The Kissing Game (19 page)

            “We’re looking for Caroline Stone.
We have a warrant for her arrest.”

“El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene
para secarse.”

He who gets wet earliest has most time to dry.

As I sit
in the back seat of the white sedan, handcuffed to the point cutting off
circulation, the buildings outside begin to look familiar.

“Hey, this is the Federal Building, not a
police station,” I say. “Where are we going?” 

The two plain-clothed officers in the front
seat say nothing. I can only see the back of their heads, neatly combed brown
and blonde hair. Nearly identical blue-grey suits. One is playing with his
iPhone. The other drives toward the underground parking and shows his badge to
the security guard at the gate. Sliding the car into the dark concrete cavern
where numerous conspicuously federal government sedans and vans reside like
legions waiting for war, he cuts off the engine. The blonde officer steps out.
He swings around to open my door, and commandeers me out of the vehicle. Unfamiliar
with having my hands cuffed behind me, I stumble. For several seconds I have
that dizzy feeling at the thought of being admitted to jail, as if I might
throw up. The idea of getting naked, bending over, and coughing worries me the
most.

“Is there a jail here, or will you have to
transport me somewhere?”

As if I’m invisible, neither officer answers me.
When we step inside the elevator, brown hair presses the button to the 12
^th
floor. Blonde hair pulls out Chap-Stick and glides it across his lips. It
smells like cherries, and I recall that I haven’t eaten since breakfast at the
hospital, where I had three grapes and pushed the flavorless oatmeal to the
side. Oatmeal and grapes seem like a delectable feast right now.

The elevator rises like a bullet and swishes
open on the 12
^th
floor. Blonde hair unceremoniously grabs my arm. Gliding
down a beige-carpeted hallway, we walk past closed office doors with brass
numbers. When we reach room 116, brown hair opens the door and steps inside.
The room is relatively small with a view of the Civic Center building, its
white dome pointing toward the sky. Plaques and framed certificates line the
walls. On them I catch glimpses of “F.B. I.” and “Massachusetts Institution of
Technology.” A small bookshelf holds binders in the corner. Brown hair sits down
behind his desk and says, “Sit” as if I’m a dog. He points at one of the two
chairs opposite his desk. Thankfully, blonde hair uncuffs me.

While I shake circulation back into my fingers,
I sit as though everything is going to be fine, even though I know it isn’t. Blonde
hair sits in the chair next to me. The prickly sensation in the room suggests
something important is about to occur, although I have no idea what.

“Ms. Stone,” brown hair says, “I’m Agent Morrie
Larsen and this is Agent Kevin Silver.” Larsen, who’s in his mid-thirties and
tanned, points to the blonde guy.

“Okay,” I say, looking around the office,
wondering where the jail is. “Am I arrested or what?”

“Technically, no, not yet, and you have the
right to remain silent, all that, but we’ve brought you in to talk with you
first. Is that alright?” he asks. I wonder about Robert, what he might
recommend at a moment like this, but since he’s not here, I just nod.

 “It seems you have a predilection for breaking
into homes.” Larsen looks bored as he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls
out a folder, opens it, and fans out images on his desk. Freeze-framed video
photographs of me in the Chairman’s house. Grainy, but definitely me. The
expression on my face suggests a ghost might be chasing me.

“I hardly think breaking-in once amounts to a
habit. I only broke into that
one
house,” I say before realizing that a confession
is probably not in my best interests at this point. However, I can’t deny the
image of myself on the screen in the Chairman’s house. It’s telling, damning. My
stomach growls, and I wonder what Robert is doing right now. I wonder if he’ll
give up on me now that I’m going to jail. The thought feels like glass in my
stomach.

“What were you doing there?” Agent Silver wants
to know, his blonde hair shiny in the office lighting. He looks like that boy
in the movie
Home Alone
if he were aged ten years and someone put lip
gloss on him.

I shake my head. “It’s a long story… I only
broke in to get something back that was mine. I didn’t break in to steal
something. I’m not a thief.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Agent
Larsen says, pointing at the photos. “We know you broke in, but we can figure
out how you’re connected to Collin. What were you looking for?”

“Like I said, I only wanted to get back
something that belonged to me.”

Agent Silver exhales and places his right ankle
over his left knee, leaning back into the chair.  Out the window, he needle on
the Civic Center dome looks razor sharp. “This is going to take all day. I got
other shit to do,” he tells Larsen.

“Ms. Stone, it’s in your best interest to tell
us what you took from Collin Finn’s house,” Larsen warns.

“Can I get a drink of water?” I ask, feeling
parched, and wondering if I want to tell this story yet again. Agent Silver
stands, unwillingly, and thumps out of the office, coming back moments later
with a cup of water the size of a thimble and hands it to me. I swallow it in
one gulp.

Since their patience is wearing thin, I confess
all, telling them about the tape, mailing it to Collin, changing my mind and
wanting it back, breaking into Collin’s house, dropping the envelope on the
lawn, all that, and then Collin showing up at my apartment with a gun.
            “Why do you think Collin wanted to shoot you?” Agent Larsen asks,
unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaning back in his swivel chair. The uninterested
expression on his face suggests he discusses shooting often.

“He thought I knew something about the
Children’s Refuge Project,” I say, feeling like a criminal for simply talking
about it.

“So you
do
know?” Agent Larsen raises
his eyebrows at me.

“I
do
, or at least I think I do. I put
it together, anyway,” I say, looking at my tennis shoes and wondering if rubber
is edible.

“What do you think you know?” Agent Silver
asks.

“When I broke into Collin’s house to retrieve my
envelope from his mailbox, I grabbed the wrong envelope, and pictures fell out
of young women, really young, girls maybe. I saw an email address pasted on the
front. I didn’t think about it at the time since I wanted to get out of there.
I just wanted my envelope. It wasn’t until later at the office when I saw one
of Collin’s misplaced file boxes that I realized the connection. There was a
similar email address in the file, too.”

“That’s why we saw them outside her apartment,”
Silver explains to Larsen.

“Who?” I ask, wondering what they’re talking
about.

They sit there quietly for a moment, seemingly
pondering, while I contemplate whether I should tell them how hungry I am. People
walk by outside the closed door and the smell of hamburgers floats in.

“Ms. Stone, we have a proposal for you. Seeing
that there’s a warrant for your arrest, we’d like to offer you a proposition.
We could guarantee you a minimized sentence, only probation, if you help us,”
Agent Larsen offers. I have the feeling he’s in charge here.

“Help you?”

“More like cooperate,” Silver states. He takes
out a piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. Chewing like a school
kid, he says, “We’ve been investigating a child prostitution ring in San
Francisco for nearly five years now. We’ve traced the ring from the Philippines
all the way to California, all the way to Collin’s house, but haven’t gotten any
further. Being a lawyer, Collin’s kept himself squeaky clean. He’s untouchable.
As far as society is concerned, the man is nothing but goodness and virtue.”

“But we know better,” Agent Larsen says. “We
were watching his house the night you broke in, so we saw you, but other people
saw you, too. Those are the people we’re interested in finding out about. If we
can get to them, we can get the information we want. Those pictures you saw in
his mailbox were sent from us in the hopes of luring in his contacts. When he
found out you broke into his house, he naturally became suspicious that you
might have planted those photos. We think he’s told his contacts, and now they’re
suspicious of you.” He pauses for a moment. “Essentially, you’re in great
danger if they find you.”

 “You want to help us stop child prostitution,
don’t you?” Agent Silver asks.

“Of course I do,” I say. I also want to avoid
jail. “I’m sure I can’t help you though. I don’t know anyone who might be
involved. I have no idea.”

“We were thinking we could use you as bait.”
Officer Silver smiles at me.

He really looks like that guy in that movie.
What’s his name? McCauley
something
.

“Bait?” This is starting to sound unwise.  “Bait
is usually the piece of food that gets eaten by bigger animals.”

“You’d have to break into Collin’s house again.
Then you’d have to wait. We think Collin’s associate will come for you. This
person is the same person who sent Collin to your apartment that night he shot
you,” Agent Larsen says, pulling out an e-cigarette and taking a long pull. He
lets the mist float out of his nose. It smells like coconut.

“I can’t break into his house again. I’m sure
he’s changed the code.”

“We’ve fixed all that. We just need you to get
in and wait. We’ll keep agents all around the house, watching you, and have you
microphoned. You’ll be perfectly safe. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, well,
then at least you’ll have a get-out-of jail free card. Sounds like a sweet
offer to me,” Agent Larsen proposes. “I’d take it without consideration if I
were you.”

For a moment, I ponder prison. Really, I look
like a dying person in the color orange. And more importantly, helping stop
child prostitution is an honorable endeavor, surely enough to make up for all
the stupid things I’ve done thus far.

“I guess so,” I say after some silence. “But
when?”

“Sooner the better. Before all the worry dies
down,” Agent Silver says, chomping. “Right now would be best, but we have to
get you prepped first.”

I’m hoping “prepped” includes food. I also
think about Robert and what he might be doing now. He was in quite a tizzy
while the officers carted me away.

“Your wounds healed?” Agent Silver wants to
know.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So you could run fairly fast if necessary, if
you had to?” Agent Larsen inquires, his lips pressed in concern.

“Maybe. I haven’t tried.” I shrug. The question
concerns me. “But I am super hungry. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and
you yanked me out of Robert’s house just before we were sitting down for
dinner.”

Agent Larsen raises his eyebrows at Agent
Silver, as if they know Robert and I were just about to tear each other’s
clothes off. Agent Larsen then silently nods at Agent Silver and gestures
toward the door.

“Agent Silver will get you prepped, and I’ll see
you in the cafeteria. Today was stuffed baked potato day. I’m sure there’s
plenty left. You alright with that?”

“At this point I’d eat Agent Silver’s
Chap-Stick if he’d let me.”

I rise and follow Agent Silver down the hall. I
could follow him blindly by the sound of his chomping and the smell of his
cherry lips. We pass more offices and then happen upon a pair of steel
double-doors. Agent Silver swipes a card across a keypad and the doors open
wide. Inside is a black table and walls of white metal cabinets. Agent Silver
opens a cabinet full of electronic devices. He pulls out a set and puts them on
the table. Next he opens the cabinet nearby and yanks out a black bullet-proof
vest. Looking at it makes me feel as though I’ve just embarked on climbing
Mount Everest. Suicidal. Death wish.

“What’s the vest for?”  I ask.

“Just in case,” Agent Silver answers. “Can you
take off your top?”  He places the bullet-proof vest on the table too and looks
at me with his hand out.

“Excuse me?”

“Your sweater and your top. I’m gonna need you
to take them off.”

I glare at him.

“No one’s gonna molest you. I need to tape the
wires to your chest and get the vest on. Now please.”

Twisting my mouth, I remove my sweater and then
lift off my shirt. Underneath, I’m wearing a pink bra with black polka dots.
Agent Silver raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

Covering my bra with my arm, I try not to watch
while Agent Silver tapes wires to my my chest. Then he slides the bulletproof
vest over my head as if I were a child being dressed. It feels like trying to
fit into a tight surgical glove and smells like cigarettes. Afterwards, I slide
my shirt and sweater on again. However, the vest makes me look as if I’m
pregnant. Agent Silver puts a bud in his ear.

“Say something,” he commands.

“What?”