Some Context:
Before I get to the meat of the story, I feel like I need to put my dating experience into context, and the best way to do that is to share a conversation between me and one of my sons.
My son and I started going to the gym when he was in high school. Each morning, we'd wake up and be out the door by 6 a.m. so we could work out, do some cardio, grab showers, and I could drop him off at school by 7:45 a.m.
After he started college, we'd still grab the occasional workout together, albeit a little later in the day. On this one particular day, there was an exceptionally pretty lady who kept me distracted. As my son and I took turns on the bench press, after I finished my set and stood up, I found her checking me out. When it was my turn to spot my son as he lifted, she'd be exercising, and I checked her out. We continually caught each other's gaze and really couldn't keep our eyes off each other. Suddenly, I heard "Dad! Dad!" exclaimed with the sounds of struggle, and realized my ogling had distracted me from spotting my son, and the weights were coming down on him. Yikes!
We finished our workout with no one getting injured.
On the drive home, as I rolled up to a stop sign in our neighborhood, I started a conversation with my son, which went like this:
Me: "Did you see that pretty lady?"
Him: "Yeaaahhhh…"
Me: "What do you think?"
Him: "She's bat crap crazy!"
Me: "What!?!? Why would you say that!?!?"
Him: "Because you're attracted to her."
We both laughed.
Thinking I'd give him a way out, I added:
Me: "You realize you're talking about your mother, right?"
Him: "The data has been collected, analyzed, and my observation stands."
We both chuckled.
Nothing else was said about it, but the observation struck me to my core. Was I really only drawn to broken women, and if so, what does that say about me?
Now, the story…
Happy Hour:
It was a Wednesday afternoon in early October 2014, and I had been invited by some friends to join them for happy hour at Brio Tuscan Grille in Boca Raton (where I lived). It was always a lively spot packed with people from all the surrounding offices.
Usually, the bar was 3 deep, but as luck would have it, I had found a gap at the bar, made eye contact with a bartender, and given him the "I need a drink" nod, and he had nodded back, so I knew my wait wouldn't be long.
As a former bar owner, I always enjoyed taking some time and analyzing bartenders and their skills. Bad bartenders exist but never last long, average bartenders are everywhere, great bartenders are rare but a joy to find and to watch… There are no wasted movements; watching them is like watching a finely choreographed ballet.
All of a sudden, my analysis was interrupted by a bit of commotion behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a stunning blonde elbowing her way through the crowd like a hockey player! As she appeared next to me, she smiled and, in a noticeably Russian accent, said, "Hello, how are you today?"
For those of us who have or once had a security clearance, there are certain red flags, and a stunningly gorgeous Russian woman sidling up to you after elbowing her way through a crowd is really, really high on that list.
But hey, I no longer had a clearance, so what could anyone possibly want from me? Or so my thinking went…
The other thing that popped into my head was a recent banking contract I'd had. It turns out South Florida is a hotbed for Russian financial scammers, and the Federal Reserve and FBI spend a great deal of time teaching bankers in South Florida about how to spot, respond to, and report these financial predators.
So, yeah, of course, I bought her a drink, and as soon as the drinks were set in front of us, she gave a little toast and then suggested we find a place along the wall "where it was less crowded." (The move is called the "cut out," you cut the target out of the herd - online scammers use the same technique when they try to lure you away from social media onto a messaging app.)
And, of course, we moved to a place along the wall. Even "along the wall" was crowded, but we found a nice, tight spot to squeeze into, and I thought we were settled in until I noticed my new Russian friend kept purposely bumping into the lady behind her. Eventually, that lady became exasperated and told her husband, "Let's go," and they left, but not before the wife tossed a few nasty looks at us. Immediately, my new Russian friend moved to fill the vacated space, giving us even more room, and looked at me like she had accomplished something amazing and I should be happy with her. I was amused by all this, but my Spidey sense kept tingling and alerting me to danger.
But still, I went along because, well, it's what I do!
We had a lovely conversation and, as Happy Hour was ending, she asked if I'd like to go out sometime. And, of course, I agreed to see her again, and we exchanged numbers.
Over the next few months, we went to dinner at a gastropub (upscale hamburger joint) called Taco Mac's that had BOGO Tuesdays. Three or four more nights a week, I cooked dinner at my place… ALWAYS my place.
I mean, I was born at night, just not LAST night. There's something weird when someone is spending 4 or 5 nights a week at your place, but after months, you have never been to their place, and, in fact, you don't even know where their place is. Was I her safety spot? Her hideout?
So, after a few more oddities, like her telling me she was deep in credit card debt and looking at me wistfully as in "Would you pretty please help me!?!?" I decided to consult with a friend of mine who was an FBI agent.
Yeah, yeah, I know… going straight to an FBI agent is like shooting a moth with a canon, but something about this really didn't sit right with me. Besides, I knew what my other guy friends would say, "Bail!" or "She's pretty and good company, so just ride it out." Problem one with the "just ride it out" scenario was that these things have a way of blowing up in your face; problem two is that I was really over dealing with crazy stuff, and my son's words kept echoing in my head.
My friend and I met for coffee on a Thursday morning in mid-January 2015. He chose a Starbucks in the same shopping center as Brio. I found the coincidence amusing.
We sat at an outside table away from everyone, and I told him about my "girlfriend." He asked questions:
FBI: "What's her name?"
Me: "Alex"
FBI: "What's her cell number?"
Me: "561-555-1212" (I no longer have her number)
FBI: "What kind of car does she drive?"
Me: "Silver BMW 535i"
FBI: "Where does she live?"
Me: "I have no idea!"
FBI: "What? You've been going out for how long?"
Me: "4 months now."
FBI: "And you've never been to her house? Not even to pick her up for a date?"
Me: "Nope."
Me: "I told you there was something strange."
FBI: "Yeah, that's strange. I'll dig around a little, but I may not be able to share any findings with you."
Me: "I didn't expect you would. Just tell me if I need to walk away."
He nodded, signaling he would.
We continued chatting, talked about the next Jazz Brunch on the Riverwalk in Fort Lauderdale, and which of all of our mutual friends were expected to attend.
Before parting company, I was asked when I was next going to see my girlfriend (that night) and if I would snap a photo of her tags and email it to him. Hesitantly, I agreed.
About 6 p.m. Thursday, I was in the kitchen getting some wine glasses down, and I caught a reflection of light, which caused me to look out the kitchen window. I stood and watched as she pulled into the guest spot directly across from my condo. Camera in hand, I stood watching as she walked across the parking lot towards my front door. The woman had an amazing walk, the kind that could make a man forget what he was doing…or do something he shouldn't. She saw me watching her and grinned. As she walked up the sidewalk towards my front door, I quickly zoomed in on the back of her car, snapped the photo, and stuffed my phone in my back pocket.
She came in and, after a hug and a few kisses, she said she needed to use the restroom before we left. Truthfully, I found the entire experience surreal and a bit stressful.
We had a lovely BOGO dinner (burgers), returned home, drank some wine, watched some TV, and turned in. The next morning (Friday), we made plans for that evening, and after she left, I emailed the picture of her tags to my friend.
Monday, just after lunch, my friend called.
FBI: "We have a problem. Can you come down?"
Me: "Now?"
FBI: "Yeah."
Me: "On my way, be there in 30."
FBI: "I'll have a parking pass waiting for you, and I'll meet you at the security checkpoint."
As I entered the building, I saw my friend waiting on the other side of the security checkpoint. We nodded to each other, and I entered the security line. We all know the drill: empty your pockets, place your stuff in a basket and on the conveyor belt, walk through the metal detector, and claim your stuff. Except I forgot something, and after setting off the metal detector, being frisked, wanded, surrendering my pocket knife, and then being deemed not to be a national security risk, I received my visitor badge. All the while, my friend was shaking his head in disbelief and smirking at me with a look that said, "Only you!"
My friend and I waited quietly for the elevator, and once on, and the doors closed, he jokingly quipped, "What is it with you Snake Eaters and your knives!" We chuckled about it. (Snake Eaters is a nickname known across the military for Green Berets.)
Once in his office, we were joined by two others who were not introduced to me. I was asked by my friend to recount my first time meeting my Russian girlfriend, and I was again asked the same questions as before, and then the bombs dropped.
Alex was NOT her real name. The tags on her BMW did indeed belong to a 2014 BMW 535i, and it was the same color as hers, but they did NOT belong to her BMW. And her phone number was in the "unassigned database," meaning if you were looking for a new number, her number would show up as available, but if you selected it, there'd be an error, and you'd be asked to pick another number. The phone number alone raised all their hackles.
I was grilled about whether she had asked questions about any of my college friends (one is very high-ranking in another country's government). She had not. I was asked if she had ever used my laptop, even to "just look something up." She had not.
They asked if I had any photos of her. I had a few, pulled them up, and handed my phone over. I hadn't noticed, but 8 out of the 10 photos I had, she had something partially obscuring her face. A wine glass, a coffee mug, a menu, her hair… only two showed her full face, and I'm not sure she knew I'd taken those. It was another weird realization. They asked for copies, so I emailed them from my phone to my friend.
Then they asked me if, the next time she came over, could I save her wine glass, and they'd send a tech to pick it up. WHAT?!?! This was getting crazy!
If I thought I felt uncomfortable getting a photo of her tags, this one was taking me to a whole new level. I balked.
One of the people in the room asked me about our evening ritual. So I told them; she came over, we had dinner and drank wine, watched a movie, she went off to do her pre-bedtime rituals while I cleaned up the dishes, we went to bed, had sex, and went to sleep.
"Well, while she's in the bathroom doing her thing and you're cleaning up, can't you just save her glass for us?" one of the strangers asked. Sure, I could do that.
I was given instructions on how to handle the wine glass and to call my FBI friend once she had left for wherever it was she went during the day. Some "office job," but she never made it exactly clear what she did or where the office was, and Google was no help (and trust me, I'd looked!).
All day long, I thought about how I was going to handle the wine glass issue. Really, it shouldn't be a big deal, just get down a third glass, stick her used glass up in the cabinet behind another clean wine glass, wash the third glass along with my glass, and leave both washed glasses in the dish rack as I always did, and then load the dinner dishes in the dishwasher.
I hate to admit this, but around 3 in the afternoon, I actually did several dry runs. The first thing I noticed was that handling her glass was trickier than I'd been told. I had to be careful in handling her glass and to make sure I didn't get my prints all over it or smudge her prints, and I had to make sure there was no extra clinking or sounds of cabinet doors closing. I found all of this exhausting but also a bit stimulating. I also felt like a cad in that I was investigating someone who had thus far never hurt me in any way and was actually a pretty great girlfriend.
I mean, if an opportunity to do something different than was planned popped up and I texted her and said, "Wear jeans tonight," or "Wear a dress tonight," there weren't 20 questions or demands to know what was going on. She'd just respond with "Ok!", and show up dressed as requested, and off we'd go. A few times, she responded with "Actually, tonight I prefer we stay in, is that okay?" Of course it was, and we did.
Anyway, the evening went as expected: a nice dinner, cuddles on the couch watching some old Meg Ryan movie (Sleepless, I think it was), and then blowing out the candles and off to do our respective pre-bed stuff.
Swapping the glass was easy. I thought I did a good job.
The next morning, after she left (she never showered at my place), I called my friend, and 10 minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was the tech. I was a bit shocked at how fast he got there, and he told me he'd been sitting in the shopping center parking lot next door to our condo complex. That was a shocker… they must have had more faith in my ability to get the wine glass than I did!
I escorted the tech to the kitchen, pointed to the cabinet, told him it was on the top shelf, the 2nd back on the left. He peered into the cabinet like it might have a snake in it, donned some rubber gloves, pulled out some plastic bag with a bold red line across the top, wrote something on it, pulled down the wine glass, bagged it up, and left. The whole thing was less than 10 minutes, and a hell of a way to start a Saturday and a weekend.
Monday, I got a call.
FBI: "Are you sure you did that right?"
Me: "Yeah." (I recounted exactly how I did it.)
FBI: "There are smudges, but no prints. We can clearly see where she gripped the bulb of the wine glass, but there are no fingerprints."
FBI: "When is she coming over again?"
Me: "Tuesday evening. Normally, Taco Mac's for BOGO burgers, but she's already said she wants to stay in and relax."
The call ended politely, but nothing else was said. I had no idea what was coming next.
Tuesday evening, she showed up and we sat on the couch waiting for the chicken to finish baking, holding hands, 
drinking wine, and chatting about nothing meaningful or particular… for that matter, we never chatted about anything meaningful or particular. For whatever reason, I ran my thumb across her index finger, and it was VERY smooth, too smooth. I lifted her hand and looked, and she said, "I don't have any fingerprints." So I asked, "Why not?" and her reply was, "Work." I shrugged and let it go, but my mind raced…
We had a nice, enjoyable dinner, watched a sci-fi outer space movie (The Martian), did our nighttime thing, everything was normal, but for some reason, the sex was more passionate… far more passionate.
Wednesday morning, February 4th, she gave me a long hug, kissed me goodbye, and walked out the door. I went to the kitchen for some coffee, and all hell broke loose in the parking lot. Police sirens went off, and blue lights were everywhere, and it all came in from every direction. I stood and watched out my kitchen window in shock as 4 FBI cars, about 8 agents, arrested my girlfriend.
Two agents whom I didn't know stayed behind, and the techs showed up and went through my condo. They combed her pillow for hair, they dusted the bathroom, and a police impound tow truck took her car away. My FBI friend was nowhere to be seen.
I never heard anything else about it and never saw her again. My friend and I remain friends to this day, but neither of us have ever broached the topic. Whomever she was or whatever she did, I have no idea.
February 4th, 2015, ended my last date, and I've not dated since. She was the last person I dated.
My son was right, I can REALLY pick ‘em!