“Everything about this case is squeaky clean,” Kel said, his frown deepening.
“Except the murders.”
We both fell silent. He stared into the distance, while I tried not to stare at him. He sat there radiating idealism. Which was what had prompted me to help him, I realized.
Baptists are particularly susceptible to idealism.
I frowned. Wasn’t my religion supposed to make me immune to his long, lean body and the heady scent of male after-shave? Or at least help temptation get thee behind me? I took another peek and temptation stayed right in my face. It seemed my principles needed some help. And I needed to stop thinking and start talking.
“Where are we going?”
“Hmm?” He looked up, then said with an air of putting things temporarily away, “The impound lot to pick up your sister’s car. There’s really no reason for them to hold it, so I applied a little pressure to have it released.”
“You may have saved my life. If I bring back her baby maybe Rosemary will only beat me senseless.”
“Do you have time for some lunch?”
I felt a little thrill, until he added, “I’d like you to look through some mug books for your round-headed man. The sooner the killer is identified and arrested, the sooner the CIA can quit tailing you against your will.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound as appealing as it should have. When they got their man, would this particular CIA guy quit tailing me? Duh. Of course. I looked away and gave a tiny shrug. “Sure.”
The street passed without me seeing it. I could feel him looking at me and wanted to tell him to stop it. Instead I twisted the strap of my purse until it left a red mark across my hand. His hand covered mine, stopping the attempted self-mutilation.
“Mexican okay? I know this good place close to the impound lot.”
“Sounds fine.” Despite a stern, mental admonition, my gaze slid his way and ran smack into his. I don’t know if he started to lean towards me, or the car turning the corner leaned him towards me. I just know he was incoming and I was outgoing. Before we could lip lock, the car stopped with an un-limousine-like jerk. The suits slid out each side and pulled open the doors, flooding the cozy, dim interior with harsh light and the real world.
“Impound lot,” Kel said.
Did he sound regretful? I wasn’t unbiased enough to judge.
I reined in my lips and started to slide out. I don’t know if lust made me clumsy or if it was just me being me. What I do know is that my foot caught on something under the seat. Launching me into an ungraceful nose dive out the door. Lucky for me the suit on my side had good reflexes. Too bad he was short the extra arm to catch my purse.
A mini eruption of contents sprayed out onto the pavement. Crumpled, dirty papers fluttered. Useless sundries rolled in ten different directions. A bedraggled tampon landed at the suit’s feet, accompanied by a shower of tiny, green breath mints. And that was just the small stuff.
He had me around the waist, while I tried to untangle my feet from the car and simultaneously grab at flying objects. I succeeded only in spreading them further, not to mention putting my rescue in peril. Suit number two rushed to our aid just in time to become the unhappy recipient of several candy bars.
Kel kept his distance until the dust and my belongings settled. Then he started to gather up everything within his reach, his face expressionless. Well, he’d seen my bedroom. He’d seen my living room. Now he was seeing my purse. God had ordained I have few secrets from this man. It was ironic, really. Here he was this spy, agent, whatever, with a secret life, and he probably had less that really needed to be hid than I, whose life was on constant, embarrassing display. When he wasn’t looking I kicked the tampon under the car. Had I really thought a spit rainbow the worst blow life could inflict?
I opened the bag’s maw and stoically received my belongings as they were proffered. The pocketbook with the tattered edges, the map of New Orleans, the ceramic crawfish, a three year old empty date book, the brush with no bristles, and the business card case with the Junior Mint still stuck to it. The last thing Kel handed me was the glue gun.
“My sister’s,” I muttered. “She likes to glue things.”
“Do you think that’s everything?”
Right. Like I’d know that. I smiled brightly, taking care to avoid eye contact. “Of course.”
There was this strange, insistent buzzing from the bowels of the limo and one of the suits peeled off to silence it, leaving me to reinsert the glue gun under the gaze of only two incredulous men.
“Sir?”
Kel looked away. “What?”
“That was Edwards. Says PT-PAC looks clean.”
“Right. Tell him I’ll see him at the dog and pony show this afternoon.” Kel turned back to me as the suits faded into the limo, which pulled away with a relieved purr.
“Dog and pony show? You a judge?”
Kel smiled and shook his head. “It’s a meeting.”
“Oh. Right.” Spy talk. No wonder our country was in trouble.
“Shall we get your sister’s car?”
I’d humiliated myself enough for now, so I nodded. I was also too cowed by the purse incident to do more than murmur assent when Kel offered to drive.
We pulled out into traffic. Eager for a change of subject, I asked, “Is that Mrs. Carter’s PAC your guy was talking about?”
Kel nodded, his eyes on the rear view mirror as he moved over a lane. “It was her pride and joy. The night she died, she attended a meeting of the board.”
“And you think her death had something to do with that?” From pride and joy to death in the board room? It was a stretch, in my opinion, even for the CIA.
“It’s not likely. But she did mention being worried about one of her projects.” He shrugged. “Though I can’t imagine anyone transgressing under her eagle eye.”
“Know that from experience, do you?”
“Well…” He grinned at me, then took the car round a corner, the motor purring with contentment.
I basked in the lingering glow of his smile. Pity he had to watch the road so closely. It was weird to be back in Rosemary’s car with him. Even weirder to think I’d wandered into some real-life spy flick, complete with bodies, mysteries, and a handsome hero.
He was a relaxed and skillful driver, failing to indulge in the under-the-breath-cursing that marked my progress, as he maneuvered the car through the late afternoon traffic. I directed discreet glances at him. In repose, his face was serious, tiny lines fanning out around his eyes as he squinted against the glare. His hair was neat and crisp, except for the tiny piece that still lay across his forehead. I sighed, wishing I had the right to smooth it back, and smooth the hint of worry that creased the space between his brows. Too bad there was only me to play the heroine part. Just because he wasn’t married, didn’t mean he didn’t have a significant other tucked away somewhere. I sighed. Oh well, I’d have my memories.
He shifted in his seat and grimaced like it hurt.
“Are you all right? You’re pretty active for a guy with a bullet hole in his side.”
He stopped at a light with no sign of impatience. “It’s just a scratch.”
Sub-text: Real men don’t feel pain.
“I guess you have to get used to bullet wounds.”
He chuckled. “It’s not all that dangerous.” He passed through the light and pulled into a space in front of a row of stores.
“If we common people have misconceptions about the CIA, it’s because the CIA likes it that way.”
“Maybe.” He turned off the car and towards me, resting his arm along the seat back behind my head.
The car immediately shrunk. I shifted in my seat. Stared at the restaurant’s façade, then let my gaze homing pigeon back to him. “This the place?”
He nodded. “Look okay?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t talking about the restaurant.
He knew it. His eyes heated up as he ran his finger down the side of my neck. �
��Good.”
I was sure he was going to kiss me, but he got out and slammed the door. I watched him pace around the car, wondering what kind of spy softened a lady up, then failed to follow through and kiss her? James Bond would be very disappointed in him.
He opened my door and helped me out. We were so close, I could have inhaled him, if I could have breathed. If he didn’t kiss me this time…
He started to, I think. Distantly, I heard the sound of a car accelerating too fast. He looked past me. I followed his lead and saw the green minivan careening towards us, an assault weapon poking out the window.
Good thing his reflexes were faster than mine. I was still registering shock, when he shoved me to the pavement behind the Mercedes. Seconds later the shooting started. For a brief eternity, my face was pushed into cold concrete with Kel’s body covering mine while all hell broke loose above us. As abruptly as it started, the shooting stopped. The diminishing shriek of tires faded into cries of fear and outrage.
The air was filled with the acrid smell of cordite. Over Kel’s shoulder I saw shattered glass and twisted metal where Rosemary’s car used to be.
“You should have let them shoot me,” I told him.
Sirens drowned out people noise. Kel helped me up, brushed the glass off my clothes and hair, had someone bring me a chair and a glass of water. I sat and sipped, once more surrounded by policemen and flashing lights. That it was happening in the bright light of midday didn’t make it feel any more real than the last time.
I let it all pass over and around me as I stared at the car’s remains, only half listening as Kel talked to Willis about the shooting.
“So, Miss Stanley,” I looked up into Dillon’s sardonic face, “what you gonna do for your next trick?”
I looked at Rosemary’s car. “Disappear?”
* * * *
Four hours, six feet of mug books, and one police artist later, I think everyone wished I had disappeared.
“How’s this, Miss Stanley?” the artist asked for the umpteenth time.
I looked at the much erased sketch for a moment, then at the tired artist. “It’s very nice.”
“But does it look like the man you saw?” If he’d been six instead of twenty-six, I’d have said he was whining.
Behind him Willis was banging his head rhythmically, against the wall. Kel was stretched out in a chair, his hands clasped behind his head as he studied the ceiling. Dillon paced between us like a caged lion.
“No…”
Their frustrated sighs almost blew me out the door. I had to do something before they turned ugly. I took the sketch book and pencil.
“May I?” Without waiting for his answer, I flipped to a clean page and started to fill it with broad strokes. It was easy. The round-headed man’s visage was burned in my memory. Maybe sketching him would exorcise it.
“You—you’re—you can—why?” the artist sputtered.
I looked up. “They all knew I could.”
There was this pregnant pause, then the three of them sputtered out a defensive chorus, “She draws cockroaches—not people…”
“There.” I made a couple of minute adjustments, gave a final shudder, and handed the pad back to its frustrated owner. “That’s him.”
They all huddled over the sketch.
“It’s a caricature,” Willis said.
I wondered how many of my tax dollars had gone into training him?
“A damn good one,” Kel murmured, giving me a quick, tired smile that made up for everything.
“A caricature, but still recognizable,” Dillon said, something that was almost pleasure forming on his face. “In fact, I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“I don’t know,” Willis said. “Maybe we ought to wait, try to get a better picture to put on the wire.”
“Better than what? We’ll have him in custody inside thirty- six hours.” Dillon headed for the door with the sketch in hand.
I faded gratefully into the woodwork as they launched into law enforcement mode. With my eyes closed, my thoughts drifted, unfocused, unstructured, something hovering at the back of my mind. Something important, waiting patiently for recognition—
—don’t want anyone else to know you saw him—
—police stations are notoriously leaky places—
I felt a chill spreading through me despite the over-heated room. I was too tired to think straight. I shouldn’t go there.
—Kel saved my life—
—he couldn’t—
—not and kiss like that—
—but how did the round-headed man know—
—Kel. Kel was the only one who knew—
No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t—a pounding in my temples kept time with the insistent, unanswerable question, if not Kel, then who?
Who else had known where we were, where we were going? He got shot at, too, I wailed inside my head. Bad guys turn on each other, my head shot back. I had to get out of here. I needed time, space to think, away from him. I needed facts, not feelings to tell me whether Kel wanted to kiss me—or kill me. I needed—my mother.
That’s how desperate I was.
At the end of the narrow hall, I spotted an exit sign and headed for it. No one noticed. Outside it was cold and gray, like I felt inside. Rosemary had taken my car. Hers was a skeleton of its former self. A bus paused at a corner, people filing on. I could do that and did, dropping into a seat just before my legs gave out.
The bus jerked forward as Kel burst out the door. I cowered in my seat, not daring to look back until we turned the corner and he was lost to sight.
If I cried on the way home, it was no one’s business but mine.
THIRTEEN
Rosemary didn’t kill me when I walked through the door. I think she thought I was already dead. Or maybe our mother standing there crimped her style.
“My car?” Rosemary asked.
I burst into tears. My mother rose to the occasion, folding me into her arms despite the grit and grime of being drive-by shot at. I was too tired to cry long. My mother mopped me up, question marks becoming prominent in her fine eyes when Rosemary brought me the telephone.
“Bel?” Kel’s voice in my ear was as heady as a New Orleans pastry. “You made it home, then?”
Tiny tentacles of warmth began to dispel the chill in my bones at the relief in his voice.
“Why did you run out on me?”
“You seemed busy…and I was really tired.” Questions tried to break through exhaustion. Questions I couldn’t ask. My mother was standing there. Besides, I might not like the answers.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
For involving me in a life threatening situation or for needing to kill me, I wondered.
“I have my men watching your house. You’ll be safe until we find this guy.”
Would I? I wanted to feel safe again.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Was I thanking my hero? Or my enemy? I was too tired to care anymore. He rang off and I let the arm holding the telephone drop to my side. My mother and my sister stared at me. “I’m going to bed.”
Amazingly neither of them tried to stop me. I was too tired not to sleep, but my dreams featured the round-headed man in his green van. I gave in and woke up. Morning was better than dreaming. And I didn’t want to be late for my appointment to autograph cockroach butts.
When I’d done what I could to mitigate the ravages to my person, I grabbed my purse and headed for my car. Rosemary had parked it out front, right across from the two agents assigned to guard me. Keeping a wary eye on them in the rear view mirror, I steered a course for the nearest Burger King where I ordered a six pack of muffins to clear the angst from my head. My protectors followed me inside, looking silly and sinister as they sat nearby, still wearing sunglasses and sipping orange juice from little cartons.
No wonder it was hard to take the CIA seriously.
I lost them when I went in the convention center. I had a pass to the convention floor and they
didn’t. Since I was early, I took my time.
The exhibits were varied and interesting. My sketch fingers started to itch. Then I saw this huge, sand sculpture in the middle of the floor. Sculptors were still busy shaping the sand into a composition of books, kids, and monsters. And I thought roaches were tough to work with.
I had to get this down. I dug through my purse for my sketch pad. Then dug through again. The only thing I found there was a lot of junk and Rosemary’s glue gun. Where was it? Last time I’d had it had been…the police station, no I still had it until I’d spewed all the contents of my purse getting out of the CIA limo. Had it been overlooked inside the limo or on the ground under the limo? I’d have to ask Kel, but didn’t know what to hope for. I hated to lose the sketches I’d made, but did I want Kel to know more about me than he already did? Looking in my sketch book was tantamount to reading someone else’s diary.
I was so bummed, I almost didn’t see the exhibit for PT-PAC, the late Mrs. Carter’s committee. Curious, I strolled over to a woman arranging brochures. She looked a little wan around the edges, her eyes red-rimmed and tired, but she managed a semi-smile for me as I walked up to her.
“Would you like to sign our petition?”
“Well, if I agree with you, I guess I could.” I’d made the mistake of signing something I didn’t agree with one other time in my life, which was the main reason I was on my way to sign roach tushes.
She launched into a little spiel about the group, how their main focus was improving education, but because they kept running up against the special interest lock on Congress they had decided to focus on getting term limitations and line item veto for the President. She handed me a wad of pamphlets as she spoke. Of course I signed. Who wasn’t against Congress?
I added her stuff to the mess in my purse, then asked, “I guess Mrs. Carter’s death isn’t going to disband the group?”
Tears welled, then spilled from her eyes. She didn’t ask how, just murmured. “It’s such a horrible thing. And then Paul, too…” her voice broke and she turned away.
“Paul Mitchell was part of your group, too?” She nodded. “How awful!” And what a weird coincidence. I could feel my dormant sleuth gland stir. Luckily I got interrupted.
The Spy Who Kissed Me Page 11