The Pajama Affair (4 page)

“But why write on masking tape? Why write at all? This is the digital age,” she said.

“Maybe he’s old school, or maybe digital info is too easily hacked,” Puck suggested.

Liza squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingers to her temples. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s because we’re lacking vital information,”
Marion
said. “Even supposing Puck’s crazy--sorry, honey--theory is true, there is no way to figure it out with so few clues. You only have part of the what.” She tapped the tape. “Not the who, how, or why.”

They were silent a few minutes, staring at the tape.

Liza thought it was a hallmark of true friendship that when she told them she found tape stuck in her pajamas they quickly rejected the possibility she was insane. Puck sat up so abruptly that
Marion
toppled to the floor.

“I know someone who can help.” He looked under the table and held out a hand to Marion who was rubbing her hip.

“Who?” Liza asked.

“A guy I went to school with when I was a criminal justice major the first time,” he said.

Liza wrinkled her nose. “A cop?” Her only experience with the police was with the serious and unsympathetic people who occasionally wrote her tickets for speeding.

Puck shook his head. “He started out as a cop. He went rogue.”

“What does that mean?” Liza asked. She pictured a man in flannel with a furry beard and a rifle slung over his shoulder, living off the land in some far-flung wilderness.

Puck looked around and leaned in. “CIA,” he whispered.

Liza flushed crimson with the thought of involving the CIA in a case of mistaken masking tape. “I can’t talk to someone in the CIA about this.”

“I’m not sure he’s CIA,” Puck said. “That’s just a guess on my part. Officially he’s in the FBI and he works at the branch in town. I ran into him in the store the other day.”

“What makes you think he’s CIA?”
Marion
asked. She looked vaguely bored by the conversation.

Puck shrugged. “Some things he said. The cagey look in his eyes. I don’t know, but even if he’s not, he might be able to help.”

Liza bit her lip. “I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll sound insane.”

“That’s a reasonable fear,”
Marion
said.

“I’ll write down his name for you. You can tell him you know me if you decide to go. It will help break the ice,” Puck said.

“All right. Thank you,” she said with genuine gratitude. She hadn’t developed a vested interest in Puck because she believed he was temporary. But he and Marion seemed happy together, and he was unbothered by her messiness, which was a point in his favor. Still, she had seen too many of
Marion
’s boyfriends come and go to get attached over one act of kindness. She helped clean up the kitchen with
Marion
while Puck watched television.

“What do you think it means?” Liza asked.

“What?”
Marion
paused with a plate in midair, a quizzical look on her face.

“The message. What do you think it is?”

Marion
faced forward and began scrubbing again. “Honestly, I think it’s probably the inspection code that came with the pajamas.”

Liza shoved down her irritation. It was one of the maxims of their close friendship that they never lie to each other, but sometimes the truth was brutal.

“Is there a way to find out?” Liza asked.
Marion
could be scattered at times, but she was a genius at research. There was almost nothing she couldn’t find.

“Leave it and I’ll do some digging,” she volunteered.

“Thanks.” Liza smiled.

“It’s no thing,”
Marion
said easily. She smiled, too. There was nothing she liked better than research, even if it did turn out to be an inspection code.

Somehow after the dishes were done Liza convinced
Marion
to go for a run with her. Rather, Liza ran while
Marion
walked a few steps and then bent over to staunch a stitch in her side. Liza knew better than to lecture her about her poor physical condition, but it worried her nonetheless. Should she really be winded by the time they reached the mailbox?

“Leave me,”
Marion
said dramatically. She paused to lean against Liza’s car, the car that was parked directly in front of her house.

“Oh come on,” Liza said impatiently. She grasped
Marion
’s wrist to urge her forward. “You don’t even have to walk fast. I’ll jog in place beside you, all right?”

“All right,”
Marion
agreed reluctantly. “But I don’t see how you can run on a full stomach.”

“A full stomach?” Liza echoed. “We ate an hour ago.”

“You’re right. I’m starving. Let’s go back and eat some more.”

Liza laughed. “Stop being funny. I can’t run and laugh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that was the key to making you stop?”
Marion
said. She proceeded to tell Liza a story about one of the library patrons that was so far-fetched Liza was sure she had made it up. But it had the desired effect. Now Liza was the one bent over in the street panting for breath and clutching a stitch in her side.

“Can I go now?”
Marion
asked.

Liza nodded and waved her away. When she fully regained lung capacity after her convulsive laughter, she set off again and ran for an hour to make up for missing the previous day. She ducked her head in the house to yell goodbye, but didn’t go all the way in because she was wet with sweat. All she wanted now was a nice, hot shower, but when she arrived home her key once again stuck in the lock. Like yesterday she looked down and noticed the floor mat was askew. It couldn’t have been the mailman, not on a Sunday.

When she opened the door, she knew someone was in her house. Maybe it was intuition that made her skin prickle, or maybe it was the sound of a baseball game coming from the living room. She frowned and cocked her head. A baseball game? What sort of burglar stays to watch television?

“Hey, Babe.”

Dirk came from the kitchen behind her. She screamed and threw her keys in the air. He studied her with an amused smirk.

“Scared you, didn’t I?”

“No, I’ve decided that should be our new, standard greeting and I was just testing it out.” She bent to retrieve her keys and backed away from him when she straightened and saw him advancing on her. She held up a hand. “I’m all sweaty.”

He kept advancing, gathering her in a tight squeeze when he reached her. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“I went running with
Marion
.”

“
Marion
ran? Was someone chasing her with a loaded weapon?”

She laughed. “Well, actually
Marion
walked twenty feet with me and then I ran alone.”

“That sounds more like what I imagined.” He frowned as he spoke.

“What?”

“Why don’t you ever run with me?”

“I run like a girl.” She ran for exercise and not because she was good at it. Dirk was an athlete. The thought of him seeing her herky-jerky panting stride was embarrassing.

“You are a girl, last time I checked. I could check again if you want.” He leaned down to kiss her and she stood on her toes to reach him, but then broke off when she caught a whiff of her own stench.

“I’m going to grab a shower. Can you stay? I’ll cook.” She wasn’t above bribing him with food.

He shook his head. To his credit he looked reluctant. “I’m meeting with Sal to talk business.”

Sal was his cousin, older by five years, and a full partner in their family’s car dealership. It was a large business, one of the largest in the state, and required constant attention, or so it seemed.

“Oh.” She rocked back on her heels in disappointment. “What are you doing here?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Did you or did you not call in middle of the night with some sort of pajama problem? I looked through your room, but I didn’t see any coded messages.” She ignored the sarcastic bent to his tone.

“That’s because I took it out.” She reached in her pocket and turned up empty. “Oh, I left it with
Marion
.”

“You left it with
Marion
,” he repeated with a frown.

“Is that a problem?” She couldn’t imagine why he would care. Most likely he thought she was crazy or desperately trying to get his attention. And she was, just not in this particular way.

“No,” he said. He sounded resigned and she wondered why.

All of a sudden she felt like crying. Why did things have to be so difficult between them? Why couldn’t she tell him how she felt and what she thought? Why couldn’t she ask him about his own thoughts and feelings? She peered up into his handsome face and knew why. He would never be hers, not really. He had been Scarlet’s first and she, Liza, was a place card until the next stunning woman came along. She was nothing more than a seat filler.

“Liza, what’s wrong?” he asked with unnatural tenderness. He used his thumbs to wipe away the beginning of her tears.

“Would you sit on the couch and hold me a few minutes?” she asked shyly. She had never presumed to make such a bold request before.

“Sure,” he agreed. He was looking at her strangely. He sat on the couch and jumped slightly in surprise when she plopped into his lap and burrowed her face against his neck.

“What’s wrong, babe?” He gently stroked his hand down her hair.

Her heart both melted and broke. It had never been like this between them before. She had never revealed her need for him so blatantly, and she was stunned by his instant reciprocation.

She shook her head and let her tears fall freely, silently. If only it could always be like this. If only they were truly together and she could feel confident in his love for her, in her power to hold onto him. But she didn’t have any of those assurances. She only had this one moment, and all too soon it was over.

They sat quietly, melded together while she cried and he held her, and then his phone rang. He sighed and released her.

“It’s Sal. I’m late and I need to go.” His hand stopped its slow descent on her head. He framed her face with his hands and pushed her gently back so he could see her. “Will you be all right?” She nodded. “Call if you need me and I’ll come back.”

She smiled and nodded, but she didn’t believe him. After all, she needed him now and he was going away.

He kissed her, and it was a new sort of kiss; both tender and urgent. It started to build until he abruptly broke away.

“You make it difficult for me to leave sometimes,” he said. He kissed her forehead and then he left, taking care to lock the door behind him.

“But you always do,” she said cynically, and then she put her face in her hands and wept.

Chapter 4

Liza remained on the couch for a long time after Dirk left, sniffling and feeling sorry for herself. Outside it was warm, but inside she felt sad and lonely. When she finally went to her room, she wanted the comfort and warmth of her flannel pajamas. But when she searched, she couldn’t find them anywhere.

She sat on the edge of the bed looking around in consternation. Had Dirk taken them? No, he had nothing in his hands when he left. Besides, he would have told her. He knew they were her favorite. That left two options: either the person who put the message there came back for them, or the person the message was intended for picked them up. Her fist pressed to her forehead. Was she losing her mind? Believing that strangers were trading messages in her pajamas was akin to believing faeries stole socks from the washing machine. There had to be some logical explanation she was missing. Her mind refused to accept the outlandish facts in front of her. She was emotionally overwrought and bored, that was all.

Still, her hands shook as she found new pajamas and put them on. When she settled into bed and closed her eyes, she imagined every sound was someone walking though her house. She almost called Dirk to come and stay with her, but she had already thrown herself at him once today; no need to send him screaming into the hills, running for cover from her neediness. Instead she forced herself to relax and make mental lesson plans for the next school year. Eventually she fell asleep.

The phone rang early the next morning and woke her. She fumbled for it without sitting up.

“Hello,” she slurred.

“I figured it out.” It was
Marion
.

Liza sat up. “You did?”

“It was a basic military cipher, although the message still doesn’t make sense. It says, ‘Ten James 2C 3P.’”

Liza frowned. “You’re right. That doesn’t make sense.”

“I tried every format and variation I could find, but that’s the only thing that made any sense.” She paused. “Maybe you should run this by Puck’s friend, just to get his take on things.”

Liza’s anxiety from the night before returned in full force. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, and she gripped the phone. If sensible
Marion
believed in any of this, it might be real.

“All right,” Liza agreed.

“Want me to go with you? I can ditch work.”

Liza smiled. “No thanks. I’ll be all right. I just have to figure out a way to tame my hair so I don’t look like a sunflower.”

“Yeah,”
Marion
agreed. She sounded guilty. “Sorry about that. Call me after.” She hung up without waiting for a goodbye.

Liza showered, ate breakfast, then sat at her kitchen table, staring at the paper Puck had given her. “Lincoln Stone,” it read, along with the location of the FBI office in the large city half an hour away. She tried to picture him. Lincoln Stone was a strange sounding name. Would he be burly with dark sunglasses and one of those earpieces usually worn by the Secret Service? Or would he be a rogue, like Puck had described him, a rule breaker who dressed how he wanted and made his own rules?

In the end he was neither. She found her way easily to the FBI office and briefly wondered if it should be so clearly marked. It stood by itself with a row of matching black cars in the lot. In some ways it resembled the weak kid standing by himself on the playground, just waiting to get picked off by a bully. The small nondescript building shook her image of the institution. Where was all the high-tech equipment? Where were the serious-looking men with guns?

She was still frowning as she entered. There was a security checkpoint that looked so flimsy she was sure even she could dodge it if she wanted to. The guard led her into the office and she stopped short. It looked like any office in
America
with a secretary, some cubicles with a couple of spaces enclosed by doors. The electronic equipment looked like it had been brand new in 1990.

“May I help you?” the secretary asked. Her eyes focused involuntarily on Liza’s hair. The security guard had made her remove her hat, and now it stood up like a yellow disco ball.

“I called a little while ago about speaking with Mr. Stone.”

“
Agent
Stone will be with you in a moment, Miss.”

Liza sat, feeling insecure and properly chastised. How was she to know he should be called “agent?” Nobody called her “Schoolteacher Benson.”

“You can go in now,” the secretary said. She made no move to show Liza the way. Instead she jerked her head toward one of the closed doors.

Liza’s hand shook as she opened the door. He didn’t look up at first, but when he did, Liza relaxed. He was ordinary. Even sitting down she could tell he wasn’t overly tall. His hair and eyes were both brown, and he had a plain, nondescript face. He dressed like the male schoolteachers she knew in faded khaki pants and a white dress shirt that had seen better days. His eyes flew to her hair and she knew by the cruel quirk of his mouth that things were about to go very, very badly.

Link Stone was not having a good day. The electricity in his apartment building was out, so his alarm didn’t go off. When he woke--late--he took a fast, freezing cold shower and hurried around his dark apartment grabbing the first clothes he could find, which later turned out to be old clothes he had set aside to donate to charity. He drove through a fast food joint for breakfast. The coffee scalded his tongue and the greasy, fatty breakfast sandwich now sat like a rock in his gut.

His secretary, Christine, was in the middle of a breakup with her boyfriend. For the first two hours of the morning she had wept at her desk until Link told her she either had to buck up or go home without pay. And now this.

When Liza Benson first opened the door, he thought she was cute. She had a pleasant face, but it was quickly obscured by her blindingly yellow hair which stood out in all angles from her head. Somewhere in his mind cuckoo clocks started to sound. Great. Just what he needed today: a nutter. He sat back and prepared himself to hear about her alien abduction. The first words out of her mouth confirmed his worst fears.

“Puck gave me your name,” she said.

Inwardly he rolled his eyes. Outwardly he sighed and folded his hands on his desk. There were certain people so notorious they didn’t require a last name. Puck was one of those people. He was a perpetual student and avid conspiracy theorist. They had shared a few classes together right out of high school, and Puck had been bustling with his take on world events. No matter what the occurrence, he was convinced the government had a hand in it.

Link realized the woman was still standing in the entryway. He motioned to the chair in front of him.

“Have a seat, Miss.”

“Benson, Liza Benson.”

She sounded shy, but that didn’t improve his opinion of her. It was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

“What can I do for you, Miss Benson?” He sat back and linked his fingers together behind his head. At first it took everything within him not to stare at her hair, but then her story was so amusing he forgot everything else.

“Let me get this straight,” he began. He did nothing to tamp down the amusement or sarcasm in his tone. It always went over the crazies’ heads anyway. “You want the Federal Bureau of Investigation to look into your missing flannel pajamas because you found a piece of tape in them?”

Her face flamed red. He would have found her pretty then, except he had a strict rule about not dating anyone certifiable--a lesson he had learned the hard way.

“My friend cracked the code,” she insisted. She shoved her hand in her pocket, and he tensed, ready to spring if she pulled out a weapon. Instead she pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to him. He didn’t look at it. He maintained eye contact and spoke very patiently to her.

“No one is out to get you. No one is stealing your lingerie.” He snickered and got himself under control again. “Very few average citizens become embroiled in plots involving flannel these days, but if I hear of a pajama bandit, I’ll contact you immediately.” He dropped his eyes to his desk, effectively dismissing her.

“You pompous, arrogant, self-righteous little man,” she said.

He looked up in surprise. Out of all the words, “little” hurt the most. He was self-conscious of his height.

“I came here today looking for a conversation. I wanted a professional sounding board to assure me there is nothing to worry about. Instead I received your condescending shtick. I am not mentally ill. I know how this all sounds, but I hoped you would be kind enough to hear me out and help me come to some reasonable conclusion.” She looked like she wanted to say more. Instead she gathered her purse and stood. “Shame on you.”

He watched her walk out of the office with her overly blond head held aloft, and he did feel ashamed. Especially because he was almost positive he saw tears sparkling in her eyes when she turned away from him. He had made women cry before, but they were always criminals who deserved it. To make an innocent cry, especially one who was mentally ill, didn’t make him feel like much of a man.

He sighed and ran his hand over his face. Now he was going to have to ease his conscience by looking into her story. If he had simply been polite and listened to her, he could have easily dismissed her. When would he learn to keep his big mouth shut? Saying too much was what got him stuck out here in Podunk in the first place.

He pressed the intercom. “Christine, bring me all the info you have on the woman who just left.” He picked up the paper she had left behind. “Ten James 2C 3P,” he read out loud, and then sighed again. “It’s going to be a long day.”