Investigative Dating

            I was in my office organizing files when my assistant, Ginger, came rushing in late.

"Ginger, you are half an hour tardy."

"I know. I apologize. I had a 27 page paper due in my criminology class, and I had to turn it in before 10am."

Ginger is a junior at the local university, and to be flexible for her this term, we don't usually start work till 11 in the morning. This gives Ginger the ability to go to her morning class, and it gives me a few hours to do my exercise routine (just 18 laps in the pool, some kick boxing, and then benching 250 to stay toned).

Ginger has been working for me for about year. She comes to the office (which is conveniently located in the spare bedroom of my house) three times a week to help me with cases. She's very competent.

When the detective agency is slow, Ginger helps me with my work with children, cutting out lamb shapes from construction paper and buying Goldfish crackers in bulk at Costco. See, I am a part-time detective but I also teach children about Jesus four days a week. Once I walked in to teach 8am Bible Club while I was still wearing my fake mustache from an early morning surveillance route. The kids laughed and thought I wore it to be silly. But really I wore it because I didn't want Mr. Delvino to recognize me while I followed him to Wal-Mart.

"Ginger, today I have some lions for you to cut out for the Bible Club craft, I need you to put together an Elijah costume for Sunday School, and then I need you to see what new leads you can pull up for the Teverson case.”

“Okay, no problem. Do you want me to find a beard for the Elijah costume?”

“That would be great. There should be one in the disguise closet.” That’s the great thing about working with children and being a detective. My disguises pull double duty. It’s what I call a good investment.

***

At one o’clock we took a lunch break, and I decided to ask Ginger about what had been on my mind.

“Ginger, what do you think about on-line dating?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. One time I tried it, but the only men who contacted me were 30 years old and lived in Fiji. Thankfully soon after that I met Brian in the student union.”

I contemplated this, then took a moment to look up information about Fiji. It could be a nice place to visit. The reason I had been thinking about it was because last week my best friend suggested I try on-line dating. The reason this would never work out is because potential love interests would be all “what do you do for a living?” and I would say I’m a detective. Then they would get freaked out and think I’m an obsessive person who is going to start following them secretly, which would lead to them not replying to any of my messages and we would never even go on a single date.

Truth be told, I was asked out on a date two weeks ago while doing some investigative work. I had to turn the guy down because at the time he knew me as Darla, a blond flight stewardess from Texas. I couldn’t just meet him for dinner that weekend without the southern twang and golden locks. He would have thought I had schizophrenia.

“I don’t know, Detective Rossen. Maybe you should try it. I mean, what’s it hurt to at least take a look?”

“Ginger, how many times do I have to remind you? You can call me Joelle. And I guess maybe you’re right. Messaging unknown, attractive men found on internet websites never got anyone kidnapped for human trafficking or anything.”

So that evening I spent three hours looking at profiles of men who fit my search criteria. I did this instead of spending time prepping my Bible Club lesson, and I went to bed without showering because it was so late. That just goes to show that on-line dating sites suck up all your productivity and personal hygiene habits. I was pretty sure the Lord was not pleased with my decision to put profile trolling before my responsibility of preparing an engaging, well-planned, age appropriate, spiritual growth-based lesson for the children who live in a neighborhood where 75% of all the city’s drug houses are located within two blocks of the school.

The next day I put aside all thoughts of singleness and becoming a 40 year old cat lady who wears blue velour stretch pants and focused on the job that Jack Teverson hired me to do: spy on his employee candidates.

Jack is president of a company called Biomed International and he is looking to hire a few new employees. Mr. Teverson is very picky about the people he hires, especially after his 2006 incident with a Japanese finance manager who caused the company to lose two million dollars.

Right now I am investigating Jack’s top three candidates. I do things like rifle through their trash (because a person’s garbage can tell you a lot about them), follow them to work, interact with them while in disguise, call them pretending to be a computer technician in India, and interview their dry-cleaner. I’ve been compiling a file of their full profile for the past three weeks. After a lot of observation, I told Jack Teverson not to hire Kareem Larson because he frequently refers to himself in the third person, which is sign of douchebaggery. And nobody wants to hire a jerk.

So now I’m focusing my attention on Colby Delvino and Kirk Patrick. You might say to yourself  “why doesn’t Mr. Teverson have any women on his top candidate list? Is he chauvinistic and sexist and oppressive?”  Jack did have several women on his list. I just eliminated them. I’d tell you why, but that’s confidential. Trust me though, it was a good decision.

What was on my list for today was to attend Kirk Patrick’s hair cutting appointment. I was hoping to gain a lot of useful information from this short event. First of all, the type of place a person gets their hair cut can tell you a lot about them. For example, do they go to Supercuts or a fancy salon down town? Do they go to a traditional barber shop with the white and blue spinning thing and a quartet, or do they have their mom/wife/girlfriend give them a haircut?

It’s also known that people are gossips in a salon. Either the hairdresser tells you everything she knows about everybody in town, or you spill all your business and complain about the people you know. When I go to get a haircut, I’m a listener. Or I’m content just to sit there in silence. One time I had a stylist who told me all the intimate details of her personal life and the break up with her boyfriend. I didn’t even know her. Another time, I went to a salon in my hometown and heard all the mom-age gossip from the other ladies in there getting highlights and perms. I never went back, but that was mostly because the hairdresser didn’t even blow dry my sopping wet hair. Just cut it and said I was done. I had to go to a meeting looking like a drowned rat.

My point is, this was going to be a very telling moment for Kirk. Either he was going to complain and gossip, or he wasn’t. He was going to get his gray covered or he wasn’t. Through my technological abilities, I was able to access Kirk’s on-line calendar and discovered that the appointment was for two o’clock at The Wild Hare. I conveniently made an appointment for myself at the same time to get a Keratin deep conditioning treatment. At first I dropped my jaw when the receptionist told me it was going to be $80, but then I remembered that technically this appointment was work related, so I could write it off on my taxes as a business expense.

While I was eating a vegetarian, protein-rich lunch, I decided to visit Match.com again and look a little bit more to see if the love of my life might be a 35 year old man in Fiji. I really wasn’t having any luck. All the guys had scruffy, unkempt beards, or they were balding, or they were missing teeth. “Ginger, is there a way to filter this site so that people who horrify me don’t keep showing up?”

Ginger stopped eating her noodles and came over to take a look. “Joelle, you’re looking at the Marion County Inmate roster. Those are their mug shots. All of those men are criminals.”

“Whoops.” Turned out I had like five open tabs and got my work research mixed up with my love life. I decided to get off-line and review the files I had for the Teverson case.

I left for the salon at 1:15 and arrived at The Wild Hare a bit early, so that I could observe Mr. Patrick’s behavior when he first arrived. While reading a copy of Vogue, I peeked out to the side and saw him check in with the receptionist. Then he sat two seats over from me. I made a mental note of his politeness and friendliness towards the receptionist. Just as I was reading an article about Jennifer Lawrence, Mr. Patrick’s phone rang.

“Hey….yes…I told you that deal needs to go through today.”

I perked my ears.

“Have Cindy call Marco… Just make sure it happens…We can recoup the costs later…Okay. Ten a.m. Thursday. Bye.”

“Alyssa?” A hair stylist appeared.

I popped out of my chair. Alyssa was my alias for today. I smiled and walked forward. After getting a cape draped over me, I was led to the sink for a shampoo. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kirk Patrick shake his stylist’s hand.

Once my hair got rinsed, I got to sit back down in my swivel chair. Luckily, Kirk was in the seat next to me, so I had the perfect location for listening in and observing.

“You sure have a lot of hair,” my stylist, Shelby, said as she clipped my locks up to get to the bottom layers.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “My lion mane makes extra work for everybody.” Shelby started to apply some goop to my hair. Then she turned me in my swivel chair to the right and my jaw just about fell off.

It was him. A greek god from Mount Olympus come to earth to mingle with the mortals. I saw the profile of his perfect nose and his strong jaw. I knew I had seen this face before. It was one of the guys I had viewed during my three hours of time spent on Match.com searching for a lover (not a criminal). And here he was, getting his locks buzzed off like he was about to join the army.

Noooo, I wanted to scream. What will my fingers have to run through now? But then I collected myself and remembered that this guy hadn’t even asked me out to coffee yet. In fact, he hadn’t even seen me, as far as I knew, because he was looking forward into the mirror and engaged in a conversation with his hairdresser.

Shelby applied another pile of goop to my hair. And that’s when it happened. I looked into the man’s mirror and locked eyes with him. It was a second of breathlessness, and then he grinned. He let those sparkling white teeth shimmer at me. If you are familiar with Song of Solomon, you might say his teeth were like a flock of goats. If you are familiar with modern dentistry, you might say his teeth looked like four years of expensive orthodontic work, Crest toothpaste, and diligent flossing. I bet he never had a cavity in his life. We were soul mates. Or could be.

I thought about giving a seductive look, but then thought better of it. I remembered a story my friend Leslie told me about how she tried to give guys in college seductive looks. But they would just look at her terrified and turn away. She tested her sultry look in front of a friend and discovered that the look she thought said “come hither” actually conveyed “I am about to murder you.” I didn’t want to scare off my subject, so I gave a small smile instead.

Then I remembered that I was there to spy on Kirk Patrick and not to make passes at perfect strangers. So I turned my attention to the grey haired executive getting the back of his neck shaved. I perked my ears and listened to what he was taking about: his newborn grand-daughter. I took this as a positive sign of his character.

After my deep conditioning Keratin treatment was finished and I had learned ample details about baby Olivia Patrick, I went to the front desk to run my card.

I signed my name on the receipt and turned to leave when the receptionist said, “Oh yeah, this is for you.” She handed me a folded piece of paper.

I opened it up and read:

Have time for a cup of coffee? I’m around the corner at St. Arbucks waiting for you.

“The guy who was just in here left it for you.”

I was hoping she was referring to Mr. Greek God and not 50 year old Kirk Patrick. Cautiously, I walked to the corner edge of the block. When meeting strangers, it’s important to take safety precautions, even if you meet in public. I was wearing my grey lace up boots—the ones with the side zipper, and I checked to make sure my hidden knife was still there. I paused on the sidewalk and applied some lip gloss as well. I stealthily peeked around the corner and into the window to see if I could spot Mr. Patrick. Thankfully, he wasn’t there. Instead I spied the closely shorn head of the physically fit mystery man who was waiting for me. I took a deep breath and walked in.

It’s common knowledge that I am incredibly awkward around attractive men (probably the result of being home schooled or growing up without any brothers), and every once in a while I decide to be brazenly awkward. For example, once I was on a ferry boat traversing the waters from Washington to Canada, and sitting across from me was an Orlando Bloom look-alike. I decided to stare at him a good long while, and when he looked up at me I didn’t look away. My efforts resulted in dinner for one.

I pushed open the door of St. Arbucks and went straight to the counter, not even bothering to look towards the guy. “Can I get a chai latte, please?” I don’t drink coffee. Ever. Mostly it’s because during my time in Colombia I was held hostage on a coffee bean plantation while trying to expose some drug smugglers.

After getting my drink, I went to an empty table that was rather near Mystery Man’s. I sat down. He looked up. I stared into his eyes, which were the color of the sea after a storm, just like Wesley’s from The Princess Bride. He tilted his head to the side and gave a half smile, like he was trying to figure me out. Then he stood up, walked nine steps forward, and sat down right across from me.

“Hey,” he said. “I like your hair.”

Words jumped out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Do you know that every time Brad Pitt gets a haircut, he asks for his hair to be swept up, put in a bag, and given to him so that people don’t try to sell it on eBay?”

He laughed. But it was that awkward little laugh, the kind you do when someone tells you their dog died but it’s okay because he chewed on the furniture anyway.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Peter.”

“What’s your last name? I need to know in case you try to kidnap me later.”

“Johansson.”

“Are you related to Scarlett?”

“No.”

“Well, Peter Johansson, I’m Joelle.”

“Joelle, I promise not to kidnap you later.” He chuckled. “Have you been kidnapped before?”

He was probably joking about the last part, so I decided not to tell him about my time in Colombia. Besides, you can’t just go around blabbing to everyone that you are a private detective. Not only does it blow your cover, but it makes them jumpy.

“So Peter, what’s your story?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Well, I saw you in the salon like thirty minutes ago…”

“No. Not from the salon. From Albuquerque. We flew from Albuquerque to Portland on Southwest Airlines and you couldn’t put your carry-on in the overhead bin because you were too short and I offered to help you. But you said no, that you could do it. Then your suitcase came tumbling down, spilled open, and some wigs fell out. And you shoved them back inside quickly and told me—”

“—that I’m not a stripper. Yes, I remember. That was you?”

“Yes. I sat in the seat behind you and the whole way I listened to you tell stories to the person sitting next to you, because you were so funny. I wanted to say something to you when we got to Portland, but I lost my courage.”

“You should have posted a Missing Connections ad on Craigslist.” I check the Missed Connections at least once a month, mostly for entertainment value.

“So Joelle, may I ask…If you’re not a stripper, why do you travel with so many wigs?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. You haven’t even bought me dinner. I can’t reveal all my secrets to you when you haven’t even asked me out on a proper date.”

“Alright. Fair enough. Will you go to dinner with me?”

“Don’t ask me unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it. I want to take you to dinner.”

“Okay. Now I’m getting nervous. What should I wear? I’ve never been on a real-life dinner date before.”

Peter laughed. “You should wear whatever the heck you want to wear. You can wear what you’re wearing now.”

“I should hope not. I’ll probably write about this date in my diary later. I don’t want to record that I wore five year old jeans and my Berkeley sweatshirt.”

“Then wear your favorite outfit.”

“Okay.” I took a sip of my chai.

“Peter?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“I better get going. I still have some things to do for work, and then I have to figure out which one of my wigs goes best with my favorite outfit.”

“For reals? You’re going to wear a wig?”

“Guess you’ll find out at dinner. And besides, who said I’m not wearing one now?”

When I got out of the coffee shop I dialed Jack Teverson. “Mr. Teverson. I have results for you. My recommendation for hire is Kirk Patrick. If you want a full review of the reasons, we can meet next week. I can’t meet today though, I have a hot date to get ready for.”

Recommended reading: Snoop: What You’re Stuff Says About You by Sam Gosling

I love you, you asshole

 Raziel sat draped across her bed, writing in her journal, feeling like a moronic middle school girl even though she was a 23 year old college graduate. She figured she might as well still have braces for the sort of progress she’d made over the years, which was none. The things in her life were still crooked and wrong and needed wire to keep them together.

Eight months earlier, at the beginning of the summer, she had told her little brother’s best friend that she liked him. Talk about a dumb idea. Raziel hadn’t a clue how the attraction had begun. How did she go from wanting to kick him and her brother out of her playhouse to wishing he’d want to spend one-on-one time with her? Micah was only a year and two months younger than her, but he had been that kid. The one she’d seen wearing Batman underwear when she was eight.

And now she liked him? The admission hadn’t gone over well. Micah told her that he was sorry, but he wasn’t interested in her. That he just didn’t have any of those feelings for her at all. However, eight months later, here she was, writing about how she still liked him—no, loved him—even though he basically thought of her as a sister. Raziel contemplated going through her entry and dotting all of her i’s with hearts, because everything was so ridiculous anyway. Might as well be a pre-pubescent teen about it.

She thought, Is it too much if I drive over to his house on a night that it is pouring rain? And I ring his doorbell at 9pm and am standing on his front step with soaking wet hair? That sort of thing happens all the time in movies, but is it too much if I do it in actual real life?

But she was determined. She needed to hear him say “I can never love you, and I will never love you.” It was the only way she could move on. All this time she had been clinging to some psychotic hope that he would change his mind, that he would see her in a different light.

With my luck I’ll drive over there and he won’t be home, she thought. Or worse yet, his roommate will answer the door instead of him. Then all the drama would be lost. That’s the thing about real life. It’s rare that anybody acts out the script you’ve written in your head.

If she was really being honest with herself, what she wanted most was for Micah to show up at her door—whether it was raining or not. She had thought about this many times—how she would hear a knock on the door, open it, and see Micah standing there saying, “I was wrong about you.”

It wouldn’t even matter that she’d be wearing sweatpants and have no make up on. She knew that if he were to show up at her door, she wouldn’t be lucky enough to be dressed attractively like the girls in the movies. No, it would probably be 2pm on a Saturday, and she’d still have her elastic waisted pajama pants on. But it wouldn’t even matter, because he would be there. For her. To ask for a second chance. And what she would do is look at a clock and note the time, so she could remember the exact moment in history when Micah came to his senses. Then she would say, “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

As it was, Raziel could not count on that ever happening, and the not knowing drove her mad. She wanted to forget about him, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t expected this. For the three weeks immediately following Micah turning her down, she was fine. There were no tears, no heartbreak. She even signed up for Match.com.

But when that first message arrived in her inbox from a stranger, asking her more about herself, she realized she couldn’t do this. She didn’t want anybody but Micah. She would rather wait three years for him to change his mind than be in a relationship with a man who was sup-par to Micah. And everyone was sub-par to him. She couldn’t reason how anyone else could be better than him. It just wasn’t possible.

Raziel had self-diagnosed herself with psychosis. That had to be it. Who else reasons like this?

Yes, driving over to his house at night and showing up in the rain seemed like just the movie-esque thing to do. The reason scenes in movies never happen in real life is because people aren’t brave enough to attempt them. They are terrified that the other person won’t respond the way they envisioned, and so they go about their lives in a mundane, non-dramatic sort of way. Raziel didn’t want this to happen to her. She wanted to be the girl who at least tried to get a cinematic scene. She was determined to gather all of her shredded bravery and bind it together to form enough new courage to take on this challenge.

There was no evidence at all to suggest that Micah had changed his mind about her. There was really nothing hopeful about the possibility of showing up on his doorstep, but she needed to hear him say that he would never love her. She figured those words said in person would be enough to cut her to the core, to pull her out of her psychosis and realize that she needed to stop being crazy and move on.

***

Raziel practiced some lines during the drive in her car.

           "Michah, you are an asshole." She said it many times over, changing the inflection in her voice. But no matter how many times she rehearsed this particular sentiment, she couldn’t believe it to be true. She was not any madder at Micah than before. She was not angry at him at all. He was not an asshole. He was kind and sweet and clever and strong and handsome. He was everything she ever wanted in a man, and it was a pity that all those wonderful qualities had to be enveloped in the very person who didn’t care about her in the least.

Sure, there were a few things about him that she initially was not attracted to, like his wardrobe. The guy wore numbered jerseys just about every day of the week. How many times had she wanted to explain to him that jerseys were something you should wear for sports games, that they were not acceptable as actual attire? But she didn’t care about that anymore. She found them endearing, adorable—hot even. Micah could wear those stupid jerseys every day of the week and it wouldn’t bother her if he just wanted to be with her while he wore them.

Raziel tried a new line. Both hands gripping the steering wheel, she spoke over the dashboard and into the darkness with as much feeling as she could muster. “I love you, you asshole.” 

 An hour and a half later she drove past Micah’s college campus. She turned left and then right, finally pulling up to the curb on the street that Micah lived on. The house sat four driveways down. The lights inside the living room were on, and his car sat parked outside the garage.

Was she really going to do this? Make a complete fool of herself?

Sometime later she found herself on the outside of the white wooden door. Her finger hovered over the doorbell with such violent shaking that you’d think she was pressing the button that ended the world. About thirty seconds later the door opened, and there Micah stood in socked feet, wearing a Lakers basketball jersey and a five o’clock shadow across his jaw line.

It was act 1, scene 2.

“Tell me you will never, ever love me.”

“Raziel, what are you doing here?”

“Tell me you find me repulsive and you can never love me.”

She could see that he was considering whether or not this was a trick. Was this a prank or was Raziel serious? He wanted to respond safely.

“Dammit, Micah, I drove all this way and have been standing in the rain for ten minutes trying to get the courage to push your doorbell, and you won’t even say your line. You need to tell me that you don’t want to love me.”

Slowly the words fell out of his mouth, like he was testing them to be true. “I don’t want to love you.”

“I didn’t want to love you either. You are not who I expected I would love. But I love you now, and I can’t stop. Even though you dress like a moron and need to shave. I used to think those things were stupid, and now I just find them endearing.”

Micah treaded carefully. “Razi, I’m sorry. I thought you understood. I don’t like you that way, and my feelings aren’t going to change.” The words tumbled off his lips like boulders rolling down a mountain and squashing a hiker who was trying to reach the top.

A few drops looking suspiciously like tears collected in his eyes. But maybe it was just sideways rain. “I’m really sorry.”

Dammit, this wasn’t supposed to be hard for him. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. How could he not love her, but still be pained to say so? Did he have to be kind? Why couldn’t he be an asshole? Slam the door in her face and say “You’re a creeper, don’t ever come near me again!”?

“Look, Razi. Someone is going to be crazy about you. I know it. They’ll want to spend every waking moment with you and every slumbering minute next to you. There is someone out there for you…It’s just not me.”

Raziel did her best to feel a broken heart. She wanted to have every faint glow of hope extinguished from inside of her. She wanted to feel what it was like to have no hope in the development of a relationship. Her psychosis had taken over her mind, though, and she still did believe. She still trusted that anything could happen, and she would not give up hope until Micah was taken by somebody else. She would respect that. How could she not? She loved him and wanted him to be happy, so if he found happiness in another girl, she would smother out her own feelings and turn them to ash.

Raziel nodded. She wasn’t going to tell him this. If he knew she still had hope, he might worry. She didn’t want him to have any unsettling feelings.

“Micah, please. Please get a girlfriend. For my sake.”

Raziel turned around and walked back in the rain to her car. She didn’t look back. What she wanted was for him to come after her. To race out into the street and say It was all a lie. I want to love you. I can love you. I was wrong. But this isn’t a movie. It’s not a Nicholas Sparks book, either. It is real life, and those things don’t happen.

Middle Kiss

 Opposites attract if you're a magnet.

Sometimes you watch movies or read books where the two main characters start out hating each other, but then end up falling in love at the end. This story isn’t like that.

Katherine and Tom didn’t exactly hate each other, but they weren’t particularly fond of one another either. Despite the fact that Katherine and Tom would rather not spend time together, they did. All too much time. It was Katherine’s best friend’s husband’s fault. Sarah was best friends with Katherine, and Sarah’s husband Matthew was unfortunately good friends with Tom. Whenever Katherine attended an event that included Sarah and her husband, Tom was more than likely invited as well. The two had even spent an unfortunate three days camping together in the woods.

To make matters worse, Sarah and Matthew were just positive that Tom and Katherine should date.

“Sarah, you don’t understand. He posts excessive question marks on Facebook. It irritates me to no end. And don’t even get me started on his habitual use of lol.”

“Not everybody gets as bothered by incorrect punctuation and text lingo as you do.”

“Not everybody gets bothered by seeing people in the nude, but that doesn’t make it okay to walk down the street without clothes on either.”

Tom had his reasons to dislike Katherine as well. In his opinion, Katherine was snobby and vain. During the aforementioned camping trip, Katherine had actually bothered to spend time curling her hair in the community bathroom before a fishing trip. It caused the boat to leave 45 minutes late and thus Tom never caught his coveted Rainbow Trout.

Besides the ridiculousness with the hair, Katherine would bring up her Master’s degree whenever she got the chance. She’d start sentences with “In my professional opinion…” or “as someone with a background in blah blah blah.” It drove Tom mad. He hoped that one day she’d be at the library and an encyclopedia would fall on her head. It was a very juvenile thing to wish upon somebody, but that was fitting since Katherine found Tom to be quite juvenile.

One evening, Katherine found herself in an unfavorable predicament. She was at Sarah’s husband’s surprise birthday celebration and had too much to drink. She blamed her increased desire for insobriety on the fact that earlier that week her car had been smashed into while she was waiting to make a left hand turn. As it was, she felt that a birthday and totaled car was more than enough reason to drink excessively.

At one point, Sarah asked Katherine if she wouldn’t mind going up to the second floor guest room to get some extra fold-up chairs out of the closet. Katherine didn’t mind at all and enjoyed the opportunity to get away from Tom’s annoying stories of his college basketball days. Katherine didn’t return immediately, so Sarah sent Tom upstairs to help her.

Tom found Katherine inside the closet, which was actually more of an attic crawl space. She was lounging on a bean bag chair with her eyes shut. Tom thought it would be funny to scare her, so he stepped inside the closet and slammed the door behind him. Katherine jumped and let out a tiny scream. Tom was sad that he missed her expression through the darkness of the closet.  

“What in the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

Tom laughed and went to open the door. It was locked.

“You idiot. You got us stuck in here.”

“What kind of closet has an automatic lock on it?”

“The kind that are in old houses with haunted spirits,” Katherine replied.

The two fumbled around feeling for a light switch, but found none.

“Just what I wanted. To be stuck in a confined space with Tom Graphton. Without my margarita.”

“You’ve had enough drinks. Sarah sent me up here to help you.”

“Of course she did. She’s always scheming to get us together.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t noticed? Of course you haven’t. You’re a moron. Let me explain it to you.” Katherine spoke slowly. “Sarah and Matthew think we should date each other.”

 It was really an absurd thought. The only thing she found attractive about Tom was his perfect nose. It really was an irritating thing about him. Many times she had wanted to run her fist into it and make it a bit crooked, but not now. She was too intoxicated for that sort of hand-eye coordination.

“What do you think?” Tom replied.

“I think you are too cocky and self-centered to make for a pleasant personality.”

“This from the girl who is drunk and got us locked in a closet.”

“I never invited you into this closet. And you’re the one who shut the door.”

Tom smirked in the shadows. “You probably locked the door ahead of time hoping I’d come up here and find you. It was all a plan. You did it because you wanted to make out with me.”

“What is this? Seven Minutes in Hell? Like I said, you are cocky and self-centered. I have no desire to kiss you whatsoever.”

“Right,” Tom said, disbelievingly.

“Do you want me to kiss you or something?” Katherine jokingly leaned forward.

“Are you kidding me? I find you completely unattractive.”

“Even in the dark?” Katherine snorted.

“Do you want me to kiss you or something?” Tom moved closer to her.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Good. Then we have established that I don’t want to kiss you and you don’t want to kiss me,” said Tom. His face was positioned six inches from hers.

“Don’t forget, we have also established that you are arrogant and narcissistic. And you blame others for your stupid actions.”

“Sure, that too. But you are vain and snobby.”

Katherine put her head two inches closer. She could feel his breath. “How many mint leaves did you eat before coming up here?” she accused. “You were looking for Audrey, weren’t you? You were hoping she’d be so low on self-confidence from her recent break-up that she’d make out with you, weren’t you?”

“No,” Tom said.

Katherine continued. “If I kissed you, you’d be the worst Middle Kiss of my life. And I don’t need that haunting me. Joey Ringle in 7^th grade was enough.”

“Middle Kiss?” Tom said.

“Yeah. You know how people have a First Kiss, and then later in life, a Last First Kiss? Well, in between are Middle Kisses. People like to brush over the value of them, like they don’t even matter.”

“Who’s Joey Ringle?” Tom asked.

“My first kiss. It happened in the back of a bus on the way to the Lewis and Clark Museum field trip.”

“Oh. Really terrible, huh?”

“Yeah. Joey had Dorito breath and he was as slobbery as a dog. And then on the way back from the field trip, Joey switched bus seats and kissed Claudia Harper. Which just goes to show you that our kiss meant absolutely nothing to him…Why am I telling you this again?”

“You were talking about regret and Middle Kisses.”

“Oh yeah. I could never kiss you. You’d be the worst middle kiss of my life.”

“You said that already. But I have to agree with you. You’d be the worst middle kiss of my life. I don’t usually regret kissing girls, but you would be a definite indiscretion.”

Katherine wanted to slap him.

Tom brought his face closer. He could smell Katherine’s strawberry lip gloss. He bit his bottom lip and blinked.

Even though it was dark inside the closet, Katherine could feel Tom staring at her. They both breathed in and out, in and out, inches from each other. It was a game to see who was lying. Who would go in for the kiss first? But I told you at the beginning that this story doesn’t end like that.

They weren’t lying. Tom found Katherine unattractive, and Katherine found him to be a terrible asshole. She wouldn’t put her lips on that. The two sat in the dark across from each other for thirty-five minutes.

What finally broke the stalemate was Katherine’s need to use the bathroom. She found her bladder at maximum capacity and could hold it no longer.

“I really need to get out of this closet.” Katherine moved toward the door and started banging on it. “Help! Let me out of here!” she yelled.

Tom wanted to get out equally as badly, so he started to scream as well.

“Help! I’m locked in a closet with a psycho and I don’t want to be murdered!”

Katherine punched him in the side for that one.

After about five minutes, they finally heard steps padding up to the second floor. There was some fumbling at the door and then it opened. Sarah, Matthew, and two other party guests peered in at the captives.

Katherine scrambled out and ran to the bathroom. Tom stepped out and asked for another beer.

Sarah smiled to herself, thinking her secret plan had worked. They were going to like each other after all. Her hopes were dashed two minutes later when Katherine returned from the bathroom and announced to the entire living room, “I just want everyone to know that getting locked inside a closet with Tom was a complete accident, not enjoyable, and we did not kiss whatsoever.”

“Yeah, I totally did not kiss her,” Tom said.

Nobody believed them.

An Eerie All Hallow's Eve Morn

It was 6:38 on Halloween morning when I got in my car to drive to the high school I had attended ten years ago. The sun was not yet up, and I felt anxious for that burning orange pumpkin to appear in the sky. I don't like the dark. Slowly, a glow lifted as I drove a few miles. There was just enough light for me to see the eerie fog creeping off the ditches on either sides.

Some people think of fog as merely a form of precipitation, but on Halloween it is more like spirits huddled together in disguise. Like an army, they close in around you, confusing you and causing you to travel blindly ahead. Fog manifests itself into varying shapes, making you think you see things that don't really exist. What if, though, what you see in the fog is really what is there all the time? And you can see it only now because the fog is what defines it, like a lamp revealing the lemon ink of invisible writing.

Perhaps the spirits surround us at all times. They run up and down the roads constantly, shouting warnings of the deaths they have seen on this land. The fog is what reveals them to us, letting us see another realm. Only we believe that it is nature playing a trick on our eyes, and not Satan playing a trick on our hearts. It does exist. Those things that you see are real.

I drove my way down the high school entry way, down a lane named after a principal long ago taken by Death and his associate, Cancer. As I crept over speed bumps near the soccer field, I saw the faint hint of light mixing in with the fog. The wisps of white seemed to be waving hello to me, asking me join it.

A weird urge overtook me, and though I was afraid, I parked my car and treaded out to the field. The grass dripped wet with dew and I could taste the moisture in the air.

"I'm here," I called into the darkness, expecting no reply. Nothing but a goal net lay before me.
"Have you come prepared?" asked a voice. I could see no one.
"Prepared for what?" I whispered, thinking I was talking to myself.
"For battle," the voice answered.
I squinted with difficulty to see some bodily form, and after my eyes adjusted, I could see what was awaiting me across the field. Hundreds of white spirits stood in formation, lined up with the sharpness of a picket fence. They were armed with weapons and ready to fight at the first commanding word. They were faceless swirls of white, every changing their form. They made their intention clear: they were here to take me.

My eyes widened and my hands began to shake with fear. Automatically, me feet started backing up, until I stepped through something. Some entity. It was as if my soul had just gotten so close to another that it had shaken hands. The cool feeling of the transaction startled me, and I jumped around to see what was behind me. A curl of white floated at my side. A hundred more transparent spirits stood at a stand still. They began to swirl around me and I heard them speak.

"We have been fighting everyday."
"We are so glad you are here."
"You are prepared, you have been training."
"I am on your side. We are with you."

My mind finally began to comprehend the strangeness surrounding me. Indeed, I was standing on a battle field. Two armies stood at attention, ready to start another fight for fragile souls.

Next, a large form of fog moved toward me. It was different from the others--perhaps a bit more gray--and it frightened me even more. No sound came from it, but instead it hovered above the dew dropped grass, ready.

The swirl of whiteness next to me spoke. "That is Death. Do not be afraid."

I was confused, because I had paralleled nothing like this in any of my dreams. Of course I am terrified of Death. And why isn't Death on the other side, ready to take my life?

The fog looped up and down before answering my unspoken question. "Death is on our side. The Evil One does not decide who Death takes; it's not in his power, though he wishes it were. "

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Death will take you at some point, of that you can be certain. But where he takes you is your choice. You are standing on our side, which means you have nothing to fear. For you, getting taken by Death will be like having a white horse carry you to the golden castle. The other side is the side that should fear Death."

I looked over at Death, that big misty entity that held no fear. He wasn't wearing any armor and had no weapon with him.

"We must begin the fight, draw your sword."

I pulled the weapon from my left side. Indeed, it had been there the whole time. I held it up and saw the blade glint. I waited expectantly for the spirits to advance. They did nothing.

"You must step forward."

And so I did.

The spirits opposite us needed no encouragement. They advanced towards us quickly. The spirits on my side charged on with voices yelling. I heard the clanging of metal and the hissing of evil.

A spirit descended upon me and I countered it with my sword. As soon as I heard the metal ping, my mouth opened and words marched out.
"The Lord will protect me from all evil. He will keep my soul. Psalm 121:7."

The ghostly whiteness vaporized into nothing. I felt a thud on my side and turned to defend myself again. I pressed my weapon against my opponent.

"Have I not commanded you, be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified, do not be discouraged for the Lord your God is with you wherever you may go. Joshua 1:9."


The evilness lurking after me shrunk down and vanished. I looked over my shoulder at Death, curious as to his actions. He was on the sidelines, not blinking an eye. Death was not there to fight, but rather to pick up whatever was left.

Four spirits came upon me, wrapping their string thin hands around me. I tried to cut myself loose, but the wild waving of my sword did nothing.

"Speak truth!" I heard a friendly spirit shout.

My lips loosened and words came pounding over my enemies.

"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Ephesians 6:12."

The claws on me crumbled and I was free once again. There were still more spirits to battle. Indeed, a whole football field of them left to go. I swallowed for courage and stepped on. At that moment, the pumpkin in the sky burned through the darkness. The fog lost its thickness and disappeared. There I stood on the wet grass, my hand clenched around nothing but air. Nothing was before me and nothing was behind me. I could no longer feel Death looking over my shoulder, watching how hard I would fight.

I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them. Was I a little girl in my nightgown, sleep walking and not knowing it?

Next I heard a siren, though it was nothing like an alarm clock. I watched the street as an ambulance blared by, its colored lights flashing urgency.

No. What had just happened was real. Death was preparing to take someone else. He will take you at sometime, of that you can be certain. But where he takes you is your choice.  

Another Good Detective Story

          “Good detective work is of the utmost importance,” I say to my receptionist as she is typing away at her desk. “The most important thing is to be aware of all the clues around you. Like eggs hidden for an Easter egg hunt, they are waiting to be gathered. You’ve just got to look in the right spot.”

            “But how do you know where to look?” Ginger asks me.

            “First off, you have to be aware of what normal looks like. Like, does Mr. Smith always leave work at 5:10pm? When you are driving to school in the morning, do you always pass the armored truck driving south on Hwy 22? Is young Alexanders’s profile picture typically of him wearing a mustache?”

            Alex, or young Alexander as I referred to him, is Ginger’s crush.

            “You must be aware of what is routine, what is normal, what is regular, and then you must notice when it changes. Only when you figure out that something is different can you start to determine the cause. Most of the time, it’s very logical.”

            Ginger nods at me.

            “But darling, we must get to work. That’s how any detective improves. By doing. Any new e-mails today?”

But first, before the e-mails, a profile on Ginger:

            A college freshman, she works for me part-time three days a week. I was reluctant to hire her on account of how her name makes it sound like she’s a stripper, but I figured if that were at all true, I should save her from a future of poles and nightly one-dollar bills, and I ought take her under my wing. Besides, Ginger is completely unlike her name. For one, she has black hair. Ginger is secretly in love with Alex McCall, who also attends the nearby university. I often catch Ginger reading his Facebook profile instead of doing the internet research I ask. Even still, she is a pretty adept receptionist. 

Ginger likes to read these books for inspiration.

            Ginger scans through the in-box and pulls up an envelope of interest. “Here is one. A woman named Amanda Harper is concerned that her husband might be cheating on her. He’s been staying at work late and taking a lot of business trips.”

            I sigh. That’s the problem with having a woman-run detective agency. Other women are always coming to you, asking for advice like you are host Joey Greco from the cable show Cheaters. I rarely get work like robbery or missing persons.

            “Anything else?” I ask.

            “Yes. A message from Mr. Elijah Storm of Storm Enterprises. It’s rather insulting, but a request just the same.”

            “Well, what does it say?”

            “Miss Rossen, I have been informed that your detective agency is small and inefficient, and that…” Ginger pauses and I watch her face turn an angry shade of radish red.

“And that what, Ginger? Just say it.”

“and that your receptionist used to give lap dances to high school teachers, but you have the only detective agency in town so I guess you’ll have to do. I’m afraid that someone in my company may be leaking information to foreign companies, and I need to find out who the culprit is and what kind of damage they’ve caused. I don’t want anyone to know that I am investigating, so don’t call me. I’ll call you. Don’t e-mail me at work, either.

Sincerely,

Mr. Elijah Storm

President.”

            Ginger looks at me like she’s about to cry. She’s a straight A student, and I know lap dances have nothing to do with it.

            “The nerve of that asshole!” I say. “To insult me and my receptionist, and to expect me to do detective work for him? I have half a mind to e-mail everyone in his company and to tell them to watch out, because he’s about to spy on them.”

            “So what’s our first order of business, Miss Rossen?” Ginger is always trying to get the ball rolling.

            “E-mail Mrs. Harper back. Make an appointment for her to come in tomorrow for an interview, so we can start the preliminary work for her concerns. Then do some research on this Elijah Storm fellow. I want a full profile on him before he calls. Ginger, I’m talking everything. I want college news articles, names and ages of relatives, property records. I want to know how many bathrooms this pretentious fool has in his house. Everything.”

            I’m already starting to pull costumes out of the disguise closet.

            “And what are you going to do?” Ginger asks, confused.

            “Me? I’m going to pay a secret little visit to Storm Enterprises. Mr. Storm doesn’t want to see me there, and he won’t.”

            “Wait. You are going to spy on the client? What good will that do?”

            “Ginger, in order to get an accurate picture, you’ve got to observe everything. Even the things that don’t seem important.”

            What I do next is pull on my favorite short blond wig, the one I call “The Soccer Player’s Wife.” Then I change my make up and clothes. I grab my notebook and video camera and I’m nearly out the door.

“And Ginger?”

“Yes?”

“No checking Alex’s Facebook page while I’m gone.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Once I’m in the car, I punch Storm Enterprises into my GPS. During stop lights, I Google the company so that I know what sort of cover I should have when I arrive. The business is located on the West side of town, and since I have to cross the bridge, it takes me a while to get there. Plus, I’ve got to stop at the cake shop on my way.

I pull into the parking lot and park on the far side of the building. I tie on the apron I bought at the cake shop, apply some lip gloss, and stack the four white boxes of cupcakes in my arms. Storm Enterprises specializes in nanotechnology, and today they are having a launch party for one of their new designs. It’s catered. Or at least, I hope it is.

I walk straight into the front entrance, and I see a receptionist. I figured they wouldn’t let just anybody walk wherever they wanted.

“Hello, I’m with the rest of the caterers. For the launch party? Can you tell me which room to set up in?” I smile and all of the expensive orthodontic work my parents paid for shows.

The receptionist is female, dressed in a plaid shirt, and looks really annoyed, like maybe I’m interrupting her Facebook Farmville time.

“Room 207. That’s on the second floor.”

And here I thought it might be in the basement.

“Thank you,” I say, and hurry towards the elevator. But what I do when the receptionist isn’t looking is I ditch the elevator and take the stairs. I fully plan on exploring. The annoying part is I have to carry all these cupcakes around with me in case I get caught.

During my self-guided tour, I mostly take note of whose office is whose, and what sort of things are on the walls, and what people are wearing. When I get to room 215 I find what I’ve been looking for: Elijah Storm’s personal office. There’s a tiny side panel window so I casually walk by and peek to see if anyone’s inside. The light is off. What I do is try the door handle but of course it’s locked. So then I scan down the hallway to see if anybody is coming. I set down the boxes of pastries and sort of squish my face up against the glass so I can see as much of his office as I can.

As you might expect from a man named Storm, most of his office is gray. Gray leather chairs, gray marble desk, gray carpet. I hear a bit of talking, so I quickly pick up the boxes and turn in the other direction.

Two young men spot me. “Hey, are those for the party?” the one in the brown suit asks, clearly interested in butter cream frosting.

“Yes,” I reply.

“You can bring them down here. Room 207.” 

Sometimes cupcakes can actually make a really good cover.

I follow the men into a spacious conference room. I see there is a table of food already set up. I take my cupcakes to one of the corners. A tall man in a gray suit is bent over, filling his plate with capers. As I set down the cupcakes, I accidentally brush his arm. He turns and looks at me, eyes a sparkly shade of gray-blue. I try not to stare at his beauty.

He smiles and says…

But first, before the dialogue, a profile on Elijah Storm:

            Six-foot-two, blond hair. You already know about the eyes. 29 years old. Started his own business at age 19. Mother: Charisse T. Storm, age 56. Father: Jackson E. Storm, age 58. Sister: Elisa M. Knottage, age 31. Hometown: Irmo, South Carolina. Attended Syracuse University 2000-2004. Ran track. Property records indicate a 2 story house on East Marius Street. 4 bedrooms, 3 baths. No wife.

All of this was in the text message Ginger had sent me shortly before I entered the Storm Enterprises office building.

Mr. Elijah Storm smiles at me and says, “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?”

“I encountered a bit of a delay. My apologies.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. If you had been early, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have met you. I’m Elijah.” He sticks out his hand and expects me to touch it.

“Emily,” I improvise. Then I smile awkwardly as I shake his hand. It’s warm and strong and distracting. I pull out of his grip.

            “So which one of these is best?” Mr. Storm asks as he scans the cupcakes.

            “I always fall for the almond frosting myself.”

            “Almond it is then.” He places a cupcake on his plate. “Are you sticking around for the presentation?”

            I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t ask most caterers this question.

            “I’m afraid I’ve got other deliveries to make.”

            “That’s a shame.” He winks at me. “Maybe next time.”

            Even though it’s just a wink, I can’t help but feel something’s been stolen from me. Like a piece of dignity. Also, I’m feeling rather confused. Elijah Storm sends me an e-mail with a rude introduction, but then he is quite congenial about the fact that his cupcakes arrived late? And okay, he didn’t actually order any cupcakes, and he didn’t realize that his cupcake deliverer is also his detective, but still.

            “Have a great party,” I say, and I make a dash for the exit. But I don’t exactly leave yet. I spy on Elijah Storm through one of the tiny windows for a while.

            “Did you get my text?” Ginger asks when I get back to the office, which is actually just the spare bedroom of my house.

            “Yes, thank you, Ginger.”

            “I’ve got more information. I’ve printed it all up and put it in a file.” She hands me a manila folder with E. Storm labeled on the tab.

            I browse through it quickly, with intentions of looking at it more thoroughly this evening.

            “Did you find anything interesting?”

            “Nothing conclusive, but it was worthwhile. Oh, and I brought you back a cupcake.” I drop a little box on her desk. “You’ve just got fifteen minutes left on the clock. Why don’t you go home early. Maybe Facebook chat with that boy you like so much.”

            “Thanks, Miss Rossen.”

            “And Ginger?”

            “Yes, you can call me Joelle, really. I’m not a teacher anymore.”

            “Yes ma’am…er, Joelle. See ya tomorrow.”

            What I do after Ginger leaves is I get on the computer and search Facebook myself, for one Elijah Storm.

            “Damn!” I say to myself, after my search yields nothing but an African-American man named Elijah Storm who went to Bible college, lives in California, and works for EMI Music Publishing. I log off, tilt my chair back, and begin to read through the file Ginger composed for me.

            The next day I meet Mrs. Harper in the office at one o’clock, and she tells me all of the information I ask for. I have Ginger sit in with me so she can watch and learn. Really, I want her to start taking over all the infidelity cases I get, because I find them all so boring. Just when Mrs. Harper is inviting me over to search her house for clues among her husband’s things, the phone rings.

            Ginger answers it. A moment later she says, “Um, Miss Rossen? I think maybe you ought to take this? Mr. Storm calling.”

            I try to hide my sour face from Mrs. Harper. “Excuse me, just a minute, will you? Ginger will continue with your concerns.”

            I leave the office (okay, spare bedroom), and pick up the line in the kitchen while Ginger dialogues with Mrs. Harper about her husband’s routine trips to the racquetball club.

            “Hello, this is Detective Rossen speaking,” I say in my most businesslike voice.

            “Ah, Miss Rossen. Elijah Storm here. I hope you were expecting my call.”

            “Indeed I was, sir.”

            “So what sort of preliminary steps need to be taken? Shall I come in?”

            “Actually, Mr. Storm, I assure you some preliminary steps have already been taken.” I sort of laugh to myself a bit at the joke only I understand. “Mr. Storm, I have a question for you though.”

            “What’s that?”

            Why are you such an asshole? But what I say is “Why does someone who runs a nanotechnology company need my help solving this case? Surely you have some sort of minuscule camera or tracking system you could slip into the drinking water of all your employees or something.”

            Elijah Storm feigns a laugh. “Fair enough question, detective. Of course I’ve taken preventative measures…Do you want to take the job or not?”

            “To be honest with you, your initial e-mail contained both insults and poor punctuation. I’m not entirely sure that you are a man I would like to assist.”

            “Whatever your going rate is, I’ll triple it,” Mr. Storm says. This sentence sounds a bit illicit, but I understand his meaning. Money has a way of apologizing. And I do need to pay for this year’s Christmas presents.

            “Fine then, Mr. Storm. Can you come to my office today?”

            “No, I’m busy. But you may come to Storm Enterprises today. 3:15.”

            I know, right? He’s the one who was just pushing to get into my office. “I normally charge extra for meeting clients outside of my office. And besides, I thought you didn’t want anyone in your company to know that you were in the process of investigating?”

            “Damn. You’re right. Well listen, is $100 enough to make an outside visit? And do you speak Swedish at all?”

            “Um. Yes to the money, no to the language.”

            “I’ve got a massage scheduled for later in the afternoon. Just tell the receptionist that you’re there to assist Ingrid. Dress like a masseuse.”

            I’m about to protest, but I realize the line’s gone dead. On one hand, Elijah Storm is turning more and more into an elephant sized ass, on the other hand, this is probably the most interesting case I’ll get in a long time. If I don’t go to Storm Enterprises today, I’ll have to be the one to spy on Mr. Harper at the racquetball club. If I go see Mr. Storm, then I can delegate the Cheaters episode to Ginger, and she can get some quality practice in reconnaissance.

            I go back to the office where Ginger is just finishing up the details with Mrs. Harper. I assure Mrs. Harper that we will have accurate results on her case in a matter of days, and to try to relax in the meantime. After she leaves, I say to Ginger, “I’ve got to go meet our jerk client. I need you to go to Mr. Harper’s work and follow him to the racquetball club, if indeed that is where he goes. Watch everything. Who he nods to, who he talks to, who his playing partner is. Pull on something athletic from the disguise closet. No 80s sweat bands or off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. This isn’t Flashdance.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”

            “And Ginger? No stopping by the coffee house to visit Alex during his shift.”

            “Of course.”

            I check the clock and see that I have a bit of time before I need to leave for Storm Enterprises. So what I do is a bit of thumbing through the file on E. Storm. I get on-line and look up some local elementary schools, check a few names, and make a call.

            “Hello, this is Angela at Storm Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”

            “Hello,” I lie, “this is Mrs. Pearson from Wayside Elementary calling for Tiffany Roberts.”

            “I’m afraid that Mrs. Roberts is with our company’s president at the moment. Could I take a message?”

            “Yes. Tell her that Jackie needs to be picked up from school right away. This message is really of the utmost urgency.”

            After I hang up, I go to the disguise closet and dress in a black pencil skirt and black top. I put on a pair of stilettos and find the smartest pair of glasses I have.

           I arrive at Storm Enterprises at 3:11, walk up to the receptionist (Angela) and say, “I’m here to assist Mr. Storm. He called me in as his regular personal assistant had to leave early.”

            Angela eyes me up and down. She clearly doesn’t remember me as the blond cupcake caterer from yesterday. “What’s your name?”

            “Joelle Rossen. He’s expecting me.”

            I watch as Angela lifts the receiver and dials Mr. Storms’ office. “I have a Joelle Rossen here to see you, sir. Uh huh. Yes. Okay.”

            “His office is room 215. That’s on—”

            “Yes, the second floor, I know. Thank you.”

I actually take the elevator this time and head straight to Elijah Storms’ office. When I get there I see through the side window that the lights are dimmed. I tap on the door.

            “Come in,” yells a muffled voice.

            Once I enter, I am utterly horrified.

            Towards the back of the office is a wheelie bed, like the kind the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy use to push ER patients around on. There is a blond woman dressed in white, and she is hammering on the back of a mostly naked man. I mean, he hasn’t got his shirt on. And okay, there is a towel over his bum, but still. Mr. Storm’s face is sunken into one of those face cradle things. Ocean beach sounds are playing softly in the background, and I can smell the scent of lavender oil.

            “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            “Miss Rossen, is that you?” Mr. Storm asks, on account of how he can’t see anything but the floor.

            “Yes. But I thought you said you were free at 3:15.”

            “My apologies. Ingrid arrived early today. But I can multi-task. Have a seat there, and we can chat while I’m getting my knots worked out.”

            “Ummm,” I say uncertainly. “Are you sure these matters should be discussed right now? With your masseuse present?”

            “Ah, don’t worry about it. Ingrid only knows Swedish. And my sister Elisa lived with her during her study abroad trip to Sweden. Ingrid’s practically another sister.”

            I’m still really hesitant about the whole thing, but I decide to stay. I mean, I am getting paid extra for this horrific experience. As a security test I say, “So, Ingrid. Do you buy all your furniture at Ikea?”

            The blond woman looks at me, shakes her head, and says, “Jag förstår inte engelska.”

            “So Mr. Storm, where shall we start?” I say to the back of his head.

            “Before we even start, maybe you could help me with one other thing. My PA seems to have gone missing. I haven’t seen her since two o’clock. And I’ve got a lot of work for her to do.”

            “Mr. Storm, your personal assistant, Tiffany, had to go pick up her daughter at school, due to a suspected lice outbreak. I told your receptionist that I’m here as your PA for the rest of the day.”

            “I thought I told you to come as an assistant to my masseuse?”

            “Yeah, well, my blond wig was dirty. And frankly, sir, I’ve thought this through more than you. In order to solve this case, I’m going to need to be here daily, so I can watch everything. I’m going to need access to everything. That’s why you’ve hired me as your second personal assistant. No one will be suspicious.”

            “What? You can’t be my PA. You won’t be any good. I need Tiffany back.”

            “It’s a guise, sir. Tiffany will be back tomorrow.” Plus, I would make an excellent personal assistant. But I don’t say that.

            “Oh. Alright then. As long as I don’t have to pay you for being both a detective and a personal assistant.”

            “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I take my notebook out and settle into the chair I’m sitting in, which is opposite my client’s massage table. “So, Mr. Storm, tell me about any suspects you have, any odd things that have happened lately.”

            I listen to him give me the scoop on the inside doings. But let’s just be honest, if this were ice cream, this scoop would make a child sized cone. The man seems oblivious to everything. As Elijah Storm continues to talk, I get distracted because Ingrid’s just poured a huge glob of oil onto his back, and she’s working it all around his muscles, which are quite toned. His body glistens, and I start to laugh to myself about what would happen if he got put into a giant frying pan right now.

            At 4:10, Ingrid, who’s actually been touching the guy the whole time, says “Gjort.” I take this to mean she’s finished. Mr. Storm lifts himself off of the table and I see his face for the first time. Second time, actually. His face has this really great U-shaped indent on it, thanks to the cradle. He’s also got some extra wrinkles formed that weren’t there yesterday. But you think that’s distracting? Try looking at his abs. I try to shield my virgin eyes, but what I notice are all the masculine muscles he’s got stored there. In fact, I think he’s trying to flex right now. Pretentious fool.

            Mr. Storm makes sure the towel or sheet or whatever is wrapped securely around his waist before standing up. Then he turns to Ingrid, shakes her hand, and says “Tack. Skicka mig en räkning som vanligt.”

            Ingrid’s wheeling her massage bed out the door, but then she turns to me and says “Kommer,” with a motioning hand.

            “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.” I follow her out and wait in the hallway.

But first, before the masseuse leaves, a profile on Ingrid:

            Blond, as you know. Tan, of course. Very Swedish. After a messy divorce with her husband, she moved to America eight months ago at the suggestion of Elisa Storm. She is struggling financially but is very intelligent, as she was a chemical engineer in Sweden. The language barrier is preventing her from finding a good paying job. This is surprising considering 89% of Swedes know English. What’s her excuse? Ingrid comes weekly to Mr. Storm’s office, and she attends ESL classes through the YWCA.

After about seven minutes Mr. Storm opens his office door, this time fully clothed.

            “Elijah Storm. Nice to finally meet you.”

            I stick my hand out and shake his. He’s still got the horseshoe indents on his forehead.

            The next day is the day Ginger has off, so I go through the file on Mr. Harper to see what she’s found. I pop by the Harper’s house in the early morning (Mr. Harper is gone of course) to poke my nose around for some clues. Then I get to Storm Enterprises by nine o’clock, dressed as a personal assistant, wearing my disguise glasses.

            The morning is pretty much a bore as I follow both Elijah Storm and Tiffany around to meetings. But the good thing is, is that during the all-staff meeting, I get to take detailed notes on everybody in the room, even though they all think I’m taking minutes. I see this really hot guy who works in Graphics, but I try not to get distracted. You know, even though he’s the only one in the room wearing jeans and a black utility jacket, with a band tee underneath. I guess if you work in the art department you can get away with those kinds of things.

            I go to Storm Enterprises every day for the next few days, which brings us to Thursday. While I don’t have a glaring list of suspects, I do have an accurate picture of the information leak. I’ve collected data on which foreign companies have stolen nanotechnology designs from Storm Enterprises, and I have the suspected time span of the leaks. The problem is, no one in the company has so much as Googled any of the companies who stole information. No one took business trips or vacations to the area of interest, and I’ve tapped everyone’s phone calls.

            To be honest, I’m sort of suspecting Ingrid. I know she went through a bad divorce and moved continents, but she has the perfect opportunity. I mean, she comes into Elijah’s office weekly. They talk in Swedish to each other for an hour. I bet he tells her all sorts of things about the company. I went to get a massage once, and the masseuse practically wanted me to share my entire life story with her. Besides, if Elijah was so willing to discuss the investigation in front of Ingrid, how many other times has she been privy to secret meetings? I bet she hears everything. And that whole no speaking English thing is probably a ruse. I don’t have any conclusive evidence on her, but she is definitely a person of interest. 

 Later, when I’m at home cooking dinner, Ginger calls.

“Miss Rossen, I have an update for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m at the gym right now, tailing Mr. Harper, you know?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And he plays with this guy named Sam Porras on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and with a man named to Tyler White on Mondays and Saturdays.”

“I know all of this, Ginger. You wrote it up and put it in Mr. Harper’s file.”

“But today is Thursday, and Mr. Harper is not playing with Sam Porras.”

I understand that Ginger is excited that she knew the normal, regular, routine, and that she noticed a change, but really? Unless Mr. Harper started playing tennis with Anna Kournikova, does it really matter?

“So who is Mr. Harper playing instead today? Is it someone you’ve seen before?”

“You’ll never believe this. He’s playing racquetball right now with Elijah Storm.”

I about choke to death on my own spit.

“What do you mean Mr. Harper’s racquetball partner is Elijah Storm?”

“What I mean is right now they are at the gym, wearing protective eyewear and Nike spandex. It’s Elijah Storm. I’m 100% sure.”

            I think to myself, what does this mean? Because what are the chances that the two people I am doing cases for are connected somehow? Unless a mutual friend recommended me to both of them? Elijah never mentioned to me Mr. Harper as his friend or acquaintance. And Mrs. Harper hadn’t said anything about Elijah Storm.

            “Video tape them,” I tell Ginger, because I’m going to want to watch their interaction later if I don’t get there in time. I mean, are they friends or what? “I’m on my way.” My plan is to get there in time so that when the two men are done playing racquetball, Ginger can follow Mr. Harper and I can follow Elijah Storm to wherever he goes next. The plan seems a bit stalker-esque, I know, because most of the time I don’t spy on my own clients. It’s just such a strange coincidence that they know each other.

            When I get to the gym, I find Ginger video taping from the second floor balcony, which sort of looks down on the racquetball courts. Mr. Storm and Mr. Harper both have no idea they’re being watched.

            “Anything interesting?” I ask when I arrive.

            “Mr. Storm is leading by seven points.”

            We watch the two men for a bit, and it’s honestly kind of an eye sore, what with all that spandex. It doesn’t really matter that Elijah is super-fit, nobody wants to see all of that. Once the men head to the locker room, Ginger and I make our exit out of the gym ahead of time and get in our cars, ready to tail them. My receptionist and I are both connected with our Blue Tooths (er, Blue Teeth?) so that we can communicate what we see each man doing.

            After we narrate to each other the twists and turns of our respective trails, Ginger informs me that Mr. Harper has arrived at his residence, and she can see him through the kitchen window, where he is greeting his wife (in a pool of sweat, no doubt). Ginger tells me she has an Anthropology final exam to study for, and can she please go home? I tell her good work, good luck, and see you tomorrow after your test. I continue to follow Mr. Storm, and after his stop at the dry cleaners, he goes home as well. I watch as he pulls his Lincoln into his three car garage and shuts the door. I wait about twelve minutes, then get out of my car, walk up to his doorbell, and push the button. I’m a tiny shred nervous, as I have never revealed to anyone that I have followed them home.

            I hear foot steps padding down the hall, the door opens, and there is Mr. Elijah Storm, hair wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. And here I thought he showered in the locker room. “Detective Rossen,” he says, a bit too pleasantly. I force my way into the foyer.

            “Mr. Storm, we need to talk,” I demand. I eye his glistening water dotted chest and add “after you put on your jammies.” 

            Once he has returned wearing a white Hanes t-shirt and grey sweatpants, I start to grill him like a George Foreman.

            “Tell me the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lucas Harper.”

            Mr. Storm looks at me really surprised, more surprised than having your private detective show up on your doorstep at 8pm when you are wearing nothing but terry cloth. He’s surprised like maybe I’m expecting that he tell me he is actually gay, and that Lucas Harper is his secret lover.

            “How do you know about Luke?” he asks.

            “I know everything, Mr. Storm. Over the past few days I have learned everything about your company, and in turn, everything about you. Now, please tell me about Luke Harper.”

            “He’s a buddy of mine. We play racquetball together sometimes, have drinks at the bar occasionally…”

            “How long have you known him?”

            “About a year.”

            “Where did you meet?”

            “On an airplane. He was sitting next to me. We were both flying back from a business trip in Japan. I found out he worked in the same city as me. In computer engineering.”

            “Has Mr. Harper ever been to the office building of Storm Enterprises?”

            “Oh yeah, all the time. We talk about work a lot. Usually I invite him to our launch parties. He’s a good person to bounce ideas off of, and he has good connections.”

            I ask the next question just to make him uncomfortable, even though I know the answer.

            “Are you and Mr. Harper romantically involved?”

            “What? No, or course not. I like women…I slept with one last week.”

            He didn’t really need to mention the last part. First of all, I already knew. Her name is Claudia and she sent him a really sappy e-mail that I deleted the day I was his personal assistant. I didn’t think he needed that kind of emotional wreck in his life. I mean, if it weren’t an e-mail, I’m sure she would have dotted her “i”s with hearts. More importantly, she was only 19. I checked.

            “Joelle, why are you asking me all of these questions about Luke Harper?”

            “Because, Mr. Storm, you are a moron.”

            “Excuse me?” An angry look starts to form across all of his beautiful, undeserved features.

            “I don’t normally tell clients about work I’m doing with other clients, but I have been investigating Mr. Harper for another matter. In the past two months, he has made many business trips to both Tokyo and London. He works in computer engineering. You’ve had him to your office many times and he’s chummy with you. Think about it, Mr. Storm. He’s probably the one leaking all of your new developments.” I pull out the two files I had grabbed from the office earlier, the ones marked L. Harper and E. Storm. “All of the details you gave me coincide with the information I’ve gathered on Mr. Harper. You said that on September 18^th, a company in Tokyo came out with a new technological design exactly like yours. Only they beat your deadline so everyone thinks they are the developers. Three weeks before that, Mr. Harper took a business trip to Tokyo.” I scan through the file. “He met with that exact same Japanese business.”

            Somehow, I was able to piece all of this together during the 12 minutes I sat outside in the driveway of Mr. Storm’s house. In fact, I’m surprised I hadn’t made the connections earlier. Mr. Harper had covered his tracks well. I had no idea about the many visits he had made to Storm Enterprises, or about his close relationship with its president.

            “Are you completely sure?” Mr. Storm asks me.

            “I can do more verifying tomorrow, sir, but you can see here that all the dates line up. Same company in Tokyo, same company in London. He’s probably making a pretty penny off of the deal he has going.”

            Elijah Storm’s face starts to turn blue. “The nerve of that asshole! I trusted that bastard! I considered him a friend, and here, all that time when we were bouncing ideas off of each other, he was just stealing mine. I’m gonna sue that effing prick for all he’s worth. I’m gonna have him arrested for this!”

            For the very first time, I actually start to feel bad for Elijah Storm, despite his potty mouth. I mean, this whole time I’ve basically thought him a handsome moronic jerk, but it hurts my heart a tiny bit that he has such a double-crossing friend. And okay, Elijah shouldn’t have been such a moron in the first place, but still.

            “I’m sorry, Elijah. But sometimes friends are really just out to make a buck off of you.”

            The next morning I don’t dress up as a PA or go into the Storm Enterprises office building. Instead, what I do is write up a detailed invoice stating all of the charges this case is costing and fax it to Elijah. But on the bottom of the invoice I write in cursive “Cheer up, pal, at least you can take him to court with this evidence.”

            Then I call Mrs. Harper and ask her to come in to my office. After that I text Ginger, who is at the university taking her Anthropology final.

     How would you like to go from receptionist to assistant detective? You’ve earned it.

            She responds immediately.

            Wow! Like I can be Watson now?

            I send my reply then do a bit of housework until Mrs. Harper arrives. When she shows up at the door, I have a cup of tea and a cupcake waiting for her, even though it’s only ten-thirty a.m. We settle into my office so I can give her the news.

            “Mrs. Harper, I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve finished working on your case.”

            She looks a bit nervous, but inches forward on the edge of her chair.

            “Yes? What of Lucas? Is he two-timing me with that girl from his office?”

“No, Mrs. Harper, I’ve got good news for you. Your husband is not cheating on you. But he may be doing some jail time soon.”