No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (3 page)

I mumbled something and excused myself from the table. If I didn’t get out of there now, I would certainly say something to ruin the evening. I slipped into the kitchen and saw Sasha, a slight, blond-haired man with a big, Slavic nose, working at the counter.

“Lexi,” he said, holding out his arms and hugging me. “How’s the food? Is there a problem with dinner?”

I liked the fact he greeted me with questions about dinner. He didn’t waste time asking me about my health or my fashion sense. He went straight to what mattered—food. I love a man with a one-track mind, especially one who can cook. Too bad Sasha was already happily married.

“Dinner is perfect, as usual,” I said, patting his arm. To prove my point, I tore a piece off a loaf on the counter and took a bite before he could snatch it back.

“You little thief,” he scolded, but in an affectionate way.

“Look, Sasha, there’s something I want to ask you,” I said, my mouth half-full. “Have you seen Basia around lately?”

“Basia?” Sasha said, puzzled. “I haven’t seen her in a month. She no like my bread anymore?”

“Perish the thought,” I said, appalled by the very idea. “She loves your bread. I guess she’s just been busy.”

“Finding you another job?” he quipped.

I laughed it off, but actually he had a point. It
was
Basia who had got me hooked up with the NSA in the first place. She dragged me to the job fair when the agency was recruiting at Georgetown because she had always dreamed of working as a linguist for them.

The problem was that after the Cold War ended, no one needed linguists with Slavic or Romance languages anymore. If you wanted to get hired by the NSA these days, you needed to speak Arabic, Farsi or Somali. Since those were like the only three languages in the entire world she didn’t speak, she hadn’t been hired. And in an ironic twist, I had.

But that hadn’t dampened Basia’s spirit at all. She started her own freelance translation business and worked part-time at Berlitz—those guys who make those nifty little phrasebooks. It wasn’t a bad living and she got to be her own boss. It was good for me, too, since I get a new phrasebook every Christmas. I’d racked up Spanish, French, Russian, Italian and German so far. I was hoping to get Romanian this year—if I lived that long.

“What’s wrong with my job?” I asked. “You used to think being a techie was a cool job.”

“It is…but not for you. You need to start living life outside your comfort zone,” Sasha said, stirring something that smelled like hot fudge in a pot on the stove. “A girl like you doesn’t need to sit around in front of a computer all day. You need to experience real life. Find someone
outside
the internet, and have actual, sweaty sex.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was right. My life was boring, predictable and utterly lackluster. Unless you counted the time I won Redskins tickets for answering a trivia question on the radio. Other than that, nothing exciting ever happened to me, including the one and only time I’d ever had sex. It had definitely not been sweaty. In fact, it hadn’t even been interesting.

“I think you’re made for adventure,” Sasha continued. “But you need to go for it in a big way. Basia will help you.”

Maybe Sasha had a point. I wasn’t going to meet a guy by sitting in front of the computer all day. I needed to pay more attention to pesky little details like my wardrobe and grooming. If anyone could help in these areas of my life, it was Basia.

In all truth, she had already made a tremendous impact on me. First of all, because she was the only close girlfriend I had ever had. She’d befriended me at Georgetown when we were randomly selected to be roommates. Basia was the antithesis of me—a real girl’s girl who liked dating, fashion, the social scene and expensive haircuts. My mom adored her and so did my brothers. But I soon learned that Basia was as smart as a whip beneath that feminine exterior, speaking several languages and having a flair for architecture and biology.

Compared to me, exciting was Basia’s middle name. But I certainly didn’t want the kind of excitement that came with a guy like Beefy.

I sighed. “If you happen to run into Basia, you tell her to call me right away, okay?”

Actually I considered calling her right now from my parents’ house, but after thinking about it some more, I decided it was too risky. I refused to own a cell phone, so that meant I’d have to use my parents’ phone. My mom was a top-rate eavesdropper and I had decided I didn’t want them to know about my encounter with Beefy. I wasn’t sure what was going on yet and needed more input.

I heard the murmur of voices coming from the dining room, and then another one of Tom’s annoying laughs. I decided I
really
didn’t want to go back in there.

“Look, I’ve got to get out of here,” I said to Sasha. “Do you think you could retrieve my purse from the sofa in the living room and bring it here?”

“Why don’t you get it yourself?”

“Long story, but I’m afraid I’ll be trapped. Then I’d have to be horribly impolite to ensure my escape. And you know how my mother hates it when I’m impolite.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I think this means you don’t like the young man in there. Truthfully, me neither. He’s too full of himself.”

Sasha wasn’t a nuclear scientist for nothing. “My thoughts exactly.”

He nodded and went out the side door to the living room to retrieve my purse. I snatched an entire loaf of his bread from the counter, rolled it in a dishtowel and shoved it under my blouse just as my father walked into the kitchen. He saw the guilty look on my face and I knew I’d been busted.

“Making a break for it?” he asked calmly.

I exhaled a breath. “Do I really have to stay and talk to Mr. Preppy?”

Despite his attempt to look stern, his lips twitched. “Your mother will be disappointed.”

“I know,” I mumbled. “But I was ambushed. And trust me, Thomas isn’t going to call even if I stay for dessert. And honestly, I don’t want him to.”

To my surprise, my dad came over and ruffled my hair. “All right, go. I’ll tell everyone you weren’t feeling well.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, standing on tiptoe and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you big.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. He looked down at me, worry lines creasing the corner of his eyes. “You’re looking a bit pale. Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Never been better,” I lied.

At that moment, Sasha darted back into the room with my purse. He saw my dad and stopped in horror. “Mr. Carmichael,” he said in a breathless rush. “Lexi wanted me to get her purse and…”

“It’s all right,” my dad said, sighing. “I know what Lexi talked you into doing.”

“Can I borrow him for a few minutes more?” I asked since my dad seemed so accommodating. “I’d like him to walk me to my car.”

He frowned. I’d never asked for an escort to my car before and I could sense more questions hovered on his lips. But he nodded. “Of course.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, trying to push Sasha out the door before my dad could change his mind or ask me questions I didn’t want to answer. “Tell Mother goodbye for me and that I’ll call her tomorrow. We can go…ah, shopping or something.” I cringed as the words left my lips. Did I just say I’d go shopping with my mother? Sheesh, guilt was hell.

“What a lovely idea. I’ll tell her,” Dad said before I could retract my statement.

Sasha walked me to the car, keeping a brisk pace. Thankfully no huge forms lurked in the shadows ready to grab me. Just the same, I checked the backseat of my convertible, under the car and in the trunk. Sasha probably thought I was crazy, but he’s always thought that about Americans, so nothing new here.

I drove home to my apartment with the top down, the precious loaf of bread sitting in the passenger seat, moonlight streaming across my arms, and the radio blaring. I had pretty much calmed down by the time I got home and was ready to have a heart-to-heart chat with Basia about the Beefster via the telephone and then drop dead into bed. It had been that kind of day.

I zoomed into the parking lot and found a space not too far from the complex entrance. It’s not a fancy building, just standard colonial brick with about forty-five apartments with small balconies. I live in the small, rural town of Jessup, Maryland. There are only a handful of apartment complexes in town. Out of the approximately eleven thousand people who live here, half own their own homes. The rest of us work for the NSA. Our talents lie in the area of national security, not gardening, home improvement or lawn mowing. It makes sense since we are largely math, computer science and language majors—great with numbers, linguistics and outsmarting the bad guys, but at a complete loss with a plant.

My mother was horrified when I decided to move to Jessup. In her mind it is serious redneck country and I might as well have moved to West Virginia. Now when friends ask her where I live, she is nonspecific and says near Baltimore.

After checking the parking lot for any suspicious characters, I covered the top of my Miata and locked it. Usually I’m bold enough to leave it unlocked, but unpleasant images of Beefy still played in my head. I secured the bread beneath my arm and keyed in the code to the front door of the apartment complex. When it buzzed open, I trudged up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. No fancy elevator in this place. I unlocked the door and fumbled for the light switch. But when I flicked it on, nothing happened.

Alarm bells went off in my head, but “uh, oh,” was all I had time to say before a man stepped out of my apartment and yanked me inside. He clamped a hand down over my mouth, the other snaking around my neck. Instinctively I clawed at his arm, feeling thick muscles and hair. I caught the faint scent of mint aftershave. My purse and the stolen loaf of bread dropped to the floor with a thud. I kicked my legs ferociously as my attacker slammed the door shut with his foot and dragged me into my living room.

“Sit down,” he said against my ear, but didn’t remove his hand from my mouth. “If you scream, I’ll shoot you. I’ve got a gun with a silencer, so no one will hear a sound and you’ll be dead before you hit the carpet. Do you understand?”

I nodded, my heart thudding in my chest. This was the second time today I’d been confronted with a gun and I didn’t like it much.

Slowly he removed his hand from my mouth and I half fell, half sat on the couch. I got my first clear look at my attacker thanks to the moonlight streaming in through the window and saw dark hair and dark clothing. I didn’t recognize him. But the soft accent I heard when he spoke made me pretty sure he was of Middle Eastern descent. Moonlight also glinted off the steel barrel of the gun he pointed at my chest.

“Where are the papers?”

“Papers?” I squeaked.

He shoved the gun into my chest, painfully squishing one of my breasts. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

Like I had to play at it.

“Answer me,” he demanded. “I know she sent them to you.”

She? As in Basia? Oh, God, I thought, my heart hammering. What in the world had she become involved in?

“Look,” I said as calmly as I could, given the fact that my nipple was in imminent danger of being blown off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps if you could be a little less cryptic it would help.”

“Basia Kowalski,” he growled. “Is that clear enough?”

I considered for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “Actually, that’s quite clear.”

“So, where are the papers? You are trying my patience.”

I exhaled noisily. “I haven’t spoken with Basia for about a week and she didn’t mention any papers. Look, I already told the other guy I don’t have them. I don’t even know what you are—”

“What other guy?” he interrupted.

“I don’t know. Some big white guy with a beefy neck, gold tooth and dark blazer. He accosted me in Georgetown and said he was trying to retrieve the papers for his client.”

My attacker said something under his breath. I didn’t understand the language, but it sounded like he was using lots of swear words. Then he strode to where I had dropped my purse in the entranceway and rifled through it. Apparently he didn’t find what he was looking for because he turned his attention back on me.

“What were you doing in Georgetown?”

“If you must know, attending a miserable dinner party at my parents’.”

“How did he know where you were going?”

I considered for a moment. “Good question. I don’t know. He could have followed me from work, I guess.” The thought gave me the creeps.

“Did you give him the papers?”

“I just told you, I don’t have the papers,” I said in exasperation. “I don’t even know what
the
papers are. Besides, why would Basia mail them to me anyway? She doesn’t live that far away and she could drive them over if they were that important.”

“I know she mailed them to you,” he said, his voice angry again. “But they weren’t in your mailbox today. Did you get them yesterday?”

“Hey, isn’t mail supposed to be private?” I said, a nanosecond later realizing what a dumb statement it was given the fact that this guy was assaulting me in my own apartment with a gun. Snooping around someone else’s mail was probably small peanuts for someone like him.

“You didn’t receive any packages from her today?”

“No. I swear. Cross my heart and hope to live,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “You can look around if you don’t believe me.”

He exhaled a deep breath. “I already did. And so did someone else.”

While I pondered that, he stood quietly, apparently thinking. The gun still was pointed at me but at least it wasn’t pressing against my boob anymore.

“If you receive the papers, call me immediately,” he finally said. “Don’t call anyone else. If you do, I assure you, you’ll pay with your life and the life of your friend.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay.” I could be mega agreeable when a gun was pointed at my chest.

He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and then grabbed my arm. He scrawled a number on the inside of my forearm. “Don’t wash that off,” he warned.

“Who me? Take a bath?” I joked weakly.