“The
Candy Shop is nothing more than a piece of
personalized media propaganda started by the CIA so they have someone
to blame
when their own operations fall flat. That’s why
you’ll never hear anything in
depth about it as an organization. It’s no more real than the
Tooth Fairy, or
the Easter Bunny.”
--Gordon
Sara
looked around at the bus stop, feeling a
little tense. It was nearly nine, and the long shadows were stretching
down the
street. Most of the nearby businesses were closed, and in the hills,
lights
twinkled in home windows.
A
Mercedes pulled up to the curb; an S class,
dark and sleek. Sara shifted on the bench preparing to draw her weapon
when the
window rolled down and a familiar voice called to her. “Get
in.”
Moving
quickly, she pulled open the door and
slid into the passenger seat, feeling a sense of relief.
“You’re late.”
“We’re
making a statement. A man like Bruce
Eiger hates to be kept waiting, especially by people he
needs,” came Mr.
Peppermint’s calm analysis. “Therefore, we need to
walk in strong and make sure
he understands who’s really in charge. Nice wig.”
“Thanks,”
Sara murmured, stroking the long,
shoulder-length blonde strands. “You look . . .
imposing.”
Mr.
Peppermint wore a black suit, shirt and tie,
all expensively tailored and neat. The black patch over his right eye
gave him
a slightly dangerous mien; a hint of pirate mixed with the
world-weariness of
an assassin. He managed a wry face and pulled the Mercedes away from
the curb. “The
word is ‘theatrical’ but again, given the nature of
the client, it’s better to
reconfirm his fears than to let him get the upper hand.”
Sara
nodded, impressed and reassured by this
insight. She shifted a little, and her sage green power suit skirt rose
a bit
higher on her thighs as they drove on towards Seven Hills.
Grissom
strove to keep his eyes on the road, but
it was difficult not to give in to a temptation to peek at his
companion. She
sat demurely in the passenger seat, long, cool and blonde for the
moment, her
eyes hidden by a pair of gold and tortoiseshell Mimi Vu sunglasses, her
mouth
done up in a blush of hot pink lipstick. The little green power suit
showcased
her fabulous legs, and Grissom bit his tongue to keep his focus on
driving.
Miss
Chocolate was certainly dangerous in more
ways than one. He thought about the quick review he’d given
her file only hours
earlier, the facts dry and sparse: Masters in Physics from Berkeley;
three
years with the SFPDCL; a two-year stint with the FBI as a forensics
liaison and
then recruited by Miss Lollipop and used mostly for West Coast work the
past
two years. Somewhere along the line Miss Chocolate had picked up a gun
license,
two false IDs and a little bit of a drinking problem.
Mr.
Peppermint wondered if she knew that last
part was in her file, then dismissed it. Miss Lollipop knew ALL their
sins; all
their transgressions and foibles. He was sure his own file mentioned
his mild
Asperger’s syndrome and his hearing loss, now repaired.
They
were only human after all; everyone at the
Candy Shop was linked by this lonely and noble vocation, but just as
prone to
hurt as anyone else.
And
just as prone to temptation, he acknowledged
to himself, shooting a quick glance at the woman next to him. He
couldn’t read
Miss Chocolate’s gaze behind her sunglasses, but her smile
was gentle. “The eye
patch looks, um . . . dashing.”
“It’s
one-way—I can see through it just fine,
but if Eiger tries to turn us in, he’ll be off on his
description of me.”
“Oh
cool—is that a Gum Drop creation?” she asked
politely. They were pulling up to a gated driveway, the car moving
under a
floodlight now. Grissom shook his head.
“Not
this one. He’s modified versions for the
rest of the Shop, but I made the prototype. Are your lenses
on?”
“Night
vision, but I’ll switch to scan once we
get inside,” she murmured. As the Mercedes pulled up, the
gate opened
automatically, and Grissom brought the car up to the steps of the
mansion. He
climbed out and scanned the yard intently as Miss Chocolate slid from
her seat
and fiddled with the corner of her sunglasses.
“Expecting
trouble?” she asked, throatily. He
made a negative sound, and turned.
“Always
. . . but not tonight. We’ve got a few
goodies in the wings.”
Sara
was tempted to look around and see if she
could find the backup out in the landscaped yard, but training made her
look
towards the house instead, and toss her blonde hair back a little. Mr.
Peppermint joined her after stepping around the car, and whispered in a
low
voice.
“Two
. . . one on behind the left column of the
driveway gate, and the other in the dark gap by the hedge.”
“How
do you know they’re ours?” Sara asked,
mounting the steps with him, falling into his pace. Mr. Peppermint gave
a
thoughtful shrug, and she watched the corner of his mouth turn up.
“Because
those are the spots I would have picked
if I were backing up someone. Nobody challenged us at the gate, and
that means
whatever show of force Eiger plans to make will be inside the house.
Are you
outfitted?” he asked, knowing the answer. Sara nodded
slightly.
“Glock
twenty-two from the Toy Box. I have a
knife as well,” she added, and knew from Mr.
Peppermint’s quick glance that he
was trying to figure out where it was holstered. Let him keep guessing,
she
decided with a small grin.
“Glock
thirty-one. And an ace up my sleeve,” he
admitted when they reached the top step. Carefully Mr. Peppermint
pushed the
doorbell, and low heavy chimes rang out. The two of them made faces at
each
other.
“Pretentious,”
Sara murmured.
“Off-key,”
Mr. Peppermint added.
The
door opened, and a mountain peered out at
them. Calling the man ‘huge’ was a misnomer. The
adjective ‘huge’ tiptoed away,
taking ‘enormous’ and
‘gigantic’ with it as well. Massive stayed, and
Sara
fought the frisson of fear rising up in her at the sight of the mammoth
manservant in the doorway.
“Hi.
Is your daddy home?” Mr. Peppermint
cheerily inquired. The monolith in butler livery growled slightly,
barring his
teeth. In one swift move, Mr. Peppermint jabbed his folded knuckles
into the
man’s Adam’s apple, and brought up a quick knee to
his groin; the butler’s
growl slid up from bass to soprano squeak as he folded like a cheap
lawn chair.
Sara blinked behind her sunglasses, stunned at the speed and precision
of the
attack.
Mr.
Peppermint sighed, slid his hands in the
pockets of his trousers and glided past the man without looking back.
“Never
mind—we’ll let ourselves in.”
Sara
followed, belated touching the temple piece
of her sunglasses to switch the filters, and immediately the roomy
foyer was
bathed in a green haze in her line of vision. Two glowing spots showed
up—one
at the base of the curving stairway and one over the doorway leading
into a
hangar-sized living room. She cleared her throat and Mr. Peppermint
instantly
caught her gestures, nodding.
“So
he knows we’re in. Good—let’s go meet the
man.”
They
climbed the curving staircase together,
falling into sync as naturally as they had before. The stroll down the
hallway
was uneventful, and at the end, the double doors were slightly ajar.
Sara
paused when Mr. Peppermint did; his brows drew together for a moment
and he
whispered.
“Second
thug, just inside the door—see the
shadow?” he pointed out. Sara caught the flicker across the
light through her
lenses and nodded. Studying the doors, she murmured back in an equally
soft
voice.
“They
open outward. We could . . . “
“Let’s,”
he agreed. They stepped forward and
each yanked a door wide, exposing another hulk standing sheepishly
there. Sara
sauntered forward, smiling at him, then stomped hard on the top of his
shoe,
her high heel stabbing in a swift jab of pain. The thug bent forward,
only to
catch his nose on her rising knee. A spectacular gout of blood sprayed
out, and
Sara neatly sidestepped the mess as the wounded man dropped on all
fours,
bellowing in pain.
From
behind his dashing eye patch, Mr.
Peppermint gave her a sweet smile of approval, stepped around the
bodyguard,
and strolled into the room. He cleared his throat as he looked at the
stunned
man behind the huge mahogany desk. “Mr. Eiger?”
“You
attacked my bodyguard! I’ll sue your ass
off—no provocation, that’s assault!” came
the outraged bellow of the bearish
figure behind the blotter.
“Yes
do that, please. Not only with the press
and media be amused beyond belief at the charge that a hundred and
twelve pound
woman disarmed a two hundred and eighty pound ex-con, but
they’ll be sure to
ask what the circumstances were,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out
gently. Sara felt
a shiver of delight at his cool, calm delivery; the man was
unflappable, and
she stepped to his side, feeling a little tickle of warmth inside.
Behind them
the moaning man was attempting to get to his feet, and in front of them
the
client, Bruce Eiger, was angrily grinding his teeth. Finally he curtly
nodded.
“Fine.
When I contracted you people to retrieve
my personal property, I didn’t think it was going to involve
violence.”
Grissom
sighed inwardly; bullies were always the
same, no matter how old. He waited the man out, thinking about how
sweetly Miss
Chocolate had taken out the guard behind them. Nice moves, efficient
and sleek.
She obviously had some martial arts training, and wasn’t
afraid to go physical
if needed. That was a bonus. Not that he wasn’t able to
handle himself in a
fight, but the point was to strike first, and hard enough to end it in
the
first minute if you could.
Clearly
she knew that too. He wondered if
she liked calamari.
“What
the hell . . . you’re here, so let’s get
down to business. I want my camera back, and I want it as soon as your
stupid
crew can get it out of the Senator’s house. I’m
paying top dollar for
discretion and speed here, so I don’t know why
you’re wasting time talking to
me instead of doing the damn job I’m paying you
for,” Eiger growled, puffing
his cigar.
Grissom
didn’t look at Miss Chocolate, but her
felt her presence at his side. Quietly he spoke up. “YOU
requested the meeting,
Mr. Eiger, “ he pointed out. At his words, Eiger flushed, and
viciously stubbed
out his cigar, a tactic to buy time.
“Yeah,
well I wanted to see if I was going to
get my money’s worth.”
Grissom
gave a quirky little shrug. “We
efficiently dispatched two bodyguards and made our way up to your study
in less
than three minutes. At this moment my associate has already located
your panic
room behind the wainscoting and your Chubb Fortress wall safe behind
the
Caravaggio over your head, so unless you need some further test of our
competence, I think it’s past your bedtime.”
Bruce
Eiger blanched a little, and leaned
forward, his ursine expression shifting from annoyance to fleeting
panic. He
swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “All right, all
right—you’ve got balls,
I’ll give you that. Fine. I just need a little reassurance
that I’m not trading
one blackmailer for another. I’ve got enough dirt on the
Senator to take him
down, easy, but now that he has that damned camera we’re in a
stalemate I don’t
appreciate.”
Miss
Chocolate spoke up, her voice low and flat.
“Then since we’ve passed the audition,
let’s get down to business. My associate
and I don’t care about the contents of your home movie as
long as it’s
consensual and legal. Since our director would never have taken your
case
otherwise, you’re going to have to trust us. Are we done
here?”
Grissom
kept still, aware of a little soundless
moan in the back of his throat at Miss Chocolate’s seductive
alto. For the
first time in years his libido was stirring on the job, and the
sensation was
disconcerting, He took comfort in the thought that if the woman beside
him was
getting under his skin it had to be ten times worse for Eiger, judging
by the
hungry look on Baby Bear’s face.
“Uhhh,
yeah. So w-when do I get my movie camera
back?” came the man’s stammer. Grissom slowly
turned to Miss Chocolate,
delighted to find her mirroring his move. They both looked at Eiger.
“When
the job is done, Mr. Eiger. We’ll be in
touch,” Grissom commented firmly. They turned to go, and he
reached in his
pocket, pulling out something small. He tossed it onto the desk where
it made a
small clattering noise and turned to join Miss Chocolate heading out
the door.
The two of them moved quickly down the long hall again, brushing past
the guard
still curled up on the carpet of the study.
“What
was that?” Miss Chocolate demanded, not
looking at him when they reached the stairs. Grissom shot her a lofty
smirk.
“Diaper
cream.”
“You
didn’t!”
came her slightly scandalized whisper as they crossed the foyer and out
the
double doors. Grissom said nothing, letting his serene expression carry
the day
as they climbed into the Mercedes and followed the circle of the
driveway back
to the gate. Before reaching it though, he slowed, unrolled the window
and
fished into his suit jacket, pulling out a small compact hand gun.
Carefully he
took aim and fired; once towards the left column of the gate, and
another shot
twenty feet further along the hedge. Instantly flares of lurid pink lit
up the
targets, revealing two men moving sheepishly to stomp the smoking
signals out.
“No
bonuses,” Grissom murmured gently as he
peeled off his eye patch; next to him, Miss Chocolate broke into a
husky laugh.
“Harsh,
Mr. Peppermint.”
“Better
me than a grown man in a diaper, Miss
Chocolate,” he cheerfully reminded her as they drove on
through the gate and
out into the dark street.
Sara
pulled her wig off as soon as she reached
the hotel room, carefully setting it on the stand on the bathroom
counter. She
wasn’t as fond of the Valley Blonde as she was of a few of
the others, but it
traveled well and was one of the easiest to anchor down. Kicking off
her heels,
she began undoing the jacket of her suit and fished out her cell phone,
hitting
the speed dial as she wandered through the room and let the carpeting
tickle
and soothe her feet.
The
phone rang. Idly she checked her watch; he
should still be up, it wasn’t that late. Finally the click
came over the line.
“H’lo?”
“Hey
babe, it’s me. Did I wake you?”
“Sare!
No, I, uh, fell asleep in front of the
TV. Long day—we had a couple of freeway collisions this
afternoon. Soo . . .
You’re in Washington, right?” came the sleepy male
voice. Sara let herself fall
backwards on the bed and bounced a little, smiling.
“Actually,
my flight got cancelled, so I’ve got
a layover tonight in Vegas. Wish you were here,” she
murmured, hearing a low
laugh in response.
“Yeah
me too. I love slot machines.”
“I
hope that’s not the only thing you love,”
Sara chided, hating the note of neediness in her tone. They’d
been together for
seven months now, and she still carried the guilt of not being
completely
honest. The fiction of forensic consultant weighed on her thoughts, but
Sara
wasn’t sure Hank was ready for the truth.
“Come
on, you know it’s not the only thing,” he
replied. In the little pause hanging between them on the line came a
faint
voice, one so distant that Sara thought she imagined it.
(“Hank,
is that her?”)
“So
you’re going to be in the capital tomorrow,
that’s great. I always wanted to go when I was a
kid,” came his voice, louder
in her ear, sounding too casual. Sara tensed.
Another
pause, but this one was dead quiet.
“Uh,
yeah. Yeah. Listen, I have to go, so . . .
I’ll talk to you . . . later . . . “ she
mumbled, feeling the heat roll
up her face, feeling her hands go icy cold. Hank’s voice
echoed through the
connection.
“Sara?
You okay? Listen I’ll ca—“
She
shut the phone off and tossed it on
the floor, then dropped an arm over her eyes.
Sara
lay that way on the bed for a long, long
time.
Grissom
hung his suit up and poured himself a
glass of milk, then turned on his computer. The screensaver of
tarantulas
vanished; replaced by cheery news that he had mail. As he went through
the
various notes, an IM window from HndSpkr81 popped open. Grissom sighed.
He
typed in, //hi mom//
//hi
honey. I tried to call earlier but you were
out?//
//I
went // Grissom paused, wondering what to
type; his mother didn’t know about his alternative
profession, and calling it a
date would only bring on questions he didn’t want to answer
at the moment. //to
a movie.//
//Oh
that’s nice. With someone?//
//By
myself. Saw The Spy Who Came
In From the
Cold again.//
//Richard
They
chatted a bit, and Grissom thought the
conversation was going pretty well until his mother asked the question
again.
THE question.
//So
honey, have you heard from Joan lately?//
//No
mom. I’m not seeing her anymore. You know
that.// he typed back, fingers hitting the keys a little harder than
necessary.
It had been over a year since Joan had told him she needed space.
Grissom had
never really understood that phrase; a simple ‘I
don’t want to date you
anymore’ would have been much easier to understand.
//Oh
well. I was just hoping.// came his
mother’s typed response, and Grissom felt a surge of loving
exasperation at the
sight of it. He loved his mother very much; she’d done a good
job raising him
and yet it was sort of sad that she still didn’t seem to
catch the nuances of
his moods, or the weather of his temper.
He
couldn’t blame her and he couldn’t bring
himself to depress her further, so he typed in, //Met someone new at
the store
today. I’m pretty sure she’ll come back again.//
His
mother responded with cautious glee. //Oh
that’s great honey. Is she nice?//
Grissom
thought about that for a moment.
Certainly Miss Chocolate hadn’t been nice to Bruce
Eiger’s goon, but the memory
of her husky laugh and dancing brown eyes made him smile at the screen,
and his
fingers flew over the keys with a light ‘tocking’
sound. //Very. Were you able
to ask David to watch the shop for me starting tomorrow?//
//Yes.
He said he’d be happy to do it while
you’re at the bookseller’s convention. Come and see
me before you go—I’ll give
you a list of what I want, all right?//
//All
right mom. But can you cut down on the
Barbara Cartlands? You know the looks I get when I buy those.//
//
:p // his mother typed back //Mix them in
with a few Matt Helms and nobody will say a word. When’s your
flight?//
//Ten
twenty-three. I’ll see you around eight-thirty
tomorrow before I leave. Night mom.//
//Goodnight,
Gil.//
They
didn’t sit together on the plane, although
it was the same flight.
At
the check-in at McCarran, Sara barely
recognized Mr. Peppermint, and it took all her willpower not to grin at
the
sight of him in his faded jeans and sheepskin jacket, a Chicago Cubs
baseball
cap on his head. He carried a battered backpack and a plastic thermos
of coffee
that the security officials inspected suspiciously before handing it
back to
him. At the gate he sprawled in one of the plastic seats and pulled out
a
battered Tom Clancy novel, reading it with his lips faintly moving.
Sara
put on her sunglasses and bit her lips,
unsure if he was trying to make her laugh or not. Certainly the man a
few seats
away wasn’t the quiet neatly groomed bookstore manager
she’d met yesterday, or
even the elegantly dangerous operative of last night. In any case, the
sight of
him mumbling his way through Patriot
Games was enough to lighten her
mood, and she shifted in her seat, pulling a day planner from her straw
purse,
thumbing through the pages and pretending to make a notation here and
there.
When she looked up, Mr. Peppermint caught her eye.
He
winked.
Sara
did grin, and wondered if his thermos was
filled with Twenty Blue Devils.
The
call came for boarding and they mingled in
the crowd moving down the ramp to the plane. Sara found her seat and
stowed her
purse in the overhead luggage compartment. The flight took off on time,
and
Sara idly watched the steward go through the required safety drill,
wondering
if there was a marshal on this flight, and where Mr. Peppermint was
sitting.
The thought that he was on the same plane was the more comforting one,
and
gradually Sara fell asleep, scrunching her long body up in the cramped
seat.
Grissom
tried to concentrate on his book; he’d
read enough Clancy to have a good idea how the plot would unfold, but
his mind
was too caught up in the details of the upcoming mission. It had been a
while
since he’d been to
The
timeline was still loose, but Miss Lollipop
had assured him that the Senator was hosting a final dinner party on
Friday
before flying back to his home state for a two-week vacation. The
townhouse
would be empty and searchable then. Grissom considered his
options—termite
inspector wasn’t his favorite, but it usually permitted him
widespread access
to a location while electrician let him carry bags of tools in with
impunity.
And
in either case, he smiled to himself, Miss
Chocolate would look good in a jumpsuit.
The
plane landed at Dulles, adding to the late
afternoon rush of passengers moving through the terminal. Briefly
Grissom
caught sight of Miss Chocolate rolling her luggage away from the Claims
area,
chatting away into her cell phone and looking like any other
high-powered
executive on a business trip. She strode out to the taxi stand and
climbed into
a waiting cab while Grissom made his way to the car rental counter to
pick up
his reservation.
Half
an hour later he was pulling in to the
parking lot of the Liberty Guest House, checking in to his favorite
room; the
one in the back north-west corner. Outside the window was a towering
pine, and
the view overlooked the garden in the back yard. Grissom unpacked and
checked
his watch, aware he should eat at some point soon. Once he was done he
wandered
down and settled in on the front porch, paperback in hand.
A
taxi pulled up in the overcast twilight, and
Grissom watched Miss Chocolate climb out, tipping the driver. He
didn’t look as
she passed by, but felt something light dropped into his lap.
A
foil-wrapped piece of Dove chocolate.
Carefully Grissom undid the dark blue wrapper and read the little note
on the
inside: ‘Have dinner with a friend.’
Well,
that was a clear invitation.
With
a thoughtful expression he ate the candy
and stood up, rubbing the stiffness out of his lower back, then headed
inside,
to do just as directed.
Sara
looked at the drawing on the Formica
tabletop, concentrating hard. She and Mr. Peppermint were at the back
booth of
Waffle World, idly sketching with dry erase markers while they ate. The
floor
plan was small enough to be covered by a napkin, and she studied it
carefully.
“So there are two places in the townhouse where we need to
look specifically—the
study and the bedroom. What are our options?”
“We’ve
got paperwork that will get us in the
house as termite inspectors,” he told her with a wry smile.
“We’ll call ahead
and lay the groundwork with the maid for a visit. If we can locate the
camera
and make the switch, we’ll do it then. If not, then Miss
Lollipop will wrangle
us a dinner party invitation as Professor and Mrs.
Pfefferminz.”
“The
Pfefferminzes. Why can’t we go as the
Schokolades?” she demanded in a mock-serious voice. Mr.
Peppermint’s mouth
twitched, but he refused to smile. Carefully he cleared his throat.
“Because
I have an entire identity kit already
based around Professor Pfefferminz: driver’s license, credit
cards, Museum
passes—it’s solid enough to pass
scrutiny,” he explained. “And given the level
of security the Senator maintains, I’d prefer it.”
Sara
nodded, vastly amused at his slight
stubbornness. The man had a shy charm to him that he was probably
completely
unaware of, and his little rise to her tease was fun. Carefully she
looked
again at the floor plan. “Termite inspector tomorrow
afternoon, and professor
tomorrow night. Sounds . . . busy.”
“A
bit,” he admitted. “Can you run an
Arado?”
Sara
frowned, thinking. “Yeah, as long as it’s
not too heavy. So—what are we going to do when we FIND the
safe?”
Mr.
Peppermint thrust out his jaw a little and
looked down at the doodle on the table. He sighed. “Cracking
a safe generally
isn’t that hard when you’ve got lots of time. If we
can get lucky, we might be
able to manage it tomorrow, but if not, we’ll wait until the
Senator leaves for
his vacation and then work around the housekeeper if it comes to
that.”
Sara
looked at him, cocking her head. He blinked
back at her and eventually she smiled. “Okay, sounds like a
plan.”
They
finished eating and Mr. Peppermint drove
them back to the B&B; he let her go in first and Sara went to
her room, her
good mood fading as she reached it. Her cell phone was still off, and
she
planned to keep it that way; at least until the job here was done.
As
she showered and got ready for bed, Sara
considered again Miss Lollipop’s offer to relocate her closer
to the Main Shop.
Initially she’d worried that it was because of the drinking,
but Miss Lollipop
assured her it wasn’t—that Vegas was just a more
central hub for Candy runs all
over the country. But Sara loved
A
home of her own.
Sighing,
Sara tried not to think of Hank. She
burrowed down under the comforter and thought instead of the file facts
on Mr.
Peppermint.
Odd,
really—she knew a few other agents at the
Shop, and was on a first name basis with them; none of this codename
stuff in
private. Greg was Greg, and even Heather herself had urged Sara to
address her
by first name. But somehow the formality of the Candy Shop designation
fit with
the man in the other room; even though she was perfectly aware of his
identity
it just felt right to continue to call him Mr. Peppermint.
Single.
Educated in Biology with a specialty in
entomology, more specifically forensic entomology. Several years with
the LAPD
and then for some reason he chose to drop out of sight and teach at an
obscure
college in
And thinking of that, she fell asleep.
