All Through the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

“Hey, Will.” Robin greeted the reporter with a wide smile, as Will buttoned up his tired-looking overcoat and tucked a scarf in around his neck, preparing to brave the elements. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Yeah,” Will said. “I gotta go.” But he paused, stepping closer to Jules and lowering his voice. “I thought he wasn’t drinking anymore,” he said.

  “He’s not,” Jules said, his outrage making his voice clipped and tight. “And if you write that he is…Let’s just put it this way—no one will find your body.”

  Will looked at him and Jules looked steadily back. Be afraid. Be very afraid, motherfucker.

  The reporter finally made something that might’ve been a nod. “I’m going to give you a free pass and pretend I didn’t hear that,” Will said. “But as far as this goes…” He gestured to Robin. “I gotta write what I see.”

  “He got locked in the basement,” Jules told him. He raised his voice. “Robin, what window did you climb out of?”

  “The one by the driveway,” Robin pointed around the side of the house. “It was smaller than I thought. I kind of got stuck.” He grinned at Will then looked down at himself. “What a mess. Don’t try this at home, kids.” He came over to them. “I grew up in Southern California. This is my first snow, ever, can you believe it?” He gazed out at the street. “Jesus, it’s beautiful…”

  Ah, damn. “Robin,” Jules said quietly. “Let Will smell your breath.”

  Robin looked at him, surprised, and even a little bit hurt.

  “I know you’re clean,” Jules told him. “I know. I trust you. But…he’s a reporter. And he just asked me if you were drinking.”

  “What?” Robin said. He turned to Will. “You lying fuck.” He exhaled, hard, right in Will’s face, but then he said, “That’s not going to be enough. I mean, I could have had vodka, right?”

  “It’s enough,” Will confirmed, clearly unhappy about all of this. “I believe you.”

  “No.” Robin was adamant. “I’ll take a complete drug test and have the results faxed to you.” He looked at Jules. He was really upset. “I want to.”

  “Okay,” Jules said quietly.

  “Sorry,” Will said, turning to look back at the house where Dolphina was standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. “I’m just…doing my job.”

  “Your job sucks,” Dolphina said, and Will nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said, “sometimes it does.” And he walked away.

  “Please tell me he’s not from the National Voice.” Robin looked sick, and Jules put his arms around him, to hell with the mud. All of his joy over the still-falling snow had evaporated.

  “Boston Globe,” Jules said. “He said…you talked to him?”

  Robin nodded. “Oh, yeah. Oh, Jules, oh my God…”

  “It’s all right,” Jules tried to reassure him.

  But Robin shook his head. “No, it’s not. He’s going to sound-bite me saying that we like doing it in pig masks.”

  Jules laughed. “What?”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It kind of is.” On a certain level, it was extremely funny. “We should order a case—see how long we can keep this story alive.”

  Robin sat down heavily on the steps. “Aw, Jesus.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” Jules said, sitting beside him. “Pig masks…?”

  Robin rolled his eyes. “It’s from this movie I saw on pay-per-view back around, I don’t know, ten years ago? I was maybe sixteen and it, like, scarred me for life.” He laughed his disbelief. “This couple was in their underwear, getting ready to get it on, right? They were wearing these masks and grunting like pigs—don’t ask me why. It wasn’t erotic—it was horrific, I think intentionally. The man said something, I don’t even know what he said, but the woman gets all snitty and goes, It ruins it for me when you talk.”

  Jules laughed. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” Robin was finally smiling, too, but it was still rueful. “Ever since then, the idea of having sex in pig masks has been, like, the biggest soft-on I can think of. It just came out of my mouth when I was talking to the reporter from The Boston Globe.” He was instantly back in agony-land. “God, I fucked up. He told me he was new in Art’s office, and I believed him.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Jules put his arms around him again. “He came into our home, and he lied to you…Sweetie, really, it’s going to be okay. Come on. Let’s get you inside and cleaned up. What’s done is done.” He pulled Robin to his feet.

  Dolphina was hovering, right by the front door. She opened it as she saw them coming. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have—”

  “Not your fault,” Jules cut her off. “We—all of us—should have been ready for this kind of thing. It’s not going to happen again—let’s just focus on that.”

  “I kind of liked him,” Robin said. “Will.”

  The stupid thing was, Jules had kind of liked him, too.

  Dolphina surprised them both. “I hate his freaking guts.” She looked at Jules. “I photocopied his driver’s license in case you really do want to kill him.”

  “You threatened to kill him?” Robin asked.

  “Kill who?” Sam had wandered out of the living room, clearly in search of them. “Dang, who’d you mud wrestle, Boy Wonder?”

  “Robin got locked in the basement,” Dolphina told Sam. “Right after he unwittingly talked to a reporter who crashed the party.”

  Sam looked at Jules. Thankfully he didn’t say anything to make Robin feel any worse than he obviously already felt. But the look in his eye was pure here we go…

  “Well, go and de-mud, the both of you,” he said. “Alyssa says it’s time to open your presents, and you don’t want to get her mad. Although she’d be a good team member for the murder you’re planning.”

  “No one’s going to kill anyone,” Jules announced.

  “I have to take a drug test so I can send the results to The Boston Globe,” Robin reminded them. “Who wants to come watch me pee into a cup? It needs to be someone besides Jules, because that’s just not quite humiliating enough.”

  And now the look that Sam flashed Jules was sympathetic. “I’ll be your witness.”

  “Thanks,” Jules told his friend.

  “Before you go upstairs, I think you need to know,” Dolphina said, and they all stopped and looked at her. She took a deep breath. “The President and Mrs. Bryant are planning to attend your wedding.”

  Jules started to laugh. Of course they were.

  Sam said it all, in one heartfelt word that he Texified into two syllables. “Shee-yit.”

  “You said they wouldn’t come,” Robin said, looking at Jules.

  “Oops,” Jules said.

  “It’s a huge honor.” Dolphina tried to bright side it.

  “But you didn’t want a big wedding.” Robin was worried, not about himself, but about Jules. “It’s going to have to be big now. There’ll be Secret Service and—”

  “I don’t care.” Jules interrupted him. “I just want to marry you. I just want to stand up in a church, and tell everyone that I’m going to love you forever. I don’t give a shit how many dozen whirling ninjas with fiery batons are spinning in circles around us.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Sam pointed out. “Because the ninjas—they’re working up their routine, starting right about now.”

  PART THREE

  thanksgiving

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  B AD THINGS CAME IN THREES.

  Robin couldn’t remember where he’d heard that or who it was who’d repeated it so often during his childhood that it should now take up so much real estate inside of his head.

  But here he was, waiting for the third bad shoe to drop.

  The first bad thing—the grim news from Art Urban—had been quickly eclipsed by the day’s second bad thing: Will Schroeder’s so-called “news” article.

  It had finally come out today—two fricking days before Thanksgivin
g. Only it wasn’t in The Boston Globe. It was in Satan’s Weekly, that mother of all trashy tabloids, the National Voice. And it was so much worse than Robin had even dreamed possible, because along with including fictionalized information, Schroeder had also sold the recording of their conversation to TMZ dot-com. And there it was—confirmation of nearly everything Robin was quoted as saying in that nasty-ass article. It made it seem as if the rest of the crap Schroeder had written was also true.

  Robin hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jules about it yet, but his fiancé would probably try to put a positive spin on it, or at least turn it into a joke. Maybe he’d put a pig mask on later tonight when they were getting ready for bed. And then, when Robin was laughing in horror, Jules would say something like, Look, it happened. You said some things to someone that you shouldn’t have trusted, but anyone who listens to that recording is also going to get it all in context. And frankly, Robin, I thought what you said was beautiful. You love me—no one who listens to the tape is going to doubt that.

  Yeah, but what about all the people who read the article but didn’t have Internet access? Or the so-called TV news stations that broadcast sound bites without any context?

  If Robin ever so much as saw Will Schroeder again, he was going to rip his lungs out, a la Sam Starrett.

  Of course, that wasn’t likely to happen, since today’s third bad thing was probably going to be Robin getting hit by a bus.

  The lights from all of the trendy shops on Newbury Street sparkled through the lightly misting rain. Robin picked up his pace as he circumnavigated a stalled group of Berklee students. He had to use fancy footwork to dodge some early Christmas shoppers who were moving with the determination of heat-seeking missiles.

  It wasn’t the cold temperatures that made winter seem so different here in Boston, but rather the fact that the sun went down so damn early in the afternoon. It was only going to get worse, or so Jules had told Robin. By the winter solstice, the days were going to be ridiculously short.

  The nights decadently long.

  Which made it pretty perfect timing to have a wedding night.

  At the corner of Dartmouth, Robin crossed Newbury Street carefully, heading toward his and Jules’s favorite spot to meet for dinner. And he found Jules standing outside under the streetlight, talking on his cell phone, wearing his FBI agent face.

  Crap, that wasn’t just his regular FBI agent face. Something bad had happened.

  What a surprise. Clunk went that third extremely fugly shoe.

  Robin clearly saw the words Jules was about to tell him. They were there in his eyes, as he shut his phone and turned to Robin. “I have to go.”

  “Where?” Robin asked, because that was not a I have to skip dinner and go back to the office, I’ll be home around midnight face. No, this was the big one, the I have to catch a plane face. And yes, that was Jules’s overnight bag on his shoulder.

  “Afghanistan,” Jules told him.

  Oh, God. “When?” Another stupid question because it was clear the answer was now.

  “My flight leaves as soon as I can get to the airport,” Jules confirmed. “They’re holding it for me.”

  Robin nodded. But it’s our first Thanksgiving… Things not to say, particularly since Jules’s obvious regret was already dripping off of him. “I’ll ride with you to Logan.” He turned to the street, to hail a taxi.

  “I’ll be on the phone the entire time,” Jules told him, as, yes, his cell phone began to ring, as if the sound effects crew had heard his cue. “It’s probably better if you don’t.”

  “Better for who?” Robin turned to ask as a cab swerved to the curb. Try as he might, he was unable to keep his temper from flaring. “You? Because it’s sure as hell not better for me.” He faltered. “Unless you really don’t want me to go with you…”

  Jules’s entire heart went into his eyes. “I’d love it if you rode with me,” he admitted quietly as he silenced his phone without answering it. “But I know you have to get back to work. This time of night, traffic’s going to suck. I didn’t want you to have to—”

  “Just get in the cab,” Robin told him, climbing in first.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21

  Dolphina was stunned. She couldn’t believe this. “What did Jules say?” she asked.

  Robin was sitting on the sofa in the front parlor office, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his feet bare and his hair a mess.

  She’d been surprised to find him still at home when she’d popped in to supervise the morning’s grocery delivery.

  “You should tell me when the shooting schedule changes,” she’d admonished him when he’d staggered into the kitchen for coffee, clearly right out of bed. She’d obviously woken him up, and was afraid she’d interrupted a lazy, sleep-late morning with Jules. God knows with their combined work schedules and the ongoing construction of their bathroom, they didn’t get enough of those.

  But Jules was out of town—way out of town. And the shooting schedule had been more than merely changed.

  Robin now was staring at the framed picture that hung over the fireplace mantel, the one he and Jules had bought early in their relationship, during a weekend trip to Mexico. He finally shifted his gaze to Dolphina, who was sitting at her desk. “I didn’t tell Jules.”

  “Why not?” Now she was doubly stunned.

  “Because he was on his way to Af-fucking-ghanistan.” Robin’s tone implied that she was mentally challenged, and maybe she was, because this didn’t make any sense. None of it, including Robin’s keeping a secret from Jules. “I didn’t want to distract him,” he added miserably. “I mean, God…”

  “How could they cancel your show?” she asked. Okay, sure, the ratings were low, but Boston Marathon was critically acclaimed. TV Guide was doing a feature next week, calling it the “Best Little Show No One’s Watching.”

  “Apparently it was easy. They called up Art and they said, it’s cancelled,” Robin told her morosely. “We’ll finish up this episode after Thanksgiving, put it on the DVD. These last three we’ve done won’t get aired.” He shook his head in disgust.

  Robin had told her weeks ago that some of his best work was in those recent episodes.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked him now.

  “Pray to a higher power that Jules comes safely home,” he said. “Tonight, if possible.”

  Dolphina sneaked a look at her watch. According to Jules’s flight schedule, he’d only just arrived in Kandahar a few hours ago. Even if he turned right around, which was unlikely, he wouldn’t make it home tonight.

  “I meant what are you going to do about the fact that you’re suddenly available for other jobs,” she rephrased her question. Robin had had a recent slew of movie offers, all secondary roles, some of them enticing. But all were being filmed either in Hollywood or on location somewhere far from Boston.

  He stood up. “My partner’s in harm’s way. You really think I’m thinking about anything else?”

  The situation in Afghanistan was bad. According to the twenty-four-hour news networks, al Qaeda had captured five doctors and nurses from an Army field hospital—the modern equivalent of a MASH unit. They were holding them hostage, threatening beheadings, if a team of Rangers didn’t back off from where they had a group of terrorists pinned down in a mountain cave.

  Jules had gone with his boss, Max Bhagat, to aid in the negotiations—even though the U.S. held tightly to its policy of never negotiating with terrorists. Dolphina knew that Jules’s job in a case like this was to help stall. Give the Spec Op teams time to create and facilitate a rescue plan.

  Jules was probably going to stay safely in Kandahar. Although, these days, with the resurgence of the Taliban, not even Kandahar was really all that safe.

  “I’m sorry.” Dolphina shook her head. “I just thought maybe a distraction would help.”

  “Thank you.” Robin somehow managed to smile. “I know. It just…Doesn’t.”

  “Robin, this is what Jules does,” she
said as gently as she could. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”

  To his credit, he nodded. “I know. Let’s just find a distraction that doesn’t involve me planning to spend a solid month away from home, okay?”

  I could schedule a spa day, she was about to suggest. Or they could do a twenty-four-hour Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. And, oh hell. They were going to have to discuss what to do about tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner. Robin and Jules had invited their friends Sam and Alyssa, but they’d already been called away to Afghanistan, too. Jules’s co-worker Yashi—Joe Hirabayashi—had been planning to attend the meal with his widowed father. And Dolphina was on the guest list, too.

  Dolphina suspected Robin and Jules were trying to set her up with Yashi, no doubt because they’d noticed the funk she’d fallen into after the debacle with that anti-Christ of reporters, Will Schroeder.

  It wasn’t the lack of a man in her life that had made her depressed, but rather her ongoing relentless attraction to men who turned out to be world-class liars. She should offer her services to Jules and the FBI. Just put her in a room with a bunch of men, and she would naturally gravitate toward the ones with the biggest, ugliest secrets.

  Before she could figure out the best way to bring up the subject of Thanksgiving dinner without rubbing Robin’s face in the fact that Jules wouldn’t be there to share it with them, the doorbell rang.

  The look on Robin’s face was one Dolphina would remember for the rest of her life. She knew exactly what he was thinking—that if something were ever to happen to Jules, Robin would be notified in person, not through a phone call. And now someone had come, unannounced, to the door.

  “Don’t answer that,” he said, as if that would keep any bad news away.

  “It’s probably just…” But she couldn’t think of who it might be. The mail carrier had already come, and they weren’t expecting any packages from FedEx.

  Flowers. It was entirely possible that Jules, an incredible romantic, would do something thoughtful like send Robin a huge bouquet of tulips, his favorite spring flowers, to provide at least a dash of color over these next few bound-to-be-dreary days.