A Date You Can't Refuse (8 page)

It reassured me that he knew I'd been there. I filled him in on my day, focusing on the alarm incident and my impression that a bullet had hit the glass doors. “But I didn't get close enough to see any cracks in the glass, just the sound. And everyone calmed down pretty fast after the initial noise. I mean, they were concerned. But calm. So I may have been mistaken.”

“Were the doors exceptionally heavy?” he asked.

“The glass, you mean? How would I know that?”

“You didn't open or close them yourself?”

I shook my head.

“Was anyone armed?” he asked.

“Armed?” I said, alarmed. “Why would they be armed?”

“I'm not saying they were. I'm asking if they were.”

“Not that I noticed, but I wasn't encouraged to frisk them. The guard at the gate had a gun. He looked the type, too. A real Gloomy Gus.”

Bennett Graham raised an eyebrow.

“Gloomy Gus. It's a technical term,” I said.

“Describe to me the rest of the house,” he said. “The layout. The dining room table, for example. Was there a chandelier hanging above it?”

“I didn't notice a lot except for colors and decor. I'm into art, not geography. But I'm moving in there tomorrow, so—oh. Another problem. I can't get cell phone reception at the house. I guess that's normal for the canyon, but I don't suppose you want me calling you from a landline, right? Having your office number show up on the family phone bill.”

He'd stopped and was staring at me. “You're moving in?”

“Oh, great! You didn't know that was part of the job?”

“Why did you agree to that?”

“What do you mean?” I squeaked. “I assumed I was to go along with the program.”

He glanced across the pool to the hot-tubbers. “Keep your voice down, please.”

“That's it. I'm staying here. I'll commute. They'll just have to deal with it.”

Bennett Graham shook his head. “No. This is good. Your access to the house increases exponentially if you're there round the clock.”

“But it's riskier, right? And how do I connect with you? Since it seems I'm on call round the clock too, driving people all over.”

“They'll have to give you time off. When they do, get to where there's a cell signal.” He pulled out a business card and jotted down a number. “In an emergency, call this number. It's a yogurt place. Ask them to save you a quart of Very Vanilla. Give your name.”

I stared at him. This was not my idea of a fail-safe mechanism. “What if they don't have Very Vanilla?”

“They always have Very Vanilla.”

“What if they run out?”

“It doesn't matter if they run out,” he said patiently. “A quart of Very Vanilla for Wollie is their signal that you need to make contact.”

“Oh. Okay, I see. Listen, wouldn't it be easier to beef up the cell signals in the canyon? Surely the FBI is capable of that.”

“Thank you for the tactical advice. A quart of Very Vanilla. Then tell them what time you'll be in to pick it up.”

“What if it's the middle of the night?”

“You'll get voice mail. Leave a message. It will be forwarded. Then drive there. Here.” He handed me the business card. “From the Milos house, go north along Mulholland Highway for five or six miles. You'll see a Gelson's on your left, in a small shopping center. The yogurt store is in the far corner. I can have someone there in forty minutes, if necessary.”

“What if you need to reach me?” I asked.

“Check your cell phone when you can. If something comes up on our end, you'll get a message from a woman named Rebecca, telling you what to do.”

“Rebecca.” I nodded. My stomach was doing little somersaults. “I want to know what it is that Milos is involved in.”

“It might be nothing at all.”

“That's hard to believe,” I said.

“Why? It happens all the time.” Bennett Graham glanced at the hot-tub party, then did a slow survey of the pool area while adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “We get tips, we go on fishing expeditions, and sometimes we come up with nothing. You do just as much a service exonerating the innocent as you do finding proof of wrongdoing.”

I wasn't sure if I believed Bennett Graham, but here was the interesting thing: I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe it was a mistake and that Yuri Milos was a man of integrity, guilty of nothing but being European and wealthy and having an unorthodox family. “Okay I'll buy that. So what's the wrongdoing that Yuri Milos might not be doing?”

“It's not necessary for you to know.”

“That's stupid. How could I be more useful as an ignorant person than an informed one?”

“I don't have time to give you a lesson on how intelligence operations are run and why certain practices increase efficiency.”

“Maybe it works for you,” I said, “but I'm putting myself in some degree of danger here. I want to know how much.”

“You're better off focusing on your job and—”

“Ignorance can't be good self-defense, so telling me ‘don't worry your pretty little head’ is just—”

“It has nothing to do with attractiveness.”

On the other side of the pool, a shout of laughter was followed by excessive splashing. We both turned to it. Then I turned back to face Bennett Graham. “I'm thinking seriously of quitting. I can't tell you what a bad feeling I have.” And it was true, I couldn't explain how spooked I felt, replacing the departed Chai. Not to this guy.

“First of all,” he said, and his tone softened, “you've taken the hardest step today. Don't throw that away. These doubts are normal. By tomorrow night, you'll have a different outlook. Secondly, Milos values you. And you're safer living there than you are here in this place”—he nodded toward my building—“with its lax security measures. Milos probably has alarms and movement sensors around the periphery of the house. Cameras too.”

“Where will these cameras be?”

“I have no idea. In general, assume that surveillance is ongoing anywhere that power is present.”

“What's that, the J. Edgar Hoover dictum?”

“James Bond. Finally, remind yourself of the reasons you said yes to this job.”

P.B. At least Bennett Graham had the good taste not to mention him outright.

“Your brother,” he said, quashing that fleeting good impression. “Do you really see him living here with you at the Oakwood Gardens in your small apartment? I don't imagine it's easy to keep him on his medication.”

For me, it was impossible. And I couldn't leave him alone, even on meds.

I took a deep breath. “Well, give me a clue, then, would you? Spell it out for me what I'm supposed to be doing in all my ignorance.”

“Note anything irregular on the premises.”

“Like what? Meth lab in the basement? A cache of explosives?”

“Those would certainly qualify. As would large sums of money. I'm also interested in any animosity among family members. As to the particulars, I'd like you to find out the names of the old woman, the housekeeper, and the young girl.”

“Grusha. She's Yuri's former mother-in-law. Parashie's his daughter.”

His eyebrow went up again. “You see, you're good at this already.”

I blushed at the compliment, even knowing he was probably humoring me.

“Engage these people in conversation,” he said. “See if they have criminal histories.”

“Do people generally volunteer that?”

“Do your best. For the incoming trainees, I want names and countries of origin. Passport numbers. Write things down, but keep your notes well hidden. Also, look for a room that has film or recording equipment, or shipping materials, especially to and from Europe. And take note of any regular visitors that have nothing to do with MediasRex.”

“Wait. Go back to the room. Do you mean like a media center? A screening room?”

“No,” he said, beginning to walk, forcing me to walk with him. “It may be a basement or even apart from the house. It won't be included in any tour. There might be editing equipment. Duplicating machines. The room will probably be kept locked.”

“Then how am I supposed to get into it?”

“Listen. Observe. When your eyes are open, opportunities present themselves.”

“Observe what's vivid. Notice what you notice. Catch yourself thinking.'”

“What?”

“Allen Ginsberg,” I explained, but he only looked at me blankly. “So what is it that's being edited or duplicated in this room?”

“That's what we'd like to know.”

“It all sounds very Bluebeardian.” I shivered. The night air was getting to me now, seeping into my bones along with thoughts of the fairy tale that used to haunt my childhood. Talk about an unhappy ending. Like half of Yuri's lovers. “So did you know,” I asked, “that my predecessor died? In a car accident?”

His eyebrows drew together in a frown, too quickly. “When?”

“Oh, great. So you didn't know about it?”

“When did it happen?”

“I don't know. Recently. Her name was Chai.”

“No last name?”

“She was on
America's Next Top Model
. A few seasons ago. The seventh runner-up. There can't be too many of those walking around.”

“I'll look into it. Anything else?”

“Only that I bet Yuri Milos valued her too, yet she came to a bad end. So there goes half the argument you just made a minute ago.”

“One-third of my argument,” he said, correcting me.

I looked right at him. “So you didn't know her?”

He turned to me, but it was too dark to read his expression. “I just said I didn't.”

“It occurred to me that she might have worked for you.”

“I told you we were unable to place anyone inside the household. Anything else?”

I shook my head. I wanted him to pooh-pooh my fears, but he wasn't a pooh-pooh kind of guy, he was a worst-case-scenario guy. So I sucked it up and shook his hand and he left me at the pool, in full possession of my anxiety. After a moment I waved to the hot-tubbers and walked back down the path for a last night in my own bed.

I
was on the road to Calabasas by seven-thirty a.m., which gave me something in common with half of Los Angeles, slogging along on the 101 North. The other half, from what I could see, was on the 101 South. “Get used to it,” I told myself. “Traffic is now your life.”

Yes, there'd been bad feng shui at the Oakwood Garden Apartments, but as I'd packed in the predawn hours, listening to the drone of a television through an open window, I was stricken by nostalgia. Whatever heartache or loneliness the residents might feel, whatever restless spirits inhabited that earth, not one bore the combination of secrets weighing me down like a bunch of sandbags. Only one person was in on my clandestine life, and my only connection to him was a frozen yogurt place on Mulholland Highway.

And I had my doubts about him.

Coming to a dead stop just before the 405, I used my time calling everyone who needed my change of address. With the exception of Simon; even if I wanted to tell him, contacting him required a series of steps so complex that I hadn't yet tried them. Now that I'd heard Bennett Graham's yogurt arrangements, I wondered if such security measures were second nature to these people, taught in FBI 101.

My other loved ones had mixed reactions to my move.

“Ah
, Calabasas,” Fredreeq said. “You let me know if you come across any black people there. We'll alert the news media.”

“A gated community and no cell phones?” Joey asked. “Sounds like rehab.”

“Calabasas!” my Uncle Theo said. “The word means ‘pumpkin,’ you know. I'm not familiar with Palomino Hills. Your mother once lived in Calabasas, in a treehouse. Before she met your father and me. She was studying Wiccan. I doubt the coven is there anymore.”

I tried to imagine Palomino Hills rolling out the welcome mat for Wiccans. No.

Only my brother was indifferent to Calabasas. “I'll be needing more books,” he said. “I'm almost done with
Cutting Through String Theory
. Do you have bookstores there?”

“Yes, P.B. I'm still in America.”

I'd used up half my cell phone battery before the 101 North disgorged me onto Valley Circle. At 8:55 I left a message on the MediasRex voice mail, saying I was fifteen minutes away, relieved to confess to a machine and not a person that I was late for my first day of work, thus letting down the team. Also, I was in moving-day clothes. Bad call.

The guard at the gate of Palomino Hills was even less affable today, unable to choke out so much as a hello. I decided to make it my goal to win him over. With a smile, I nodded to the backseat. “I'm moving in. Hence the suitcases. My name's Wollie, by the way.”

He didn't acknowledge me, but did show interest in my car, writing its license number on his clipboard before waving me through. Wordlessly. He could've worked for Bennett Graham.

Grusha stood outside Yuri's house, looking grim. She wore an apron over her housedress, reinforcing the impression of hard manual labor. I imagined her getting up in the morning with the cows and accomplishing by noon more than most of us achieve by midnight. She ignored my apologies and grabbed a bag from my hand.

“Late is bad. You give me car keys. I take things to your room. I park your car. You go inside now. Everyone is in library. They wait for you.”

“Yes, sorry, but—where are you taking my stuff?”

“House of Blue. You go inside now, the Big House.”

Federal prison? No, she must mean Yuri's place. Odd, since all the houses appeared, from the outside, to be the same size.

“Quickly,” Grusha said. “Everyone waits for you. In library.”

It took me a few minutes to find the library, and they were indeed waiting, all eyes turning to me as I entered the large room. I grew conscious of my painter's pants and Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt, since the Milos wives, Donatella and Kimberly and the Milos children, Alik and Parashie, were dressed for a Fortune 500 meeting. With them was a man I didn't know.

“Sorry, everyone,” I said. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Wollie, meet our first arrival,” Donatella said, adding, sotto voce, “Change clothes.”

The strange man stood. He was over six feet and gave the impression of having football gear under his skin, because his upper body was all muscle, straining to break through the seams of a polyester shirt. His nose was bulging. Even his ears appeared to bulge. He was dressed at least as badly as I, in huge, ill-fitting corduroy pants of some indeterminate earth color. I judged him to be around thirty, maybe younger.