The Spy Who Almost Loved Me Ch 01

PART ONE OF THREE

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THE EX-WIFE, THE P.I. AND THE MARK

PROLOGUE

As I write this, I am sitting on a patio, overlooking the sea, crystal blue waters with wavetops sparkling like diamonds as they reflect the sun's rays. As I sip a glass of the unique, local wine, I am reflecting on the last few months of my life. It has changed dramatically during that time; mostly in ways I would never have imagined, and for the most part, for the better. I am not on vacation, and I didn't just hop on a plane and fly here. How I ended up here is what this story is about.

My wife and I were married for seven years, and for the first five, very happily so. I was madly in love with her, and she with me -- of that I am certain.

However, after five years, things between us changed; and six years into our marriage, I discovered she was sleeping with her boss.

After that, I loved her less.

That was three years ago. A year later, we were divorced. It was inevitable. But at the time, even before I found out she was cheating on me, our relationship had changed, began deteriorating, and I didn't know why.

So, I discovered she wasn't the smartest choice I'd ever made. Live and learn...and pay dearly for the lesson -- alimony, half of everything, all of my house, even my truck.

She had better lawyers and was more determined and devious.

That was two years ago. Since then, I'd gotten over her and gotten my life back on track. My business was doing well; I was dating some; things were looking up. And I hadn't seen Sara since the divorce. We both still lived in the same city, Albuquerque, New Mexico, but had managed to not bump into each other, until six months ago.

INTRODUCTIONS

I'm Ethan -- 34, 6'- 1' and 200 pounds; solidly built, good physique, reasonably handsome, with blue eyes and dark-blond hair worn 'clean cut'. I have a 'SoCal, USC-grad' look and a laid-back demeanor. However, I didn't graduate from USC and have never been to California. As for my demeanor, I owe that to my parents -- sweet, gentle people that taught me that everything is better handled with a controlled, thoughtful approach. As my dad used to say, "Don't get your skivvies in a twist, Son, it never makes anything easier." Over time, I learned he wasn't talking about underwear management, and took his meaning to heart.

My ex-wife, Sara, 32, is a walking wet dream. A poster girl for 'Starlets-R-Us' -- her five-foot, nine-inch, 140-pound, hour-glass shaped body is a curvaceous 40-25-37. She is a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty with a pretty, slightly round face, average nose, and a wide mouth with full, perfectly shaped lips. She highlights her long, naturally blond hair, and she is a Southern California girl. She is (was): Smart, sweet, fun-loving, and a dynamic lover. She can't cook, but nobody's perfect.

Of course, she is my ex-wife due to the aforementioned reason.

THE STORY

I. THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER

I was leaving a store, when I heard, "Ethan?"

I turned.

Damn, I'd forgotten just how beautiful the sneaky, no-good, dirty rotten, lying, cheating, two-timing bitch was.

(Yeah, I know -- 'cheating' and 'two-timing' are redundant. It's called 'emphatic reinforcement', because she 'emphatically' cheated on me!)

We exchanged pleasantries and asked each other how we were doing. We both lied.

I ended with, "Well, good to see you," another lie, and headed for my car.

"You, too, Ethan," Sara replied, and turned to enter the store.

Behind me, "Ethan, sorry. I um, was wondering if..."

I stopped and turned back, "Yes?"

"Would it be okay...if I asked for your phone number?"

I thought a second; couldn't think of a good reason why not, "Um, sure, I guess."

I gave her the number and she punched it into her phone. I noticed her hands were shaking.

"Is everything okay?"

"What? Oh, yes. I just...I'm getting ready to move, and it's been hectic. And that's why I wanted your number. I'm cleaning out stuff and may have some things you want."

"Oh, okay. It was nice to see you. You look great," I finished with a lie and a truth, and made my escape.

"You, too Ethan," she said to my back as I was already making a beeline to my car.

She was lying, of course. I had cleaned everything out of the house that mattered to me when I left -- everything the court allowed, that is. And I didn't actually leave. Sara and her fucking lawyers had me kicked out -- of my house. Bitter? Noooo! Why would I be? I designed it; I had it built; I paid for it -- not Sara; not her fucking lawyers, 'Screw You and Associates, Inc.'

Honestly, I thought I was over all of that; over her and what she did to me; over the anger, the hurt. Hmph, guess not. As soon as I saw her, it all came rushing back. Bumping into her like that was the last thing I needed, but just bad luck, right? Unlucky accident, right?

Wrong.

I went to my car, a soul red, crystal metallic Miata convertible -- a gift to myself to help me get over Sara. Didn't help -- but it doesn't hurt when I'm looking for female company. I got in, but didn't start the engine. I just sat there, trying to get my emotions under control. It was a good thing I did. Not two minutes after running into her, she came back out of the store, talking on her cell as she headed to her truck -- my truck.

"What the fuck?" I thought. I don't like that word and don't normally use it when speaking, or even thinking; except when my ex-wife is involved, then it seems to crop up a lot.

She was up to something. We didn't bump into each other by accident. It was Sara being Sara. So why the subterfuge? Fuck! I didn't just give her my phone number, did I? And she obviously followed me here, so she knows what I drive and probably where I live. Fuck!

See what I mean.

I was going to dismiss it, but my intuition said otherwise. "This is important. Don't ignore this," it told me, so I didn't.

I followed her, using my best 'gumshoe' surveillance techniques (I kept a couple cars between us), so she we wouldn't catch me tailing her. It didn't take long to realize where she was headed -- to my 'ex-house'. I parked at a distance, but it wasn't far enough -- unfortunately, I could see the grounds. The lawn was dead, the trees were looking pretty bad, the place looked like hell, and there was a 'for sale' sign out front. Fuck!

I decided right then to hire somebody who could find out what she was up to, before she fucked me all over again -- yes, euphemistically.

I needed a private detective.

When we were going through the divorce, I'd hired one to catch my wife sleeping with her boss, to help with the divorce case. He reported he couldn't find any incriminating evidence. My lawyer found out later that my darling wife fucked my detective so he'd give a false report. Big surprise.

And you wonder why I'm so bitter!

I wasn't sitting there five minutes, and a 26-foot rental van pulled into the driveway. When they started loading up some of my parents' furniture -- fuck! -- I had to leave. I couldn't watch that.

And unless I missed my guess, darling Sara was in financial trouble. No wonder she wanted my number. She was going to put the touch on me, or try to rope me into something I'd regret.

As soon as I got home, I went to my desktop and typed in 'Private Investigators'.

After an hour of reading bios and reviews, I was down to three. One was a female. That decided it -- most favorable odds my wife wouldn't sleep with my detective -- unless this one was a lesbian. I promised myself I would ask.

II. THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I called the next morning.

"Addison Agency, how may I assist you?"

"May I speak to Ms. Addison, please?"

"This is she. And you can drop the 'Ms.' thing."

"Oh great, she's one of those," I thought.

"I'm not being difficult; Addison is my first name."

"Oh, um, okay. I wasn't thinking..."

"Sure, you were. But go ahead. How can I help you?"

"I believe my ex-wife is up to something, something that is going to bite me in the ass," I said frankly.

"Standard ex-wife conduct," she stated, flatly. "Why do you think this? I mean, other than she's your ex-wife, a real bitch, took you for everything you had and totally screwed your life over."

I was astounded, "You know my ex-wife?"

"I'm good, but I'm not that good. You haven't given me your name yet."

"Oh, I'm Ethan."

"That narrows it down to...1,136 men, if your cell number accurately reflects your state of residence."

It did. I laughed. I liked this gal. I gave her my last name and my ex-wife's name.

"Hang on," she said. After several minutes of silence, "Well, Ethan, your wife is a piece of work, obviously in trouble, and yes, you need my help."

"What, how did you..."

"I'm a detective; I have a big computer; I see you can afford me; and we need to meet, today."

"Is it that bad? What's on your computer?"

"Yup. It's that bad, and you don't need to know what's on my computer. What time works for you?" she asked.

"Anytime."

"Where are you now?"

I told her.

"I gotta eat. You like Mexican? Of course, you do. You know Monroe's, right?" she fired at me.

"Sure. Great place." I confirmed.

"Meet me there in...one hour. I need a few minutes to do some digging."

"Monroe's in one hour," I repeated.

She instructed, "Get a table. You'll be meeting Evelyn from Parker Real Estate Group. Got it?"

"Um, Evelyn, Parker, yes, got it."

"Oh, Ethan, don't talk to anybody about anything in the next hour. Until we've talked, don't take any phone calls from the ex...Don't take any phone calls, period."

She hung up. I was shaking. The "Addison Agency" had just scared the hell out of me.

I arrived at Monroe's five minutes early and got a table. Ten minutes later, a petite, nicely-dressed, middle-aged woman, carrying a valise and wearing a Parker Real Estate jacket, approached my table.

"Good afternoon, Ethan. I'm Evelyn. It's a pleasure to meet you," she greeted me in Addison's voice.

I stood and shook her offered hand, "Nice to meet you, Evelyn." She had a firm grip.

As she sat, she slipped me a small piece of paper.

You're looking for a house.

We'll engage in small talk and eat.

When we leave, you'll follow me

to a house listing where we can talk.

What the hell was going on. And yeah, I know, sounds like right out of a cheesy spy novel; which is exactly how it felt -- except for the cheesy. But I was too scared to do anything but play along. And for some reason, I trusted Addison. At that point, I had no choice.

So, we ate and engaged in conversation, which Addison made easy by feeding me the appropriate questions. She was very good. If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was actually what she looked like -- a middle-aged, slightly overweight, real estate agent with over-processed ash-blond hair and an overbite.

When we got to the parking lot, there was a midnight-blue Audi sedan with Parker Real Estate signs, sitting one space away from my Miata.

We arrived at an upscale, two-story, Southwestern-style house in Sandia Heights and I followed Addison up the drive. We exited our cars and approached the front door, where she produced an electronic realtor's key and swiped the lock box. "Okay, she's good," I thought. After letting us in, she went straight through the house to the rear entrance and out the back to a casita by the pool. She opened the door with a key and let me in, then closed and locked it. Turning from the door, she removed her suit jacket and threw it on a chair.

The woman standing in front of me was not overweight. The pink chiffon blouse she was wearing did not hide the firm body it was covering. She caught me looking.

"The jacket's padded," she said perfunctorily, then removed a snap-on veneer and her overbite disappeared. She removed the ash-blond wig, revealing light-brown hair cut in a short, attractive style I think of as a business-woman's cut. Say goodbye to moderately frumpy Evelyn; hello to considerably attractive Addison.

"Okay, we have about 20 minutes before it might look suspicious," she said, getting down to business.

"What the hell is..." I started.

"Ethan, I'll explain. Save your questions till I'm done. I'm sorry. I know this seems a bit...melodramatic, but you'll understand. I debated on whether to take this case, but I love a challenge, and you need my help. I don't know why you selected me, but you're lucky. Not too many agencies would want to help you with this, or have the appropriate resources, or, um, the necessary 'operational latitude' to do the job."

"I selected you because you were one of the first listings, had great reviews, and you're female," I explained, then asked, 'Why wouldn't most agencies be able to help me?"

"I'll get to your question, but first, why does it matter that I'm female?" she asked bluntly.

"I'll explain, but I have one more question before I answer..."

"Shoot."

"Are you lesbian by any chance?"

She laughed, "Okay, you actually surprised me. I can honestly say, no one has ever asked that before. No, I like guys. Why?"

"The last detective I hired double-crossed me after my wife slept with him."

She chuckled, "Okay, I understand the female thing; and I understand the lesbian question now. I can assure you, even if I was inclined to sleep with a woman, and I'm not saying I have ruled that out, I wouldn't sleep with your ex-wife. Besides her being a devious bitch, I make it a rule never to sleep with anyone prettier than me," she grinned.

"She's not..." I started, more forcefully than I intended, then caught myself, "She's not prettier than you. She is a devious bitch, though."

"Thank you for the compliment, Ethan, but I'm still charging you full rate," she joked.

"Addison, what's going on, why the cloak and dagger? And why wouldn't other agencies want to help me? Am I in danger?"

She took my hand and squeezed it firmly, "Easy, Ethan. Slow down. It's going to be okay, if...well, no ifs."

She chewed her lip, "Okay, here's the deal. Your ex-wife is apparently in deep shit with some very bad people. Besides your wife, her ex-boss is in bed with some people that I'm still researching, but they have all the ear markings of a syndicate; which is why a lot of agencies wouldn't touch this. Anyway, whoever they are, she apparently owes them a lot of money, maybe something else. I have to dig more. And you're being watched. We were followed here, which confirms these are 'bad' people, and that my precautions were warranted."

She looked hard at me, "Which brings us to you. You're marked. Whatever your ex is up to, I'm pretty sure she's thrown you under the bus. What do you have that they would be after?" she questioned.

"What? Nothing."

Hand on hip, she stood there eyeing me, "You aren't being forthcoming. I admit, on the surface, you don't appear to have anything substantial to garner this attention. And I've seen your financials, and on paper, there's nothing to warrant it. But you must have something they want -- money most likely, or something of high value," she concluded then paused, eyeing me.

"I understand you're not sure you can trust me, yet; which is reasonable and understandable, but we don't have the luxury of waiting until that trust is established. We're playing catch-up and have to get a handle on this, and fast. Understand?"

"Okay, yes. There is something. But there is no way they could know...she could know."

"Ethan, trust me, she knows. They know. Spill it."

"I have a trust. It's pretty large. But it's not even in my name; not the name I have now."

"Define 'large' and explain the name."

"I'm adopted. The trust is in my birth name...and 'large' is roughly 48 million dollars."

"Well, crap, that'll do it," she remarked and flopped in a chair.

I continued, "But I can't imagine how Sara found out about it. I don't keep any documents at home. I never told her about it. I've never told anyone, not even my adoptive parents. Hell, I didn't even find out about it until I was 21."

"Okay, okay. But somehow, she knows. Doesn't matter how..." she paused, chewing her lip, "tell me, how did you acquire such a large sum; why keep it secret; and why aren't you on some island, living like a Kennedy? Why not use the money? You obviously aren't!"

"The trust is from my birth parents. I was only four when they died in an accident. They were headed to Aspen in a private plane...and didn't make it. Our family lawyers took care of everything, and I was adopted by a great family, without knowing about the trust, the money. That's the short of it. As far as why I haven't taken advantage of that money -- when I learned about it, I was in college and on a specific path. And, it may sound odd, but I didn't want to start my life off as a spoiled, rich guy who could buy his way through life. I wanted to make my way on my own merit, then, when the time was right, retire early, see the world, so on.

I did use $300,000 to pay for my Master's and as seed money for my business. After I got married, I stuck with that plan and was going to surprise my wife...well, anyway, you know how that went.

"Okay, got it. We can talk more about that later, but right now, I have to find out who we're dealing with. We'll meet again tomorrow to look at another house. I should know a lot more by then. In the meantime, if Sara calls you and wants to get together, do it. Allay any suspicions that you are onto her. Fuck her if you have to, but don't do anything that would warn her about what we know."

"Got it, but I'm not going to sleep with her. I can't do that."

"Is your dick broken?"

"What? No."

"Have you become homosexual?"

"No."

"Do you have a girlfriend I don't know about?"

"No, I..."

She interrupted me, "Ethan, the type of people I think we're dealing with -- they'll kill you for that kind of money, without a second thought. I'm not trying to scare you; I just want you to understand -- it doesn't get any more serious than this. And I get it, you don't want to screw the bitch, and I'm not telling you to 'try' to bed her. But we need the intel. Whatever she knows, we need to know. You need to use your head; and if that means using the little head...Hey she's a hot looking broad! If it comes up, consider it revenge sex!" she offered, chuckling.

As she was talking, I noticed her eyes. She had beautiful eyes, with caramel-brown irises, and they lit up when she laughed. Hell, her whole face was beautiful. And from what I could tell, her body was damn nice, too. I found myself wondering if she had a boyfriend or husband.

Though she pretended not to notice, she caught me eyeing her. She looked away, but not before I saw a small smile turn up the corners of her mouth.

"Okay, I'll call you with instructions, and from now on, assume someone's listening to our conversations, which will always be under the real estate guise. So, keep the dialogue to that."

"Got it. Um, about the real estate..."

"I have a license, all legit. It comes in very handy."

She saw my questioning look.

"A former client, a grateful client, is a partner at the firm. We need to go."

With that, she put in the veneer, slipped her on her wig, and pulled her padded suit jacket back on.

"Um, Addison, there is one more thing..."

"I'm not married," she volunteered.

"What? No, I wasn't thinking..."

"Sure, you were," she interrupted, "But go ahead, what's the question?"

"Man, I'm never playing poker with this woman," I thought.

"Why use your first name for your company moniker? Why not your last?"

"Addison puts me close to first on most lists; and my last name is Wysocki."

"You probably made the right choice," I deadpanned.

She laughed, "Come on, smartass, we gotta go."