WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 18. 7:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
A day-old Washington Post was tucked between the backseats of the car. Divya was busy on her phone, so Jake skimmed the paper, looking for something interesting. They were headed to another chichi restaurant after another day’s work.
“Overpopulation Viruses” in Slums
Alarm African Officials
Nairobi, Kenya—Local health authorities are reporting a dramatic uptick in mortality rates from transmittable diseases among the poor. The outbreaks are attributed to crowded living conditions and lack of clean water.
Oyhed Ausim, chief physician at the nonprofit Kenyan Children’s Clinic, called these new health statistics disturbing. “As the population continues to grow, we will reach a critical mass, if we haven’t already. From that point on, viruses will spread and mutate at an alarming rate, a rate that no nation in the world is prepared to cope with, especially Kenya. It’s horrifying, really.”
In Asia, where several nations are battling population-fueled disease outbreaks, government officials have convened to consider various proposals to stem the problem.
On Maryland Avenue, the driver stopped and opened the door for Jake, who walked around to the other side and opened Divya’s. She was still sitting, waiting for him to do so. The driver was savvy, allowing Jake the opportunity to be gentlemanly.
You’re not helping! Jake wanted to say.
“Thank you.” Divya got out of the backseat.
“So what’s this place all about?” Jake asked, referring to the restaurant.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” She winked. Flirty again.
Jake handed the driver a tip, likely not a very good one in this town.
Inside, cool-blue neon backlit the serpentine bar. Ice was packed in stainless-steel trays beneath the booze, chilling raw oysters from various regions, all marked with small slate boards and chalk. The room was bustling, and Jake could hardly absorb the frantic scene.
Their water glasses were filled. Crystal goblets. Within a minute, a server came by to ask for their drink order.
“Veuve, please,” Divya requested.
The young man nodded. “And you, sir?”
“Old-fashioned.” Jake felt as though he might need it to get through the evening.
“Yeah, you are.” Divya brushed his slacks with her bare foot.
Ugh. “Champagne? What are you celebrating?”
“A reunion.” A stunning, devilish smile.
They toasted with their water.
The drinks arrived just in time. Divya was asking Jake about his ex-flame Elspet. What happened? Not exactly Jake’s favorite topic of conversation. Somehow his fumbling answer led to the recent drama surrounding Noelle, which wasn’t any better. Jake ended that topic too when Divya said Noelle didn’t deserve him anyway.
This made Jake miss Noelle immensely. He had no idea what type of woman Divya thought he deserved, but he knew the comment was a slight against Noelle. Something Noelle herself would never have said about anyone.
Jake’s first old-fashioned went down easy, so he ordered a second. The tranquil azure lighting and clean steel decor—plus the bourbon—soothed his mood.
Still, all he could think about was going home.
After the two bourbon drinks and a glass of water, Jake excused himself to go to the bathroom. The door was heavy stainless, like an entrance to a walk-in freezer, and the attendant rushed from inside and pulled to help him.
“Thanks, got it,” Jake said. He meant Unnecessary.
The stall doors and walls went floor to ceiling. Obviously, hearing another man’s bowel movement wasn’t in line with the “chic, upscale environs” the restaurant intended to create. Or whatever Divya had called it. Some silly phrase meaning overpriced.
Jake sidled up to the urinal.
“Not from here?” the attendant asked. Jake turned around, hoping the man wasn’t talking to him. There were no other customers in the room.
Jake went to the sink, washed his hands, and avoided further conversation. “My oysters are getting cold.” He accommodated the man with a smile.
* * *
They didn’t get back to Divya’s until 11 p.m. Jake was upstairs in the guest bedroom changing. He had a French 75 in his hand, a drink he wasn’t familiar with but that Divya had forced on him. Not bad, really. Fancy gin and champagne. Better than a Pabst. Walking over to the bedside table, he took his cell phone from his pocket. He had forgotten to turn it back on after dinner.
It buzzed for a minute straight after he turned it on. Six voice mails, all from J.P. And two text messages. He read the texts first:
Dude—need you! Esma is missing. Something’s wrong.
And,
Please call back! ASAP!
The messages had their intended effect. Without listening to the voice mails, Jake dialed J.P. It rang twice before he answered.
“Hello?” J.P. sounded foggy. Probably drunk.
“What’s going on?” Divya peered in the room mischievously. Jake waved her away.
“Man, she’s gone. Without a trace.”
“Esma? You said she went home to Mexico.”
“She did, yeah. Then she told me she was coming home. She missed me. Now she’s missing. Kidnapped.”
“She told me. Texted saying she was on her way. When I tried to call her, there was some dude’s voice.”
Jake immediately recalled Liz Hingley.
“That doesn’t mean she’s missing.” Jake thought about how to word this. “Maybe she was just with a friend.”
“No, Jake. I know you’re smart, man. But I get this feeling. I’ve got some instincts too.”
Jake knew this was true. Still, he couldn’t help but think, Yeah, instincts and about fifteen beers.
“Did you call the police?”
“No help. They think I’m off my rocker. What’s the next step?”
Jake thought on it. He hated to doubt his friend. If J.P. said Esma was kidnapped, Jake would believe him. “I’ll look into it. Text me her cell number and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, man. I mean, God, thank you!”
“No problem.”
“Jake, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“When can you come home?”
In the doorway again, Divya stood. All five feet ten of her. Legs alone seemingly longer than that. Bronze-dark skin, fully nude, breasts befitting a woman half her age, her smooth skin glistening from her head down. Handcuffs dangled from her fingers.
“Let’s play criminal investigator,” she interrupted. Not asking.
“Soon, buddy.” Jake hung up the phone.
Jake tried to stand up and stop her. Before he could, she was at the bed, gently pushing his shoulders, forcing him to lie down, whispering: “Relax, you’re only under arrest.”
He’d had enough. Enough of this town. Enough of Divya’s constant advances that stemmed from God-knows-what psychological issues.
Still, something in his mind said Go with it. Give in. What man rejects a model-caliber woman with no clothes on? And she was familiar. It was all too easy.
Divya pulled his wrists between the hand-turned wooden dowels on the headboard and locked them with the cuffs.
“Do you remember the library bathroom during criminal procedure class?”
Jake could only nod, like a sex-crazed teenager. She started kissing his neck, her nipples bearing the mass of her breasts onto his own chest.
I’m outta here tomorrow, Jake thought. And pulled against the cuffs, straining to try to kiss her back.