Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

Marcy’s outfit was almost a uniform. Navy blue Donna Karan suit with a high neckline and a bit of lace at the throat. Flat heels. Librarian chic.

Both women were attractive, though. Big-shouldered and brash, Flo had an irresistible smile. Marcy’s oval face could have been cut for a cameo, wide blue eyes and tightly curled blond hair.

Swiveling her generous hips, Flo surveyed the room, apparently trolling. Barely taking note of the lone stag waiting at the greeter’s station.

“He’s definitely the guy in the picture,” Flo agreed, turning back to Marcy. “What’s his name? Bradley something?”

“Brad Sullivan. And?”

“He doesn’t have two heads, and the one he has isn’t half bad. He’s no Brad Pitt, but he’s not a dork either. Look for yourself. The hostess is showing him to a table.”

Marcy risked a quick glance over her shoulder, then held it a moment. “Fair to Midland,” she conceded. Medium build, tweed jacket over a golf shirt, and Dockers. Thick, dark hair shorn even shorter than Flo’s, almost military. Not handsome, exactly, but... interesting.

“Looks okay to me,” Flo said. “Still has his hair, looks like he works out. But I’m the wrong honey to ask about breeder guys. Does he pass inspection? Or do we fade out the back door?”

“No,” Marcy said, taking a deep breath, straightening her skirt. “I’ll give him a try. Do I look okay?”

“Like a freaking angel,” Flo said fondly. “I’ll wait a bit. If you need rescuing, just tug on your left earlobe.”

“Hi... Marcy?” Brad rose, offered his hand, then held a chair for her a bit clumsily, as though he didn’t do it often. “Glad you could make it.”

They ordered white wine, then fenced and fumbled through small talk for a while. They shared similar backgrounds, both from suburban Detroit, white-picket-fence childhoods, parents gone now, no family to speak of.

Brad was a mechanical assembly line analyst who traveled a lot on assignments. Marcy and Flo owned an antiques shop, Auntie Em’s, named after Marcy’s late aunt, who cosigned their start-up loan.

“And how’s business at Auntie Em’s?” he asked.

“We do all right. But if you’re hoping to marry me for my money...?”

“No need.” He smiled. “Is Flo the lady you were with when I came in?”

“You saw us?”

Brad shrugged. “I notice details for a living. I was afraid you’d take one look and split. I’m glad you decided to stay.”

“These may change your mind,” Marcy said, putting on dark horn-rimmed reading glasses to scan the menu. “I know they make me look like a geek...”

He didn’t rise to the bait. She glanced up and met his eyes. Deep brown and thoughtful.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to stare,” he said, looking away. “I’m a little rusty at conversation. I troubleshoot assembly lines, which means I work mostly with blue-collar types. We talk shop or sports, in language that would give your Auntie Em a coronary. I’m worried about slipping up, saying the wrong thing and scaring you off.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“You mean you haven’t flunked me. Yet.”

“Flunked you?” she echoed.

“You mentioned marriage to see if I’d faint dead away. When I didn’t, you put on glasses that obviously aren’t yours—”

“Why would you think that?”

“Your outfit’s expensive and very attractive. The glasses aren’t. I’d guess they’re an old pair.”

“You’d be right,” she admitted. “You’re very... perceptive.”

“That’s what they pay me for. I’m also direct, so here goes. I like you already, Marcy. You’re even prettier than your Web picture, you’re witty and also wary, which proves you’re intelligent. So, if you have any more test questions, anything the dating service missed on the forms we filled out, bring ‘em on. Don’t worry about offending me, I work with roughnecks every day.”

“My, you are direct.”

“Too much?”

“No. To be honest, I’m new to this whole digital dating thing—”

“Me, too. Please, fire away.”

“Okay, in your personal history, you mentioned your mom stayed at home?”

He nodded. “She was a housewife. Remember them?”

“Yes, but that’s not me, Brad. I’m a businesswoman and I like my work, so if you’re hoping to meet Suzy Homemaker—”

“Actually, I came here to meet a woman who might just possibly be right for me. Selected from umpty million others by the high-tech computers of a very expensive dating service.”

“And how’s the computer doing so far?”

“I don’t know much about computers,” he admitted. “But I’m going to check the Digital Dating stock price tomorrow. I think the company’s got a great future.”

He didn’t try to kiss her that first night. They did kiss on the second date, with a hunger and intensity that caught them both by surprise.

On their fourth date, they met for dinner at the Ponchartrain Hotel, then retired to a room Marcy had prepped in advance with fresh flowers and scented candles.

They made love like porcupines their first time, very carefully. Both a bit awkward and self-conscious. Yet they managed the deed in fine fashion.

Afterward, they nestled together, naked beneath the sheets, to watch a Tom Hanks DVD, sipping champagne from fluted glasses. They put the movie on pause in the middle to make love again. And again, even more urgently, while the credits were rolling at the end, screwing themselves into delicious exhaustion this time, happy as honeymooners.

But they weren’t honeymooners.

They were both worker bees with responsibilities. Brad had to fly to Minneapolis the next day on assignment. He promised to call Marcy every night he was away, and she believed him.

Until later that afternoon, in the back-room office at Auntie Em’s.

“So,” Flo said, her heavy features bluish in the glow of her computer screen. “How’s Mr. Wonderful in bed?”

“Close to perfect,” Marcy admitted, smiling at the memory as she unwrapped a parcel. “He’s trainable, too. He listens, and follows directions.”

“Wow, that’s rare in a man. Or a woman, for that matter. Does he smell?”

“What?”

“In bed, you know? Did you notice a peculiar body odor?”

“What on earth are you talking about, Flo?”

“Just saying your perfect digital date should smell kind of funky, babe. He’s been dead since nineteen seventy-three.”

“What?”

“Read it and weep, darlin’,” Flo said, swiveling the monitor toward Marcy. “I did an extended search. Bradley Joshua Sullivan, born at Ecorse Samaritan, October ninth, nineteen seventy, died in April, ninety seventy-three. Congenital heart defect. And twenty years later, your Bradley J. Sullivan applied for a Social Security card, a driver’s license, and a passport. Listing the same DOB, same hospital, same town.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Marcy said, scanning the screen. Her face was ashen.

“You’ve been burned, hon,” Flo said gently. “And not by an amateur, either. Your boyfriend’s not a married guy using a bogus credit card to cover his tracks. This is a first-class false identity. Credit history, work history, bank accounts, all entirely legit.”

“Maybe he is legit.”

“Right. And a kid with the same name and vital stats just happened to die twenty years before your guy applied for his Social Security number? That’s bull and you know it. We’re blown, Marcy.”

“You think he’s a cop?”

“I don’t know, but I’d hate to find out the hard way. We have to shut down and bail out.”

“I’m tired of running, Flo.”

“You were more tired of prison. You want to go back there?”

“No, but before I trash five years of hard work, I want to know what kind of a game this sonofabitch is running. Do you think he’s a narc?”