Alli (2 page)

If she’s playing hard to get, it’s working,
he thought to himself as he put away his phone. Her tone sounded worried, or maybe confused. There was something very familiar and comforting about this Alli person, but he could not put his finger on it. One thing was certain; he was determined to pursue his hunch that she was worth the trouble.

The next day found Randy packing his camping gear into his Suburban and heading north, then west, over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, back toward the nation’s capital. His plan was to stop by the Call Center and see if he could track down Alli. He knew it was a long shot, especially since he did not know her last name, or even the correct spelling of her first name, for that matter.

When he arrived in Washington, Randy was lucky enough to grab street parking on 17
th
Street. He knew there would be security in the federal building, so he unclipped his belt holster and the Sig P-226 it contained, locked it in the glove box, and made his way toward the front entrance of the Call Center, on K Street.

Approaching the entrance, Randy glanced at the “Connect America” logo on the side of the building. It was in all of their advertising. “No longer will citizens be put on hold or receive a recorded message when they need to contact their government,” according to all of those well-intentioned, high minded bureaucrats being interviewed 24/7 on the cable news channels.

The effort had been an expensive one, but when had any government program been under budget, or completed on time, for that matter? A two year, multi-million dollar study revealed that nearly 90% of all Americans had a deep-seated hatred and/or fear of dealing with their government.

Hell, I could have told them that,
Randy thought,
and for half that price.
Well-meaning Senators and Representatives from both sides of the legislative aisle knew that something had to be done. The age-old tradition of assembling a committee, studying the problem for a few years was commenced. Afterwards, they threw out the committee’s recommendations and went ahead and did whatever they wanted to do in the first place, an even older Washington tradition. Everyone agreed the system was broken, but no one could agree on how to fix it.

After clearing security at the Call Center, he approached a receptionist. She was a thin, pleasant looking black woman, with straight, shoulder-length black hair, a tight sweater and a bit too much make-up and perfume for Randy’s taste. She was sitting at her desk, engrossed in her fashion magazine.

“Hello, I’m looking for one of your employees, her name is Alli. I’m supposed to be meeting her for lunch.”

“Does this Alli have a last name?” she asked, with a hint of sarcasm, and no effort to disengage herself from her magazine.

“Yes, of course,” he said. Randy offered his best boyish grin, but it went unnoticed. She’s a new friend of mine, and I’m a little embarrassed, but I don’t remember her last name.”

“Uhh Huh, I know all about you players. I got no way to find your lunch date without a last name, honey.”

“But she has worked here since this place was built. Do you know anyone here by that name?”

“Sweetheart, we got hundreds of people working here. My guess would be we got a half a dozen people with that name.”

Randy ignored her tone and plunged ahead. “Is there any way I could see your employee list, so I could possibly pick her out?”

The receptionist finally looked up from her magazine, gazed over her glasses, and gave Randy the look that doesn’t require an explanation.

“You are welcome to wait in the waiting area,” she said, waving her magazine toward a group of empty chairs in a nearby corner, “but if she doesn’t come down for lunch, you might not see her until tonight.”

“Ahh, well, that’s the problem. I don’t actually know what she looks like, either.”

She shook her head slowly and returned to her magazine. “Mm, Mm, Mm. One of those ‘blind date lunches’, huh? Well I guess you are going to have a tough time finding this girl, honey.”

As with most receptionists, she had the gift of understatement. Randy mumbled a vague ‘thank you’ and headed toward the chairs. There was no way he was going to find a girl he didn’t know, without a last name, who didn’t know him, and was not expecting company, in a building with ten floors and God knows how many people.

Randy waited around and watched the entrance for a couple of hours, trying to think of some way to contact this girl. The security in this building seemed like over-kill, even for a government office building. In addition to the two security officers and the walk-through scanners at the front door and both of the other side entrances, there were roving shifts of security officers that walked the hallways at regular intervals. In fact, there seemed to be as many security officers as employees!

It was mid-afternoon when Randy finally left the building in frustration. He was hoping to avoid the late-afternoon Washington traffic, and also hoping that another message from Alli would come soon.

Chapter Five

Rather than waiting at home for a phone call, like some lovesick prom night hopeful, Randy decided to do a little investigating. It was about time to reconnect with his old college roommate, Carl Frazier. They both applied to Central Intelligence fresh out of college, but the rigors of the “farm” training were too much for Carl. While Randy went on to work for the agency, Carl decided to start his own.

FrazTek Investigations, during the last decade, had grown to include 54 private investigation offices in several countries and 22 different states, Virginia being one of them. Randy’s friend lived and worked out of Middleburg, Virginia; about forty miles outside of Washington. With all of Randy’s family gone, Carl was his closest friend, and the only person he would consider family. He pointed his Suburban toward Middleburg.

Though Randy and Carl had stayed in phone contact during his time at the CIA, it had been at least 5 years since the two friends had seen each other, back when Randy had taken a couple of months of leave after a particularly stressful Agency operation. He had intended to look up his old friend right after he quit working, but he had yet to find the time.
Today’s as good a day as any,
Randy thought. After doing a quick internet search on his phone, he had an address typed into his GPS and was on his way.

FrazTek Investigations was headquartered immediately outside of Middleburg, on East Washington Street. It was only a 60 minute drive from DC, or so Randy thought.

Two hours later, he pulled into the parking lot of FrazTek.

Randy was impressed as he neared his destination.
Not too shabby,
he thought.
I guess the boy did all right for himself.
The FrazTek Building grounds were immaculately groomed, along a curved, tinted concrete driveway that looked glassy smooth. The building itself was a modern structure, four stories of curved glass and polished chrome. As the sun was setting in the west, the entire building took on a glowing, copper color. Randy had hoped to arrive earlier, but Arlington Boulevard was bumper-to-bumper coming out of Washington during the late afternoon.

When he arrived, most of the employee cars were gone, but a 1969 Pontiac GTO convertible, parked in the reserved parking area, told Randy that his friend was probably working late tonight. He thought back to college when Carl had the insatiable desire to attend classic car shows nearly every weekend. He was one of those ‘gear heads’ that lived and breathed cars, and was in a constant battle to keep grease from under his fingernails.

The front doors were locked, but Randy found the call button and summoned a well-dressed security guard, who looked like he belonged in the President’s Secret Service detail- black suit, earpiece, and the whole outfit. After showing his ID through the glass, the guard allowed him into the reception lobby.

“Hi, I’m an old friend of Carl Frazier. I drove over from Washington to see him tonight. We used to room together in college.”

“What was the name again, sir? I’ll let Mr. Frazier know you are here.”

“Fairchi…”

A booming voice shattered their conversation and the quiet in the lobby. “Randy, is that you?” A large, but very friendly Carl Frazier strode over to where Randy and the guard were standing, his arms outstretched. He was immaculately dressed, from his Gucci shoes to his hand-tailored, oversized silk golf shirt. “How in the hell are you, you old bastard?”

The two men embraced like long lost brothers. “I’ve been fine, Carl, but it looks like somebody around here needs to skip a few meals.” Randy pushed his pal away to survey the damage. “Where’s that college athlete’s body that you used to have?”

“It’s still right here!” Carl said, as he laughed and repeatedly slapped his ample stomach with his hand. “It’s still in here somewhere!”

Carl insisted that Randy follow him to his home, a few minutes west. Since it was getting late, and they had a lot of catching up to do, he gladly complied with his friend’s request.

A short drive later, they pulled into the gated, wooded, entrance. Ornate iron parted automatically, and the GTO roared up the curved brick driveway. The main building was hidden from view of the public road, but as they meandered along the manicured drive, Randy was able to glimpse the approaching house. It was impressive. What looked like a three level plantation, the house was a colonial style mansion. Tidy black shutters contrasted with what looked like original wood clapboard siding. Tall, twin brick chimneys flanked the slate roof. The large, canopied entrance was well lit, and the landscaping was dutifully trimmed back away from the first floor windows. It looked like Carl practiced what all security people preach about safety. As the garage door opened for the classic Pontiac, Randy was able to glimpse several other highly polished sports cars of various pedigrees sharing the same garage. He parked the Suburban in the driveway and walked over to his friend.

“Let me show you around,” Carl insisted. “Let me show you how well following and photographing someone’s soon-to-be ex-spouse pays!”

They spent the better part of the next hour going from one room to another, and from one floor to another, admiring the home, its furnishings, and catching up on the last ten years
. So this is how the other half lives,
Randy thought. The home was filled with classic antiques, American folk art and photographs of Carl standing next to various famous dignitaries.

Randy learned that Carl had been married before. Twice, actually, but both marriages had quickly and abruptly ended in divorce. He had no children. His life had consisted of work, work and more work. He had succeeded in building a flourishing business, a beautiful home, and quite a lonely life.

As they passed through the massive kitchen, Carl spoke to someone whom Randy assumed to be Carl’s cook.

“Nigel, we have a guest. Please set the table for two tonight.”

“Very well, Mr. F,” was his answer.

It turned out to be more of a feast than a dinner. In addition to the strong Burgundy, there were artichokes with mustard aioli, maple-glazed duck breast with gingered cranberry pear chutney, whipped sweet potatoes and garlic mashed potatoes, orange-scented sugar snap peas, and flourless chocolate cake for dessert. Randy had not eaten such a meal since he was invited to share another fellow agent’s expense account dinner in the capitol of some foreign country, the name of which escaped his memory at that moment.

It was near the end of dinner when Randy was able to share with Carl the reason for his visit. “I met a girl,” he began. “Or at least I’ve talked to her on the phone.”

“She’s a government worker, right?” Carl surprised him by saying.

“Yeah, but how did you know?”

“I’m an investigator, you dolt. And I know your type. You government employees are all the same,” Carl explained. “The only people you talk to is each other. I happen to know how you think, mister. Ever since college, I could always tell what you were thinking, remember? And after all these years, after all the women you met while travelling the world for the CIA, you retire and fall for some office worker on the phone. Man, you are pathetic.”

Randy ignored the insult but went on the defensive. “There’s something about this girl, Fraz. I know we probably haven’t said more than a few dozen words to each other. But there’s something very familiar, something very comfortable about her. It’s soothing and exciting at the same time. I can’t really explain it, but it’s a rare thing, you know?”

“I know,” Carl said as he stood up from dinner. “I’ve heard it all before, bud. Maybe it’s true love, maybe it’s true lust; who knows. I think I’ve heard and seen everything there is to hear and see about relationships between men and women in this business. Nothing surprises me anymore. If you think she’ll make you happy, I say you should go for it.”

“That would be great, but I can’t contact her. I need you to help me locate her, Fraz. I need your expertise and your contacts so I can find her.”

Chapter Six

The government Call Center was available to all Americans using one phone number- 1-555-USA HELP. The phone system distributed the incoming calls into an active queue that the random call handlers answered. The system was not really designed for outgoing calls, but occasionally, one of the handlers would return a citizen’s call, as was the case when Alli called Randy with Pension Services on the line. Unfortunately, those calls go out blocked, so there is no way for citizens to call or request a specific call handler. It was as if the entire system was designed to keep the call handlers anonymous.
Maybe it was,
Randy thought.