The TV news and newspapers all neglected to mention that intoxicated, foul-mouthed child-abuser Ruby Vigil had ripped into him with a sauce-covered meat-fork. The TV news and newspapers left out the details of how he’d prevented Ruby’s thirteen-year-old daughter from having her face barbecued on a sizzling charcoal grill. The news and newspapers failed to make note of the fact that, in order to protect himself from having his eyes skewered by sharp, honey-mesquite-scented metal, he’d broken Ruby’s little finger.
Ruby got bail.
He got torn muscle, thirty-two stitches, physical therapy, a civil suit seeking seventy-five thousand dollars in damages, as well as a lawsuit against the county, and a forced vacation.
This morning, though, eight weeks into this compulsory holiday from work, things had suddenly started to look a little like Christmas.
It had even snowed.
Grinning, he moved closer to the mirror to inspect the overgrowth of curls on his head. Using electric clippers, he cut his hair first and then moved on to trim down his beard. After a quick shower, he started to shave, goofing around by trying Elvis muttonchops and a Hitler moustache before he took all the whiskers off. Razor in one hand, he slid his fingertips over his jaw, checking for any rough patches.
Satisfied his face was stubble-free, he worked in a bit of aftershave balm then brushed his teeth. He made a face as soon as the toothbrush touched his tongue. The flavor of the fruit punch he’d made and sampled before he’d come upstairs still lingered. While it had given him a pleasant, light buzz, orange-pineapple-banana-peach juice and vodka did not compliment Colgate fluoride toothpaste.
After rinsing liberally, he went into his bedroom to dress. He’d just pulled on his jeans when Lesley called out from downstairs.
“John? Where do you keep your storage containers?”
John went out to the landing at the top of the stairs, yanking a long-sleeve green t-shirt over his head. A cold draft wafted over his bare feet as he started down the steps. “In the drawer under the stove.”
Lesley grinned at him from the bottom of the staircase. The front door was wide open behind her. “Now that’s an improvement over the Napoleon Dynamite look you had.”
“Napoleon Dynamite never had a beard, and I thought you said I had Krusty the Clown hair.”
“You were Napoleon on your way to Krusty. I never knew you cut your own hair.”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
“That’s quite a talent you have for wearing your shirt inside out.”
“And you have a flair for getting paint on your neck, but do I point it out to you? Nooo. Pick, pick, pick, that’s all you do. I could bitch about you keeping the front door open and letting out all the heat, but I have a date tonight and I’m feeling magnanimous.” John smiled.
“I have to air the onion smell out of the house. You want your place to ree— Wait a second. You have a date? You’re not staying for dinner? Look, I know Sean’s a—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not bailing on you,” John said, tugging his shirt off, turning it right side out. “I invited her to join us. If I have to put up with your brother at my house for dinner, then you can put up with my date.”
Lesley nudged him. “So that’s why you shaved and trimmed that hedge on your head. Well, that was fast. About an hour ago you asked me if I knew anyone you could kiss. So did you meet her at Smith’s?”
“I changed her flat tire this morning.” John put the tee back on and grinned.
“And now you want to check her oil.”
Sniff-sniff-sniff. “Shut the door.”
The conference call that should have lasted only twenty minutes had turned into a marathon as the Supervisory Special Agent argued protocol points with Oscar. Willa let them fight it out. She kept quiet and waited for them to include her in the discussion.
A commercial had come on the TV, interrupting the cartoons she’d had on in the background. She pulled a lock of hair between her fingers to examine it. Maintaining an unpolluted white could be tricky business. Traveling or living someplace new meant her hair was exposed to different water with different minerals that could dull her locks or turn them yellow. She’d put the almost empty bottle of purple-toned conditioner, the stuff that kept her hair from taking on a dull, sallow cast, into the giant shower upstairs, but had she packed the brand new bottle?
Yes, of course she had. She’d shoved it into the box with the other toiletries yesterday, when she’d found the globe-like bottle on the bathroom floor back home, where Alicia had left it after her cosmetic and household goods raid.
Willa dropped her hair and sighed quietly. She was late for dinner. She’d thought she’d timed things well before the conference call, scanning and saving copies of documents to a memory stick for tomorrow, changing clothes. She hated being late almost as much as she hated yellowing hair. Her hair, like John, would have to wait. She had to put her country before her hair and Dominic before a social life. A potential breach at a nuclear lab was a serious matter that warranted discussion, and espionage was a matter that made people apprehensive.
And no one was more uptight than Supervisory Special Agent Pope. The SSA had a bad cold, and her anxiety meant she asked the same question five different ways and explained the operation three times, and that was in between hacking and blowing her nose. She spent three quarters of the call rattling off a trinity of worries, questions, and directives, pausing to cough up a lung and honk as she cleared out her nostrils.
Willa listened to the heated discussion SAC Oscar was having with SSA Pope via the loudspeaker on her cell phone, her eyes on the muted TV where Daffy Duck was dressed as The Scarlet Pumpernickel.
She’d had always preferred the early ‘hoo-hooing’ loony Daffy to the greedy foil for Bugs he became in later Warner Brothers cartoons. In her opinion, Bugs and Daffy together were annoying, while the Porky-Daffy duo was comedy genius.
“I can’d stress this enough, Agent Hesdon,” SSA Pope said, “The potential gravity of this counter-intelligence case is ibbense.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Willa responded and jerked at the waistband of her tights. She’d bought control-top by mistake. How did other women bear wearing such binding hose? They gave a smooth line, but they pinched her waist and made her feel like an over-stuffed sausage. Uncomfortable, she undid the tie of her mulberry-colored wrap dress and stretched out the unyielding waistband of her tights as far as she could. Then she retied the belt and the skirt swished back across her knees as she started to pace.
“Feasibly, id’z national security so the investigation is going to come under extreme scrutiny. Previous cases lacked continuity and cobbunication. Thad’z not going to happen this time. Id’z not just the collective FBI ass on the line here with thiz investigation. Id’z SAC Oscar’s butt as well as yours and bine.”
“That’s right, Agent Heston.” Oscar agreed with the good ol’ boy Alabama intonation that appeared when he was relaxed.
Willa was glad someone was feeling laid back. “Yes, sir,” she said. It had been easier when she didn’t care. Now that she did, fear was turning her into a miniature version of the SSA. Her palms had gone sweaty when she’d left the electronic reader with Dominic earlier in the afternoon.
Pope sneezed and honked loudly. “Proceed as you see fit, but if ad any point you think this case requires bore substantial resources or you feel overwhelmed by the demands, you damn well better let be know. Am I clear on thad?”
“Yes ma’am,” Willa muttered. She watched Daffy duel with Sylvester as she dragged on a pair of black calfskin boots. They were easy to get on, but a bitch to get off. She loved them anyway.
A knot of pain twinged in the back of her neck. Tension headaches had never been a problem in the past, but maybe that was about to change. Watching cartoons had helped her start to unwind, but the conference call had tightened up the loosened springs by highlighting the mountain of responsibility on her plate. Insecurity about her own abilities was something she’d never h
ad to face before.
Neither was trying to prove a friend’s innocence.
The SSA had hung up, but Oscar was still there. “Agent Heston,” he said, sounding like he was in a tin can. It was a well known fact within the New Mexico FBI division that SAC Oscar sometimes conducted business from a cubicle in the men’s room.
“Sir?” she said, invaded by involuntary images of him folding—or clumping—toilet paper.
“Run down tomorrow’s events.”
“Agent Mitchell and the local police have arranged a meeting with Grafton,” Willa tried not to snicker as the unmistakable watery churn of a toilet flushing sounded in her ear, “at eight tomorrow morning, before I head to the Lab.”
“Great. Listen, I know I got yew back inta this, I pulled yew out of reserve service, and I ‘preciate your expertise,” he drawled, “so much that I won’t be coming up till Sunday, Nine aye-em. sharp.” And then the country twang vanished. “Now don’t fuck up.”
As the call ended, Willa knew she had no business wasting time reinvigorating her social or sex life with John. As alarmist as Pope was, things did look bad. This was going to move fast, and there was only a small window of time before shit hit Dominic and stuck.
Although it was exciting to have met a man who stirred up dimmed sensations and made her want to put on perfume, she was in Los Alamos for highly sensitive work. Discussing classified information with a potential suspect without drawing attention to herself, or to him, had to come first. Exploring the powerful electric current she felt with a total stranger had to take a back seat.
Back seat. The phrase conjured up images of a different sort of backseat, one with steamed up windows, and urgent hands and hungry mouths and bared skin and…
Sighing, Willa switched off the TV, grabbed her keys and went across the street to break her date.
It was five minutes to seven when she pressed John’s doorbell and waited in the glacial cold. The keys dangling from the middle finger of her left hand touched her palm, the metal like shards of ice on her skin. Shivering, she looked up at the sky. The snow had stopped. The night was moonless, and in between parted clouds, stars looked like glittery fairy dust sprayed on blue-black velvet.
A rattle drew her attention back to earth and she stepped up onto the small landing just as the door opened. A man appeared behind the glass storm screen. Willa’s heart did a couple of cartwheels when he smiled. It was amazing what a shave and a haircut could do for a man. Cropped short, John’s unruly mass of curls was now a softened wave. He looked like he’d stepped out of an old Eddie Bauer catalogue, the Winter Issue. Instead of pretty GQ boys, Eddie featured rugged guys with graying hair and crooked smiles that made one see the boy still in the man.
John pushed a long sleeve up his arm, looked at his watch, and then opened the door. “I figured you stood me up, Queenie.”
“I’m sorry. My boss called. You cut your hair. And shaved.”
“I was pretty cute with the woolly face and hair, but now I’m smokin’ hot, even with all the gray, right?”
Willa kept a straight face. “If you say so.”
“I say so. Come on in.”
“I can’t. I came to tell you I have too much work to do. I’m really sorry. Thanks so much for inviting me, but I stepped into this new position at the last minute. A few things are already in-progress and I have to catch up by tomorrow. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”
“I went to a lot of trouble, Your Majesty,” John gave her a stern look that was tempered by laughter behind his eyes, “so if you can’t dine with me, at least come in and I’ll give you some to take home.”
“Thanks. It smells wonderful, but I’m going to be an ingrate and decline.”
“Okay. You’ve got work to do. I’ll buy that, but at least come in for a drink, ingrate.”
“I don’t drink.”
“I’ve got ginger ale, water, and orange juice, so just come in for a minute and have a glass.” John stepped outside, took her right hand, and pulled her towards the open door. “Please.”
As his fingers closed around hers, Willa felt a giddy sensation, like she was in third grade again and hand-holding had been enough to turn her little-kid knees to Jell-O. John’s hand felt so warm. She was sure her palm had started to sweat. It was simple, harmless skin-to-skin contact, but a low-wattage hum started in her blood and a flood of adult awareness made her legs feel like that Jell-O hadn’t set.
He smelled faintly of bergamot, like Earl Grey tea, shaving soap and fabric softener, ordinary things that, on him, became extremely male. Willa wanted to run a finger along his now-smooth jaw. The scent of him and the simple way he held her hand was exhilarating. Beguiled, against her better judgment, she found herself inside his house.
Laughter came from the rear of the townhouse. “You’ve got company?” she said, looking down a short set of stairs.
“Yeah. Do you count family as company?”
“I would if I had any.” Willa paused in the foyer and started to pull her hand free. “I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”
John tightened his grip slightly, gently. “It’s not an intrusion. My cousin is a snob. I was getting him tanked to shut him up, but with you here he’ll forego tales of his world travels for a few minutes in order to find out how much money you make.” He slid the dangling set of keys from her finger and hung them on a brass key rack shaped like a line of barnyard pigs with curly tails.
“You’re using me?” she said.
“That was my plan all along. Wait. That sounded better in my head. Did I mention I like your dress? It’s a very nice dress.” He squeezed her hand. “So then, you’re all that’s left of the Heston clan?”
“No, not really. My parents live in DC and I have a twin in Albuquerque I rarely see.”
”Why? Is she the evil one?”
“No, that would be me.”
“You’re evil?”
“Isabel thinks so. I have a tendency to tell her to fuck off.”
“You’ve got to love family dynamics.” John squeezed her hand again and led her down the steps from the landing. “So,” he gestured to the left, “first on the grand tour is the kitchen and on the right is the powder room. The previous owners had it put in under the staircase. It’s a closet in the other townhouses.”
John reached out to open the door, but the little bathroom was occupied. Willa heard water running behind the door.
“I’m guessing the ceiling in there is slanted?” she said.
“Yeah, but the layout is such that I’ve never hit my head while taking a pi— conducting business. The former owner also changed the configuration of the kitchen so you can get to the dining room without walking through the living room, but I’m taking you the long way ‘round.”
They stepped into a sunken living room decorated in muted browns and greens. A wooden entertainment unit housed a huge plasma-screen TV and stereo system. DVDs filled a bookcase along one wall. Large windows framed a fireplace, and French doors led out to a deck. Willa could just make out redwood planks from the light shining out through paned glass.
“Is your deck built out all the way to the edge of the canyon?” Willa said.
“Nearly. There’s about ten feet to the side. It doesn’t quite drop off. It’s more of a sharp slope, so I get deer and other critters up on the deck sometimes. You can see all the way to the Omega Bridge and Pajarito ski slopes. Uh, that’s the bridge near the Lab and the ski area here in Los Alamos.”
Willa was about to let him know she’d lived in Los Alamos before and knew the town pretty well, but they’d reached the dining room. Two women and a man sat at an oblong table that was covered with colorful, aromatic dishes of steaming Indian cuisine.
Fifty, or close to it, the man sat in front of another set of French doors out to the deck. He had a solid eyebrow that resembled a reddish-brown caterpillar crawling across his forehead. Two empty beer bottles stood next to his plate, and he was guzzling orange juice from a
glass adorned by a Star Wars character.
Willa wondered if he knew he had slopped Florida gold on his expensive, pale blue cashmere pullover.
There was little doubt the nodding woman to his left was his wife. She wore pink diamond studs in her ears, a strand of pink pearls, and looked a little like Audrey Hepburn—if Audrey Hepburn had been double-chinned. She looked Willa up and down with a judgmental purse of her mouth.
“The best my ass,” the man said. “It was the most sub-par five-star hotel I’ve ever stayed at. Seven hundred and fifty bucks a night for a king-sized bed with a dip in the center—a dip!” His wife elbowed him and he looked to his right. “Who ya got there with ya, John?”
“Everybody, this is Queenie,” John said.
Willa thought the petite strawberry blonde at the head of the table looked vaguely familiar. She had a nose similar to the man’s, but unlike the couple displaying their wealth, she was casually dressed in overalls. Her bright green eyes flicked to John for a moment, her lips twitched, head slightly cocked. “Hi,” she said, reaching sideways to grab the napkin that had slipped off her lap. “I’m Lesley, John’s cousin.” She pointed to cashmere sweater man and the woman beside him. “This my brother, Sean, and my sister-in-law, Eva.”
John’s cell phone rang. He let go of Queenie’s hand to dig it from his pocket. It was the Operations Division Captain, Sebastian De Silva. “Excuse me,” he gave an apologetic shrug, “I have to take this, but I leave you in good hands.” He opened one of the French doors and stepped outside onto the deck.
Sean waved at the empty seat at the table, “Well, sit down Queenie, and have a drink.”
“Actually,” she glanced at him and smiled, “it’s not Queenie. My name is Willa.”
“Willa?” a voice said from the step at the top of the living room. Hurried, heavy footfalls made the painting on the dining room wall and the china in an antique glass-fronted hutch rattle. “Jay-zus Kee-rist! What the hell are you doing here?”
For Your Eyes Only Page 8