No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (14 page)

“He’s not just a
doctor
there,” she said slowly, enunciating every word. Maybe she thought if she spoke too quickly it might shatter what was left of my sanity. Now that I thought about it, she might be right. “He
founded
the clinic.”

“How do you know the Sandbergs?” As soon as I asked, I knew it was a dumb question. My mother knew everyone who was anyone with money in Virginia.

“They come to Washington frequently and are members of the Hilton Hotel’s Capital City Country Club and Spa.”

Mom’s favorite hangout. “So what do you rich guys chat about in the sauna?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so bourgeois, Lexi. If you must know, I heard the clinic recently went through some financial difficulties.”

I perked up. “What kind of financial difficulties?”

“Does it matter?” Money was money to Mom.

“It could,” I replied.

She narrowed her eyes. “I hope there is a good explanation why you are so interested in a fertility clinic.”

I took a quick gulp of water and coughed. “I assure you, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“I swear this is a strictly professional interest,” I said, trying to keep her on track. “Do you know why the company had money problems?”

“I haven’t got the foggiest idea,” she sniffed. “But your father said they bounced back from near financial ruin last year.”

“How?”

“For God’s sake, Lexi, I don’t know. More clients wanting to have babies, I guess. And it’s no wonder seeing as how women are waiting longer and longer to have children these days.” She looked at me pointedly and I shifted uneasily in my chair. “By the way, have you met the Sandbergs’ son?”

“Forget it, Mother,” I said, wagging my finger at her.

She smiled innocently and we finished our lunch. Luckily for my strapped checking account, she picked up the tab.

It was nearly five o’clock when my work phone rang again. It was Finn. He said my name in that soft Irish brogue of his and a tingle went from my nose to my toes.

“Lexi, can I see you?” he asked.

Naked or clothed was the first thought that leapt into my head. “Sure,” I said, trying to keep cool. “Tonight?”

“Yes.” He sounded worried.

It would be a tight fit. I had karate at eight o’clock and then Slash was coming after that. It apparently took mortal danger and men with guns to cram my social calendar full.

“It would have to be right now,” I said. “I’m booked solid for the rest of the evening.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m not far away. I’m in Baltimore on business. Can you meet me at a restaurant called the Fish Market? It’s near the Inner Harbor.”

“I know where it is,” I said. “Be there in about thirty minutes.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

I immediately left work, drove to Baltimore, cruised down to the Harbor and parked in a covered garage. As I walked to the restaurant a hot, humid breeze drifted in off the water.

Finn was seated at a table in the bar and he waved to me when I entered. He looked gorgeous in a light blue shirt and red tie. He’d removed his jacket and hung it over the chair behind him. He stood, pulled out my chair and I sat down across from him.

“How are your fingers?” I asked.

He held them up. “Perfect. It was just a bump. Accidents happen.”

Feeling my cheeks going warm, I grabbed my water glass and gulped half of the ice.

“I ordered you a glass of wine,” he said. “I hope that was okay.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “You seem to have impeccable taste in wine.”

He smiled. “We can eat in here if you’d like.”

I nodded. “Sure, this works for me. Looks like we’re making dinner together a habit.”

“Not a bad habit, is it?” Finn said with a grin and raised his hand. A waiter instantly appeared, handing us menus.

“How do you do that?” I asked in amazement.

“Years of practice,” he said, chuckling.

I took a quick glance at the menu and ordered the grilled salmon. Finn had the swordfish. They don’t call this restaurant the Fish Market for nothing.

When the waiter left, I asked, “What’s up?”

He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I’ve located the name of the clients that go with the documents Basia was translating.”

“Jeez, Finn, how did you get them?”

“It wasn’t easy. Technically, this case no longer exists. All the records relating to it have either been destroyed or removed from the regular database. It’s as if it never existed, and that’s the line I’ve been instructed to toe.”

“So how did you find the names?”

He tugged at his tie until it loosened a bit. “I strolled into my boss’s office when he was at lunch with some cockeyed story about needing to consult a file he had in there. Secretary let me in without a word.”

“That was pretty bold.”

“Well it may yet come back to bite me in the arse. The boss is not much of a techie and had his password written on an index card and taped to his desk. Luckily, I found the names fairly quickly in an email he’d recently sent to one of the senior vice presidents in Richmond. I would’ve liked to read more, but I was scared as hell I’d get caught. So I jotted down the names and got out of there.”

I took a sip of my wine and studied him. He seemed tired, and I could see little lines etched in the corners of his eyes. Yet that didn’t at all take away from his classic good looks, and I liked that he lacked the air of pretentiousness that often accompanies guys who are handsome and know it.

“So, do the names mean anything to you?” I asked.

“I thought I’d ask the same of you,” he said. He took a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and slid it across the table.

I unfolded it. “Mahir Al-Asan and Judyta Taszynski,” I read aloud. Something about the name Judyta Taszynski seemed vaguely familiar, but the reason eluded me. “Were you able to find out anything else about them besides their names?”

“A little. Mahir Al-Asan, age thirty-three, is a member of the Saudi royal family. He’s been married for eleven years, served four years in the Saudi military and is now serving as the Minister of Justice. Judyta Taszynski, age nineteen, is a single college student at the University of Warsaw, studying pre-med and English.”

I whistled. “Saudi royal family? Okay, I’ll ask the obvious question. What do the two of them have in common?”

“You mean besides this contract?”

“Exactly. You couldn’t ask for a more diverse coupling. And I mean that in the Biblical sense, by the way.”

Finn shoved his fingers through his hair. “All right, since you asked, I’ll take a stab at it. From the way the contract was worded, I’d guess that Al-Asan hired Taszynski to have his baby. Again, I feel compelled to point out that this is not the kind of arrangement Bright Horizons typically engages in.”

Something seemed wrong with this scenario. “I don’t get it,” I said. “If Al-Asan and his wife were having fertility problems, why go to Poland for a surrogate through an American company?”

“Good question. Maybe he met Judyta somewhere. She could be his mistress for all we know.”

“I suppose,” I said doubtfully.

The waiter brought our food and we dug in. The salmon was grilled to perfection. “Then why not employ another Saudi woman, or at the very least, a woman of Arabic descent?” I said after thinking it over. “I mean hiring a young woman from Poland is a pretty big stretch, mistress or not.”

He set his fork down. “I agree. But if Al-Asan’s got a fertility problem, maybe confidentiality is key here. Perhaps the farther away the better.”

I sipped my wine and frowned. “This still doesn’t play right in my mind. It seems to me that the Saudi royal family would be concerned about keeping the bloodline, for lack of a better word…pure.”

“You do realize that we are speculating blind here, Lexi. There could be a very simple and logical explanation and we’re just not privy to it.”

I ran my finger around the top of the wine glass, listening to the faint hum. “You’re right, of course, but I need more background here. Tell me about the fertility programs at Horizons.”

Finn leaned back in his chair. “I’m not a doctor, but usually, it’s all very straightforward. Ninety percent of the company’s clients are married, just ordinary couples who are having troubles conceiving. They come to us on the referral of their regular physicians. We check them out medically and then decide which of the in vitro methods has the best chance of success.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“Some are women without partners who want to get pregnant, and we use donated sperm to help them conceive. Other clients have various medical issues that require the use of a special technique to get them pregnant.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It sounds so clinical.”

“It is.”

“All right, if we act on the presumption that this is a surrogacy pregnancy for whatever reason, how do you think Judyta and Mahir made their initial connection?”

“Who knows? For all we know, she could have been an exchange student to Saudi Arabia. Or maybe she served as his cocktail waitress at a dinner during a diplomatic visit to Poland. I suppose we could even entertain the possibility that he placed an anonymous ad in a newspaper for a surrogate mother and then chose Judyta when she responded. I just don’t know for sure.”

Something kept nagging at me and I tried circling around it in my head until I suddenly had an idea. “Finn, may I borrow your cell phone?” I asked.

He looked puzzled, but reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a phone so small it fit into the palm of my hand. It looked like an oversized lighter.

I looked at it in disbelief. “This is a phone?”

He laughed. “I am absolutely shocked that a person as well versed in technology as you does not have a cell phone.”

I sighed. “If you must know, I don’t want to give my mother the opportunity to reach me anywhere, anytime. And don’t you dare laugh, it is so
not
funny.”

He laughed anyway as I reached into my bag and pulled out an address book. With the book in one hand and the phone in the other, I headed for the only quiet place in the restaurant, the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Finn over my shoulder.

Luckily the bathroom was empty. I looked up the number I needed and dialed. I pressed the device to my ear and listened, but nothing. No dial tone,
nada.
I peered at the tiny screen. Underneath the florescent lighting, I couldn’t even read it.

“And I work at the NSA at the cutting edge of technology?” I muttered.

After another few minutes of dialing and pressing various tiny buttons with no success, I started to get frustrated. At one point, I heard an operator telling me the number I had dialed was not valid and would I please hang up and dial again?

“Dial this,” I growled viciously, stabbing the numbers in again just as a little old lady with white hair shuffled into the bathroom.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she said, noticing the angry look on my face.

“It’s been a tough couple of days,” I said.

“What do you have there?” she asked me, peering over her thick glasses at the cell phone.

“A piece of junk,” I said, looking at it in disgust.

“Give it here,” she said in voice so authoritative that I handed it over immediately.

“Do you know how to work one of these things?”

“Sure,” she said, taking the phone. “What’s the number?”

I rattled off the number and she adeptly punched it in and then handed it back to me. I could hear it ringing. “How did you get it to ring?” I asked.

“Push the call button,” she said, pointing. She shuffled off to a stall and closed the door.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling dumb. Good thing she didn’t know I worked for the NSA. Maybe I’d have to get a cell phone just to keep little old ladies from showing me up.

On the fourth ring, I heard Mrs. Kowalski answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. K, it’s me, Lexi again,” I said.

“Oh, hello, Lexi,” she answered. “Where are you calling from? I hear a slight echo.”

“I’m in a restaurant. I’m sorry to bother you. I just had a quick question. Do you know if Basia knows a woman by the name of Judyta Taszynski? For some reason the name sounds familiar to me and the only reason I can think why is because she’s a friend of Basia’s.”

I could hear the clinking of glasses and assumed she was loading the dishwasher. “Of course, she knows Judyta,” she said. “Judyta is her cousin.”

“Her cousin?” I repeated in surprise.

“Yes. Judyta is the daughter of my husband’s sister. The family lives in Warsaw. Has she been trying to contact Basia, too?”

“Ah, not that I know of,” I replied quickly. “At least I don’t think so.” My mind was racing. “It’s just I’m thinking of planning a trip to Poland soon and I thought I might look up Judyta. Do you happen to have her address and phone number handy?” I hated lying to her, but it was for a good cause.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind giving it to you, but Judyta is no longer living at home.”

“Oh. Do you know where she is living?”

There was a pause. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. You see, Judyta and her parents had a falling out several months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s embarrassing to admit, dear, but Judyta got herself…well, let’s just say, in a family way. Her parents were quite unhappy about it.”

“I see. So, her condition was a surprise to them.”

“To say the least. Basia might know her new number, though. Perhaps you could ask her when she gets back.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks again, Mrs. K.” I wasn’t sure how to end the connection so I just snapped the phone shut.

As I left the bathroom to return to the table, Finn’s phone started chirping music. I tossed it to Finn. “I think your phone is playing a U2 song,” I announced.

“Irish band,” he said, grinning, and popped open the phone. “Shaughnessy.”

I don’t know how he could hear a thing over the noise in the bar, but he listened intently, asked a few questions and then said thanks. He closed the phone and slid it back into his breast pocket.

“Well, that was interesting.”