The Art of Eavesdropping Read online

  “I do, but my mom is actually American—”

  “Say something in Spanish.”

  “In Spanish?” I repeated, feeling my lungs deflate.

  “Did I stutter?”

  I flinched at his sharp words and knew he meant business. Then I quickly blurted something in Spanish.

  “What did you say?” he demanded.

  I swallowed hard but refused to break eye contact. “That kindness always wins.”

  I’d actually said, “This man is prickly.” Oscar didn’t need to know that, though.

  He slowly nodded in a way that made me feel like I was livestock being paraded before being butchered.

  “Now act like you don’t speak English,” he barked.

  I straightened my back, realizing this wasn’t the job opportunity I’d been dreaming about. Role-playing hadn’t been in the description. All kinds of internal alarms were sounding right now.

  I took a step back. “I think this is a bad idea—”

  “No, please.” His voice softened, and he patted the air with his hands. “Just try it. I’ll explain in a moment.”

  I let out a sigh, glanced at the door, and then decided to humor him for just another moment. After all, I’d already quit my old job. I needed another income. Maybe he had a really good reason for asking me to do this.

  I blurted out another string of Spanish and made sure the words came out fast and that I used quick, frantic motions.

  Translation: I don’t know what you’re saying, you big jerk. And I’m having second thoughts about your ethics, but I have a feeling you don’t care.

  A huge grin lit his face, and he nodded, leaning back in his chair as if I’d just passed his audition. “Perfect. You just need to avert your gaze more. Now, I need you to do a job for me.”

  “Sure. What is it? Filing? Running background checks? Doing some translation work on the Mac?” Paperwork was my specialty, as of late.

  I could organize forms alphabetically with my eyes closed. I could label files until they were so pretty you wanted to cry. If there was a Heisman Trophy for office work, I felt certain I’d be a contender.

  It was one of the reasons I’d excelled at my job back in Yerba. I’d been chief of staff for one of my province’s legislators. He’d never missed a meeting or one of his staffers’ birthdays—thanks to yours truly.

  “I need you to go undercover.”

  I blinked, certain I’d heard him incorrectly. “Come again?”

  I was pretty sure that qualification wasn’t on my résumé. No, I’d listed clerical skills. Like an overwhelming and nerdish knowledge of Excel. Bragging rights on crafting irresistible press releases. Ability to process payroll with the dedication of an addict flying high on addition and subtraction.

  None of which required subterfuge.

  Oscar waved his thick finger in the air. “That’s right. I knew you were perfecto when I hired you for this job.” He said “perfecto” with the flare of an Italian who’d just made the perfect pasta dish.

  I started to take a step back but stopped myself. “I’m not an actress. Call it a quirk, but I don’t do that kind of work.”

  Oh, no. I was nervous. Those rhymes always gave it away. I turned into a less talented Dr. Seuss. If I’d written one of his books, it would go: Oh, the places you’ll end up. Some of them you will hate. But sometimes you need to understand that life isn’t great.

  “You do now.” Oscar pushed a folder toward me. “Everything you need to know is right in here in this dossier. Study it. You have a job to do tonight. An innocent man is counting on you, señorita. Now, auf Wiedersehen.”

  Auf Wiedersehen? Oscar didn’t think that was Spanish, did he? Because I was pretty sure that was German for goodbye.

  Either way, I didn’t like the sound of his words. What in the world could Oscar be getting at? I was about to find out.

  Mantente alerta, I reminded myself. Stay alert.

  Yes, Papa. I’d remain on guard.

  But right now, I needed to remember everything my dad had ever taught me about survival.

  Chapter Two

  After exiting Oscar’s office, file in hand, I sat at a desk Velma had shown me to. Apparently, this would be my space during my tenure—however brief—at Driscoll and Associates.

  There was no privacy here, just a glass wall behind the reception area. Another desk stood beside mine, and I wondered who it belonged to. I supposed I’d find out soon enough.

  I still had so much to learn about this new town I’d moved to three months ago.

  Storm River was located anywhere from forty-five minutes to three hours outside Washington, DC—depending on traffic. The city was situated, as you might have guessed, on a small river that branched from the Potomac. But this wasn’t just any river. This river had a sandy beach, trendy restaurants, and a resort feel.

  From what I understood during my brief stay, politicians from Washington liked to escape to the area on the weekends. Large homes had been built on the outskirts of town to house them. The area’s original homes were bungalows, painted bright colors, with white picket fences and an all-American feel. The structures hearkened back to simpler times. Yet, for the simplicity, the town still felt strangely complicated.

  Initially, I’d thought it was strange that a PI had set up shop in the small town as opposed to somewhere closer to the DC suburbs. But then I realized just how many people came and went on weekends. Not just any people. Powerful people. Politicians. Executives. People drenched in old money.

  Then it all made sense. Oscar Driscoll had known this area offered a certain sense of privacy because of its distance from the DC Beltway. It was really quite smart, I supposed.

  I flipped through the pages in the file my new boss had handed me. Oscar had been hired by a man named Flash “the Birdie” Slivinski, a professional golfer who’d been accused of murdering twenty-five-year-old Sarah Vance. Flash claimed he woke up in his condo and found Sarah dead on the floor beside him. Her throat had been slashed. He said he’d blacked out and had no idea what happened.

  But he knew he wasn’t a killer.

  We needed to prove that.

  The murder had happened a week ago, but Flash was out on bail until his trial date.

  He’d been seen leaving a bar with Sarah, but Flash claimed he’d never talked to her before. He said the two had met for the first time that evening. They hit it off and had gone back to his place to get to know each other.

  The last thing he remembered was talking to Sarah about a recent trip he’d taken to Paris. Then everything went black. The tox screen hadn’t shown any drugs in his system, nor had he had any medical conditions that could have caused him to pass out.

  Sarah Vance had worked as a cosmetics salesperson. She lived in Georgetown, right outside DC, and, because of her job, she traveled throughout the area to sell her products to various stores. She was originally from Nebraska, and she had long, honey-blonde hair, big eyes, and an overly confident smile. Interviews with friends, neighbors, and coworkers were included in the file, as well as a note saying that Oscar was working hand in hand with Flash’s lawyer.

  A handwritten note at the end made my eyes widen. “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is . . .”

  What did that mean? Another American pop culture reference perhaps? I really needed to learn more of those.

  My eyes widened as I read the assignment. Then I read it again.

  “I’m supposed to go undercover as a cleaning lady who doesn’t speak English?” I blurted. “At the police station where the lead detective on the Sarah Vance case works?” Horror laced my words.

  Velma looked back at me. My voice had obviously carried through the open glass door.

  She frowned, the expression overblown but the sympathy appreciated.

  “It’s a great way to get information,” she offered. Her dangling bracelets clanged together as she raised her hands in a shrug.

  “I am going to be joining the afterhours cleaning
crew,” I continued, my gaze skimming the dossier, as Oscar had called it.

  “You’re going to be like a mole. A very clean mole.”

  “The animal?” What was she talking about?

  She stared at me. “You know, a person planted inside an organization to gain knowledge of situations.”

  Another American expression.

  “I’m supposed to spy on the police?” My mouth dropped open. This seemed like a very bad idea.

  “Pretty much. We need to know what they know—especially the top-secret stuff.”

  I closed the folder and walked toward Velma, afraid that Oscar might overhear my question. “Is this normal? I really thought I was going to be using my clerical and organizational skills here.”

  Velma lowered her voice. “Oscar likes for people to do whatever he wants them to do. It’s just the way he is. You’ll get used to him.”

  “What if I have an ethical dilemma?” Could I really pretend not to speak English? Wasn’t that lying? I hated lies.

  Velma raised her eyebrows as if she had no clue what I was talking about. “An ethical dilemma?”

  Did I really have to spell it out for her? Based on the clueless look in her eyes, yes, I did. “What if I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not? What if I don’t want to trick people?”

  She tilted her head, her expression turning from sadly compassionate to I-feel-sorry-for-you patronizing. “Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work, sweetie. Oscar’s a PI. Do you think he finds answers just being nice and sweet all the time?”

  “No . . . I guess I never thought about it.” I really didn’t have time to think any of this through. I’d applied for the job on a whim, gotten the interview that same day, and had been hired five minutes into my talk with Oscar Driscoll.

  “Sometimes in the fight for justice you have to get dirty. Maybe it’s better if you discover that now before you get in too deep. I’m sure there are other jobs out there for someone who’s uncomfortable with this.” Velma paused and stared at me. “Are you uncomfortable with this?”

  Was I? It was a great question. Initially, I’d say yes. But, deep inside, part of me wanted to break away from the role I’d been pushed into playing—the girl who was always responsible. Always above reproach. The one people could count on.

  Those traits were a part of me. But following the rules had gotten me nowhere.

  Fatherless. Single. Living in a place I didn’t want to live. Without friends.

  “I . . . I don’t know yet,” I finally said.

  “You better figure it out pretty quickly.” She glanced at her smart watch. “Now, it’s my lunch break, and I’ve got to get out of here so I can work out. But if you have any questions for me, I’ll be around.”

  “Have fun working out. What do you do? Zumba? Free weights?” The subject seemed safe enough, like a good distraction from life’s pressing questions.

  “Are you kidding? All of those classes require gym memberships. Me? I go down to Easton’s.”

  “The sporting goods store? I didn’t realize they had classes there.” I thought they just sold baseball bats and jerseys, but I was still learning the area.

  She full out snorted. “Oh, no, sweetie. I use the treadmills there, the ones that they have for sale. They’re perfect.”

  I stared at her, unsure if I’d heard her correctly. She didn’t laugh and say JK, like my seventeen-year-old sister sometimes did. She was serious.

  Working here was going to be much more interesting than I’d anticipated.

  Maybe it was just what I needed—to reboot my life and reinvent Elliot Ransom.

  The question was—could I reboot my life and still stay true to myself?

  I’d spent the rest of the day in the office with Velma. She’d had me fill out a folder full of forms for human resources and another weird questionnaire that even asked for my blood type, if I was double-jointed, and if I’d ever participated in a lip sync competition.

  I’d also had to call my new “boss” with the police station cleaning crew and confirm that I was scheduled to work tonight. Oscar had answered the ad for me initially, claiming he ran a temp agency. He’d made up a false résumé and sent it in.

  After that, Velma had explained the computer system to me, run over the details of some of Oscar’s current cases, and given me a few rules to keep in mind at work.

  Never openly doubt Oscar. His ego couldn’t handle it.

  Never be late. Oscar was the only one allowed that privilege.

  Never wear red dresses. Oscar would think I was a seductress.

  Never talk politics. I would regret it. Like, really regret it. Like stick my head in a pot of boiling water regret. Those had been Velma’s words, not mine.

  I was still processing everything I’d learned, feeling a bit overwhelmed and un poco excited.

  At six o’clock, I went home to change before completing the second part of my assignment. Thankfully, my mom was working at the corner drugstore and my sister had an afterschool student meeting. I’d donned some khakis and a white shirt, just as I had been instructed.

  I felt ready to face the jungle—literally. This was my exploration outfit, minus the boots.

  I then drove down to a local apartment complex, which was actually an old motel. The place looked like it hadn’t been updated in at least four decades, and the pool with its murky green water looked more like a swamp.

  Apparently, most of my temporary coworkers lived here.

  Before I got out of the car, my phone rang. It was Oscar.

  “Bonjour,” he started.

  “Bonjour?”

  “Just a few words of wisdom.” He plowed ahead as if he didn’t hear me. “Remember, it never hurts to let the cops think you’re their friend.” His words came out in abrupt syllables.

  “What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You’re a pretty lady. You’re bound to catch someone’s eye. Use that to your advantage.”

  “You want me to make friends with someone—possibly a cop—just so I can use them?” I clarified.

  “It sounds so harsh when you say it that way. But, yeah, that’s it basically.”

  “But—”

  “Remember, your target is Detective Dylan Hunter. He’s the most incompetent cop on the face of the earth, but he could still be useful.”

  “I know, but how—”

  “No one can know you speak English or that you work for me.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Don’t let me down. Now, sayonara.”

  Before I could argue with him, the call ended.

  Being kind to someone just so I could get something from them wasn’t my thing. At all. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here right now. What had I been thinking?

  I should simply drive home. Forget about this. I wasn’t the type of girl to give in to whims. And this was why.

  My insides were in a knot, and my moral compass fraught. Was I selling my soul to the devil, just to take my life to a different level?

  That settled it.

  I started to crank my engine, ready to leave. Before I could, a woman waved at me from beside a rundown, light-blue van.

  That must be my new boss, Rosa.

  A feeling of dread washed over me as I opened my car door. It looked like I needed to see this through. Tonight, at least.

  I could still stay true to myself and do this job.

  I hoped.

  Chapter Three

  My hands were sweaty as I sat in the back of the van, which smelled like cumin, lavender, and Electric Youth. Someone in this vehicle was apparently obsessed with the eighties fragrance. I only recognized it because someone had gifted some to my sister once.

  It’s not too late to get out of a situation that’s not too great.

  I could still back out of this. I could fulfill my duty by cleaning tonight, just as I’d promised, then I could turn in my resignation tomorrow.

  But then I remembered my sister, Ruth. She ha
d cystic fibrosis and desperately needed a double lung transplant.

  I needed a job that would help pay for medical treatment. It was the main reason my family had come here from Yerba. Healthcare in my home country had been inferior to that in the States. Since my sister and I had dual citizenship, the decision had been a no-brainer.

  Yerba was a small country located beside Peru, best known for its Festival of the Chicken—Fiesta del Pollo—celebration. Our national holiday was a weeklong event where people dressed like—you guessed it—chickens. We did chicken dances and had contests to see who could peck food the fastest. We covered ourselves in honey and rolled in feathers. We drank milk with berries and called it . . . never mind. But it was tasty. Then we ate chicken. Lots and lots of juicy, spicy chicken.

  It might sound corny, but it had been my favorite time of year, better than even Christmas. The community had come together, differences were set aside, and celebrating was the number one priority.

  My dad had been native to the country, and my mom had gone there to work as a missionary after college. The two of them had fallen in love, gotten married, and two years later I came along.

  Things were going well until political unrest flared. During those times of fretting, as I heard whispers of an uprising, my dad had taught me the importance of keeping my mind busy. We’d begun coming up with rhymes. To this day, I still tried to stay focused by practicing the art.

  My family left Yerba just in time. A couple weeks later, the economy had imploded and the borders had been closed. Now I couldn’t go back if I wanted to.

  Sergio was still there, though. We had so many unfinished conversations. Knowing that we might not ever speak again or see each other face-to-face left me without the closure I craved. We’d gone from planning our future together to living like strangers.

  How did one get over that?

  The women around me talked about various things, including some knockoff Spanx one of them had bought and whether or not Maria was crushing on her neighbor Alexandro. A few of them even tried to include me, but I just smiled politely instead of jumping into the conversation. My mind was too preoccupied with the task at hand.