Spy Games (12 page)

My jubilation in my keen intellect and guile lasted for less than five seconds, just until I spotted the gold jewelry-size box tied with a pink satin ribbon sitting squarely in the middle of my bed like the gem of the ocean.

Then I screamed.

I ran for the adjoining door, fumbled with the lock, and finally flung it open to find Van waiting for me on his side.

“What happened? Are you all right?” he asked.

I pointed to the package on my bed.

His gaze bounced from me to it and back to me. “Someone left you a present? And this has you freaked out, why? You have low self-esteem issues? You don’t feel worthy of a gift?” There was a tease in his voice.

I gave him an exasperated look. “Someone was here! In my room, my sanctuary.”

He walked directly to the bed to get a closer look at the offending package.

I was right on his heels. I grabbed his arm. “Be careful. It could be a bomb.”

“You are way too paranoid,” he said.

“You would be, too, if you’d just been held at knifepoint in an elevator by a cross-dressing mafia goon.”

“Is
that
what happened to your neck?” he asked deadpan. “You were attacked by an inept mafia goon?”

“Inept!” I pointed to my neck. “He wounded me!”

“He barely scratched you. An ept goon would have done the job right.” Van stepped into the bathroom and ran some water. He came out with a warm, wet washcloth and gently dabbed at my neck. “Just like I said,” he said, inspecting my neck. “A surface scratch. What really happened? Old Steve go Dracula on you when he went in for a little love bite?”

I felt myself flush at Van’s gentle touch, and rolled my eyes to cover. “FYI, I would
not
let Steve anywhere near my neck.”

I frowned to emphasize my point and returned to my story. “The Cindy Lou Goon did this
after
he promised not to hurt me if I gave him what he wanted, the big, fat liar.”

“And did you?” Van stepped back and tossed the washcloth into the bathroom.

“What?”

“Give him what he wanted?”

“Of course I did!”

When Van raised an eyebrow, I shot him a withering look. “Not that.”

“Okay, so why is he a Cindy Lou Goon?”

“I already said he was a cross-dresser. He was literally dripping in Cindy Lou jewelry, way over-accessorized.”

“Got it. Good cover. At least the goon has a few smarts. Did he try to sell you any of his finery?”

“Please! He was too busy holding that damn knife at my neck. My guess is he got a little too zealous with his knife sharpener last time he polished up the switchblade—”

“He had a switchblade?” Van finally looked serious.

“A black one. It looked like a stiletto, but he said it was a bayonet.”

“He took time to brag about his knife?”

I shrugged. “You know men, they like to brag about their toys.”

“Do the words ‘vivid imagination’ mean anything to you?” He paused, studying me. “Or post-traumatic shock. I think this Jay thing—”

“I am not making this up!”

“Good,” he said. “Because your story-making skills suck. If you’re going to be a spy, you’re going to have to get better at making up excuses, false explanations, tales, fabrications—”

“Can we get back to the knife? It was a sharp, big-ass one.”

“Got it. Big-ass knife.”

“And if you’re one of the crew who wants the dongle just like Peewee, Steve, Cliff, and Jim, then you’re going to have to go after Cindy Lou Goon, too.” For some reason, I stared at Van defiantly.

“Slow down, bubalouey, what dongle?”

“The one I hid in the bathroom for Huff. The one the goon wanted.”

We stood in front of the bed, leaving the package untouched, as I spilled the rest of the story to Van.

“That is some tale,” he said when I finished.

“You don’t believe me?” I asked.

“Crazily enough, though we got off to a bad beginning with the Cindy Lou Goon bit, I do. I’m just not sure who else will.”

I sighed. “Yeah, it sounds too much like an FSC setup.” I pierced Van with my really tough, truth serum glare. “There isn’t a murder mystery dinner thing going on here that I don’t know about, is there? This Cindy Lou Mafia Goon thing is so out there.”

“An FSC gag with real knives?” Van said. “It’s a little sporty for them. Though there was the realism of that dead body today.” He was grinning, though how he could under the circumstances was beyond me.

“Show some respect.”

“Oh, I forgot. You dated the guy. Sorry.”

I ignored him, thinking. “Maybe Jay was after that dongle, too?” I plunked on the bed. “Why is it so valuable? If we could figure that out—”

“Hey! Careful,” Van shouted. “The bomb. Remember?” He had a look of exaggerated horror on his face.

I gave the gold box a cursory glance over my shoulder. “Sorry. Forgot it was there.”

“This goon really got your goat,” Van said sympathetically. “The good news is the bomb doesn’t appear to be motion sensitive.”

“Poser!” I shot back. “You don’t believe it’s a bomb at all.”

He shrugged. “I’m a cute poser though.”

“Adorable.” Which I totally meant, but I tried to sound sarcastic. “Now for the six million dollar question—do I go to the police about Cindy Lou Goon?”

“Do you want to?”

“Goon implied he was Mafia!”

“Do you want to?” he repeated.

“You mean, do I want to live on the lam for the rest of my life?” I shook my head.

Van looked thoughtful. “I say we only owe our fellow citizens so much civic behavior. Putting our life on the line for a dongle of questionable nature goes too far.”

“You know what a dongle is?” I asked him.

He rolled his eyes.

Dumb question.

“Please. I am a math professor. I have some technological savvy. Do you know what’s so special about this one?”

I told him what Cindy Lou Goon told me. “It’s the key to some encryption software. I have no idea whose or what’s encrypted. If we knew that…”

“That’s a dangerous sparkle you’ve got in your eye. To quote a cliché, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’”

“But if we knew who the enemy is…”

He shook his head. “Do we really want to?”

“You’re not curious?”

“I’m cautious.”

“We’re surrounded by people who want that thing. Desperately. If we could figure out the connection between them, we’d have a good idea of the who and why of the situation. With a little research…” I gave him a meaningful look.

“All right. I’m in, I guess.”

I smiled. “Know anything about decryption algorithms?”

“Plenty.”

“Damn,” I said. “I wish we still had that dongle.”

“If we did, you’d still be in danger.”

I gave him a nudge. “That’s your cue to run out of the room after it. Hope you’re fast. Goon has a good fifteen minutes on you.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll stay,” he said. “But be my guest.” He gestured toward the door.

“I just had a run-in with the goon. That’s why I’m here in the relative safety of my room.” I gave a questioning glance at that dumb gift again.

“And that’s why I’m staying—to look after you.” He had that tease in his voice again.

“Aren’t you sweet?” I shifted on the bed.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With that doubtful look that says you don’t think stunning someone with theories about near and far infinity is going to keep you safe. You saw my prowess at the range. I’m good. I can protect with the best of them. Trust me.”

Personally, I wouldn’t have minded seeing his prowess in other areas, but I simply smiled like I believed his boasts and changed the subject. “So you don’t think I’m—we’re—in any more danger?”

“You don’t know any more than you told me?”

“Nope.”

“They have what they want. I think you’re fine.”

I nodded reluctantly. I still wasn’t feeling safe. Or guilt-free. We Petersons are big on guilt complexes. Not telling the police what I knew was already bugging me.

“But what if Goon and the dongle
are
related to Jay’s murder? What if by not telling the police what I know, they never solve the case? And Jay’s murderer goes free?” I was also big on justice, especially since the injustice of Ket’s short sentence for nearly annihilating me.

“Anonymous tip,” Van said without missing a beat. “We call in an anonymous tip.”

I nodded my head in agreement. “Good plan.” I hesitated. “Only we leave me out of it,” I said. “We don’t mention my involvement at all.”

“Yeah, I agree. So what’s the new story? How do we extract you from the scene and still relate the pertinent details—goon dressed as a woman steals dongle?”

We concocted a story about someone seeing Goon running from the ladies’ room with the dongle dangling by a cord from his fingers. It wasn’t the most credible thing I’d ever heard, but it would have to do.

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll be right back,” Van said and ran out to find a pay phone.

Less than five minutes later, he was back, looking excited and only slightly out of breath. “Call went great,” he said before I could ask. “So, now that danger’s reared its ugly head and passed you by, are you going to open your package?” He nodded toward it.

“Eager beaver. It’s not from you, is it, you sly dog?” Hey, I could tease and flirt, too.

“No.” He grinned again, giving me a hot flash.

I had to stop making him grin. “Then, no. I’m not. It’s not my birthday, Christmas, or Valentine’s. No one other than that sicko Ket would be sending me something. And him just to scare me.” I shuddered involuntarily, imagining him in the room, touching my things. “Besides, Mom taught me never to open packages of unknown origin. This one has no return address.”

“It doesn’t have a ‘to’ address, either,” Van pointed out.

“Good point. Maybe it’s not even for me.”

He snorted and laughed. “It’s on your bed.”

“Mistaken delivery.”

“Only one way to find out. Open it.”

“Mom wouldn’t like it.”

“Mom really taught you that? It sounds more like a post office/government warning. Anthrax, Unabomber, the like.”

“You caught me. No, she didn’t, but it sounds good. Next time I’ll make up some postal experience.” I flashed him a returning grin. “She did teach me not to talk to strangers. This is practically the same thing.” I paused again. “We could call the front desk and ask who made the delivery and why they didn’t just leave it at the front desk like a floral delivery? What in the world were they thinking invading my space? Maybe I can sue.” I was all talk. I hate frivolous lawsuits.

“Somehow, I doubt they have a record of this,” Van said. “My guess is he bribed someone to deliver it for him.”

“Or came in himself,” I said. That Ket had not personally been in my room, just some bribable minimum wage maid doing his bidding was only a marginally comforting thought.

“Did you notice any other signs that Ket made a personal appearance?” Van asked.

“You mean like fingerprints, stray hairs to check for DNA, that kind of thing? I was so upset, I didn’t think to check.” Dumb mistake really. I was supposed to be keeping a victim’s diary and collecting damning evidence against him.

“Well, he didn’t pop out of the closet at you while I was gone. That’s something. If he
was
here, he’s not now.”

“Yeah. But now you’ve scared me.” I made Van search the room, including looking under the bed. “And remember my policy about under the bed—”

“Strictly a need-to-know basis. I know,” he said.

His search came up Ket-clean.

“The coast is clear. Aren’t you the least bit curious what’s in there?” He nodded to the box again.

“It’s a horse head.”

“In a Cindy Lou box?”

“Cindy Lou box?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice their signature gold boxes everywhere downstairs?”

“Can’t say as I did.” I’d been too busy trying to avoid the Cindy Lous. I have a weakness when it comes to jewelry.

“If you’re going to be a spy, you need to perk up the observation skills.”

“I’m not going to be a spy.”

“For your own safety then.” He picked up the box and shook it. “Kaboom!”

I jumped.

He grinned and held out the box to me. “Sorry.”

“I bet.” As I took it from him, I grazed his fingers. “Your hands are warm.” Which meant he wasn’t cold with panic and fear like I was. I admired his strength as much as I longed to crawl into his arms.

He shrugged.

“Warm hands, cold heart?”

“That’s just an old wives’ tale.” He nodded toward the box again. “Go ahead. Open it. Let’s see what kind of a horse head it is, Vito.”

“You rumpled the bow,” I said. It had been a nice bow, the only festive thing about the stupid present.

“Open. Open. Open.” Van made an open and close motion with his hands.

I untied the ribbon and slid off the gold lid. A gift card sat on top. I pulled it out and opened it, reading aloud, “I’d love to see this looped around your pretty neck. Yours always, K.” I began trembling uncontrollably.

Van mumbled something about a bastard and put his arm around me. I curled into him, wanting to melt away with him, completely forget the horror that was Ket. Van’s embrace was warm and soothing, not to mention sexy.

“It’s Ket’s handwriting.” I shuddered. “His meaning is clear—he’d love to see this roped around my neck until my eyes bulge out. He has a nice way with words, doesn’t he?”

Van ignored me for the moment, and with his arm still around me, pulled a long necklace from the box. “Crystals. Black beads. This thing looks like it would hang to your waist.” He whistled. “Very elegant. Take heart, the guy spent a few bucks on this. Probably top-of-the-line Cindy Lou.”

I stared at it a minute before looking away. “Spare no expense to torment me. He’s mine always, whether I want him or not.” I paused, trying not to think of Ket, and failing.

This was just another show of his nasty sense of humor. Ket loved bangles. Anything shiny. This style of necklace particularly got him hot.

“Put this on and nothing else, baby,” he’d say. “Turn me on. Give it to your boy.” His eyes would gleam with a dark, possessive emotion that had nothing to do with love.

And how many times had I complied, worn the necklace to please or placate him? Watched as he watched the bounce of the beads against my breasts, and the sparkle and play of light off the crystals while having sex. He loved to shift his weight against me until the beads cut into my skin, and his, and I cried out in pain that he seemed impervious to. He loved the power the necklace gave him. It was his choke chain over me.