Perfect Strangers

“Then why don’t you just go break into his place and have a nice look-see around?”

I stop pacing. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She says matter-of-factly, “Make sure you look in his medicine cabinet. Everyone’s juicy secrets are in their medicine cabinets, and you don’t need a password to get in like you would with a computer.”

“So that’s how you found out I was on anti-depressants.”

“Oh, hon, that was no state secret. You went from walking around like a zombie to walking around like…well, like a medicated zombie.”

Good to know I was so transparent.“Getting back to James. Mike won’t get in trouble for looking into him, will he? Because if it’s going to be any kind of risk, I don’t want him to do it.”

“Don’t worry about that. Mike’s got the clearance. Just get me your boy toy’s full name and you’ll have the real 4-1-1 by the end of the day.”

A long yawn comes over the line, making me feel guilty. “I’ll let you get back to bed, Kell. I’m sorry for bothering you so late.”

“Don’t be. This shit is gold. I can’t wait to see what Mike digs up on your stud.” Her voice brightens. “Hey, do you think he’s in the witness protection program?”

Great minds think alike. “Doubtful. Would you be putting on art shows all over Paris if you were in the witness protection program?”

“Hmm. Good point. But honestly, even if he was, would you really want to give up that beautiful twelve-inch dick?”

I say seriously, “I regret telling you anything about that.”

“Ha! As if! You painted such a vivid picture of his junk, I can see the damn thing like it’s been branded onto my brain!” She sobers. “But we should talk about outcomes.”

“Why does that sound ominous?”

“So, for instance, what if it turns out that he’s a member of the mob?”

“What do you mean, ‘what if?’ I run very far away is what if!”

She sounds doubtful. “Really? You’d walk away from a man who goes down on you before he even says hello just because he’s involved with the mob?”

“Just because? Who am I talking to right now? What’ve you done with my best friend?”

“So the mob is a hard no.”

“Of course it’s a hard no! Kelly!” I rap the receiver several times on the top of the desk. “I can’t be hearing you right!”

Her tone is casual. “I mean, nobody’s perfect. And a big dick makes up for a lot.”

I make a face at the phone. “How much wine did you have with dinner?”

She ignores me. “What if he’s a spy?”

I sigh, looking at the ceiling and shaking my head. “Same answer as if he’s in the mob.”

“An escapee from a mental institution?”

“Okay, this conversation has reached terminal velocity of silliness. Time for you to go to bed.” But that one unsettles me, just a bit.

“Ugh, you’re ruining all my fun. Fine, I’m off to bed. Technically, I’m already in bed, but I’m off to sleep. Not that I’ll be able to sleep because of that story about your orgasmic little liaison in the Russian section of the bookstore, but whatever. I’ll have nice dreams.”

I told her everything that happened with James since we last spoke. It’s not as if I had a choice: she outright demanded the details as soon as she picked up the phone.

I don’t think she was joking when she said she’d be living vicariously through me. Mike seems to have slacked off in the sex department of late.

Kelly and I say our goodbyes and hang up, then I return to the kitchen and get Edmond’s number from the note Estelle left on the fridge. I start dialing, but stop after taking a look at the clock.

It’s six in the morning.

Then I get the brilliant idea to look at the wall of mailboxes in the mail room on the first floor. The building’s ten stories tall, and, from what Estelle said, there are four apartments on each floor. So there should be only forty mailboxes.

Each marked with a name.

There could be more than one James who lives in the building, but I’ll just have to give Kelly those names, too. Determined, I head into the bedroom to get dressed, then take the elevator downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, I send Kelly an email composed of only two words.

James Blackwood.

Within minutes, she emails back.

Sounds like a movie star.

“Or an alias,” I mutter, staring at the screen.

I can’t shake the odd feeling that I’ve heard that name somewhere before.