Summary: Carmen hires a call girl to fulfill a very specific fantasy. Carmen/OFC, hints of Carmen/Ivy.
Disclaimer: WOEICS is the property of not moi.
Author's Note: This is not a story for younger readers. This chapter in particular contains course language and sexual themes. Also, my story takes place about 3 years after the final episode of WOEICS. So, Ivy, Zack, Alex, etc are all legally adults.
Acknowledgments: Thank you to all my loyal readers for your patience and enthusiasm!
Know what's worse than getting dumped? Getting dumped and then getting arrested.
Well, technically I hadn't been arrested. Yet. I had been sitting in a violently bland interrogation room at ACME's New York headquarters for the past five hours and I had yet to be charged with anything. I also had yet to make my one phone call or use the bathroom. I was scared, almost too scared to think straight. On some level I had always known that it was possible to jail for what I did. But, working in the stratosphere of sex work lead to one feeling very insulated. The money and the well-heeled clients made me feel safe. The more I got away with it, the more it began to seem unlikely I would ever face any kind of reckoning for my crimes. I wondered if Carmen felt the same way.
The very thought the woman who had gotten me into this mess made me want to spit nails. If I wasn't very careful in the next few hours, I was going away for a very long time. Wasting precious time pining for a woman who clearly didn't give a damn for me wasn't going to keep me out of prison. How much ACME knew was impossible to tell. The trap of it was, to exonerate myself of being an accessory to robbery meant confessing to prostitution. I needed a lawyer. A good one.
The creak of a door hinge announced the arrival of my interrogators. They seated themselves opposite me: the lanky blonde guy from before, and, much to my dismay, his sister, my doppelganger. The brother spoke in a casual manner, "Ms. O'Keefe. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Zack, this is Ivy, and, as you know, we're ACME detectives. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your association with Carmen Sandiego."
"I want a lawyer. Law-yer," I spat emphatically.
Detective Zack glanced at his sister, who merely glared in response. "Well, Alex…may I call you Alex? Under the American constitution you are guaranteed the right to an attorney. But, ACME operates extraterritorially. So, as our New York office is technically not on American soil, we don't have to provide you with one. And, before you ask, we can hold you indefinitely without charging you. This is going to go a lot better for everyone if you start cooperating with us." I had to hand it to this boy; no one has ever told me I was totally fucked in such a polite way before.
"Fine. What do you want to know?"
Zack gave me a warm and reassuring glance. Out of the corner of my eye, his sister snapped the cheap plastic pen she was holding in half, blue ink splattering her notepad like drops of blood. This wasn't good cop, bad cop; it was good cop and one extremely pissed off cop. Even though the air conditioning made it artificially cold in the interrogation room, I took off my leather jacket. Dressing like Detective Ivy's twin probably wasn't doing me any favors and I needed all the help I could get.
Zack handed his sister his pen and said, "Please explain how Chop Suey came to be hanging on the wall of your apartment."
"Carmen dropped it off there. I don't know why. I didn't know she was planning to steal it. I never met her before tonight." Some of that was a lie; the latter was technically the truth.
Then Ivy turned to me, her eyes the sickly, churning color of an Iowa sky before a tornado. "You're telling us you don't know Carmen Sandiego."
"Well, she's kind of a hard person to know," I quipped before I had the chance to think the better of it. Zack coughed and tried to swallow his laughter.
My remark made Detective Ivy's glare turn positively poisonous. "There's a lot about you that doesn't add up, Ms. O'Keefe," she said with undisguised venom.
Her brother pulled out a manila folder full of paper. He held up something I recognized as last year's tax return. "For example, according to these documents, you're a graphic designer making $40,000 a year."
I swallowed and tried to sound like someone with nothing to hide. "That's correct."
"But two years ago, you bought a renovated loft in one of the city's most desirable neighborhoods for $1.1 million. That's a lot of mortgage for a girl your age," the redhead commented.
"I'm frugal."
The tag teaming continued. "You say you're employed by a company, Olympia Management. But, the address you gave is just a post-office box in Alphabet City. And your bank records indicate that you get paid monthly from an offshore account in Antigua," Zack stated matter-of-factly.
"We're a small company. I'm not in charge of payroll." I murmured unconvincingly, feeling the sweat roll down by back despite the chill in the air.
Ivy slammed a plastic bag down on the metal table in front of me. "Know what this is?" I shook my head. "Human hair. Just got the results back from the lab. How in the hell did Carmen Sandiego's hair end up in your bed?" She snarled at me.
That was a question I could not evade. Ivy's words broke me, shattering the last of my patchwork resistance. I buried my head in my hands as tears sprung to my already stinging eyes. They had me in a hundred different ways. Fraud, tax evasion, prostitution- take your pick, I was going to jail.
"Zack, Ms. O'Keefe looks thirsty, why don't you get her a soda?" I heard Ivy say in a quiet voice.
"But, we're just getting started!" He paused. "I know what you're thinking, sis…but c'mon, I'm nineteen, I'm old enough."
"Yes, you are. But if I have to have this conversation in front of my little brother, I will be in therapy for the rest of my life!" she half-barked, half-whispered.
"Okay, okay. I'll get some sodas. And some more pens." He turned to me and said softly before leaving, "I don't know who Carmen is to you, but she's not worth going to jail for." You're damn right she's not.
And now I was left alone to face my angry doppelganger; stronger, faster, more moral and with the power to send me to prison. To my surprise, Detective Ivy fished a tissue out of her pocket and handed it to me. "Here," she said, not unkindly. Her hands, I noticed, were rough and calloused, one of her thumbnails black and blue, whereas mine were small, soft and painted. So alike and so very different.
"Let's try this again. When did you first meet Carmen Sandiego?"
I took a deep breath. "About three, four months ago. A woman named Sofia Calderon made arrangements through Olympia to hire….my services. I didn't know she was Carmen until tonight. That's the truth, I swear."
Ivy looked puzzled. "Carmen wanted your services as a graphic designer?"
I gritted my teeth. I would not appear ashamed. "No. As a prostitute," I watched the detective's face betray her, eyebrows rising up to meet her hairline. "Olympia Management is an escort agency. We have offices in New York, London, Moscow and Tokyo."
My twin's face was pale. She was less of an experienced interrogator than I had originally thought. "So, you are not connected with VILE?"
"I'll give you the password for the website- look me up if you don't believe me. Who in the world did you think I was?"
She shook her head. "We thought perhaps you were running a VILE safehouse of some kind. Or that you were Carmen's….mistress," she pronounced uncomfortably.
"Quite a step down from that, I'm afraid."
"We'll see if your story checks out." Ivy switched tactics, turning to a blank sheet of paper. "How many times did she arrange dates with you?"
"Three times officially through my agency. Tonight she just showed up unannounced at my apartment."
"And you never suspected she wasn't who she said she was?" Her suspicion returned.
"A beautiful woman wanted to pay me obscene amounts of money to have sex with her. I didn't ask a lot of questions. It wasn't exactly a hardship," I deadpanned, enjoying the way my answer made a flush rise in the young woman's cheeks. "She said she was a businesswoman. Not too different from my usual clients. Just another wealthy, lonely, workaholic."
Ivy's lips narrowed into a thin line. "I suppose Carmen is bit of all those things," she said quietly.
The detective grilled me on all of the particulars. Where we went and what we did. How I was paid. Did I ever have contact with any of her associates. Did Carmen give any clues to future heists. I could have told her much more interesting details about the master thief- the taste of her lipstick, the texture of her skin against mine, the exact shade of her eyes when she was aroused. But these were not things the detective cared to ask about and I was not inclined to tell her.
"Three weeks ago she flew me to San Francisco for the weekend." Ivy's head snapped up, green eyes burning. "We went to a steakhouse. Someplace downtown."
"You're going to have to do better than that. The name?" She was relentless.
"A man's name. Italian. Giovanni's? No…Antonio's."
"I know it. And after dinner…."
"She took me back to her apartment. Don't ask me for the address or what neighborhood. It's the only time I've ever been there."
"Can you remember any landmarks? Street names?"
I thought back to that warm spring evening, so carefree and so far away. I pushed away the bittersweet memory to hunt for the facts the detective was hungry for. "We took a cable car…it was close to that street you always see in pictures of San Francisco. The one with all the pretty old houses."
Ivy blanched. "She took you to Alamo Square?"
"I don't know the name." And yet I do. The memory alone made my heart beat faster.
The detective bent and pressed a button on her wristwatch. A pink screen with a disembodied smiling head sprang out. Totally creepy. "Chief, can you bring up a picture of Alamo Square in San Francisco?"
The screen changed to a photograph of colorful Victorian houses all in a row, postcard-perfect. "Alamo Square is a neighborhood in San Francisco's Western Addition. Founded in 1857 by Mayor James Van Ness, it is known for its Victorian architecture and homes designed in the Queen Anne style…" the head narrated.
"That's it. The apartment was near there, just a few blocks away. Less than ten minutes on foot."
"Thanks, Chief. I'll take it from here." The head smiled and sunk back down into her wristwatch. The detective's rough hands scratched out the information on her notepad. "Didn't know she had a residence there. Probably doesn't anymore." Ivy paused, then slammed her fists on the table, making me jump in my seat. "I'm sorry. It's just that I live in Alamo Square. This is twisted, even for her. The things that woman is willing to do to screw with my head."
I'm pretty sure there are other parts of your body she'd be interested in screwing, too, I thought but didn't dare say aloud. "Detective, from my point of view, her feelings seemed genuine." Which turned out to be an equally incendiary thing to say, like using gasoline to put out a fire.
The redhead laughed bitterly and reeled on me. "You think you know Carmen? You think she's capable of being sincere about anything?" Her tone was obviously angry, but I detected embarrassment and a faint whiff of jealousy, too. "Look at how she treated you. The more I hear your story, the more it sounds like you were just a means to an end. Four months of prologue that ended with me finding a stolen painting in your apartment and hauling your ass in for questioning."
Hearing the whole affair put into such stark terms stung me, reopening an unhealed wound. I remembered the sinking feeling I got in my stomach when Carmen told me it was over. The museum, the painting, the timing of it all- pearls on a string, too perfect to be coincidental. What I had imagined lying in her arms a few short hours ago now seemed laughable and naïve under the harsh florescent lights of the interrogation room.
I was nothing but a pawn, the little metal shoe in the bizarre high-stakes game of Monopoly these two women played against each other.
But it was hard to reconcile Carmen the master manipulator with the woman who had surrendered. That was something I didn't think could be faked. Or maybe I was just dumb. I felt the tears well up again and cursed them. "She led me to believe there was something more. Do you ever just feel so fucking stupid?"
"Around Carmen? At least once a week." Ivy looked at me, judged and measured me. She had a kind of gravity about her, a moral certainty that was compelling, attractive for its very foreignness. When she spoke, her voice had a ragged edge to it, worn but not weak. "Carmen disappoints people, Alex. It's what she does."
So, we had both been wronged by the same woman. Me, once and Ivy, a thousand times. I wiped away my tears and continued my testimony. "Tonight she came without warning."
"What time?"
"I don't remember." I would have to tread carefully here. I had a smidgen of Ivy's sympathy and I did not want to lose it. "I thought it was best to just go along with what she wanted."
The detective swallowed my white lie like mother's milk. "Well, that's understandable. Carmen's a notorious criminal. You were at her mercy."
Not exactly. The truth could not have been more different, but the chances of Ivy believing it were slightly worse than my chances of winning the lottery. "Yeah," I agreed.
We went over a few more of the finer details. Finally, she set aside her pad and paper and told me formally, "You've cooperated very well, Ms O'Keefe, and given us a lot of new and valuable information. I have to say, you represent an unusual opportunity in the Sandiego case. Would you be willing to become a criminal informant?"
"What's that?"
"You'd be let go without being charged, allowed to keep doing what you're doing on the condition that you report on Carmen to us," she explained.
Not going to prison seemed like a wonderful idea. But, I wasn't sure about the spying part. "So, I'd be a mole."
The detective nodded, an odd smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You know, ACME has sent Casanova-type operatives after Carmen for years. She usually spots them within about two seconds and sends them packing. It's never been a very successful strategy."
They should have sent you. "Well, yeah, I'll do it. But I don't know how successful I'll be. She made it pretty clear she never wanted to see me again." I told the truth, hoping I hadn't just torn up my get out of jail free card.
Ivy thought for a minute. "Carmen can be fickle. And I doubt she's done with this particular game. I still think you're more valuable to us on the outside should she decide to start playing again. Besides, ACME doesn't have a vice squad," she said with a smirk. She rose from her chair and loomed over me. "I'm going to check all of this out. If I find out you've been lying, I won't hesitate to hand you over to the NYPD. If Carmen contacts you, you call us. Pronto. Or…"
"You'll throw me in jail. I got it."
She opened the door and I tasted freedom in the air, sweeter than a five-dollar caramel frappucino. "Follow me. We'll fill out some paperwork and then you're free to go."
We were halfway down the hall when Ivy's brother caught up with us, carrying the long forgotten about pens and sodas. He was pleased that I had flipped but looked alarmed when Ivy said she was letting me go. "Bad news. One of the local cops tipped off the media. There's about a dozen reporters and five TV stations outside. We'll have to take you out the back door."
It was past midnight. Every cell in my body ached with exhaustion and every synapse felt completely fried. Zack kindly ushered me out a side entrance and put me in a cab. As the taxi approached my apartment, I noticed camera crews and caution tape, the entire block lit up like Coney Island. Frustrated, I hurriedly shooed the driver away and told him to drop me off at a midtown hotel. I paid my outrageous cab fare, plunked down my credit card at the front desk, and collapsed fully clothed on the lumpy mattress. I would deal with the wreckage that was my life in the morning. But for now I would sleep.