A Date You Can't Refuse (3 page)

“Excuse me?”

“Aren't you illustrating an action hero comic book?”

I stared. Jeremy's proposed project. “No, I—how do you know about that?”

He looked at me blandly. “It would save us time if you could avoid asking that question repeatedly. I'm in the business of information. These aren't parlor tricks.”

“Okay, but—”

“Since you don't yet have a contract for this comic book project, it's not income-producing. Nor is your greeting card business giving you a living wage.”

“Yes, thank you for pointing that out.”

“You need a job. Have you any other prospects?”

“No. Work for some Belarusian entrepreneur with three wives and become a secret agent for you. That's it.”

“Cooperating witness.”

“Yes. CW,” I said. “That's right. It's all coming back to me now. Look, I'd rather sling hash or work retail for minimum wage and here's why: I have no physical courage. I'm not athletic, I can't lie well or keep secrets, I'm not especially curious, I don't even slow down to watch traffic accidents. And I wasn't a Girl Scout, so I can't change a tire or do Morse code. I have none of the traits you look for in your spies—”

“Cooperating witness. Your duties for us would require little risk or ingenuity. You would simply overhear conversations. Note family dynamics. Look around the property. You may not have an appetite for this work, Miss Shelley, but you do have a brother.”

That got my attention. “Yeah? So?”

“Living in a facility that's subsidized by federal funds. I don't imagine it's easy, coming up with the monthly fees that keep Percy at the facility.”

His use of my brother's name startled me. Then chilled me. “No, it's not,” I said. And I was nearly the sole support of my brother. Our Uncle Theo helped too, but aging wallpaperers aren't rolling in money.

“Milos is generous to his employees. Your salary would be substantial.”

“That's a reason to work for Milos,” I said, “but not to work for you.”

His eyes narrowed. Graham/Bennett wasn't a man who liked insubordination, even from nonsubordinates. “Then I'll give you a better one. Your brother can be unpredictable and intractable.”

“Many paranoid schizophrenics—”

“He's been arrested.”

“But he's never been convicted of anything. He has bad karma with police, and—”

“Haven Lane has very high standards of acceptable behavior, and I doubt your brother can toe the line over the long haul. It would be useful, wouldn't it, to have a friend on the Santa Barbara City Council? Or to
know a local judge? A word from someone like that would carry weight with the board of directors at Haven Lane. Have you friends like those?”

No, Uncle Theo and I had no influential friends. Ours were normal friends, the kind who would invite you over for beer or donate a kidney, but not the kind who could fix a parking ticket or an election. “So you're saying that P.B. would get to stay at Haven Lane, that you'd pull strings to make that happen.”

“It's possible,” he said.

“No. I want certainty. I need your word.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And also,” I said, plunging onward, “assuming you promise to help my brother, it can't be contingent on me doing a bang-up job for you, because as I mentioned, I haven't any aptitude for this stuff.”

“That's not what I heard from Simon Alexander.”

I did a double take. “This was Simon's idea?”

He gave me a searching look. “No one outside the case knows I'm asking you to work for us. Agent Alexander in particular could have a negative response.”

This was a massive understatement.

“Given your history,” he added. Simon and I had met when I'd inadvertently waltzed into the middle of an investigation, and it hadn't been pretty. “I understand that you and Alexander became—enmeshed— some months ago.”

“Enmeshed. Is that the federal government's term for … dating?” I asked.

“It's what can happen when an agent recruits a cooperating witness, exposes them to danger, and feels a heightened sense of responsibility for their well-being.”

As opposed to True Love, which is what I liked to think was going on with Simon and me. Either way, Bennett/Graham seemed to think of this in the past tense. “And you don't want him getting re-enmeshed.”

“There's no policy on it.”

Maybe not, but I was right. My romance with Simon didn't have company endorsement. Its covert nature had allowed me to get on
Lemon v. Milos
in the first place. Number eleven on the juror questionnaire was,
Do you know anyone in law enforcement? I'd told the judge I knew some cops and had once dated an FBI agent. When the judge asked if I was still dating him, I said no. Which was technically correct. Simon and I hadn't dated for some time, if by “dating” one meant dinner and a movie or even holding hands at Costco. Simon and I did have sex, but Judge Cohen hadn't asked me about that.

“Let's go back to my brother,” I said. “If I decline the opportunity to work for you, will that jeopardize his future at Haven Lane?”

“I'm not a fortune-teller, Miss Shelley.”

This wasn't the unequivocal no I was looking for.

“However,” he continued, “I can tell you that it's better to have me and the resources of my agency working on your brother's behalf than to have us … indifferent to his future.”

I looked into his expressionless eyes. “That sounds … threatening.”

He said nothing.

I made a decision, one I would probably regret. “Okay, I'm in. But, Mr. Bennett—”

“Graham.”

“Okay, Graham. How do I—”

“Mr. Graham.”

“Oh.” No first-name basis for us, then.

“I'll initiate our contacts at the beginning,” he said. “You'll be given a number to call if problems arise, but for now, we simply wait for Milos to approach you.”

“That just happened. A half hour ago.”

He looked surprised, then stern. “You didn't mention this at the outset because … ?”

“Because I wasn't working for you then. I'm trying to be less self-disclosing with strangers.”

“Is there now anything else you'd like to set the record straight on?”

Like the fact that I'm sleeping with one of your colleagues? I thought. “No.”

“Good. Let's clarify something. No one is to know that you're working for me. This can't be overstated. No one. Not your uncle, not your brother, not your dog, if you have one.”

“I don't.”

“I know. Any deviation from rule number one jeopardizes your safety and my case.”

“I understand. Can you clarify how much danger I'm in?”

He didn't skip a beat. “As long as you follow instructions to the letter, none at all.”

The thing was, I didn't believe him.

T
he Santa Monica farmers' market was a cultural crossroads, hip couture meets country overalls, the appeal of produce bringing together people who had no other reason to rub elbows. I was reminded of how rural California was; it was easy to forget in the heart of L.A.

I found my friend Fredreeq picking out French green beans from a Bakersfield vendor. Fredreeq, who dresses for occasions, wore a yellow gingham dirndl skirt, a halter top, and a matching scarf, looking like Heidi might have looked on a warm day in the Swiss Alps, if Heidi had been sexy, and black, and a soccer mom.

“Hey! You're late,” she said. “Don't you have to be back in half an hour?”

I hugged her. “I don't ever have to be back. We reached a verdict.”

“Hallelujah. Watch it; don't bruise the apricots. So did you fry the guy?”

“It's rare to impose the death sentence for slip-and-fall cases.”

“You spent three weeks of your life in a courtroom because someone slipped?”

“Well, the victim did dislocate her hip, requiring multiple surgeries and ongoing physical therapy for injuries sustained while exiting a vehicle
in order to fend off the sexual advances of a Hungarian soccer player who was driving without a California license, here under the auspices of a media training company. A complex and compelling case.”

“Ridiculous. Come on. Joey's over there.”

Joey Rafferty stood out in a crowd because of her masses of wavy red hair. In baggy jeans and a flannel shirt, she looked like a farmer, albeit a wraithlike one.

“Rafferty!” Fredreeq called. We made our way over to a stand of spring greens. “Forget this rabbit food. You look peaked. Let's get you something fattening. There are good-looking nuts on Fourth Street.”

“Hey, Wollie,” Joey said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “You're late. We thought you'd been sequestered or something.”

“No, trial's over. Sent him away for life without parole.”

“Really?”

“No,” I said. “But did you believe me, just for a minute?”

Joey shook her head. “Nope.”

“This way,” Fredreeq said, taking the lead. “Nuts ahead.”

“Hey, let me ask you guys,” I said. “Could I get better at lying? Is it something you're born with, or are there tricks that anyone can learn?”

“Anyone but you,” Fredreeq said.

“No, there are tricks. You'll never pass a polygraph, but you could improve with practice.” Joey produced a raw carrot from her purse, brushed dirt from it, and took a bite.

“Is that a Prada?” Fredreeq asked Joey. “Are you transporting root vegetables in a Prada?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“See what I did there?” Joey asked. “A simple, decisive ‘no.’ I didn't go into unnecessary details. I didn't say, ‘No, this bag is not a Prada, it's a knockoff’ or ‘No, a carrot's not a root vegetable,’ because either one is going to provoke further questions.”

“So that was a lie?” I asked.

“Of course. But Fredreeq bought it. Not because it was plausible, but because my delivery was pretty good.”

“You're right, I should've caught that. Low blood sugar.” Fredreeq pulled an apricot from her plastic bag and took a bite. She offered me one. I shook my head.

“No pausing either. You can't stop to think,” Joey said. “People who stop to think are usually inventing the answer.”

“Wollie's not up to this,” Fredreeq said. “She doesn't have the gene.”

“Another thing,” Joey said, “is don't second-guess yourself. Tell the lie, move on. People who tell the truth aren't critiquing in their head what they just said.”

“I do,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“Then be someone else. You have to adopt the mind-set of, in this case, someone who is not transporting root vegetables in a Prada handbag. Change the subject if it's appropriate, but it can't look like you're changing the subject. It's gotta look like other things are more interesting.” She stopped in her tracks. “Is that Maria Shriver?”

“Where?” I said.

She pointed. “By the baby bok choy.”

I looked around. Fredreeq too. Then Fredreeq punched Joey's arm. “You're lying.”

“Yes. Ouch.”

“I've discovered that if something's technically true, even if misleading, I can say it,” I said. “As in, did I eat the whole cheesecake by myself? No. I left two crumbs.”

“Excellent,” Joey said. “So, Wollie, how come you need to get better at lying?”

“Oh. You know. No, um, reason.”

They just looked at me. Waiting. I could feel my face turn red. Not a promising start. My phone rang, saving me from further disgrace. “Hello?” I said.

“Wollie? Donatella Milos.”

“Oh. Hello. How'd you get this number?”

“Juror number eight.” Her accent was enchanting. “I told him I had a job to offer you. So, Wollie. Yuri tells me you have qualms about joining us. Tell me these qualms.”

“You know what, Donatella? I've had a—an epiphany. I think I would like to come work for you.”

“Excellent. Yuri will be pleased. You will start Monday. Come to the compound.”

“Compound?”

“In Calabasas. I will give you the address. Have you a pencil and paper?”

As I rummaged around in my own purse—Payless rather than Prada—I realized Joey and Fredreeq were still staring. And listening. I was not going to get out of the farmers' market without spilling some beans.

Ten minutes later we were sitting at a café on the Third Street Promenade, eating our nuts. Donatella Milos, it turned out, was a woman of some renown. “The former Donatella Timmalini,” Joey said. “From Italy, obviously, but studied at the Sorbonne. She came to the U.S. as a nobody, then settled in D.C., slept with a bunch of senators or congressmen, then moved to L.A. and married this guy Milos. What's his first name?”

“Yuri,” I said.

“Yeah. She left him but kept his name, even after marrying Bernard Schluntz.”

“The chef?” Fredreeq asked.

Joey nodded. “She redesigned his two restaurants and pushed him into marketing his Wiener schnitzel and getting it into Whole Foods.”

“So, Wollie,” Fredreeq said. “What's your part in this operation?”

“I'm on the media training team.”

My friends stopped chewing and stared at me. Again.

“What?” I said. “What's wrong with that?”

“What kind of training will you do?” Joey asked.

“I assume I'm a behind-the-scenes person. I take the celebrities around L.A., show them—”

“Target?” Fredreeq said. “The car wash?”

“I don't know the details. They'll fill me in on Monday. The thing is, you guys, I do need a job. And it's quite a lot of money. For me.”

Fredreeq cracked a pistachio shell with her teeth. “He's Eastern European?”

“Milos? Yes. Belarus. Bulgaria? One of those.”

She nodded. “Get the money up front. In cash.”

Joey was still looking at me with curiosity. “So, Joey,” I said. “How come you know all this stuff about Donatella Milos?”

“She was on the political scene. She dated the state comptroller when she first got to town, and we were on fund-raising committees together. I didn't know her well, just to say hello.”

“Nice job of changing the subject, Wollie,” Fredreeq said. “Why don't you just tell us what the deal is, since we're going to find out anyway?”

“Because I can't.”

“Does it have to do with Simon?” Joey asked.

“Um … mm … n-no.”

“You're stuttering,” Fredreeq said. “I think it has to do with Simon.”

I shook my head, thought about it, then shook it again.

“Indirectly, at least,” Joey said. “Is it connected to his work?”