"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 England, Deputy Secretary of Defense
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 Burton, oh yes. Your aunt Alice loved him in Where Eagles Dare.//
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 hard 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 Georgetown, and although it had been a mild winter he remembered how damp it could get. All he needed was a head cold while trying to case the Senator's brownstone.
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 San Francisco, and the thought of leaving the Boston Bohemian behind was almost too much to bear. Sure it was in poor shape, and she'd had offers on it, but it was still the best home she'd had in years.
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 Minnesota for several years. Sara wondered what had driven him off. Wondered what had brought him back, but not to the LAPD.
And thinking of that, she fell asleep.