Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (23 page)

Rats.

As Eddie and I drove back to the IRS building, we tried to make some sense of the
situation. I supposed it was possible that Richard Beauregard had planted the land
mine, but my money was on the terror network. We knew that the person who’d helped
move funds was still on the loose, but was that person the one who’d planted the bomb
or were there more of them? If there were more terrorists in the area, how many? When
would they strike again? And how did they know that Eddie and I were after them? Had
someone at one of the MSBs told the bomber about us? Or had Homsi, Algafari, or Nasser
somehow communicated to a cohort on the outside?

“The only thing I can say for sure,” Eddie said when I posed the questions to him,
“is that you and I had better watch our backs.”

chapter twenty-three

Girls’ Night Out

I kept my eyes wide open on my drive home from work, checking my rearview and side
mirrors for a tail. I didn’t see one, but just to be safe I performed some evasive
maneuvers, crossing three lanes of traffic to make a sudden exit from the freeway,
executing several bootlegger’s turns at random intervals, backtracking through my
neighborhood.

I arrived home to find Alicia in my kitchen slugging back yet another glass of peach
sangria. She wore nothing but a black bra, panties, and a slightly buzzed expression.
“Put on your dancing shoes!” she called, raising her glass. “We’re going out.”

After what I’d been through I was in no mood for dancing. But that’s precisely when
a girl needs to hit the dance floor, isn’t it? “You’re getting dressed first, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “I just wanted to have a drink while I got ready.”

I grudgingly bypassed the sangria. Clearly I’d be the designated driver tonight.

We walked upstairs, parting ways on the landing. Alicia went left into my guest room
while I turned right into my bedroom.

It had been ages since I’d been to a nightclub. Frankly, I wasn’t all that excited
by the prospect. But I was even less excited about the prospect of staying home with
Alicia, the two of us sitting on the couch like a couple of old spinsters feeling
sorry for ourselves.

Annie hopped onto the corner of my bed, licking her paw and watching as I sorted through
my small selection of clean clothes. I searched for something fun and cute that I
wouldn’t freeze to death in. A rapidly moving cold front had snuck into the Dallas
area late this afternoon and the temperatures had plummeted into the forties. I settled
on a sweaterdress over tights with high-heeled boots.

Alicia stepped out of the guest room in one of the secondhand designer outfits she’d
snagged at the thrift shop several weeks ago. The winter-white dress was cinched at
the waist with a wide black belt. She’d paired the dress with classic black T-strap
heels.

It had been years since we’d both been single, but tonight, for all practical purposes,
the two of us were single again. Though I hadn’t yet put things with Brett in a holding
pattern as planned, I was miffed he’d only called me twice since leaving for Atlanta
a week ago. I knew he was dealing with an emergency situation, but didn’t he need
me for moral support? I felt left out, cut out. Not that I had any right to feel upset
given my plans to put him on the back burner, but the feelings were there nonetheless.

Sheesh. Relationships are complicated, huh?

We piled into my BMW and drove a few blocks to a nightclub in Uptown. We stood in
line on the sidewalk for half an hour, shivering and huddling together in a desperate
and futile attempt to keep warm. The throbbing bass line reverberated through the
wall beside us as we waited.

Alicia reached into her purse, pulled out two lollipops, and handed one to me. “Here.
Maybe these suckers will distract us from the fact that we’re slowly dying of hypothermia.”

I removed the crinkly plastic wrap and stuck the sucker in my mouth. It had an unusual
taste, a hint of citrus with something that tasted sort of like a wheatgrass protein
shake Christina had once forced on me. “What flavor is this?”

Alicia consulted her wrapper. “Hemp.”

“Hemp?” I said. “Where the heck did you get a hemp lollipop?”

“At that smoke shop,” she said. “The one where your mother bought the ‘hummingbird
feeder.’” She made air quotes with her fingers.

After several more minutes we finally reached the front of the line, paid our ten-dollar
cover charge, and entered the dark, noisy, crowded club. Bodies packed the dance floor,
gyrating under the flashing colored lights. Alicia and I wound our way through onlookers
to the bar. We bellied up and shouted our orders to the bartender, who had to lean
forward and cup a hand around his ear to hear us over the loud techno music. Alicia
ordered a Cosmo while I opted for a Dr Pepper.

A soda.

Ugh.

This was going to be a long night.

As we stood near the dance floor, I wondered about Nick’s date tonight. Was he out
with a bosomy blonde? A racy redhead? A brainy brunette? Where did they go and what
did they do? Did the two of them hit it off? Was he putting the moves on her at this
very moment?

I realized then that I wasn’t wondering what Brett was doing at the moment, where
he was, or who he was with. Should I feel bad about that? I mean, he was still technically
my boyfriend. But I supposed I didn’t worry about Brett because I knew what Brett
was doing. Lying on the bed in his hotel room, watching the late news or maybe David
Letterman.

At least I assumed that’s what he was doing. For all I knew he was out at a nightclub,
too. I mean, he probably thought Alicia and I were at home painting our nails and
watching a chick flick. If I could be out doing something unpredictable, so could
he, right?

Jeez.
Yet another thing to worry about.

Two men in their late twenties came our way and asked Alicia and me to dance. We accepted
and followed them onto the crowded dance floor, squeezing between bodies until we
found an open spot. My dance partner was tall, dark haired, and undeniably attractive,
but he lacked Nick’s cocky chipped-tooth smile or Brett’s boyish charm. He was fun
to dance with, but beyond that he didn’t do anything for me. Besides, for all I knew
he was the one who’d put the explosive device under my tire. Maybe he’d figured out
where I lived, watched my town house, and followed me here with the hopes of kidnapping
and torturing me.

Or maybe I was just freaked out by my near-death experience.

The guy attempted to engage me in conversation, but after shouting, “What? I can’t
hear you!” over the music five times I gave up trying to actually hear him and just
responded to everything he said with a smile and a nod.

Smile and nod.

Smile and nod.

I checked my watch.
Dang.
How could it only be eleven thirty? It felt like we’d been here for days.

After several songs, he took my hand and led me off the dance floor. Alicia and her
dance partner followed. The men offered to buy us drinks, but both of us girls knew
what that meant.

Expectations.

“You’re nice guys!” Alicia shouted over the noise. “But we’re both coming out of relationships
right now and only looking to have some fun!”

The guys gave us the thumbs-up sign and wandered off in search of easier prey.

The minutes passed like millennia as we stood near the dance floor, unable to talk
over the music, not really caring whether any other guys asked us to dance. None did.
I couldn’t much blame them. I’m sure Alicia and I looked like a couple of sourpusses.
The loud music jarred my nerves tonight, and the flashing lights were giving me a
headache.

It was funny, too. There I was surrounded by hundreds of people, each of whom seemed
bound and determined to jostle me as they passed by, yet I’d never felt more desolate
and lonely in my entire life.

Eventually, Alicia turned to me. I couldn’t hear her, but her expression spoke for
her. She was ready to call it a night.
Thank God.
I’d been ready to leave for the past hour.

We ventured back out into the night, which had grown even colder while we’d been in
the club. Our teeth chattering, we climbed into my car and headed home. The heater
finally warmed up just as we pulled back into my driveway. Par for the course that
night, I suppose.

We went inside, changed into our pajamas, and ended up on the couch with glasses in
our hands and a pitcher of peach sangria on the coffee table in front of us.

“I thought going out would cheer me up,” Alicia said, “but I think I actually feel
worse.”

“Me, too.” I used to enjoy being single, being free to do my own thing, answering
to no one. But after dating Brett and enjoying the comfort, security, and companionship
a relationship provided, I’d begun to see the upside of being part of a couple.

I wanted to be in a relationship. And I was pretty sure I wanted to be in one with
Nick.

Alicia grabbed my laptop off the coffee table and turned it on. “What was that dating
site again?”

“It’s called Big D Dating Service.” I sat up in my seat. “You’re going to sign up?”

She sighed. “It’s time for me to move on. But I can’t stomach the thought of hanging
out at another meat market trying to meet a decent guy. This online thing seems way
more efficient.”

If Alicia was anything, it was efficient. She’d already rearranged my kitchen appliances
to put my coffeemaker closer to the sink where it could be easily filled with water
and my toaster closer to the pantry where I kept the bread. She’d put a plastic bin
under my sink for junk mail so I could carry it out to the larger recycling bin in
my garage en masse rather than leaving it stacked around my kitchen until making my
usual frantic dash to the curb on garbage day, trying to beat the truck. She’d even
figured out how to work my programmable thermostat for maximum energy efficiency.
Heck, I’d lived here for years and hadn’t gotten around to learning the system yet.

The only thing she hadn’t done was my laundry. Maybe if I waited long enough it would
drive her crazy and she’d wash it for me. It was a childish tactic, but, hey, it had
worked on my mother for years. I had a much higher tolerance for clutter than most
people.

Alicia used her credit card to pay her fee and input her basic information. Sex. Height.
Weight. Age.

“What are my interests?” she asked.

“Why are you asking me?” I said, realizing I had no idea what her interests were.
“They’re your interests.” How could I not know what my best friend’s interests were?

She looked up in thought. “I don’t think I have any interests. I mean, I like to shop
and go out for drinks and out to eat, but who doesn’t?”

I was relieved to know she couldn’t identify any interests, either.

Her face clouded over. “I’m boring, aren’t I?”

“No!” I said, and I meant it. Alicia might not be into a lot of hobbies or activities,
but she was by no means boring. She was witty and smart and fun to be around, not
to mention loyal and caring and supportive. She’d always been there when I needed
her. What she lacked in interests she made up for in personality.

“I am,” she said. “I’m boring. No wonder Daniel doesn’t want to marry me.”

So we were back to that again, were we?

“Give me that computer this instant.” I grabbed the laptop from her. Heck, if I’d
come up with descriptions for Josh and Nick, the least I could do was come up with
one for my longtime BFF.

I thought for a moment and finally created a bio I hoped she’d like.

Witty and chic CPA seeks a smart professional man who enjoys food, fashion, and good
conversation.

“There,” I said, turning the screen so she could read her bio.

Alicia pondered my statement for a moment. “In other words, I’m looking for another
Daniel.”

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” I said. “Except with bigger balls.”

She snorted. “Yeah. What a wimp, huh? I mean, we’ve been together forever. He had
to know the
m
word would come up at some point.”

She answered a series of questions designed to help define her personality type, things
like “Would you rather sit by a river or swim in it?”

When she was done, she submitted her information for processing. Three minutes later,
the computer had composed a list of eighteen potential candidates for her to screen.

We sorted through them together, eliminating three whose bios seemed excessively arrogant,
two with bios that were unnecessarily suggestive, and one who was a former coworker
of ours from Martin and McGee who’d left a couple of years ago to take a controller
position with one of the firm’s corporate clients. He’d been a nice enough guy but
never sparked Alicia’s interest.

“That leaves a dozen possible replacements for Daniel,” I said.

She checked the boxes to indicate potential interest and hit the “submit” key, which
would send a notice to the men. If one of the men was interested in Alicia, he’d check
his box, too, and the system would then supply the two of them with contact information
for each other.

“Why don’t you try it, too?” she said.

“No, thanks. I have too much man trouble already.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “They let you try it for free. You’re only charged if you
check the box to show you’re interested. It’ll be fun.”

Since we were only goofing around, she uploaded a photo she’d taken of me on April
15 of last year. I was sitting in my cubicle, my head in my hands, my desktop threatening
to collapse under a mountain of tax files. On the computer screen behind me, in easy-to-read
96-point font, were the words “KILL ME NOW.”

For my bio she wrote.

Feisty federal law enforcement agent seeks well-hung man with significant earning
potential. In lieu of said giant penis and earnings will accept a man willing to wash
laundry.