At a little after five, while I was on the phone haggling with the body shop that Kiki had chosen to repair the Volvo, Cassandra opened my office door and marched in. She stood at my desk, shifting from one foot to the other until I’d cradled the receiver.
“Two people downstairs to see you,” she said.
“Don’t suppose you caught any names,” I said.
“Did my job description change without you telling me, Billy?” she asked. “If people are going to be constantly dropping in on you, maybe you’d better hire a receptionist to handle the flow.”
“I’ll take that as a no on the names,” I said.
“They’re from InterTec Security,” she said, pouting now.
“Was one of them the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?”
“No. But the guy’s kind of hot.”
“Send them up anyway,” I said.
It wasn’t easy to climb the stairs noiselessly, but the two security agents appeared at my office door as if by magic. They entered moving casually and quietly, surveying the room and me with admirable nonchalance before introducing themselves.
Bettina Noor was an attractive, diminutive East Indian woman who, even in a beautifully tailored business suit of charcoal gray, looked young enough to be in high school. Straight black hair cut just above shoulder length. Dark eyes. No makeup. Carrying a black leather purse that, I presumed, contained a gun and a cellular phone, at the very least.
Her partner, A.W. Johansen, was in his mid- to late twenties, with the tan face and curly blond hair of a surfer. He was two or three inches taller than me and a pound or two lighter. Well, maybe five pounds. Okay, fifteen, but that’s it. He was wearing a rumpled dark-blue blazer, khaki slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck, no tie. His blazer bulged near his right hip.
Ms. Noor quickly assumed the lead, explaining in a fast singsong patter that they would be accompanying me in twelve-hour shifts. “I understand from Ms. Snell that you are to be at the WBC building at six a.m. on Monday.”
Ms. Snell, an InterTec employee, had called a few hours before with about a hundred and fifty questions, all of which I had dutifully answered.
“She said that you travel by chauffeur?”
“Usually,” I said. “But my car’s in the shop. And my chauffeur prefers to think of himself as a driver.”
“I will remember the distinction,” she said. “I assume you leave for work at approximately twenty minutes to the hour?” I nodded. “Fine. On Monday I shall arrive here at five-forty a.m. to relieve A.W. I will remain on duty until five-forty p.m., staying as unobtrusive as my duty will allow. At that time, A.W. will take over. That will be our weekday schedule.”
“Sounds excellent,” I said.
“What about the weekend, tomorrow and Sunday?” she asked. “Shall we, for the sake of simplicity and continuity, maintain that same schedule?”
“That’d be between you and A.W.,” I said. “I’ll be lolling about in bed until at least eight a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“Same schedule’s fine with me, Betts,” A.W. Johansen said.
“Excellent,” she said, consulting the large round watch on her slender wrist. “Then you will officially be on duty in exactly nineteen minutes.”
I successfully avoided laughing, but I did smile.
Young Mr. Johansen grinned back at me and said, “I’ve got a bag downstairs in my car. I’m not sure what kind of extra sleeping setup you’ve got, but I don’t need much.”
“There’s a guest room you can use,” I said.
“Is it near enough to your bedroom for A.W. to maintain constant surveillance?” Bettina Noor asked.
“Right across the hall,” I said.
She nodded. “You are unmarried. If there is someone else who will have access to your bedroom, now would be the time to notify A.W.”
“I doubt that will pose a problem,” I said.
“We can’t be too careful,” she said. “You told Ms. Snell that the building had been compromised last week by a man disguised as a policeman. Someone will be here within the hour to change the locks on the doors and to readjust the alarm system. Please notify the lady downstairs.”
“Her name’s Cassandra,” I said. “I’ll talk to her. I assume your alarm guy will let me pick my own key code.”
“Of course. And as for the incident in this office, I would like to see the napkin with the perpetrator’s warning.”
I still had the napkin, folded, in my out basket. Ms. Noor studied it for a while, then passed it to her partner, who eventually handed it back to me.
“I think we can assume he is a better assassin than he is an artist,” Ms. Noor said. “In any case, I shall be here tomorrow at five-forty a.m.”
“I’ll be up and waiting to let you in,” Mr. Johansen said.
“Have some dinner before you leave,” I said to Ms. Noor. “Consider meals a perk.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she replied. “But I have assayed your menu on your website and find it lacking in nutrition and health. In fact, I consider your food long-term suicide. Good evening, Mr. Blessing.”
Both Mr. Johansen and I watched her go.
“Wow, that is one crazy party girl,” I said.
“Bettina is a vegan,” he said.
“She seems a little uptight, even for that,” I said.
“She’s kinda by-the-book,” he said. “But she’s also the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”
“Good to know.” I liked this A.W. Johansen.
“About that dinner offer …” he said. “I’m definitely not a vegan. In fact, I’m a big fan of yours, Chef Blessing.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And ‘Billy’ works for me. Do I call you A.W.?”
“Everybody does.”
“What do the initials stand for?”
He hesitated. His tan face reddened and he half mumbled, “Andy Warhol.”
“Come again?”
“My dad was Piet Johansen, the silk-screen artist. Mom used to be an actress. Vera Sweet’s her real name. She was billed as Very Sweet in a couple of Warhol movies. She and Dad met at The Factory back in the sixties. Warhol was my godfather, but I only met him once, when I was seven. This was just before my dad passed away.”
“Your mom still with us?”
“Very much so. She and my stepfather left the city a while ago. They run a bed-and-breakfast on the West Coast. In Topanga Canyon, kind of near L.A. Both doing great.”
“And you were just out there on a visit.”
He blinked. “How …?”
“Elementary, my dear A.W. The suntan.”
He grinned again, showing perfect, very white teeth.
“Why don’t you get your bag,” I said, “and I’ll show you the spare room. Then we’ll see about getting you dinner.”
“Great,” he said. “I’m starving. I had lunch with Bettina at one of her faves. Hummus and wheatgrass soup really doesn’t do it for me.”
“I think I saw a twenty-two-ounce bone-in rib eye ready for grilling,” I said.
I could’ve sworn he did one of those zip out and back moves like Wile E. Coyote. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find ACME stenciled on his bag.
I showed him the spare room, pointed out the bathroom, and left him to unpack while I went down to give Cassandra a heads-up about the arriving locksmith and spend a few kitchen minutes observing Chef Maurice and his merry band preparing for the evening.