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  “Looks like you have plenty of space,” I said pointing to one of the walls. “No need to displace anyone on my account.”

  “Nah-ah,” Lucia said. “I like to give art pieces the space they need to breathe and project. Last thing we want to do is give the impression of an over-crowded trinket shop.”

  She gestured for me to follow her into the kitchen, a large space on its own right, and one apparently devoted to the culinary arts at the exclusion of all others.

  “No art pieces in here,” I noted.

  “Grease and steam are poor art companions,” Lucia replied with another wink.

  “It smells great in here,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Lucia replied with a sideways glance as she approached the stove. “The Paella should be almost done.” She crouched to peer through the oven's window. “You are a little early, but I suppose that's the best way to ensure punctuality.”

  Lucia stood up and grinned at me. “I recall reading a blog post on the importance of punctuality for a wedding photographer, and all the things he does to ensure it. Personally, I think it doubled as a thinly veiled suggestions to brides, grooms and their entourages to be on time and not waste the talented photographer's time.”

  I could not help but laugh at Lucia's quip.

  The laughter subsided, and I said, “I take it that's part of the research you did on Andre before you approached him. I bet you do that with all your artists before you take them on?”

  Lucia's lips broke into a tight little grin. “I'm sure I'm not the only one.”

  "You lost me," I said.

  "I mean I'm sure that gorgeous reporter of yours researched the heck out of you."

  I can only guess at why my mind visualized Lucia and Bridget facing each other. I guess I had anticipated it when Lucia invited us both over for dinner. Or maybe I was fantacizing about the two of them sparring over me. Weird, I know, but there they were, the two of them staring each other down, the air between them tense in spite of the smiles. In this short daydream of mine, Lucia, at around 5'4”, four to six inches shorter, and maybe one to two inches wider than Bridget, stood with one fisted hand propped into her hip and the other hand resting on the kitchen's island counter. For a moment I visualized the unkind image of a bulldog staring down a svelte racing hound. Lucia's tanned, bronzed skin and dark brown hair played out the final contrast against Bridget's fairer complexion.

  Yet, once I got past the superficial, I sensed they shared a drive to succeed, innate as well as learned ability to strive toward achievement, and the well-measured confidence that capped it all off.

  “We can all be sure Ms. Suarez does impeccable research,” I said, as much to break the awkward silence as to awkwardly remind Lucia that she and the other gal shared a Hispanic heritage.

  When she didn't reply, I rushed to add, “I'm impressed you cook Paella. Are you or any in your family from Spain?”

  A clock dinged, and Lucia went to work on getting the Paella and a salad ready for serving.

  With her back to me, Lucia said, “Nope. Not unless you go back God knows how many generations.” She took out the steaming metal pan containing the mix of rice, vegetables and various meats. “I looked up the recipe on Google. No worries, though. This is my fifth attempt, and after try numero dos, I've been nailing it ever since.” She set the pan on top of the stove's burners. “Looks like I did it again.”

  I helped her carry platters and plates out to the dinner table. The first few minutes occupied us with serving food and pouring of the promised Rioja wine. A few more minutes of jovial conversation about the quality of the food followed. Then, we started talking.

  ***

  The Rioja bottle now dispatched, mostly via Lucia's glass, she poured herself another glass from a bottle of Zinfandel -- her favorite, as she'd announced upon popping the cork.

  "She's coming to pick up later?" Lucia asked, referring to the call from Bridget I'd just received.

  "Yeah."

  "I couldn't help overhear. Something about her bringing her stuff over to your place."

  "Yeah."

  “You sure it's a good idea for her to stay at your place tonight?” Lucia asked as she closed the dishwasher.

  Her question took me aback. At first Lucia had seemed put off by Bridget's sudden refusal to join us. But then she'd said it gave us more time to chat one on one, review the four photos I'd brought and to discuss business. Her direct expressed concern over Bridget spending the night at my place seemed misplaced.

  “Afraid she'll steal my photos?” I asked.

  Lucia made a face. “Afraid you don't know her all that well is more like it.”

  “I've known her a little longer than I've known you.”

  She raised her hands. “Alright. My bad. None of my business.”

  “No, please. Go on. I appreciate a little female intuition in my life.”

  Lucia lowered her head and looked up at me through her dangling bangs. “You really want me to play big sister?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. I may be the first letter in LGBT and all that, but I can see you're an attractive guy. Smart, too. A catch for many a chick out there, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “For most chicks, I'd say. Yeah.”

  “But not that chick.”

  “Hmm. Not so much. That chick has designs and standards. Nothing personal, OK?”

  “No worries and no offense taken.”

  “It's not about you,” Lucia said. “It's about her and how high up in the air her nose points. Am I right?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don't know, Andre. Women do interesting things. Maybe she would go for you, the silent, strong, smart, educated and artistic kind, with a little bit of dangerous thrown in. But I'm not getting that vibe. Something isn't adding up for me.”

  “You get all that from watching her on TV.”

  “Yeah, I do. That vibe tells me she's looking to squeeze you for something other than nighttime pleasures. You know what I mean?”

  “You mean, related to the shooting. You think she wants to keep riding the story.”

  “Yeah. That.” Lucia paused as if something told her to proceed with care. “And something else. I can't know what that is, but something's there. I can feel it. The more you get to know me you'll see. I have good instincts for stuff like this.”

  A strong urge came over me to confirm her suspicion, but I restrained it. The next moment I considered whether to probe her about this instinct that had so uncannily given her that vibe she talked about. That too I set aside.

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said.

  “Ah. Now comes the pat on the head. Good girl, Lucia. Now run along.”

  “That's not what I meant.”

  She lowered her head again to give me another of her through-the-hair looks. “My bad,” she said. “I'm not used to guys heeding my advice. Not the straight ones, anyway.”

  I pulled up a stool and sat at the island counter. “So what would you do in my place?”

  Lucia laughed. “I'd sleep with her, and then I'd give her the boot.”

  Now I laughed. “You sound like a lot of guys I know.”

  She smiled for a few seconds then grew serious. “I'm making a real point here, though,” she said pointing at me. “That chick's trouble. Don't get too tangled up with her, OK?”

  She let the question linger and drift in the space between us before she punctuated it with, “Don’t get entangled.”

  “She's not my brand. Is that it?” I fought to seem nonchalant.

  “Something like that. Listen, Andre. We haven't known each other for long, but I can read you well enough. You're a troubled soul. That's alright. Most artists are, especially the good ones. You just have to channel that trouble. You point it like a laser, OK? You must focus it into your art, and nothing else. Whatever's going on here, with you, with her and whatever else, don't let it pull you away from your art.”

  We stared at each other
for few moments that felt like an hour.

  “Am I getting through here? Am I making sense?” she asked.

  I had to look away, through the kitchen window and out into the night. Yeah, she'd gotten through, mostly because she'd said something I knew all along.

  Chapter 8

  Back at my apartment, Bridget more or less ran to her laptop the second I unlocked the front door. She didn't say why, and I didn't ask. This time, though, I did go to her and stood over her shoulder. She didn't seem to mind.

  She brought up a command window and typed a few commands. It took me a minute to decipher what she was doing. I stopped breathing when I did. She was running a utility to see whether anyone had accessed her computer while we were gone. Another minute passed, and she pointed at the screen and the warning message flagging that a keyboard monitoring app had been installed. She typed another command, followed by another, followed by a third, which in turn executed a batched set of commands.

  When that concluded, a message appeared confirming the offending app had gone into quarantine. She ran a quick diagnostic and flashed me a thumbs-up when it came up with a all-clear indication.

  Still staring at the screen, Bridget grinned.

  She switched windows to bring up a browser. Within it, she reviewed the Twitter stream for her news network. She stopped at two identical entries about a train derailment. With her index finger, she wagged back and forward between the two items, then nodded. It took me a few seconds to notice what she saw. A one character difference, X instead of H, in the hyperlink each of the Twitter messages listed.

  Bridget looked up at me with a grin. “See that?”

  “Yeah, interesting story.” I said that as my mind guessed at what that one character difference meant. An encoded something, from the way she reacted. Confirmation of whatever she was expecting to learn, maybe about meeting with her source?

  She went back to the command screen and unleashed a flurry of keystrokes, the grand total of which read, “I feel like one of Goldilocks' bears. Question is, which one should I be?”

  I read it in silence. Once I nodded, she back-spaced to erase her one-on-one text message.

  She then reached into her purse and took out a device I recognized. It took all manner of self-restrain not to ask her where she'd gotten it.

  Bridget turned it on and frowned at it until a green light came on. She then began to walk around my apartment. The device's green light turned red once by my TV, and twice in my small kitchen, by the microwave and across the way by the stove. It lit up three times in my bedroom and twice in the other bedroom I used for my office. We went into the bathroom last, where there wasn't much room for concealment. The device lit up once when Bridget brought it to the toilet.

  She reached behind the tank, felt for it, and pulled it out: a small putty-looking black thing with a translucent hair-like antenna hanging from it. With a grin, she held it out to me in the palm of her hand.

  I wanted to tell her we shouldn't destroy it. To do so would alert whomever had installed it that we were onto them, and that we were taking evasive measures, something that might drive them to make a move on us.

  “We really must talk about your house-keeping,” Bridget said. “The rest of the house is clean enough, but this bathroom needs some serious disinfecting.”

  I started waving my hands to dissuade her, but she was already lifting the toilet lid. The bug dropped into the water with a blop. She pulled the flush lever.

  “Close the door,” she whispered.

  I did, and she turned on the faucet. She waved her scanner around the bathroom one more time.

  She turned to me and came closer. “Relax, Andre. They'll just think paranoid Bridget went on a bug hunt and missed them all but one. We need a safe room, and this will be it. Heck, if a girl can't tinkle with some privacy, what has the world come to?”

  I looked into her eyes and saw them clouding with concern.

  “It's OK, really,” she said.

  “Where did you get that thing?”

  “I'm sure you can guess.”

  She set the scanner on the sink counter and turned it off. With a wry smile, she turned to me.

  “You seem tense,” she said, resting her arms loosely on my shoulders.

  “You should be too.”

  “Oh, I am. All wound up, with jet lag sprinkled on top. Long day of bouncing around town with an artist, and all.” She gave me a light kiss. “You need to relax.”

  “We're wasting water.”

  “Oh? What happened to that white noise trick you taught me? A faucet may not be as good as a fountain, but it does well enough, wouldn't you say?”

  My mind raced to put her part of the puzzle together. Her source had given her the scanner, had somehow spoofed her network's Twitter feed to post a warning, or a go ahead message, or something. If that were not enough, Bridget had the know-how and trade-craft to detect and evade electronic surveillance, presumably, also thanks to her source. Why then had she sought to recruit me out in the open, in a New York restaurant? Why had she done all this in full view? Because she wanted my handlers to come after me, after her, to over-play their hand and in so doing reveal the secrets she was trying to expose? Had her source counseled her to do it this way?

  “This is a dangerous game you're playing,” I said.

  “You mean the game we're playing, right? Because you're in this all the way, fully engaged.”

  That last word made me want to pull away from her. I recalled Walter asking me whether I was engaged, and could not help but make the connection, especially given the way she'd said it and the way she was looking at me now.

  “Why do you say it like that, engaged?” I asked.

  “I guess my source is better than you thought.”

  “Jesus, Bridget. Do you know what we're into?”

  “I think I do. Do you?”

  “What are you?” I asked.

  “Still a reporter. Just a reporter doing my job.”

  I shook my head and tried to step away from her. She didn't let me, and somehow we ended up closer than before, with my hands resting on her hips.

  Bridget smiled. “God, you really do need to relax.”

  Her forearms locked behind my neck and she pulled me in. She looked into my eyes not with malice or lust, but with what I could not mistake for anything but compassion. Then she kissed me long and hard.

  Chapter 9

  Entangled. That word formed my first thought as I awoke, sheets strapped through and around my legs, Bridget’s right arm and leg pinning me down onto my bed. Bright sunlight beamed through window blinds whose blades wouldn’t close all the way. The early, almost horizontal angle of the sun’s rays beckoned me to get up. My full, aching bladder did as well, pressed downward under the weight of Bridget’s thigh. I stayed there, asking myself and whoever else might be listening how’d gotten to this point. Entangled.

  I stirred gently in hopes Bridget would either roll onto her back or wake up. In return, I only got a soft moan and a shift in her weight that tightened her hold on me. I was about to take more assertive action when her cellphone rang with a repeating pattern of what I recognized as a Bach sonata for harpsichord.

  She turned to tend to it. I rolled out to escape for the bathroom.

  When I returned I found her under the thin sheet, no longer a tangled mess, swiping on her phone. She stopped with a frown.

  “Something interesting?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Care to share?”

  She looked up with a smile. “Sure. How much is it worth to you?”

  “I’m not that kind of a morning person.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Well?” I pressed.

  “New developments in that story I’m here to cover.” She looked down at her phone, then back at me with a raised eyebrow. “More details to come.” She got up, releasing her one-handed grip on the sheet and walked past me.

  From the bathroom she said, “You guys stil
l having a drought here?”

  “Always,” I replied.

  “Then how about we take a shower together,” she shot back with a playful voice. “I wouldn’t want to bust your water bill.”

  By the time I entered the bathroom, she'd already stepped into the shower. She turned on the water, then waved for me to come closer.

  I closed the door behind me, waved her off, and sat on the toilet, next to the tub-shower. She knelt down inside the tub and rested her arms on her knees. With the curtain open, water spray flying off her back and steam going everywhere, she stared at me.

  “You're shivering,” she said.

  Only now did I notice it, the trembling that rises from a tremor deep inside your stomach, the kind that grips you when you feel the world strangling you.

  “Why don't you come in?” she said. “The water will warm you--”

  “I can't do this,” I said.

  “Can't do what?”

  “Whatever you and your source are scheming, if that's what's really going on here.”

  Bridget shifted her weight to sit and wrap her arms around her calves. “What's really going on here,” she said. “You still think I might be working for someone.”

  “You are. You're working for her, whoever she is.”

  “You think she's manipulating me, pulling my strings.” Bridget looked up to draw in one long breath, then looked back at me. “We think alike. I can't assure you she isn't driving the show. In a way she is. But you and I, we're smart people. We know how far to go.”

  “We do? Just exactly how far is far enough? Can you define that for me?”

  Bridget closed her eyes and leaned her head back to let the water run through her hair. Still in that position, she said, “She wants to meet. Not with me. With you.”