Fidelity Files (22 page)

On Wednesday morning, I pulled into the service line at the far end of the dealership and stepped out onto the pavement. A man dressed in a black polo shirt tucked into khaki slacks approached me with a clipboard.

"Good morning," he said. "Do you have an appointment?'

"Yes," I said, leaning into the car and pulling out my purse. "Eleven A.M. Jennifer Hunter."

He scanned his clipboard. "I'm sorry, I don't have you down on my list. Are you sure it was today?"

I frowned and craned my neck to glance at his list. "Fairly sure." I was almost certain Marta said today at eleven A.M.

He shook his head. "Hmm. I don't know why you wouldn't be on here then."

I muffled an aggravated groan. "Great, so I have to come back another time?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Of course not. Let's just bring you inside and take a look at the computer. We can take care of it today."

I thanked him and then followed him through the sliding glass door that led into the service department.

"What are you coming in for? Oil change?" He took a seat behind a tall desk with a computer terminal stationed on top of it.

I sat down across from him. "No. Um, a recall on something. I'm not sure what exactly; my housekeeper took the call."

He nodded and began typing on the keyboard. "And you have a 2008?"

I nodded back.

He looked strangely at his screen. "That's odd. Someone contacted you for a recall?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm afraid we have another misunderstanding. There are no recalls on your model at this time."

"Huh?"

"I don't see any recalls in the system. Someone must have called you by mistake. People get on the wrong call lists all the time. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience."

I shrugged and picked up my purse and sunglasses from the desk. "All right. Well, since I'm here, I might as well get my oil changed. I think I'm due in a few hundred miles anyway."

He typed again. "Okay. And how about we'll get you a complimentary rental car to compensate for bringing you down here. That way you can just come back tomorrow to pick up your vehicle."

I smiled. "Perfect."

As I crawled on all fours around the backseat of my car, scrounging for any last-minute items I would need to have in the rental, I heard the service guy's voice call from outside. "Jennifer?"

"Yeah!" My voice strained as I carefully attempted to back out through the open door, a stack of loose papers in hand, and step onto the ground. But unfortunately, I wasn't able to avoid an inadvertent and very painful bump on the top of my head.

I massaged the throbbing spot with my hand as I looked around for the source of the voice.

And that's when I saw him.

And he was the furthest person from the Range Rover service guy who I ever expected to see, let alone call my name while I was playing crouching tiger, hidden dragon in the backseat of my SUV.

"Hi," I said awkwardly, smoothing out the hair that I had most certainly mangled into oblivion while attempting to soothe my growing, tumor-size bump.

Jamie Richards stepped out of the blinding sunlight and into the comforting shadow of the service department overhang. "Is your head okay? That looked pretty bad."

"What? No, fine. It was nothing. Happens all the time."

It happens all the time?

What the hell was he doing here? And why the hell was I saying stupid things like that?

"Jamie," he reminded me, touching his hand to his chest.

I attempted a giggle; it came out more like a gargle. "Yeah. No, I remember."

"Well, there goes my self-esteem," he said playfully. "See, I had convinced myself that you had forgotten my name and that my business card went through the washing machine and dryer – twice – and was left unreadable. It made me feel better about the fact that you didn't call."

I laughed. "Right. Sorry. That's actually
exactly
what happened. Except it was the wash cycle with extra bleach."

He nodded. "Thank you. I feel much better."

"I didn't know you drove a Range Rover."

"I don't." He pointed to the sign on the overhang. It read, "Range Rover/Jaguar Exclusive Dealership."

"A Jag, huh?"

"Guilty as charged. Twenty-five-thousand-mile checkup time."

"Now, do you actually pronounce it like the British girl in the commercial, '
Jag-yoo-ar
'?" I asked with my best elitist-mocking accent.

He laughed. "No. I pronounce it the dumb-ass American way.
'Jag-wire.
' And all the guys at work make fun of me and tell me I'm not allowed to own a car I can't pronounce."

"They're right. You should have gotten a BMW."

"Should we trade, then? You can drive my car home and I'll take yours. I can say 'Range Rover.'"

I shook my head. "Absolutely not. I love my car.
And
the seventy-five dollars it costs to fill it up every week."

"Seventy-five dollars!"

"I know," I said, shaking my head. "I should have just gone for the hybrid. I thought this car would make me look 'cool.' Until I realized that smog and pollution aren't really all that cool."

"Well, you don't know what you're missing. The Jag is pretty damn 'cool.'"

"You got me there," I admitted. "I've never been in one."

"That's why you're having dinner with me this week. Strictly for the sake of our negotiation. You have to actually sit in a
Jag-yoo-ar
to fully appreciate it."

And there it was again. That pang. That longing to say yes to him. This was my chance to prove to Sophie that she was wrong. That I wasn't afraid of anything. See, I can say yes to a date. I can let a guy take me out. I can even think he's cute. Really cute. There's nothing
wrong
with me.

"You can't turn down a perfectly good trade unless you have all the facts," Jamie continued. "As an investment banker, you of all people should know that."

And then, there
that
was again. The lie. The truth that I would have to keep hidden throughout the entire date. The stories I would have to regurgitate with enthusiasm. What kind of pillow talk consists of a fabricated existence? How was I supposed to bond with any man who didn't even know about the most important aspect of my life? It seemed so terribly impossible, not to mention... depressing.

"So what do you say? Dinner? Tomorrow?"

"Yes," I immediately blurted out. Before my heart could continue to pang and before my head could continue to rationalize. And as much as I hated to admit it, Zoë's universal theory seemed to be right on. Here was the universe, putting the same guy in front of me,
twice
in one week. Repetition is usually the sign of some kind of insistence. And who am I to argue with an insistent universe?

At first Jamie looked almost surprised, but then he smiled and said, "Great. What time should I pick you up?"

I pulled my Treo out of my bag and skipped ahead one day to Thursday. "How about eight?"

"You're not actually consulting a Palm Pilot, are you?" he asked, appalled.

I smirked. "It's better than consulting a psychic, isn't it?"

"Good point. But I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm going to have to retract my invitation. I could never have dinner with a girl who keeps a Palm Pilot."

"Hey, I'm a busy girl. Do you want to have dinner or not?"

He paused and patted his shirt pocket. "Hold on, I think I might have to consult
my
Palm Pilot on the issue." He removed a similar phone/calendar device from his pocket and began histrionically tapping the keys, like a child who had just gotten ahold of his father's PDA and was playing "important businessman."

I laughed and playfully folded my arms across my chest.

"Okay," Jamie finally said. "
My
Palm Pilot and I have discussed the matter, and we have decided that we
would
enjoy the pleasure of your company Thursday evening for dinner."

"Really? So this will be a party of three, then?"

"Oh, I don't do anything without him."

I was just giving Jamie my phone number so he could call me for directions to my house when a female voice summoned me from inside the service department. "Miss Hunter?"

I turned around. "Yes?"

"Your rental car is ready. Would you mind coming inside and signing a few papers for us?"

"Not at all." I turned back to Jamie. "So I'll see you at eight?"

"Ah, the mysterious letter H is finally revealed!"

I laughed. "So now you know. The secret is out."

Not all the secrets,
the voice in my head annoyingly reminded me. I chose to ignore it, decisively silencing every persistent premonition that this whole thing was a big mistake.

"Now, does the last name Hunter symbolize any sort of characteristic personality trait in you?" Jamie asked. "Like how the Native Americans used to name their people by what they liked to do? Sitting Bull, Dances with Wolves, Swimming Naked...Man Hunter?"

I laughed again, this time in an attempt to mask my uneasiness. "Well, I guess you'll just have to find out, won't you?"

"I'm rooting for the Swimming Naked one."

"Don't press your luck," I warned. But I couldn't help remarking that he was probably more on target with the Man Hunter suggestion. Although I much preferred the qualified version of
Evil
Man Hunter.

I waved good-bye to Jamie, wished him luck with his "Jag-wire," and followed after the woman who would be providing me with my rental "Batmobile" for the day.

MY STAND-IN, superhero vehicle was not nearly as nice as my usual mode of transportation but, nonetheless, it managed to successfully get me to my destination in one piece.

Although I had to admit: Tonight's superhero-esque activities were not exactly "all in a day's work." Tonight's agenda consisted of a much different kind of endeavor. Yes, it essentially utilized the same skills and costumes. But the end result would be of a much different nature. I rationalized, however, that it fell in the realm of the same quest and, therefore, was allowed.

Besides, I'm sure sometimes Superman has to thwart off evil in a more roundabout way. As much as he'd like to, sometimes he can't just go straight after the bad guy; he has to go after the source that's aiding the bad guy. His bank account. His accomplices. The mad scientist who stays up nights in his laboratory manufacturing whatever magic goo-like substance gives the bad guy his superhuman strength.

Or, in my case, the guy who's hosting the bad guy's Web site.

I had e-mailed Jason Trotting the night before, posing as a very wealthy Armenian Internet entrepreneur who, if he managed to land as a hosting client, would surely secure his financial future for the rest of his life – and the lives of all of his next of kin.

He, of course, agreed to meet me (or "Vartan," as I had introduced myself ) tonight at an upscale hotel bar in Westwood.

Needless to say, Vartan would never show up.

The Internet, unfortunately, was not kind enough to supply me with an identifying photograph of Jason Trotting. So I would have to test my luck and look for, hopefully, the only guy sitting alone in the bar waiting for someone.

And as luck would have it... there were three.

Fuck!
I silently cursed as I walked inside and surveyed the sparse crowd. One table of business associates, chatting about marketing plans. Another table with an adoring couple who would surely be booking one of the five-hundred-dollar suites upstairs by the end of the night, if they hadn't already. Two typical Los Angeles twenty-something girls sitting at the bar, dressed to the nines – just in case Jerry Bruckheimer happened to walk in looking for his next Hollywood starlet, or maybe even just some arm candy to take to his next premiere. And three men, each occupying their own table on different sides of the room.

Sporting a surprisingly realistic-looking blond wig and overly dramatic, dark eye makeup, I maneuvered myself over to a partly hidden corner where I could start taking inventory. Knowing that this guy, of all people, had probably seen the pictures of me on the Internet more than once, I had had to take proper precautions. The blond wig had been a very expensive costume accessory that I'd purchased about nine months earlier, when I met with a woman who was convinced that her husband was one of those gentlemen who preferred blondes. The blonde part was true enough...the gentleman part? Debatable.

I subtly adjusted my wig and began my reconnaissance.

Okay, Lonely Man #1: mid-fifties, no wedding ring, drinking Scotch, and not-so-inconspicuously checking out the two wannabe arm candies at the bar.

Ninety-five percent chance that it's not him. Jason would probably be in his late twenties to mid-thirties, given the line of work he's chosen. And he definitely wouldn't risk blowing this multimillion-dollar business opportunity to check out women. He would be watching the door.

Lonely Man #2 and Lonely Man #3 both fit those criteria.

Both were in their early thirties, style-challenged, and intently keeping both eyes glued to the entrance of the bar.

I studied them a little longer. Carefully observing how they reacted to each new customer who walked in. Knowing that the man I was looking for would essentially be waiting for an Armenian man named Vartan, I only hoped that deductive reasoning would kick in when the other one responded to an incoming female.

No good. They were virtually indecipherable. Even with my superpower.

So I would have to take a chance.

I waited until it was exactly thirty minutes after Vartan's scheduled arrival time, and then I approached Lonely Man #2.

"Hi," I said sheepishly. "Are you waiting for someone?"

He looked up and flashed me a flirtatious smile. "All my life. And it looks like I found her."

I struggled to stay in character and fought the urge to roll my eyes. I laughed playfully, as if this were the most flattering comment I'd ever received in my life. "No, I mean, someone in particular."

He nodded. "Yes, actually. A business associate."

I smiled. This was probably him, but I had to play it wisely.

I frowned. "Oh, okay."