I started the engine, then reached down to adjust the seat. My fingers hit something leather. I pulled it out.
Oh my God. Oh my God. A holster with a gun inside. Bella was packing heat.
This was so unfair. First, Jay Jax had a cool new name, a terrific job, and a Sinful bag, and now Bella had a secret past and a gun.
All of my friends were cooler than me!
Never mind about that now. I had to get away from Holt’s.
Just as I backed out of the parking spot, I saw the detective come out of the store. He wasn’t racing toward me or talking into a cell phone or gesturing to a circling helicopter, so I figured he hadn’t realized I’d put on a disguise and slipped out the back.
I got a better look at him than when I’d hustled past Jeanette’s office. Mid-thirties with dark hair cut short. Average height. A good build that filled out his off-the-rack suit nicely.
He got into a white sedan a couple of aisles over. From my vantage point—Bella parked in the assigned employee spaces, which was really inconvenient—I saw that his partner was already in the car, waiting for him. Guess he’d given up looking for me in the store.
They chatted with each other, then pulled away.
For a few seconds, all I could think was—whew!—they hadn’t seen me. Then it hit me: I could go after them. I could follow them, see where they went, get a heads-up on exactly who they were.
Wow, how cool was that?
I fell into the line of cars leaving the Holt’s parking lot, turned right at the light, and followed the white sedan east to the entrance of the 14 freeway. I merged onto the southbound lane two cars behind them, heading toward Los Angeles.
Okay, now my life was really cool. Maybe I should get a private investigator’s license like Jack Bishop.
Why don’t they teach something useful like this in college?
I wished I could call Marcie right now and tell her what I was doing—she’d be so jazzed, as a best friend would—but I didn’t dare take a chance on losing the detectives.
The white sedan crept along at the speed limit. It took everything I had not to whip into the far left lane and blast by them—old habit—but I held back.
After about a mile, my thoughts wandered. Ty popped into my head. It occurred to me that during my moment of crisis in the Holt’s parking lot when I was mentally running through the list of people I could turn to for help, I hadn’t thought of Ty at all. And he was my boyfriend now—officially.
That probably meant something but I didn’t want to spare the brain power to analyze it.
I followed the white sedan as it transitioned onto the 5 freeway, then took the 405. The detective driving the sedan never speeded up or slowed down, didn’t pass anyone, didn’t take the carpool lane even though he could have. Slowly, methodically, we plodded toward Los Angeles.
Jeez, this guy’s driving was so boring. He probably discussed crime statistics after sex.
The gorgeous Sinful handbag bloomed large in my head and my pulse picked up a little. I absolutely had to find one. Not only did I desperately need it, but I couldn’t possibly go to the record label’s party Jay Jax had invited me to without one.
I was running through a mental list of stores to check when the white sedan signaled for a lane change—how weird was that—and took the Wilshire Boulevard exit. I swerved right cutting off a pickup truck, which I actually enjoyed, and followed. I almost missed them at the signal but the driver judiciously stopped for the yellow light. Under other circumstances, I would have run up on his bumper and blown my horn, but since I was undercover, so to speak, I didn’t.
When the light changed, I followed them a few blocks to a huge building on the right. I’d seen it a million times but never knew exactly what sort of offices were in there. Probably something boring, judging from the outside of the building. The detectives parked in the lot. I swung into a space two aisles over, grabbed my purse and got out. They didn’t look my way.
Jeez, this was so cool. They’d come to find me, and I’d followed them instead. All I had to do was tail them inside the building and see where they went.
Then it hit me: I could call Shuman and tell him. He hadn’t known who took Tiffany’s case away from him and Madison, and I could tell he was ticked off about it. If I told him, he’d be one up on Madison and the other detectives. Maybe he’d start to like me again.
Lots of people were coming and going from the building, so I fell into step with everyone else, keeping an eye on the homicide detectives while not getting too close. I was feeling like a real pro at this now.
Maybe I should join the military or the CIA. Of course, I’d have to bring Bella with me to do my disguises.
Inside the building were X-ray machines and security guards. Okay, that was kind of weird for an office building, but I put my purse on the conveyor belt and walked through. On the other side, I grabbed my purse and looked up.
Oh my God. Where were the two detectives I was following? I didn’t see them anywhere. I’d only taken my eyes off of them for a few seconds—I couldn’t leave my Chanel hobo on the conveyor belt unprotected. Where could they have gone so fast?
I hurried down the hallway thinking I’d catch them at the elevators. Then both of them jumped out in front of me from an open doorway.
I gasped and slid to a stop.
“Haley Randolph, we’d like to speak with you,” one of them said. Both of them held out badges.
I whirled around, ready to make a break for the door, but stopped in my tracks. Two more detectives holding out badges stood behind me. I was surrounded.
“Look, Detective,” I said. “I don’t—”
“Special agent,” he said. “FBI.”
“The FBI?”
Oh, crap.
Oh my God. Those detectives—special agents—had known I was behind them all along. They’d led me here to the Federal Building and called ahead for two other agents to capture me in the corridor.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this undercover work. Although it was kind of cool that those guys had needed backup to apprehend me.
The realization of how it went down came to me as I sat alone in a conference room. I didn’t know where I was, exactly, but special agents Paulson and Jordan, as they’d introduced themselves, had asked nicely. I didn’t want to look guilty so I’d agreed to go with them.
The yellow print scarf Bella had wrapped around my head had started to itch, but I didn’t dare take it off. What if they arrested me? My hair would look te
rrible. I couldn’t have a mug shot done with turban-hair.
And where was my “official” boyfriend, at a time like this? Now, when I could use his family’s prestige, their world-class attorneys—not to mention their bail money—where was he?
Right now, hearing Ty’s impression of the Wall Street closing bell didn’t seem so bad.
I glanced around the room. It looked more like a conference room than one of those dark, stuffy interview rooms you always see on television crime shows. There was a small table, chairs that weren’t bolted to the floor, and there was no two-way mirror taking up one wall.
Maybe that was a good sign.
Or maybe they were trying to trick me into confessing something.
But what?
I flashed on the purse parties Marcie and I had been giving. We’d bought hundreds of knockoff handbags at L.A.’s Fashion District and sold them at parties for months now. Yeah, okay, I knew that buying and selling counterfeit bags was kind of, sort of, maybe just slightly illegal. But, jeez, who’d have thought there really was such a thing as the purse police?
Kirk Keegan—the guy who’d threatened me last fall—flared in my head like a nightmare that wouldn’t go away. He’d been off my radar—officially—for a while now, but he kept popping into my thoughts. As far as I knew, Kirk had never been charged with a crime. The injured parties had preferred to avoid any negative publicity and let Kirk walk away unscathed. Still, Jack Bishop mentioned him nearly every time we got together. Why would he do that? Did he know something I didn’t know?
Then another thought slammed me so hard I popped out of my chair. Doug. Terrorism. Espionage. My dad.
Oh my God. Oh my God. That had to be what this was about.
The FBI must have been spying on Doug and spotted Ben and me at Starbucks the night he’d told me about what he suspected Doug of doing. They must have followed me back to my car, gotten my license plate number, identified me, and learned everything there was to know about where I live and work.
Dorothy Howell Page 6
