Mole
Her phone rang.
That would be Dino, calling from the car.
Angela rushed down the stairs as quickly as her four-inch heels would let her. She forced herself to slow down to a comfortable (and sexy) walk when she came within view of the parking lot. He'd brought the black Town Car this time; she'd kind of been hoping for the Ferrari. Carefully-done nails opened the front passenger door.
But the voice from inside was not Dino's.
"Mr. Sinclair will meet you at his home."
What, he's too busy to pick her up for a date? Or just too important?
The driver's vocabulary was at odds with his gutteral Slavic accent. "Mr. Sinclair was detained by some urgent business. He felt it was important that you not be left waiting at your apartment."
Oh.
"Here is the key, and the alarm code. Do you need me to walk you inside?"
Why? It was an old mostly-industrial neighborhood, but it wasn't like Twisted Oaks or anything. Anyway, it was only about fifteen feet to the door, where another bouncer-looking dude acted as the doorman. "I'll be fine."
It was an old building. Angela thought it looked like an old factory from the outside; inside it was more like an office building from a black-and-white movie: the elevators had brass doors with ornate designs on them; the lobby and hallways on each floor had tall fluted columns and lots of little lamps that looked like upside-down cones embedded in the walls and shooting light up at the ceiling.
She had to punch in the alarm code three times to get it to take, but finally the beeping stopped.
She hadn't really taken the time to look around the last time she was here -- that night she'd been willingly swept straight into the bedroom, and the next morning she'd been anxious to get out.
Inside Dino's top-floor apartment, the hallways were narrow with high ceilings. The kitchen looked like it was brought here straight out of a small restaurant, with an oversize sink and super-wide fridge and deep counters, everything in stainless steel. A wide brick arch over a wooden bar that looked lifted straight from a skeeball ramp separated kitchen from living room. Opposite the bar, a wall of old industrial windows lit a polished concrete slab floor; a single furry white rug separated a bus-long leopard-print couch from a rusted-metal and glass entertainment center with a comically-tiny stereo on it; hanging from the dark-purple wall above it was a big flat-panel TV. Angela almost tripped over the all-glass coffee table.
The bedroom was almost as long and wide as the living room, but its low ceiling and softer lighting made it seem less cavernous. There was a step up to a platform around the bed -- almost like a stage. Angela had to blush at that thought -- Dino had certainly given her a performance she'd never forget, and she had to admit part of her was looking forward to an encore.
A doorway in one corner led to the bathroom, with a clear-glass shower and jacuzzi tub; the floor, walls, and even ceiling were covered with what looked like subway tile.
Off to the side was the large closet. Angela slid the mirrored doors open to reveal an impressive wardrobe -- at least a dozen suits, a long row of shirts and slacks, a bank of precise sliding drawers holding underwear and socks, a tie rack *and* a belt rack, and more shoes than a man should feel comfortable owning. And she was sure none of it was bought without the help of a snooty asshole with a fake accent.
Angela caught her reflection in the mirror. She'd thought her outfit was classy when she'd picked it out -- fake angora sweater, stretchy skirt, stay-up stockings, and four-inch pumps, all matching deep blue -- but now she just felt cheap, like a clueless small-town secretary trying to impress her new big-city boss. She pouted as she checked herself from different angles. Well, maybe she didn't have the designer labels of Mister Fancy Pants, but she still looked sexy as hell... too bad he wasn't here to see it.
Well, he'd come home eventually, and then...
Hey, girl, check those hormones. He's the enemy, remember?
I know that. But it's my job to get him to talk...
Maybe you don't have to. Shouldn't you be looking around to see if you can find anything incriminating?
That's what I'm doing.
No you're not, you're wandering around being all impressed by Dino's money.
Shut up.
Something wasn't right about Dino's place. Angela walked back out through the bedroom, down the hall to the living room, looking around. It took her a minute to figure it out.
There was a picture hanging in the living room, a tasteful black-and-white nude.
There was an English-Russian dictionary in the bathroom and a coffee table book on handguns laying on the kitchen counter.
Shelves next to the big TV in the living room were half-filled with CDs. Nearly as many CDs were stacked neatly in an oversize cardboard box next to the stereo.
Otherwise the apartment was bare. Undecorated. No books or knick-knacks on the shelves, no art on the walls, no magazines laying around, not even an ashtray.
The place was almost sterile. It looked like he was still moving in... hadn't he been here for a month?
Or maybe he was moving out...
Then she found the office.
At first she'd thought the door off the entryway was just a coat closet, but when she opened it, she found it was a decent-sized room. Along one wall was a shiny black desk with a computer and papers and stuff strewn all over it.
The floor was dominated by stacks of cardboard boxes and a row of picture frames. Pulling a couple of the frames out for a peek, Angela couldn't help but crinkle her nose: nothing but posters of sports cars and naked women.
Phone ringing. Answering machine picked it up. Dino's voice. Beep.
And Dino's voice.
He was calling himself?
"Hey, Angela, pick up."
She did.
"Hi!"
"Hi. I'm sorry, but it looks like I'm gonna be here another couple hours. Maybe we should cancel. I'll send Bruno over to take you home."
Damn. It was just like Miguel said it would be. She thought of her mission. "I don't mind waiting here," she said hopefully.
"You sure?"
"If you don't mind..."
He seemed to hesitate a beat. "No, that's fine. If you change your mind, just call Bruno. The number's on the phone in the kitchen."
She wanted to ask him about the boxes, but thought better of it. He might not like her snooping in his office -- there was probably a reason the door had been closed. So she just said, "I'll see you when you get home." It sounded like she was his live-in girlfriend or something.
So that was it. She had carte blanche to snoop. This was why she was here.
She thought of being on stage. Being naked. Being a sex object. Trading her modesty for money.
This was why she'd sacrificed so much.
She thought of following Chris Cogan across downtown. Of taking pictures of Dino visiting the chop shop. Of crossing Kat.
This was why she'd put herself in harm's way.
She thought of Detective Miguel Rubio's little speech the other day. "You're gonna be his little freak."
This was why she was working with that creep.
So why did the idea of searching for incriminating evidence to send a dangerous organized crime figure to prison make her feel like she was the bad guy?
Dammit, why was she feeling this way? She was past this naivete. This wasn't like her at all.
Yes it was. It was her on the downslope of her meds.
She thought as she got used to them that they'd become more predictable, that she'd recognize the signs before the pendulum gathered opposite momentum, and sometimes she did. But sometimes the bottom just seemed to fall out in a heartbeat and she was left gasping for air.
She looked around. Where did I leave my purse?
Not on the kitchen counter. Not on the coffee table. Not on the bed. Not in the bathroom. Not in the office.
There. In the closet.
The little pill caddy rattled as she struggled to pry it open. It gave way suddenly, sending its cargo flying. Angela fell to her knees, crawling across the plush carpet to rally her little troops back into their fort. Then one went under her tongue, stimulating enough saliva to send it on its way.
Come on, Angela. Get a grip. You can do this. Don't think about the glamorous nightclub owner. Think about all the crimes that his organization has committed. Think about all the people they've hurt.
Think about the look in Dino's eyes when he squared off with Jacob on the balcony.
Think about the sound of his voice when he told Kat to leave you alone.
He was protecting me.
But still it scared you. He doesn't care about you, except as an asset. Maybe not even that. It's all about being powerful, coming out on top.
Maybe, maybe not. I get the feeling there's more to him than just a fancy gangster.
So find out.
Angela tiptoed back into the office.
Why are you tiptoeing? There's no one here. Anyway, if you act guilty, people will assume you're guilty.
I am guilty.
So don't act like it.
She set her purse down on the floor in the doorway. She couldn't afford to lose track of it -- not when it held her Sapphire gear.
How could you get so distracted you forgot where you put it?
I don't know. I guess when I felt the meds weren't working I panicked. It was just for a minute.
It wouldn't be a big deal if it wasn't bulging with her sapphires and a spare costume.
What was she thinking, bringing them with her? Here she was, about to go rifling through Dino's stuff, and at the same time trusting that he wouldn't do the same to her. What if he'd gone through her purse later while she slept?
Why would he do that?
To find out more about you.
Why, I already told him everything.
To find out why you're still interested in him after the way he treated you. To find out if maybe you're doing what you're doing.
But she couldn't go anywhere without her sapphires. Not after what happened with Kat. Not after that accident near Ricky's house... She had to be ready all the time. It was just part of being a superheroine.
She thought of that old commercial for American Express Traveler's Checks. Don't leave home without them.
Anyway, if Dino did go snooping, she could just say it was a fantasy of hers but she wasn't sure he was ready for it.
Come on, how dumb do you think he is?
Well, a lot of people don't even believe that Sapphire is real. And remember all the girls dressed up like Sapphire at the big party?
Well, maybe... but remember what happened the last time you-\parNo. Don't think about that.
Angela busied herself by poking into the boxes on top of the stacks. A set of lewd little statues having sex in various positions, a box of old Penthouse magazines, another box of new Penthouse magazines, an anatomically-correct chess set... Angela had no idea Dino was so single-minded. Then again, all this stuff was in boxes. Was he embarassed by it?
Other boxes had more magazines (cars, guns, women) and coffee table books (more cars, more guns, more women, plus roller coasters, airplanes, and a couple on ancient Egypt) and DVDs (all blockbusters and kung-fu movies; she expected pornos, but they were probably in one of the other boxes). One box had miscellaneous knick-knacks: a little picture frame (with an old photo-booth snapshot, probably an ex-girlfriend), a magnet sculpture, a hovering pen, one of those things with the row of hanging metal balls that executives would start clack-clack-clacking when they were bored, a weird artsy-fartsy paper-clip holder (it took her a moment to realize it was a representation of a woman's parted legs, with the paper clips between them -- how crude!), random business cards, and some mismatched batteries.
Poking any deeper would require moving boxes around, and she didn't want to make a mess she couldn't jump away from in a few seconds. Anyway, she wasn't sure if she moved boxes she could get them all back the way they were, and she was pretty sure Dino would remember. Plus there wasn't anything good in any of them. If Dino had any business stuff at home, it'd probably be in his desk.
She started checking the drawers.
Woah. There's some business stuff.
A box of ammunition. No, several boxes. "Silvertip" 45 auto, and 9x18 "Makarov." Whatever that was.
A yellow notepad with... what were those weird scribbles? It looked like a child practicing his penmanship, the same character repeated over and over again across a couple of lines, then a different character for a line or three below it, and so on. But it wasn't anything she recognized. Too complex to be Russian, too geometrical to be Chinese. Then again, she wasn't exactly an expert. She just knew she'd seen enough government forms and pamphlets and signs, with Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, Portugese, Russian, Greek, Arabic... nothing like this. It was like Dino was making up his own alphabet, like a code.
Or maybe he was learning someone else's.
Whatever it was, he was a quick study; no more than three lines of any one character before they looked natural and consistent.
This was probably important. Angela reached into her purse and pulled out her camera. She lined up each page in the viewfinder very carefully, taking two shots each, just in case.
Phone ringing. Angela literally jumped out of her chair.
Answering machine picked it up. She scurried into the kitchen to listen. Dino's voice. Beep.
A man's voice. Smooth, educated, relaxed yet precise. Familiar. "Hello, Dino Sinclair! Excuse me... Hello, Dino Sinclair's machine! This is Sergei..." Sergei? Sergei Pavlov! The Secretary to the Russian Ambassador to the United States. It was a mouthful even in her mind. "I remembered from our last conversation how you mentioned you were interested in airplanes. You know there's a big airshow next weekend. They're bringing in an Su-27 interceptor, a MiG-29 fighter... even an AN-124 cargo jet. You should see this thing, bigger than any American plane. So... I got you a couple of passes for the VIP tour, Sunday at two." As Sergei spoke through the machine, Angela wondered if he remembered her. "Oh, hey, I was at the club Wednesday -- congratulations, I had no idea it was so busy! And I saw your new dancer -- stunning. Rather reminded me of that girl you were seeing, Angela -- what ever happened to her?" Well! That answered *that* question. "So... call me."
An airshow. Sounds boring. I wonder if he'll invite me.
Hey, get back to work.
She sat back down at the desk.
Well, duh, what are you doing going through his desk drawers? If he has any secrets, they'll probably be in his computer.
She turned it on. It must have been in sleep mode, because it came up in just a few seconds... and wanted a password.
DINO
Nope.
TEN
Nope.
10
Nuh-uh.
Shoot. If she guessed wrong too many times, would it lock the account? That's what happened to her once at the library at school.
Hmm. If I were a password where would I be? Under the keyboard?
Nope.
In the desk drawer?
Nope.
Written by the phone?
She checked in the kitchen. Most people had important numbers written down next to the phone, but not Dino.
Waitaminute, the alarm code for the apartment!
No good.
Maybe...
ANGELA
Account locked.
Shoot!
Well, she'd just tell him she was bored and was hoping to go online to chat or something.
Angela looked around on the desk for anything else interesting. There was a dock for a handheld... funny, she didn't think Dino was the handheld type. Wait, didn't she see one... she checked the ammo drawer. Yep. A little dusty. She tried to turn it on, but it seemed dead. She put it on the dock and it came to life. Batteries must have been dead. "Welcome!" it said. It wanted her to enter her name. She put in "Dino." It asked her for more stuff -- set the date and time, choose a timezone... wasn't this thing set up? When she finally got to a menu she poked around. Nothing. Apparently he'd never used it. Or he'd erased it.
Next to the handheld dock was another device. Smaller, with a display and a few tiny buttons... an MP3 player. Cool. Angela fished around in the drawers and came up with a pair of earbud headphones. What kind of music was Dino into?
PLAY.
Angela recognized the first song -- it was the first one she'd danced to; "Hot for Teacher," she thought. FF.
Thumping bass, and a familiar whisper -- it was the *second* song she'd danced to: Britney's "I'm A Slave 4 U."
Interesting... I wonder... FF.
Neo-disco. Yep... "Can't get you outta my head." The first song she'd danced to on Thursday.
Did she really need to go on? Of course she did. FF.
Britney again. "Overprotected." FF.
Waitaminute, this wasn't "I touch myself"... No, it was that techno-disco thing that had been playing during her private dance for Mr. Jones. Wow. Did Raj load these for him? FF.
"I touch myself."
STOP.
Okay, that was weird. All of a sudden Dino was showing considerable interest.
Well, duh. The wallflower became a stripper at his club.
Still... the music thing is what an obsessed fan might do.
Listen to you, already thinking like some kind of celebrity. "Fan."
Sapphire has fans. Had fans.
Is that what Noel Aquino was? A "fan?"
Shut up.
Yeah. First him, now Dino. You sure know how to get an older man's attention.
Dino's not that old.
Whatever. Anyway, don't knock it. You *want* him wrapped around your little finger, remember?
I guess. But it's a little creepy.
*Everything* seems a little creepy right now. Relax. It's a good thing. But it's not evidence of criminal activity, so move on.
Angela pressed what she thought was the STOP button, but the music kept playing, and a flat plastic card popped out of the side of the player. Angela pulled it out. "Blank - insert to protect memory slot from dust."
Cool. I wonder if he has any memory cards?
He did, in the first place she looked -- a plastic box on the end of the desk. It was almost full of the little memory cards. A *lot* of them. Neatly arranged. Numbered in reverse order from front to back. She took the first two out. Labeled, too: "Fiddle" and "Skynyrd." Yuck.
Look at the bright side. If you can't find anything else on Dino, you can get him busted for massive copyright violations.
She flipped idly through the memory cards -- must be nice not having to reuse the same few cards all the time -- shopping for something interesting to listen to. There wasn't much else to look at in here, and she was getting bored just thinking about waiting up for Dino with nothing to do, and if Dino's TV was anything like her ex-boyfriend Josh's dad's was, Angela probably wouldn't be able to figure out how to turn it on.
She skipped past stuff like "Disco 3", "80s Ballads", "Cross/McDonald/Loggins" until one caught her eye: "Her." Her, who? Angela? Or someone else? Maybe she shouldn't pick that one. Next to it, "Britney." Did Dino Sinclair really listen to Britney Spears? Well, besides the two tracks on the player itself, which probably weren't there just for their musical appeal... Maybe Dino had a thing for Britney. A lot of guys did. Angela had to admit the singer was pretty hot. Not that Angela was interested, no way, but she could see how a guy might listen to her songs just to think about her...
...which was probably what Dino was doing listening to Angela's dance tracks. Which wasn't a bad thing...
Angela popped the "Britney" card into the player and pressed PLAY.
Baby can't you see
I'm calling
A guy like you
Should wear a warning
It's dangerous
I'm fallin'
There's no escape
I can't wait
I need a hit
Baby, give me it
You're dangerous
I'm lovin' it
There was one more drawer to check. Angela stood up and bopped to the beat as she opened it.
Empty.
No, wait a sec... something in the back...
A little book. Like a journal.
Angela flipped through it. She couldn't read any of it.
It was written in code. The same weird symbols as on the yellow pad.
She had to stop swaying to the music to hold it open and snap pictures. There were a lot of pages; it took a while.
With a taste of your lips
I'm on a ride
You're toxic I'm slipping under
With a taste of a poison paradise
I'm addicted to you
Don't you know that you're toxic
Finally the batteries in her camera had had enough.
But she'd had enough snooping anyway. The stuff she'd found had to be good for something, if someone could decode what the weird symbols meant. Miguel probably knew somebody who owed him a favor that could do it.
If she decided to show him.
Ricky's friend Jimmy probably knew somebody, too. But the way things had gone, that was probably too awkward.
Well, maybe she could play on Dino's machismo tonight and get him to impress her with stories about his history with the Russian Mafiya. She'd just play it by ear...
Angela retired to the living room, crashing on the couch and putting her feet up, letting the music flow...
Think that I might back down but I won't
Think that I might have doubts but I don't
No insecurities, won't you just let me, let me be?
Think that you know me now but you don't
Think that I can't stand on my own
It ain't my philosophy, won't you just let me, let me be?
And then the music stopped. At first she thought she'd hit a button on accident. Then she heard a hissing sound like an old recording on tape -- maybe he'd downloaded a live track...
...but this didn't sound like a concert. Everything was muffled. And the voices were male.
She looked at the track name scrolling on the tiny display: "Anticipating." Whatever it was, it wasn't that.
Angela pressed REW and turned up the volume.
"Thirty-six. That is a lot." Deep voice; thick Russian accent.
"Recent-issue and in peak condition." Nasally voice; even thicker accent.
"You have specifics?"
"Yes. At least six Italian, at least one of them a redhead. Eight German shepherds, two with papers. Two rolls. A snake. Also a few special older ones -- a seagull, a German half-past nine, and the big snake. And some, what is, bling-bling. You choose the rest, but no junk. Ready for my daughter's birthday."
"Yes, at the end of October. You are responsible for shipping."
"Of course."
"This will not be easy."
"I am told you know many collectors. So tell me what my daughter's menagerie will cost."
"Twelve hundred." Deep voice.
"Eight hundred." Nasally voice.
"One thousand."
Pause, then: "Okay."
Angela pressed STOP. Weird. What was that about? Did Dino press Record by mistake? Did the Russian Mafiya deal in black-market beanie babies?
She listened to it again. It didn't make any more sense than the first time. Oh well. She'd have to ask Dino about it.
PLAY.
Another recorded conversation, this one labeled "Touch of My Hand."
"What about the other thing?" Deep voice; thick Russian accent.
Someone answered in another language; probably Russian.
"In English," the first voice scolded.
"Kostya, not now." Dino's voice. Kostya -- the nickname of Dino's boss and head of the Russian Mafiya over most of the West Coast, Konstantin Moroshkin.
"You will hear this. You are part of the family, even if you never learned Russian. Besides, Jacob's Russian hurts my ears."
So the other voice was Jacob. Angela thought of the way he'd pawed her breast that night in the club. And the way he'd towered over Dino moments later. And the way Dino stared him down, unafraid, almost eager for a scrap.
"You were right," Jacob said. "Cross has been skimming."
"Someone should make him stop."
"I will pray for him," Jacob said.
"Take Dino to pray with you."
"Kostya, you know how I feel about... church."
"Uncle, I can pray by myself."
"I know, Jacob, but if Dino goes with you, no one can question your faith."
There was a long silence. Then:
"We will pray tonight."
There was a pause, and the background noise changed.
"Please don't kill me!" A different voice. Trembling.
"Did you think it was free? Think about it -- his name is Kostya."
Crack! Crack!
Angela jumped at the shots.
And then it was back to Britney.
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
I think I did it again
STOP.
Angela felt herself shrink.
REW.
"Please don't kill me!"
"Did you think it was free? Think about it -- his name is Kostya."
Crack! -STOP.
Why did Dino Sinclair have evidence that put him at the scene of a murder? How did Dino get this? Obviously, he was there. Or he knew someone who was there and paid them for the recording. But most likely he was there.
But... *why* did he have this?
Waitasec, was *he* the shooter?
Breathless, she listened to it again.
And again.
And again.
Every time she heard the shots, she jumped. Even though she knew they were coming, she knew what they meant.
The voice wasn't Dino's. So Dino wasn't a killer. What if he didn't talk, but he pulled the trigger? No. Dino's not a killer. But what he said to Kat... and what he said to Jacob... he could be. Ohmigod. Ohmigod.
Wait, if he was the killer, why would he keep a recording? Some sick audio diary? No, there had to be some other reason.
Angela listened to the second recording again.
"Someone should make him stop."
Was there more? FF. Crack! -FF. Britney. FF. Britney. FF -- end.
She backed up to the first recording. She still didn't get it. Six Italians? German shepherds? Rolls? No, had to be Owls. REW. "Two rolls." No, not Owls, definitely Rolls. Did he say German half-past nine?
Was he ordering more hits?
Angela's hands trembled. She listened to the other tracks again, just to make sure she wasn't crazy.
"What about the other thing?"
"Please don't kill me!"
She had it. Right there in her hot little hands. The evidence Detective Miguel Rubio was after.
But it didn't make any sense. Why was Dino recording incriminating evidence against his boss -- and himself? Was this how he got control of the club? Was he planning to get rid of Moroshkin and take control of the mafiya himself?
Or was *he* undercover?
Miguel would be able to make sense of it. Waitaminute, no he wouldn't; he wasn't that smart. But it didn't really matter. What mattered was that criminals were punished for their crimes. Let the shrinks figure out the rest.
What mattered was that she got this to the police. And that meant getting it to Miguel.
Won't Dino know it's me? When the recording is played in court, won't everyone know where it came from and who delivered it?
Phone ringing. Answering machine.
A woman's voice.
"Hey, baby, it's Talia. I can't wait to be naked in your bathtub again. Call me."
Angela rolled her eyes. Her identity was safe.
As if I'm the only one who's ever been in Dino's apartment...
All Angela had to do was get the memory card back in the box before Dino noticed it missing.
Which meant going to see Miguel now. He probably knew somebody who could make a copy in a hurry.
Now she just had to figure out how to reach him. She couldn't call him from Dino's phone -- what if he checked his phone bill? She could ask to use a neighbor's phone, or the phone in the lobby, but that would be suspicious, people would remember it.
I'll just go over there. If he's not home, I'll find a payphone or something.
But Miguel lives miles from here. And you don't have your car -- Dino's guy picked you up.
Well, duh, I can *fly*.
Actually, she couldn't. Not dressed like this. Good thing she brought a spare costume.
Angela grabbed her purse, stuffed the MP3 player inside, made sure she had Dino's key, and then made her way to the end of the hall. Sure enough, the stairs went to the roof. Even better, the roof door wasn't locked.
Shoes first. Then the skirt -- too tight and too thick. It was tricky slipping out of it without letting it touch the dirty rooftop; she nearly fell over. She had her flimsy Sapphire skirt on her hips and her sweater swapped for her flyaway cropped top before she thought about her stockings. She'd never worn stockings as Sapphire before. They looked kind of silly. Actually, they made her outfit look like something Heaven would wear on stage. Actually, they made her look sexy. But Sapphire wasn't supposed to look sexy. Well, not *that* sexy. It wasn't like she ran around scarcely dressed because she liked it. The sapphires forced the issue.
But she was pressed for time. And darnit, they were expensive, and she stood a better chance of running them taking them off while standing on a dirty rooftop than she did just leaving them on. They were sheer enough not to limit her energy too much, weren't they?
Sapphire slipped on her wristbands and pressed the tiara into her hair. The burst of energy made her twitch with excitement. Being Sapphire just felt better.
An experimental hover seemed okay. The sapphires' presence wasn't as "bright" as usual, but it still felt clean and clear. If she wasn't trying to find a difference, she probably wouldn't have noticed one.
Sapphire reached down into the purse and pulled out the MP3 player. The headphones pulled on her sweater. Shoot. She wadded the cord up as best she could. It was a little awkward. Maybe she should put the headphones on. No, they'd probably get yanked off in the wind. Maybe she should just take the memory card. What if Miguel didn't have a compatible player? Argh.
She looked down at her purse. What if somebody else came up here and took it?
Well, duh, it's a purse. Use it.
Sapphire picked up the purse, shoved the MP3 player and headphones back inside, and after a moment's analysis, wrapped the strap around her arm several times and gripped the top of the purse in her hand.
As the gossamer girl took flight, she couldn't help but feel ridiculous.
Who ever heard of a superheroine carrying a purse?
Miguel lived in a dumpy old apartment complex -- the kind that looked like giant cardboard boxes left outside in the rain. Painted a flat, fading light shade of something that more echoed concrete and dirt and sky than offered its own color. Cut through the length of each building was a pair of cavelike hallways, concrete on the ground, astroturf on the second floor, to which all the apartment doors opened; a skeletal-steel stairway with concrete steps spilled from each end.
It was at the top of one of these stairwells that Sapphire landed. The step plinked under her heels. She walked lightly, but not too lightly, into the flourescent-lit hall toward the first door on the right. She didn't need the neighbors poking out to see who was there, but she didn't think sneaking up on a cop who didn't expect you was a good idea.
A gentle knock brought nothing, so after a moment she tried again, a little more forcefully. Her wrist sapphire winked happily as the door bellowed like a drum. Whoops.
She sensed the weight of someone on the other side of the door. Then the door opened -- fast, and wide. It startled her.
"How'd you get here?" Miguel blinked rapidly; it was darker inside his apartment than it was in the hall. Sapphire noticed the gun in his right hand.
"I flew," she answered matter-of-factly, though she knew he'd think she was joking.
"Cute. I mean, how'd you know I was here?"
"I followed you one day."
"I didn't see you," Miguel growled, as if it was impossible to follow him without him knowing. Well, he *was* paranoid. But she *could* fly.
"I have something for you."
Miguel looked her up and down; his eyes were adjusted to the light, but they struggled to adjust to the beautiful young woman in front of him. "I'll bet," he said with a smirk, "but now's not a good time."
"Make time," Sapphire snapped. "This is important."
Miguel sighed. "Fine. Make it quick."
Sapphire unwrapped the purse from her arm and dug out the headphones. She offered them to him; he had to put down his gun on a table next to the door. "What, is this the latest Britney Spears bootleg?"
The accidental irony of his sarcasm made her smile. "Just put 'em on." She dug out the MP3 player, waiting for it to power on and trying to navigate the tiny buttons without dropping anything.
"I like the outfit."
He was positively leering. Sapphire had a mind to slap some manners into him, but with Miguel it probably wouldn't have helped, and anyway, with the sapphires on she was likely to break his jaw.
Her reply dripped with sarcasm. "I wore it just for you."
"Switched the long sleeves for stockings. Nice."
She didn't think he'd notice specifics. She pushed the distasteful thought of Miguel fantasizing about Sapphire out of her mind.
There. The first 'secret' track was selected. "Ready?"
"Yeah, whatever."
PLAY.
She watched Miguel's smartass look gradually fade to a blank face. Then his eyes widened. "Woah, woah, back it up, back it up."
"You can listen to it all you want later. There's more."
"Shhh!" He put his hand to his ear.
Sapphire saw the time remaining tick to zero; she clicked STOP.
"Motherfucker," Miguel said, clearly in awe. "You hit the fuckin' jackpot. When did you record this?"
"I didn't. I found it on his desk."
"Why the hell would Sinclair-- Fuck it, who cares? Lemme hear it again."
"Later. There's more."
PLAY.
Sapphire watched Miguel's face go slack, then tighten in a familiar expression.
He looked like he was approaching orgasm.
Crack! Crack!
Miguel jumped at the sound of the shots, then relaxed and smiled like a boy who had the answers to the History final.
"I think I need a cigarette," he breathed. It took Sapphire a moment to realize it was a sexual reference.
He reached for the MP3 player. "Lemme see that." He ejected the memory card and held it up. "SD, okay." Sapphire's eyes followed his hands as he put the player and memory down on the table inside the door.
"Is there more?" Miguel asked.
She thought about the pictures of the penmanship practice and the journal. No. Too weird. "I don't know. Isn't that enough?"
"Well, it's *never* enough, but... yeah, it's good." He looked at her as if to say, Anything else?
"I need you to copy that; I have to get it back."
"Sure, okay."
"I mean now."
"I can't do that. Tim doesn't start until 12."
"So call him."
"I'm not gonna call him; anyway, I'm working on something else now."
"What are you working on that's more important than this?"
Girl's voice. "Hey, you coming back to bed or what?" Peeked over his shoulder. "Who's this?" Obvious jealous distaste.
"Just business, baby; go on, I'll be there in a minute."
Girl retreated.
"Relax," Miguel said, "If he notices, tell him you like Britney so you borrowed it."
"Then he'll know it was me."
"No he won't. You have any idea how many girls he's had in and out of his apartment? Jesus, don't be so fucking naive."
Angela thought of the last time she'd been at Dino's apartment. Her first time with him. The bimbos who barged in the next morning.
But still, if Dino knew Angela'd had the card, and if he thought she'd listened to it, she'd be Suspect Number One. And unlike the police, the mafiya didn't need proof beyond a reasonable doubt to convict.
She squared up, hands on hips. "You can call Tim or not. Either way, I'm not leaving without that player."
Miguel grunted dismissively. "Go home, Angela." He started to close the door.
Sapphire shoved her way in, sapphires sparking briefly; Miguel tumbled to the floor.
The superheroine grabbed the player and stuffed it back in her purse. Miguel was still working on getting to his feet. Turning to leave, Sapphire spotted a small address book on the table. If Miguel wouldn't call his friend, she would.
She picked up the little book, thumbing through it. "Tim's number in here?"
"Hey, that's private!" Back on his feet, Miguel reached for it; without looking, Sapphire casually hip-checked him to the couch.
There was a Tim under T.
"816-7175, that him?"
"So what if it is?"
"Where's your phone?" She looked around, then stalked toward the kitchen.
"Just wait a fuckin' minute."
"Look, I didn't come all the way down here for my health. If you're too... 'busy' to do your job, I'll have to do it for you."
"Check the attitude, missy, and remember who's the cop here. And who's busted into whose home late at night. And who's holding a fucking gun."
"Relax, *detective*. You sound threatened."
Miguel hardened at that. "By you? Please. I just don't like being told how to do my job by a stripper."
Sapphire fought to suppress the urge to smack him into next week. It didn't serve her purpose to make him mad. After all, he knew who she was. Sort of. He knew enough that he could burn her. In retrospect, she was foolish to ever begin working with him -- anonymous tips to Parking Enforcement would have been preferable -- but she was stuck with him now.
She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "Fine. What do you want to do?"
Miguel sensed that he had control, but only barely. "I'll call Tim, and get him to come over with his notebook. Shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes, then you can get back to your boyfriend."
The night air felt good on her skin. When this was over, she was going to give up this undercover junk. Sapphire was a superheroine -- she belonged out on the streets kicking criminals' butts, not sneaking around and seducing playboys.
She looked down to the street below. A lonely car's headlights lit up the road. This neighborhood didn't get a lot of traffic at night -- the conversion from decrepit warehouses to upscale lofts had just begun here, and cars were just as likely to be jalopys driven by the newly homeless looking for a place to park for the night as luxury sedans sneaking toward their ahead-of-the-trend urban palaces.
Wait a second, that's a black Lincoln.
That might be Dino's black Lincoln.
Sapphire dipped lower, straining to see the license plate.
That *is* Dino's black Lincoln!
Shit shit shit shit shit!
Sapphire lit off down the street, feeling the angry wind tug at her scant coverings. She didn't bother to land softly; the apartment directly below was empty, anyway. A single hop took her to the landing halfway down the stairwell; another hop got her into the hallway. She hoped nobody was looking as she blasted down the hall to Dino's door. It took several breath-stealing moments to find the key; it had hidden itself in the toe of her right pump at the bottom of her overstuffed purse. Door open, a foot guided dropped garments across the threshold.
Sapphire heels planted with impossible grip on the hardwood floor, around the office door and to the end of the desk. Purse dropped to the chair, hands rooting through it, tossing a pump into the hall. She arranged the MP3 player on the desk as she remembered it before. Whew!
A confident superheroine strutted back into the foyer, only to catch her reflection in the full-length mirror. She was still Sapphire.
Tiara and wristbands fell to the purse. Stiletto mules exchanged for leather pumps.
Damn! Her stockings had so many little runs started they looked like they belonged to a goth chick. The sapphire energy must have done a number on them...
She heard the elevator ding just as she slipped into her sweater.
Oh, shit! She'd left the memory card in the player! She scrambled back into the office, frantic fingers ejecting the card and replacing it with the plastic blank, flip flip flip flipping to find the right spot for the card -- why'd he have to keep them in numerical order? -- and dropping it in just as she heard his key in the front door. She scurried out of the room, closed the door, and just picked up her purse as the front door opened.
"Oh, hey," she said, sounding almost too relaxed. Her chest burned with the need for a deep breath, but she forced herself to inhale slowly.
"Where've you been? Didn't you hear my message?"
"I went for a walk. I just came back to get my things."
"If you want to go clubbing it's not too late."
Clubbing? Why was he looking at her like that?
Her sweater was unbuttoned; the inner curves of her breasts were as obvious as the fact that she wore nothing underneath. She still wore her Sapphire skirt, which left the tops of her stockings and her garter tabs exposed.
She looked like a stripper.
Of course, she *was* a stripper. At his club.
So why did he look surprised? Angela had thrown herself into the role of Heaven, the fresh-faced exotic dancer who loved her new job -- to the point that sometimes Angela wondered if it was a role at all. What, then, did Dino Sinclair expect? Angela certainly hadn't planned on being so daring tonight -- the outfit she'd intended him to see was an attempt to dial things back a bit, just to throw him off. And yet, the reverse had happened.
But Dino's surprise wasn't pleasant. His look wasn't one of lust.
It was one of regret.
Not that he'd made a sexy young woman wait and now he wasn't going to get laid.
More like he'd toyed with a sweet girl one too many times and now he'd lost her.
He'd led her astray. He'd let her down. And there was no going back.
Damn you, Dino Sinclair, how do you do that? How do you hurt me and make me feel sorry for you all at once with just a look?
Remember. He's a dangerous criminal.
He had no idea what she'd just done. What she'd been working towards doing to him all this time. All she had to do was walk out that door and she'd get away with it. He had no idea he was already doomed.
So why wasn't she moving?
"No, I don't want to go clubbing. I just want to go home."
"Okay. Listen, I'd like to make it up to you. Let me take you to dinner tomorrow."
The nerve! Angela felt her resolve strengthen again. How could one man be so callous and so sincere? She didn't know, but she could only take so much of it.
"I don't think so."
"My boss wants to meet you."
"I don't see why."
"Because he thinks I..." Dino cut himself short. "Because people are talking about you."
"Let them talk." She did her best to hide her apprehension. Did Moroshkin suspect her?
"Angela..."
Angela felt panic rising. She didn't need Dino seeing her come undone. She turned and started walking down the hall toward the elevator. "I gotta go," she called over her shoulder. "Tell him I'm sick." It wouldn't be much of a lie.
"Hold on, I'll drive you home."
Her reply was desperate. "No!" She stabbed the elevator button incessantly.
"At least let me call Bruno."
"I'll be fine."
She heard his voice lowered; he wasn't talking to her. "How fast can you get here? What? How'd you- nevermind. She's coming down. See that she gets home safely."
"I said I'll be fine!" She almost yelled it.
"Angela, just let Bruno take you home."
"Yeah, whatever."
The elevator doors finally closed, sealing Angela off from the dark forces pressing in on her, if only for a moment.
Why was it that the more she learned, the less she understood?
Not knowing what else to do, Angela began to cry.