No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) Page 6

  Basia.

  Driving into Washington so early, I missed a good chunk of the morning rush hour. Traffic isn’t so bad if you can slip into the city before seven-thirty. However, upon reaching my destination, I drove around for fifteen minutes looking for a parking place before giving up and parking illegally in an alley. I didn’t intend to stay long, but the parking police in Washington have noses like radar and can sniff out an illegally parked car five miles away. The tickets cost something outrageous like two hundred dollars and your first-born child. Most people don’t pay them out of principle, but that isn’t so easy to do when you work at the NSA.

  I hiked the two blocks to Basia’s apartment complex and let myself in with her key. She had mine and I now began to wonder if Mr. Middle Eastern Guy hadn’t stolen it from her and used it to let himself into my apartment.

  Basia lived on the first floor in apartment 1A. I rang the buzzer twice and then banged on the door with the heavy brass knocker. No one answered. I tried the door and found it locked. I used the key to let myself in and was not overly surprised to see her place as trashed as mine.

  I felt anger rise inside me as I walked through her tiny place, looking at the books, papers, clothes and junk on the floor. There was no sign of Basia and no sign of where she might have fled. I flipped through some papers on her desk, but nothing jumped out at me. Her computer was turned off, so I turned it on to see if there was anything interesting on it.

  Her password stopped me for a full twenty-seven seconds—my third try at guessing it was the charm. She’d used her birthday as a password. I’d have to talk to her about that. I scanned her hard drive but wasn’t sure what I was looking for and nothing screamed “important.”

  I then rummaged about in her closet and noticed that one of her suitcases was missing. I didn’t see her purse anywhere either. Walking into the kitchen, I saw the phone message light blinking.

  The first message was from her boss at Berlitz, wondering why she had missed work yesterday. The second one was from me, the third from some guy named Finn who said he really, really needed to talk to her, and two more from her mother. Uh, oh. I guess I had set off the mother alert after all.

  There were a few hang-ups in between and the last message was from someone named Lars at Anderson’s Karate Academy reminding her about her lesson on Thursday night. Again I felt a sweep of surrealism. Basia and karate? What was wrong with this picture?

  I found the Yellow Pages tossed in a heap on the kitchen floor and looked up the address for Anderson’s Karate Academy. It was located in Laurel, Maryland, not too far from my neck of the woods. I jotted the address and phone number down on a piece of paper and stuffed it in my jeans. And since I had the book open, I flipped through the pages until I came to the section on burglar alarms and monitoring. No way was I going to spend one more night in my apartment that, even locked, apparently had a revolving door. Since the phone was handy, I called a few of the firms listed in the book, finally choosing a home security device from the one company that could install it later in the afternoon.

  I left Basia’s apartment, carefully locking it up behind me—as if it made a difference. After yesterday, I’d never feel the same about a lock and key again.

  In my car I pulled out a map and noted the location of Anderson’s Karate Academy. Pulling my shades back on, I headed north on the interstate. Since the traffic was coming into the city and I was going out, there was no back up.

  It took me about twenty minutes and I drove slowly, looking carefully at the street numbers so I wouldn’t miss it. I soon saw a small strip mall and a sign for the karate studio. It wouldn’t be open at a little after eight o’clock in the morning, but I wanted to check it out anyway.

  I parked in an empty spot and walked up to the building. The place was dark, but I pressed my nose against the glass and peered inside. It had ceiling-to-floor mirrors, several large mats and a bunch of cool-looking trophies with guys kicking their legs above their heads. Just as I was about to leave, something moved inside the studio. I squinted and pressed tighter against the glass.

  To my surprise, a huge blond-haired guy walked in and sat on one of the mats. He was dressed in one of those white karate outfits with a logo on the back I couldn’t make out. He positioned himself cross-legged on the mat, closed his eyes and didn’t move.

  I banged on the window and after a moment, he rose and walked to the door. He unlocked it and shook his head, clearly annoyed by my interruption.

  “We don’t open until one o’clock,” he announced.

  I detected the faint trace of a Scandinavian accent. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a guy named Lars.”

  He stared at me. “I’m Lars,” he finally said. This guy was really huge—six feet four, at least. Thick corded muscles stood out on his neck. He had clear blue eyes and a nice tan, and good health practically radiated from his pores.

  “Do you own this place?” I asked.

  He looked me up and down, probably noticing the smear of chocolate I’d gotten on my T-shirt from the chocolate éclair. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Basia Kowalski’s,” I replied. “She told me she’d signed up for karate here.”

  I was pretty sure I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “I’ve got a lot of students,” he said casually.

  “Basia has short brown hair, brown eyes and is very outgoing,” I offered. “She has a class on Thursday.”

  He shrugged. “Sounds like a lot of girls I know. But even if I did know who you were talking about, I don’t discuss my clients.”

  I decided to play it straight with this guy. “Look, I’m her best friend. She’s missing. I’m worried and I’m trying to find her.”

  Lars stared at me for several seconds as if measuring my honesty, then stepped aside, silently inviting me in. I entered and he closed the door behind me and locked it. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and followed him to a small office in the back of the building. The place smelled of sweat, hard work and dirty socks. He motioned for me to sit in a nearby chair, so I did.

  “Now, what’s your name?” he asked, sitting behind a desk and clasping his hands together.

  “Lexi Carmichael,” I said, holding out my hand. I had this urge to touch him to see if his muscles were real. I was also starting to get a fairly good idea why Basia had signed up for karate.

  He reached across the desk and took my hand. His skin was warm and he had a firm handshake. I held on a little too long and flushed in embarrassment when he pulled away.

  “So, why do you think Basia is missing?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “Then you do remember her.”

  “I usually remember all the pretty girls I meet,” he answered, shrugging. “She’s a new student.”

  “Yes, well, she left me a certain matter to attend to and things are sort of falling apart. I need desperately to talk to her, but I can’t find her.”

  “Why would you think I might know anything about her whereabouts?”

  “It’s a long shot,” I admitted. “I just thought it odd that Basia didn’t tell me about signing up for karate. If you knew Basia well, you’d understand that undertaking karate is a life-altering decision for her and one she’d positively have to share with her best friend—me. See, she’s not the athletic type. So I thought maybe her disappearance might somehow be connected to her very odd decision to sign up for karate.”

  Lars leaned forward, his big elbows on the desk. “Do you know what Tae Kwon Do is?”

  I lifted an eyebrow at the abrupt subject change. “A tasty chicken dish?”

  His lips twitched. “Tae Kwon Do is a system of unarmed self-defense that originated in China and was further refined in Korea. In Japan it evolved into the form we now know as karate. I teach both of these martial arts, as well as Wing Chun—a kind of Chinese kung fu.”

  “Wing Chun? Wait a minute, I thought they were a rock band.”

  He chuckled. “That was Wang
Chung, and they have nothing to do with martial arts. And for that matter, nothing to do with good music, either.”

  “That’s no kidding,” I agreed emphatically.

  “Anyway, karate is more than just a sport to many people,” Lars said.

  “So, you’re saying that you don’t have to be athletic to do karate.”

  “It certainly helps to be athletic, yes. But it’s not necessary. Many people, especially women, don’t see it as just a sport. They see it as a self-empowering exercise, and in some cases, an exercise in self-protection.”

  That stopped me cold. “You mean Basia might have been afraid of someone?”

  He lifted a blond eyebrow. “It’s possible, I suppose. Frankly, she never said so to me. Whatever the case, martial arts are excellent ways of improving self-discipline and self-defense, as well as a good way to stay in shape.”

  I studied him thoughtfully. “Are you Swedish?”

  He smiled. “Good ear.”

  “So I’m right?”

  “I was born and raised there until a few years ago. I’m an American now, so it’s politically correct to refer to me as Swedish-American.”

  “How did you meet Basia? Did she just show up here one day and ask if she could start lessons?”

  Again I saw something flash in his eyes. Whether it was alarm or wariness, I wasn’t sure. But it was something out of the ordinary and it made me a bit uneasy.

  “She called me, I think. I’m in the Yellow Pages after all.”

  Call it feminine instinct or a gut feeling, but I was certain he was lying. But why?

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. “So, she looked you up in the Yellow Pages and then called you to sign up for classes? That’s strange. There are several karate studios a lot closer to her place than yours.”

  “I’ve got a good reputation and an excellent word of mouth among my students.”

  Yeah, like Basia would mingle with people who took karate. If only he knew how ridiculous that sounded. “How many lessons has she had so far?”

  “One,” he said. “Last Thursday.”

  “Do you call all your students to remind them of forthcoming lessons?”

  That question took him by surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Sometimes,” he said. “Especially the new ones.”

  I stood up. There was no more information I could get here. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr….”

  “Anderson,” he supplied, standing and walking around the desk.

  “Oh, as in Anderson’s Karate Academy,” I said. Stupid. I was really an amazing detective. “I guess that makes sense.”

  He smiled and I realized just how big he was. He towered above me, every inch solid muscle. “You must call me Lars.”

  “Okay, Lars.”

  He stood next to me, studying my form. “Have you ever considered trying the martial arts, Miss Carmichael?”

  “Me?” The word came out as a snort. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? You have the body of a martial arts expert, you know. Long legs, long arms and a graceful way of carrying yourself.”

  Graceful? Me? My cheeks warmed. “Well, no…I—I couldn’t…” I stammered. Did he really think I was graceful?

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, leaning close to my face. “Come in for a couple of free lessons. It won’t cost you a thing, and you can see if you like the challenge.”

  I was still amazed that he thought I was capable of coordinating my body movements. I had never been much of an athlete and stamina was a word that didn’t exist in my vocabulary.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock,” he said in a firm voice. “It’s Basia’s class, too. Maybe you’ll see her here. Wear a soft T-shirt, sweat pants and no socks. I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder and I could feel the heat emanate all the way down to my toes. “Okay,” I said. I just kind of hoped he would never move his hand.

  Before I knew it, he had propelled me to the door. I took a step outside and Lars locked up behind me. I blinked in the sunlight, pulled my sunglasses back down on my nose and walked to the car.

  Graceful, I thought, adding a spring to my step. Maybe after a few karate lessons, I could even be dangerous.

  “I’m Lexi Carmichael, black belt in karate,” I said to the Miata. “My hands and legs are licensed killing weapons.”

  I slid behind the wheel, liking the feeling of being in control—especially after what had happened to me yesterday. Maybe a couple of lessons in self-defense wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  Feeling better, I pulled into a nearby McDonald’s drive-thru, ordering a Diet Coke and a large order of hash browns. I ate the crunchy potatoes in the car, sitting in the parking lot. After the last one was gone, I wiped the grease from my hands with a napkin and got out to use a pay phone in front of the building.

  I called the main number of the NSA and rattled off Paul Wilks’s extension. After two rings, he picked up.

  “Hi, Paul,” I said. “You got that translation for me yet?”

  “Sure do,” he said, his voice cheerful. “You ready for this?”

  “Fire away,” I said. An ambulance screamed down the road, so I pressed a finger to my ear to hear him.

  “Hey, I thought you had a doctor’s appointment,” he said.

  “I do,” I lied. “I’m on my way there now. What’s the translation?”

  He paused. “Look, you’re not going to back out of our date Friday night after I give you this info, are you? I already told half the office.”

  I groaned. “For God’s sake, Paul. Why did you do that?”

  “Insurance. You gave me your word, Lexi. Friday night and all the trimmings. I’m looking forward to it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know what I promised. I’m good for my word. The company name, please.”

  “Okay. I’m pretty sure it’s Bright Horizons. I considered a couple of other combinations, but this one seems right to me. Just in case, I checked out the address on the contract for you and it fits. A company with the same name is registered there in Warsaw.”

  “Bright Horizons? It’s a Polish company?”

  “No. American.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “Why? There are hundreds of American companies operating in Poland.”

  I supposed that was true. “Where is their home base in the States?”

  “Richmond, Virginia.”

  Rather close to home. “What kind of company are they?” I asked. “Technology?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know.”

  “Did you check the internet?”

  “Do I look like your personal secretary?”

  I sighed. “Guess not. Well, I gotta go. Just tell me you were discreet.”

  “It’s my middle name.”

  “Thanks, Paul. I mean it.”

  “Thank me on Friday,” he said and hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and headed back to my car. I sat there for a few minutes, trying to piece together all the strange pieces of information I had gathered. I thought I was pretty darn good at finding threads and putting them together to form something that made sense. But I just didn’t have enough information to get a big picture here. More input was needed.

  I drove home, trying to figure out what to do next. Upon my arrival, I did a thorough search of the apartment to make certain no unauthorized persons had entered while I was gone. The place was clean of lurkers, but still a disaster area. Even more depressing, I knew I had to do laundry today or I’d have nothing to wear to work tomorrow. But first things first. I needed to check the internet.

  I sat down at my desk and booted up the system. I may have a tiny apartment and not much in the way of furnishings, but I was damn proud of my computer. My laptop was considered “geek chic” among most computer aficionados, myself included. I liked it because it was sleek, elegant and lightweight. Next to Basia, it was my best friend.

&
nbsp; I Googled “Bright Horizons” and “Richmond, Virginia” and came up with one hit.

  Bingo.

  I clicked on the link and the Bright Horizons website appeared with a pretty logo of a sun rising over the horizon while a happy couple held a smiling infant in their arms.

  “Well, lookie here,” I murmured. “A fertility clinic.”

  The Bright Horizons clinic was actually part of a larger medical research company called CGM, Inc. CGM had been founded in 1952 in Richmond as a medical clinic and expanded into a research facility in 1964. In 1984 Dr. Geoff Sandberg launched the Bright Horizons fertility clinic in Richmond, using various techniques of in vitro fertilization. It appeared that Bright Horizons had been quite profitable for CGM, boasting a sixty-five percent pregnancy rate per embryo transfer over the past two years, which must be good if they bragged about it online.

  In 1990 CGM expanded into biotechnology, receiving a slew of prestigious academic grants and attracting top medical names in the field. The company had expanded internationally and currently had offices in London, Morocco, Genoa, Amsterdam, Warsaw and Paris. They currently employed over twenty thousand people worldwide.

  I sat back and linked my fingers behind my neck. Okay, there was nothing necessarily sinister here. Bright Horizons had apparently contracted Basia to translate some documents for their international clients. No biggie, right? Except why had she sent the documents to me, why were two guys with guns ready to kill to get them, and what did the word Acheron written in code at the bottom of page three mean? Just thinking of Acheron prompted me to do another search of that word, but I came up with nothing more interesting than what the twins had told me.