Read No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Julie Moffett
the florescent glow of the kitchen light. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out Beefy’s card. The number scowled back at me as if it were the Beefster himself. I compared the numbers and saw they were different. I frowned, disappointed. I guess a part of me had hoped they were working together. Then I could consider them one big threat instead of two separate ones.
I exhaled a deep breath. No way would I call either one of them until I had a better idea of what these papers contained. Basia had apparently been desperate enough to mail them to me and then disappear. She might be in trouble and these papers could be the only way to save her.
Resolutely I stood and went back to my bedroom. I switched my slacks for jeans and the purple blouse for a dark blue T-shirt. I pulled my long hair back into a ponytail, put on socks and tennis shoes and then rummaged around until I found my black tote bag. I shoved in the FedEx mailer, my wallet and keys and then added my address book just in case, jotting down Mr. Middle Eastern Guy’s phone number there, as well. Then I took the paper with the phone number Basia had written on the papers and stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans. I’d figure that out later.
For about fifteen minutes, I walked around my apartment turning lights on and off and pretending that I was getting ready for bed just in case I was being watched. Just after midnight I turned off the light in my bedroom. I slinked out the front door, locked the door and the deadbolt—not that it was keeping anyone out lately—and dashed down the side stairs of the complex. Not too many people knew about this exit and I hoped if I were being watched, my observers wouldn’t expect me to come out there. Tonight I was afraid to use my car, so I slipped outside into the sticky summer air and headed out on foot to another apartment complex about two miles away. I cut through fields and backyards, checking continually to see if I were being followed.
Twenty minutes later I reached the Oakton Woods apartment complex and rang the buzzer for apartment 6D. It took about three minutes of frantic buzzing before I heard a sleepy voice through the intercom.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s me, Lexi Carmichael,” I whispered, even though there was no one about. “It’s urgent. Can I come up, please?”
A long silence. “Lexi? It’s after midnight.”
“Please, Paul. It’s important.”
There was a moment of hesitation before the buzzer sounded. Quickly I yanked the door open and slipped inside. I climbed all six flights and found Paul Wilks standing in the doorway in a rumpled T-shirt and shorts. He was forty-two years old with blond hair and a pretty good body. He was also divorced with three kids.
Paul was a linguist at the NSA and we’d been teamed together once on a project that we’d successfully completed. He’d gotten his job at the height of the Cold War when all the agencies were in the market for Slavic linguists. He was a decent guy, but slightly annoying. He’d asked me out once and I’d gone, but I hadn’t felt any chemistry. Too much of an age gap, I guess. But apparently he’d felt something because it had been awkward between us for about two months while I politely turned down his requests for more dates. Then he had asked out Carla Romanov and things had gone back to normal.
Frankly I didn’t care about any of that now and hoped he didn’t either. Paul spoke fluent Polish and I desperately needed for him to translate the papers for me.
“Nice of you to visit,” he commented, closing the door behind me. “Perhaps you could call ahead next time.”
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging my bag off my shoulders. “I know this isn’t the most convenient time, but I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Work related?”
“No, it’s personal.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on the couch. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got these documents I need you to look at,” I said,
I exhaled a deep breath. No way would I call either one of them until I had a better idea of what these papers contained. Basia had apparently been desperate enough to mail them to me and then disappear. She might be in trouble and these papers could be the only way to save her.
Resolutely I stood and went back to my bedroom. I switched my slacks for jeans and the purple blouse for a dark blue T-shirt. I pulled my long hair back into a ponytail, put on socks and tennis shoes and then rummaged around until I found my black tote bag. I shoved in the FedEx mailer, my wallet and keys and then added my address book just in case, jotting down Mr. Middle Eastern Guy’s phone number there, as well. Then I took the paper with the phone number Basia had written on the papers and stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans. I’d figure that out later.
For about fifteen minutes, I walked around my apartment turning lights on and off and pretending that I was getting ready for bed just in case I was being watched. Just after midnight I turned off the light in my bedroom. I slinked out the front door, locked the door and the deadbolt—not that it was keeping anyone out lately—and dashed down the side stairs of the complex. Not too many people knew about this exit and I hoped if I were being watched, my observers wouldn’t expect me to come out there. Tonight I was afraid to use my car, so I slipped outside into the sticky summer air and headed out on foot to another apartment complex about two miles away. I cut through fields and backyards, checking continually to see if I were being followed.
Twenty minutes later I reached the Oakton Woods apartment complex and rang the buzzer for apartment 6D. It took about three minutes of frantic buzzing before I heard a sleepy voice through the intercom.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s me, Lexi Carmichael,” I whispered, even though there was no one about. “It’s urgent. Can I come up, please?”
A long silence. “Lexi? It’s after midnight.”
“Please, Paul. It’s important.”
There was a moment of hesitation before the buzzer sounded. Quickly I yanked the door open and slipped inside. I climbed all six flights and found Paul Wilks standing in the doorway in a rumpled T-shirt and shorts. He was forty-two years old with blond hair and a pretty good body. He was also divorced with three kids.
Paul was a linguist at the NSA and we’d been teamed together once on a project that we’d successfully completed. He’d gotten his job at the height of the Cold War when all the agencies were in the market for Slavic linguists. He was a decent guy, but slightly annoying. He’d asked me out once and I’d gone, but I hadn’t felt any chemistry. Too much of an age gap, I guess. But apparently he’d felt something because it had been awkward between us for about two months while I politely turned down his requests for more dates. Then he had asked out Carla Romanov and things had gone back to normal.
Frankly I didn’t care about any of that now and hoped he didn’t either. Paul spoke fluent Polish and I desperately needed for him to translate the papers for me.
“Nice of you to visit,” he commented, closing the door behind me. “Perhaps you could call ahead next time.”
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging my bag off my shoulders. “I know this isn’t the most convenient time, but I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Work related?”
“No, it’s personal.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on the couch. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got these documents I need you to look at,” I said,