Dating Is Murder

“I found Sweet ’n Low,” I said, rummaging through the receptionist’s desk.

“Is that the edible stuff?”

“No, the blue’s edible,” I said. “This is the pink, cheaper but toxic tasting.”

“It’s my first breaking and entering. Next time I’ll bring snacks.”

By eight-thirty, in addition to countless au pair applications, we’d found tax receipts for Marty Otis, yearbooks from Millard High in Wisconsin, and old issues of Playboy and Hustler.

At nine-fifteen, Joey said, “Eureka.”

“You found her?”

“No, I found Polaroids.”

I crawled across the icky tan carpet to her. She passed me pictures. People smiled-or not-into the camera, dressed in swimsuits, leotards, or skimpy loungewear. One man in knee socks and boxer shorts wore some sort of harness that reminded me of Margaret, a ferret I’d once known. Not quite pornographic, but not au pair photo collages. The subjects ranged in age from teens to seniors, all body types, races, and genders, and were rated with one, two, or three stars, drawn in the upper corner with a felt pen. Each photo was numbered. “Look at this three-star guy in the Speedo. I think he’s worth another half star. You know-” Joey crawled across the carpet. “I bet these numbers correspond to files-I saw a box of files somewhere-”

I didn’t stop her. This wasn’t getting us closer to Marie-Thérèse, but she was happier now than she’d been in three hours.

“Aha!” she said, moments later. “Quite the entrepreneur. Let’s check out this Web site.” She seated herself at Marty Otis’s desk. “Good. Bills. His address. We’ll keep that.”

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“Wait a second. Let me figure out how this computer-please, God, don’t let there be a password-” She logged on to the Internet, still mumbling to herself. “I bet he charges a huge fee on that end and pays chicken feed on this end. Yes! Speedo, on the home page. Hello, Speedo. Mind-boggling what people will do for a few thousand bucks.”

“No kidding,” I said, thinking about Biological Clock. I was glad not to be on camera tonight. Espionage is less stressful than trying to look beautiful, act charming, and keep viewers from changing cha

And then, there it was. The name I’d been seeking so long that once I found it I almost missed it. Small, rounded printing. Marie-Thérèse. Last name DuCroq. Twenty years old. Staying with a family called the Joha

Elated, I showed the application to Joey, then used the copy machine to reproduce the contact information. We worked quickly now. I got the office back to the approximate state we’d found it in, and Joey tore herself from the computer to deal with the lock on the door.

“This doesn’t look so bad,” she said. “I mean, you do need a key to open it, but let’s try a credit card. Oh. I didn’t bring a purse in. Did you?”

I had my backpack. Joey said not to use a card I really needed, so I handed over my Blockbuster Video card, then my Costco membership, and, finally, reluctantly, my library card. When all three were mutilated, I started searching drawers for a spare key.

“You know, Gun Girl never had this hard a time,” Joey said, still working the lock. “I realize that was TV, but…” She stood back and surveyed the glass. “I suppose it’s a bad idea to smash the whole thing.”

“Yes. Bad. Try it, though.”

“Looks pretty flimsy. I bet I could just-”

For such a ski

It didn’t open them, but it did set off the alarm.

34

In my next life, if I’m a woman again, I’m going to be petite. I realize it’s a drawback when you’re at a rock concert or a parade and trying to see over the person in front of you, but for getting through bathroom windows, it’s indispensable. Also, shoes look better in size five than they do in size eleven.

In the bathroom we found the plunger, which we broke while trying to smash the front door. Then we found the window. Joey squeezed through first, barely making it, which should have alerted us, but it’s her nature to jump first, ask questions later, and I was distracted, watching our back. I expected armed security perso

“Joey, I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” She grasped my upper arms to pull me into the alley. “Just inhale. No, exhale. On the count of three. One, two-”

“Stop.”

“Just try it. Come on. Big breath, then let it all out. Flatten yourself.”

I exhaled. It worked. Joey was able to get another six inches of me out into the night air. The downside was that I was stuck tighter. It was an old double window in a half-open position, big enough horizontally for my shoulders, too small vertically for my chest.

“Again,” Joey said.

“I can’t. This is not physically possible.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It has to be,” Joey said. “I did it and you can too.”

“You did it because you’re Olive Oyl. I’m Betty Boop.”

“You’re not stuck. You can’t be stuck. I won’t let you be.”

I now saw the kind of toddler Joey had been, forcing the round peg through the square hole with the plastic hammer, breaking the toy. “Joey, I like your can-do attitude, but without a breast reduction, this is it for me. I’m having a little trouble breathing and I might panic.”

“No panicking. Okay, we’ll put you in reverse. Here we go.”

“Ow! Ow! Stop. Don’t push. Major pain.”

“Sorry.” Joey raised her hands and stepped back. She was just a touch below my eye level, in the alley. She looked up and smiled. “Go at your own speed. Plenty of time.”

I struggled to get myself back into the bathroom, but all I could do was wiggle the bottom half of me like a mermaid. The windowsill dug into my sweatshirt, bruising my armpits, and random bits of hardware scraped my back. “It’s like when you try on a ring that’s a little tight and then your knuckle swells up and you can’t get it off.”

“Canola oil. That’s what we need. Or-uh-oh.” Joey turned to look down the alleyway. “Is that a car door? Do you see headlights?”

“I can’t see anything from here, I- Okay, go. Run.”

Her head whipped around so fast I was hit in the face with a wave of red hair. “Are you nuts? I’m not leaving you here.”

“No, listen,” I said. “There’s no point in both of us getting arrested-”

“We won’t. I’ll talk our way out of it.”

“What if you can’t? Someone should be on the outside, arranging bail or whatever.”

“I’ll be a decoy,” she said. “I’ll run out front, head them off, they won’t know-”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll be stuck here for the weekend while you’re in jail. Sssh. Listen.”

We listened. Silence. The alarm had stopped. Did I hear voices in the office behind me? “Joey,” I whispered. “Don’t argue. Take my backpack and go. No, leave the backpack, but take the stuff on Marie-Thérèse, the folded page-do it. Don’t get sentimental on me.”

Joey, torn between the unthinkable-abandoning me-and the illogical-sacrificing us both-hesitated. Then she grabbed my backpack, tucked the photocopied page into her jeans pocket, and looked me in the eye. “Tell them you work here, you were working late, you forgot your key. Tell them Marty Otis will confirm it. But stall. I need half an hour.” She gave me a fast kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave San Pedro without you.”