Bodyguard

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “What are you doing here?” George asked.

  “I need to know where the hell Harry is.” Thank God she had a good excuse. She turned to Kim. “You’ll excuse us …?”

  “If I have to.”

  “I’m afraid you have to,” Nicole told her as sweetly as she could manage.

  Kim took her time getting her purse. She crossed to George and kissed him full on the mouth.

  From the window, Nicole could see the interstate in the distance, all the tiny cars rushing past.

  “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll be back,” she heard Kim whisper.

  And then Kim was gone, the door closing tightly behind her.

  George’s hand was shaking as he discreetly tried to wipe away a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.

  “That physical therapy sure can be tough,” Nicole said tartly.

  “Look, Nic, I’m sorry, but I don’t know where Harry is,” George said quietly.

  “He’s your partner, George. Give a guess.”

  “I think—I don’t know this for sure—that he went to see his kids. He was having some kind of hassle with them.”

  “Would he have taken Alessandra Lamont with him?” she asked. “Was there something going on between them?”

  “No. I think she wanted to start something, but Harry wouldn’t let it happen. I don’t know what was wrong with him. I know he liked her, though.”

  “I’ll need you to give him a call.”

  “I don’t have his phone number,” George told her. “You don’t have it either—it’s not in his personnel file. He’s a little paranoid about letting anyone know where his kids are.”

  “Someone must know.”

  “No, Nic, he’s been really careful about this. Even when he calls them on the phone, he’s got this special coded number that he uses. It bounces his call all over the place, makes it impossible to trace where he’s calling or where he’s calling from. I think it costs him about a million dollars a minute, but he says it’s worth it. Jesus, I wish they would let me smoke.”

  “So we can’t reach him.” Nicole started to pace. “Shit.”

  George shifted painfully in the bed. “What’s going on?”

  “We need to find Alessandra Lamont,” she told him. “An informant came in yesterday and told us the price on Mrs. Lamont’s pretty head has gone up. Significantly. It’s over two million dollars now.”

  “For her husband’s one-million-dollar theft—which was paid back in full?” He gave a low whistle. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  She stopped at the foot of his bed. “Yeah. There’s something else going on here that we don’t know about. This one’s personal—and it rings of desperation. We can’t let this opportunity get away from us. If Trotta’s desperate, he’ll make mistakes.”

  “So you think if we can set up Alessandra again, this time we’ll get Trotta.”

  “It’s worth a try.” She started pacing again. “If Harry calls you, just find out where he is. I don’t want him to know what’s going on. If he has gotten involved with Mrs. Lamont …”

  “Maybe it would be better to let Alessandra go,” George said. “Just let her disappear.”

  “You don’t think Trotta’s going to ‘just let her disappear,’ do you?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  He was watching her, his face serious, his light brown eyes somber. He looked good with his hair messed. He looked good sitting up in bed, with life in his eyes—much better than he would have looked laid out in a coffin. And Nicole knew in a flash of bitter realization that she’d far rather him be alive and having sex with someone else, than dead.

  “I’m glad you’re all right.” She had to work hard to keep emotion from filling her voice.

  His voice was husky. “Nic, I was hoping you’d come.” His eyes were warm—too warm. As if he actually gave a damn. As if he hadn’t been the one who’d left her. And as if the son of a bitch hadn’t had his penis in someone else’s mouth just a few minutes ago.

  “Too bad I didn’t wait ten minutes, though, so that you could’ve come first.” She gave him her iciest smile as she breezed toward the door without even saying good-bye.

  “Hey, I thought you were going to let me drive?”

  Harry looked out of the window at Alessandra, who was standing next to the car, holding two large coffees. Her smile faded as she caught sight of his face.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Is George …?”

  He reached through the open window and took the hot cups from her, placing them in the car’s cup holders. “I didn’t get through to George.”

  “Then …?”

  “Get in, okay?”

  She crossed around the front of the car and climbed in the passenger’s side, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes were about as big as he’d ever seen them, her mouth tight with anxiety. “What’s the bad news, Harry? Just tell me.”

  Harry couldn’t think of a single way to make it any easier for her to hear what he was going to say, so he just said it. “Baby Jane Doe’s been adopted, Al.”

  She laughed. “Oh, my God!” She closed her eyes, and pressed her hand to her throat. “I was so sure you were going to tell me that she had died. But adopted … That’s …” Tears sprang into her beautiful eyes. “That’s good news.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “Who got her? Do you know? Did they tell you?”

  “They wouldn’t give me a name, but the nurse I spoke to said they seemed very nice.”

  “I’m—I’m so glad.” She was fighting her tears with such intense effort. Every muscle in her body was straining. Her shoulders were so tight that Harry’s neck hurt.

  He reached for her. “Al—”

  “Don’t!”

  He put his hands on the steering wheel instead. “You know, Allie, it’s okay for you to feel sad about this. I know how much you wanted her for yourself.”

  “Yeah,” she said, her voice shaking. “As if I was ever going to be able to get her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” she said again, looking away from him. “I know.” She stared out the window, still blinking back her tears. “Do you mind if I don’t drive right now?”

  He wanted to hold her so badly his teeth hurt. “No, I don’t mind.”

  Alessandra nodded. “Great.”

  Harry turned the key and started the car. He backed out of the parking spot and drove out of the lot. Within forty-five seconds they were back on the highway.

  He kicked it up to seventy, kept his eyes on the road, and pretended not to see that Allie’s tears had won, that she was silently crying as she sat, turned away from him.

  He ached to hold her, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want that kind of comfort from him.

  And that was a shame, because right about now he could have really used a hug, too.

  Twelve

  SHAUN OPENED THE front door, expecting the postal carrier or a UPS delivery, expecting anyone in the world besides Mindy MacGregor.

  But it was. Mindy the Mountain, larger than life, standing on his front porch for the entire eighth-grade class to see.

  She smiled. “Hi. Do you want to go over to the park, shoot some baskets?”

  Mindy was forever determined to put her height to good use. She played basketball every day, even when it rained. She didn’t seem to notice that no matter how often she practiced, she wasn’t getting any better. She was way too clumsy and slow.

  “I have a couple dollars,” she added. “We could ride over to the 7-Eleven and get an ice cream after.”

  She smiled again, a little less certainly this time, and Shaun realized he was staring. He was standing there with his mouth all but hanging open, in complete shock.

  He’d been nice to Mindy over the past few days. He’d run into her in the library and, in the back corner, where no one could see them, he had helped her sign on to the Internet to look up information on Civil War re-enactments of the Battle of Gettysburg. She knew barely nothing about the Net,
and he’d taken time to explain search engines and Web sites. They’d talked about music, about his dancing, too.

  He’d told her about the red-haired girl he’d met in California, making it sound as if she were his girlfriend. He’d even given her a name. Lisa. He talked about Lisa as if they were practically engaged.

  He thought that would be that, but today she’d sought him out after chorus, lending him a CD of some a cappella group she thought he’d like. He hadn’t even looked at the CD, let alone listened to it. He’d just stuffed it into his backpack and fled the scene.

  But she’d followed him home.

  She was standing on his front porch, her bike parked by the gate.

  For all the world to see.

  It was obvious she thought he was as lonely and pathetic and as desperate for a friend as she was. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t like Mindy. He didn’t need any friends. He didn’t want any friends. And he especially didn’t want any friends like Mindy MacGregor, God help him.

  “Grab your bike,” she said. “Or we can walk, if you want …”

  Now that she knew he wasn’t potential boyfriend material, she was far more relaxed, more confident. That was good, but he wished she’d go be more confident somewhere else.

  “I, uh,” he said. “I’m sorry, I, uh … can’t.” Quick, think of a good reason. “I’ve got, um, homework and … and my father is coming to visit, so I have to clean my room.” Brilliant. Sheer genius. A parental visit was an undeniable bona fide excuse.

  She smiled again but with far less confidence now. “Well, I don’t mind helping you clean your room. They say two heads are better than one. And when cleaning, four hands are better than two, right? Besides, I’m great at cleaning. My mom owns Merry Maids. I help her out all the time when her regular staff calls in sick.”

  If she came inside, her bike would be out front for anyone passing by to see. All it would take was Ricky or Josh or any of their asshole friends, and by tomorrow morning the entire school would know Mindy the Mountain had spent the afternoon at the Leprechaun’s house.

  God.

  But if he turned down an offer for help, she’d know the cleaning thing was only an excuse, and her feelings would be hurt.

  “Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you could put your bike in the back, behind the garage. Marge—my aunt—doesn’t like it when we leave bikes out front.”

  Mindy turned around, and there was Emily’s tricycle, right next to her ten-speed. And when she looked back at Shaun, he could tell from her big magnified eyes that she knew the reason he wanted her bike to go in the back had nothing to do with Marge. She knew why he didn’t want to shoot hoops with her, too.

  He didn’t want to be seen with her. He didn’t want anyone to know they were friends.

  The flare of hurt in her eyes made him feel sick to his stomach. God, he was no better than Ricky or Josh.

  No, he was worse. Ricky and Josh hadn’t given her false hope by being nice to her, the way he had.

  “I don’t mind moving my bike,” she said. She arranged her mouth into an empty smile. “I’ll, um, meet you at the back door, okay?”

  Now Shaun felt even worse. She knew the truth, but she was so eager for a friend, she was willing to be treated like shit. She should have punched him in the face, stomped him into the ground, and spit on his bloody remains, screaming her rage. Instead she silently moved her bike.

  As she rounded the corner of the house he wanted to call to her, to tell her to wait, tell her it was okay to leave her bike out front. What the hell did he care what anyone thought? But he could see Andy Horton coming down the street on his Rollerblades, and he closed the door instead, praying that Mindy move her big butt a little faster.

  And completely hating himself.

  He was a complete coward, a total loser. No wonder his dad hated coming to see him.

  “Tell me about your kids.”

  Alessandra drove with both hands on the wheel, just a little bit slower than Harry liked. He kept glancing behind them to see what was keeping her from pulling into the fast lane. There were never any cars there.

  Her eyes were still bruised and tired-looking from her tears, her nose still faintly red, despite the fact that she’d slept for at least an hour after she’d cried herself out.

  “You drive too slowly,” he told her.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Speed up. You’re making me nuts.”

  “I will if you tell me about your kids.”

  Harry sighed. “All right. Jesus. Shaun’s in eighth grade. He looks like his mother. Emily’s in her second year of nursery school. She looks like me, poor thing, kind of dark and short.”

  Alessandra glanced at him. “You’re not short.”

  “According to George I am. It’s okay—I don’t mind. You know what they say about short men?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know because it’s going to be rude, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes. “But probably funny. Okay, tell me. What do they say about short men?”

  “Got me. Damn, I was hoping you’d know.”

  Alessandra laughed. He loved making her laugh. It was a particularly nice victory now, since she was still so sad about Jane’s adoption.

  “I thought you were going to drive faster,” he said. “Although I better warn you, the engine’s souped up. If you don’t pay attention, you’ll be pushing ninety miles an hour before you know it.”

  “Thanks for the hot tip. But I thought you were going to tell me about your kids.”

  “Do you have to practice being so annoying,” Harry asked, “or is it something that comes naturally?”

  “It’s a well-thought-out part of my cover. Alice Plotkin is definitely annoying. God knows she annoys me, it’s only fair she should annoy you, too.” She glanced at him again. “That’s why I’ve decided to talk like this from now on,” she added in a high-pitched squeaky, ear-jarring voice.

  “Knock it off. You’re not supposed to be the funny one. I’m the funny one.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” she said in that same awful voice. “I’m just trying to be thorough, to completely be Alice Plotkin in every possible way.”

  “Stop,” Harry said. “Dear Lord, help me. I feel like Dr. Frankenstein—‘Oh, God, what have I created?’ ”

  She was laughing again, and Harry realized with a jolt that he was having a good time. He was driving cross-country and enjoying himself. A completely impossible paradox.

  He liked her. It was wild—he actually liked Mrs. Griffin Lamont. She was more than he’d thought. Far more. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so wrong in his first impression of a woman.

  Her world had ended. Her life had virtually been stolen from her. And yet she was moving ahead. She refused to be caught in the pain or mired in the complete unfairness of it all.

  “Tell me about your children,” she said in her normal voice. “We’re getting close, I want to know what to expect.”

  Harry shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure what you want to know about them.”

  She chewed on her lower lip. She had beautiful lips, so full and gracefully shaped.

  No sex. No thinking about sex. No thinking about gently capturing that lip with his own teeth and … Harry turned away, digging through the glove compartment for the map.

  “Well,” she said slowly. “What do they like to do? What kind of personalities do they have? Start with basics. Then we can move to the tougher issues. Like how have they dealt with the tragedy of losing first their mother and Kevin, and then you?”

  Harry bristled. “They haven’t lost me.”

  She didn’t say anything, she just glanced at him.

  “Okay,” he said defensively. “So I haven’t exactly been around, but it’s not like I’m dead. It’s not like I’m never coming back.”

  She still didn’t say anything, so he went back to the easier questions. What do they like to do? He wasn’t sure. Not anymore.

  �
��Shaun’s kind of quiet,” he said, thinking aloud. “He always liked to read—in fact, he’d rather read. Kev and I used to be out in the yard, throwing a ball around, and Shaun would just sit on the deck with a book. He was a pretty good baseball player. I coached his Little League team a few years ago. He’s really fast, but not much of a hitter, unfortunately. A good bunter, though, because of his speed.”

  “Does he still play?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “When I spoke to Marge last, she said he got one of the leads in the school musical.” He laughed. “That completely blew me away—I had no idea the kid could sing. He was always so quiet. I mean, what’s a shy kid like that doing up onstage? I was sorry I missed it.”

  She looked at him again. She didn’t say a word, but he knew what she was thinking. His kid had a lead in the school musical, and he’d missed it? What kind of father was he?

  A shitty one. There was no doubt about that.

  “Quiet people aren’t always shy. They might just be quiet because they can’t get a word in edgewise,” Alessandra said. “I had this great-uncle—he was about six and a half feet tall, and he was the biggest, loudest, funniest man I’d ever met. And he had this little tiny bird of a wife, Aunt Fran, who just kind of sat off to the side and smiled, never saying much of anything. She spent one Christmas at our house, a few years after Uncle Henry had died, and I remember being so surprised when I talked to her, because she was even funnier than my uncle had been. It was just when he was around, he took up so much space, she never felt the need to speak up.”

  “You think Shaun was quiet because both Kev and I were always so loud?” Harry shook his head, answering his own question. “Yes. Em was loud, too. She was only two, but I used to call her ‘the Mouth.’ She was like this little fierce space alien who was either scowling or laughing, nothing in between, and …” His stomach hurt. “I hate talking about this.”

  “You hate talking about your children?”

  “No, I mean, talking about what it was like … before. Jesus. You know, I busted my ass to make the divorce be okay, to make us all be okay, to still be a family even though me and Sonya weren’t together. We made it through some really bad shit and I remember thinking just days before … that the worst was behind us. But then I got the call to come ID the bodies and … Can we talk about something else?”