Listening intently to her new client, Artie smiled. “I did. It was so unusual. The texture was so light and fluffy; it seemed to melt in my mouth. I gotta say, I savored every bite. And like you said, it wasn’t available the next day, which was a real bummer.”
Smythe frowned. “Did you visit the bakery before following me?”
“To be honest—no, I hadn’t. So, thank you for stopping by. It’s a delightful, if not quirky hangout for me.”
“My favorites are his malasadas,” Artie continued. “I must confess, I’ve ordered them each time I’ve entered the bakery while checking in on you. The last time I had one was at Leonard’s Bakery on Oahu a few years ago.”
Smythe grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t really notice you. I think I’m glad I didn’t—notice you, that is. Probably would have freaked me out a bit.”
“Good! I’m glad to know I was stealthy enough. You weren’t supposed to notice.”
Smythe blushed and changed the subject. “His malasadas are my favorite, too. I haven’t tried them on Oahu, although I hear they are amazing. I’m hoping to go back one day. Forget the ocean or the hotel room—I swear I’ll head straight for the shop from the airport!”
“You’ll find they’re similar but ever so slightly different. Each delicious in their own way.”
“Can I go see him?”
“You mean the baker? Right now? Yeah, no.”
Artie frowned and looked at her watch. “It would be closed by the time we got there. You can go tomorrow, if you must. But honestly, you’re looking a little pale. I’d really prefer you rest. If you’re hungry, let’s order in instead. If you are up to it, maybe watch a movie? Do you have Netflix?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Ok, then. Why don’t you go get comfortable? Take a pain reliever if you have to, but don’t take anything other than acetaminophen. I’ll have my team deliver something to eat. Any preferences?”
“I’m kind of picky. I’m not a fan of beef, pork, chicken, or broccoli. With that said, I do love Asian food.”
“So do I. It’s settled, then, vegetarian Asian food it is. Go get comfortable.”
“This may sound weird, but are you or your someone from your team going to be staying here? I mean, in the apartment, overnight. Or will you be outside? I’m not quite sure how this all works.”
“Yeah. I’m hanging here during the evening and night hours.”
Artie caught the slight frown that furrowed Smythe’s brow.
“I’m sorry, I’ve created what’s called a double layer of protection for you. It’s going to require protection both in your unit and outside of it. Especially now, after an attempt was made on your life.”
She paused for a moment.
“I’ve arranged for an air mattress to be delivered. I’ll put it up every night and take it down every morning. I’m already having sheets and towels delivered so that I don’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Oh, hmm, ok. No, it’s-it’s ok. I was just wondering. I do have extra sheets and towels, and I wash them every week. I use environmentally safe detergent and it’s really good on the skin—that is, if you have allergies to harsh chemicals. You don’t need to buy them.”
Artie smiled warmly at the offer. “It’s ok; it’s covered. Go do what you do. I’ll handle everything else.”
Artie’s gaze followed Smythe as she moved into the kitchen. She regarded her client for a moment. She had a hunch. She hoped this first evening would be an opportunity to get to know Smythe. The more she knew her, the easier it would be to gain her trust and cooperation. She would soon discover her instincts would prove accurate.
Smythe put away her groceries before retreating into her bathroom. She followed Artie’s advice and removed a couple of pain relievers from their bottle and turned on the faucet sink. Holding the pills in her hand, she stared at herself in the mirror, tracing her index finger around her reflection. She shook her head, popped the pills in her mouth, followed by a palmful of water before taking a long hot shower.
Smythe stood, savoring the stream of water as it cascaded over the top of her head, finding its path down the length of her body. Soaking in the healing properties of the steamy shower, she pondered her circumstances. She considered her options, finally making the only decision that felt reasonable. Few choices would keep her alive and free, except the one who now sat in her living room and outside her front door. The deciding factor was the word—free. Remembering the airline instruction, “Feel free to roam about the cabin,” Smythe smiled. In some ways, she felt a sense of relief with a security agency now attached to her.
Refreshed after her shower, Smythe changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. She appeared from the bathroom and cleared her dining room table, which served as a makeshift desk. A short time later, Team 1 delivered food, clothes, toiletries, sheets, a single blowup mattress bed, several clips for Artie’s weapon, and a duffle bag. Artie rummaged through the duffle bag before placing it in the dining room closet along with her other belongings.
Artie observed her client closely as they shared a companionable, early dinner. She made several attempts to convince Smythe to get bed rest, but in the end, acquiesced to Smythe’s objections. They settled into the living room and continued to exchange small talk before choosing two comedy movies to while away the afternoon and evening.
With each passing hour, Smythe’s body became heavier.
“I think you’re right. I need to go to bed. I’m finding I’m more bushed than I thought.”
“Good choice,” Artie replied.
Smythe slowly rose from the sofa and walked into her bathroom and opened the pantry door. When she returned, she held a blanket and pillow for Artie. Artie accepted the items and watched as her client retreated to her bedroom. Satisfied that Smythe was tucked away for the evening, she checked in with her night crew before spending a couple of hours developing security plans for the following day. A visit to the baker was at the top of her list.
“An unnecessary risk,” Artie mumbled. “She just doesn’t comprehend it yet.”
*
* *
The next morning, Smythe arose well before dawn. While her headache subsided overnight, another ache had settled into her soul. She felt engulfed by its energy and desperate to see the baker. She hoped his simple presence would ease the gnawing sense of dread she felt. If she were completely honest with herself, while a security detail brought a certain level of comfort to her, they also frightened her. Their weapons and companionship served as a constant reminder of the murder she witnessed and the recent attack on her own life.
She showered, dressed, and attempted to spend a few minutes reading in her room. Unable to concentrate on one of her new books, she gave up and snapped it shut.
In the living room, Artie sat up and listened as Smythe rustled around in the bathroom and then her bedroom. She rose quickly, showered, and dressed, preparing for Smythe’s appearance. She disassembled her blowup mattress and glanced around the living room. For a moment, she thought of allowing Smythe her space. Yet, she dismissed the thought as nothing more than wanting the convenience and comfort of her own home rather than the discomfort of a blowup mattress each night. She placed the disassembled mattress in the dining room closet, pulled out her laptop, and reviewed her notes from the previous day.
Smythe continued to sit in her armchair. Why so restless? You’re safe.
She glanced at her alarm clock.
God, it’s only 3:00 a.m. Much too early to leave.
Smythe sighed. She rose from her chair, walking quietly toward her steamer trunk. There she picked up her tablet and opened it. She searched through her files until she found a meditation led by her mentor. Returning to her chair, she slowly closed her eyes and deepened her breathing.
Feeling calmer after twenty minutes, Smythe opened her eyes and steeled herself.
It’s going to be ok. Just greet her. And try not to be so geeky or mean.
Smythe exited her bedroom and w
alked into the dining room, finding Artie sitting on the sofa, hunched over her laptop.
“Hi. How did you sleep?” Smythe asked, forcing a half-smile.
“Fine. How about you?”
“Nothing that a tenth of a muscle relaxer couldn’t fix.” She watched as Artie rose from the sofa and pulled out the duffle bag from the closet.
“I’d like to go to the baker’s shop.”
Artie frowned. “I know.” She turned to look at Smythe.
“We’ll go, but before we do, I need to outfit you a bit.” Artie lifted up a black bulletproof vest and reinforced mesh sports cap from her bag and handed them to Smythe.
“Put the vest on under your sweatshirt. I need you to wear both the vest and hat when you’re out in public. It’ll deflect any flying debris.”
“You mean bullets.”
“I mean bullets.”
Smythe accepted the vest and cap. Dear God. This can’t be happening.
“It should be easy enough to figure out, but ask for help if you can’t. One arm in and then the other.”
“I think I can manage, thank you.”
Smythe lowered her head with the cap and vest in her hands and returned to her bedroom. She laid the vest upon her bed, her fingers lightly touching the nylon. It felt stiff beneath her touch. She took off her sweatshirt and found a T-shirt in her closet and put it on. She lifted the vest from her bed. Placing one arm through the opening and then the other, it felt heavier and more confining than it looked. She fastened the vest tightly to her torso. She slipped her sweatshirt on over and returned to the living room, stopping before Artie. Artie smiled, asked permission to lift the sweatshirt and inspected the fit of the vest. She gave an approving nod, taking the cap and placing it on Smythe’s head.
“There. You’re good. Let’s go.”
“Just so you know, I’m not a fan of baseball caps.”
“Neither am I, but it’s necessary.”
With Smythe behind her, Artie exited the apartment. Team 2 positioned themselves at the front door and directed Smythe to their vehicle. Smythe, however, had other plans. She made a beeline for her own SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat. Artie paused for a moment, her eyes harpooning a glare into the back of Smythe’s head.
Driving! What next?! Might as well wear a sign. Here I am!
Artie looked at her team. “Did you inspect her vehicle?”
“We did. It’s all clear.”
Artie sighed. “Alright, then.” She pursed her lips. Her tactical training required she place her client in the back of her team’s’ vehicle, yet she also reasoned she needed Smythe’s trust.
Another give.
She shook her head and strode around to the passenger side of Smythe’s vehicle and got in.
“Is there a problem?” Smythe asked.
“It’s foolhardy for you to drive and for me to allow you to drive. But then again, I can often be a fool. For now, I’ll let it slide. You’ll drive, but only between both of my vehicles. No wobbling. First sign of trouble, you better follow my instructions to the letter. Understood?”
“Yup.”
“When you are out, turn off your cellphone and disengage Siri.”
Smythe pulled her phone from her messenger bag and turned her guidance system off before shutting down the phone completely.
Sandwiched between her two security SUVs, Smythe made her way through the sleepy enclave and wondered at the entirety of it all.
Just a short time ago, my life had such a different trajectory. Yet now, on a day like any other, I’ve got armed security on two sides of me. How did this get to be so out of control?
Smythe continued along the route Artie mapped out. She looked toward the heavens and quietly mouthed, “Help me.” As always, the Universe responded—perhaps in ways she did not understand, or want. But responded.
Litter or Treasure?
NESTLED BETWEEN SMYTHE’S SUBURBAN VILLAGE AND THE LARGER city, the baker’s shop sat along a sparsely traveled road. A collection of family-owned dry cleaners that specialized in difficult alterations, sure to impress even the most finicky of clients; a small used book store that prided itself as “a store full of welcome,” and a large grocery store sat on either side of the baker’s shop.
Her first visit to the baker’s shop occurred several months ago. A co-worker recommended the bakery to her, raving about the fluffy deliciousness of his signature pastry—malasadas. Excited to try someplace new, she plugged the address into her phone and headed for her treat. Her mouth watered as she thought about the pastries she would order. A maple bar would be high on her list. And yes, she thought, she would try a malasada, too. She parked directly in front of the shop, yet when she pulled on the front door, she found it locked.
Confused, she stood staring blankly into the shop’s window. She checked the sign. Open at 5:00 a.m. She then checked her watch—4:00 a.m. A bit embarrassed by her mistake, she turned to walk away, but the tinkle of a bell caused her to pause. She turned toward the sound, and the gentle voice of a man called out to her.
“Hello. You wish to order?”
Smythe smiled widely. “Yes, I would. I very much would like to order.”
“Welcome, welcome my friend, please come in.”
Smythe described the baker to her friends as an older, petite, Portuguese man with more salt than pepper in his dark brown hair and the kindest dark eyes that allowed one to drink in divinity. He stood no more than five feet eight inches tall and walked with a slight limp, which, over time, became more pronounced.
From the first day, and almost every day thereafter, the baker moved to the rhythm of Smythe’s arrival. With a broad smile and a starlit gaze, he engaged her in warm conversation while he prepared his shop to open. The smell of pastries wafted through the shop as he busied himself, placing pastries onto cooling racks, setting chairs in place, starting coffee, and heating water for tea. Before ordering food and coffee, Smythe would empty her messenger bag onto the furthest booth away from the door. It looked more like an office desk with her iPad, assortment of books, journals, and pencils neatly placed on the table. She would sit quietly for an hour or so, observing the flow of patrons in and out of the shop, before heading to work.
After the murder, she often sat for half the day, longing for the comforting presence of her friend. This morning would be no different, except now, Artie was at her side.
In order for Smythe to move about the city, Artie developed a three-car caravan of security personnel whenever she traveled. Each member had a law enforcement background, and each vehicle held a two-person, plain-clothes-wearing, armed security team.
As the caravan approached the shop, Artie directed Smythe to park her vehicle in an alley beside the collection of storefronts. The alley was wide enough for other vehicles to pass, but, more importantly, hid their bakery visit from the general public. Artie quickly exited the car, her weapon drawn in front of her as she scanned the area. The only light offering any measure of sight was a flickering lamppost, providing only the dimmest of illumination. She squinted her eyes, slowly turning her head, searching the empty alley for any sign of threat. Prepared for any contingency, Artie stationed one team vehicle in front of Smythe’s car, a second team vehicle near the front of the shop, and a third team vehicle sat in a small area directly behind the bakery. After surveilling the area, Artie opened Smythe’s door, ushering her toward the front door of the bakery.
The baker watched as Smythe’s car passed by his shop and now stood waiting at the door. He smiled widely at the sight of Smythe as the pair approached and unlocked it. “You have brought a friend, I see. Welcome, please come in.”
The overhead pendant lights offered a warm and inviting atmosphere to the shop, rebuffing the chill of the early morning air. Smythe smiled as she entered. It is good to be in the presence of my friend at a time like this, she thought. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Hi, Joao. Yes, I did. I hope you don’t mind. This is Artie.”
“I do
not mind. She has been here many times. She seems to come in right at the time the shop opens.”
He directed his starlit gaze toward Artie, “It is good to see you again. What may I offer you?”
Artie nodded toward the baker and eyed the partially filled display cases. Her stomach lurched a bit as she thought about biting into a pastry so early in the morning.
“I’ll wait on the pastries. Too early. I do need a large coffee, though, if it’s ready.”
“One coffee coming up.”
While the baker tended to her coffee, Artie swept the shop with her eyes. The shop was small, holding only four slate-gray booths anchored along the wall opposite three display cases. Less than half a dozen smaller tables sat in the middle of the shop. The white tile, speckled with gray inlaid flecks, held a brightness that glimmered against the white walls. The baker celebrated his heritage by adorning the walls with colorful images of Portugal. Picturesque paintings of simple, white façade homes and cobbled streets, along with lush, mountainous countrysides hung on the walls. As an avid football fan, or soccer as the sport is called in the west, several smaller images of the country’s national football team were well represented.
Artie reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, silver money clip holding several twenty-dollar bills. The baker smiled, waving off her attempt at payment as he handed Artie her coffee.
“You will want pastries later. Remind me and pay then.”
Artie’s stern face softened, and she politely thanked him for his offer. She chose a seat at a table near the middle of the shop. It was from there, she surmised, she had a clear vantage point of everyone entering and exiting the shop.
“For you, Smythe, what may I offer?”
No Place to Hide Page 7