Here are the journal pages, Nicola. You can read for yourself, and not just take my word for it.
Have things already started happening to you?
Run, Nicola, run. John is quite insane. Stay alive.
Cleo Rothman
Slowly, Nicola picked up the final two pages in the letter. John’s journal. She read.
Enough, Nicola thought when she finished reading. It was enough. She grabbed her coat and was out the door and on her way to John’s condominium in three minutes flat.
She was going to get the truth, tonight.
LOS ANGELES
The star of The Consultant, Joe Kleypas, lived on Glenview Drive in a small redwood-and-glass house set on stilts in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by dead brush, almost-dead mesquite bushes, and straggly pines. After the third knock, Kleypas came to the door wearing only pale blue drawstring sweatpants that had seen better days. He’d tied them loosely, letting them hang low on his belly, showing off his famous abs, which looked like he’d polished them to a high shine. His hair stood up in spikes, and he looked close to snarling. He was also drunk. He weaved just a bit in the doorway, waved a glass at them that was half-full of either water or straight vodka. “My, my, what have we here?”
Sherlock stuck her FBI shield in his face.
He took another drink and sneered even more. “Oh yeah, you’re the Keystone cops.”
“That’s right,” Savich said. “We’re the Federal Keystone cops. We want to talk to you, Mr. Kleypas.”
“Federal Keystone cops. Hey, that’s funny.”
“It’s Mr. and Ms. Federal Keystone cops to you,” Dane said.
“Very funny, hot shot.” Joe Kleypas had planted himself firmly in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a well-worked-out bare chest. Nick wondered how Dane would look if he polished his abs. She wondered if you just walked into a drugstore and asked for ab polish.
Kleypas said, “I already talked to Detective Flynn. I don’t want to speak to any more Keystone cops, even Federal ones. Just get the fuck out of here now, all of you. Hey, you’re awful pretty, you an actress? You want, maybe we could go someplace, have a little drink. My bedroom’s got a good view of the canyon, the sheets aren’t too bad.”
Neither Sherlock nor Nick knew which one of them had struck his fancy. Nick said, “That’s nice, but not today, thank you.”
Joe Kleypas shrugged and his abs rippled a bit. “Then all of you can get out. Get out of my face.” He drank down the rest of his drink, hiccuped, gave a slight shudder. Not good, Sherlock thought. The man looked about ready to explode.
They’d been told he had a violent temper. A mean drunk—no worse sort of man than that, Sherlock thought, and took another couple of easy steps back in case he did something stupid, like let loose on Dane or Dillon. Sherlock said low to Nick, “Let’s go sit in the car,” and tugged on her arm. “We’re a distraction. Let the guys handle it.” They watched Savich very smoothly force Kleypas back into his house and follow him. Dane closed the door behind them.
When Dane and Savich came out some fifteen minutes later, both of them looking disgusted, Sherlock said, “Dillon, please tell me he confessed. It really would make my day.”
“Yeah, he did confess,” Dane said, “to about a dozen different love-guests, all in the last month, most of the ladies married. He prefers married ladies; he told us that about four times. I think he’d like the two of you to add to his list. Charming guy. Oh yeah, he was drinking straight vodka.”
“Dillon, look at your knuckles,” Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand. “You hurt yourself. I don’t like this.”
“I didn’t like his mouth,” Savich said, shrugging, and flexed his hands. “He came at me, and I ended up shutting it.” Nick saw him rub his knuckles, a very slight smile on his face. “Nothing out of his mouth but foul language.”
“Now he can repent at his leisure,” Sherlock said comfortably, and patted her husband’s arm. She knew Dane wouldn’t tell a soul that his boss had decked a big Hollywood jerk with shiny abs. She must remember to buy some iodine; she had some Band-Aids in her purse. She always carried them for Sean. Dillon must really have been mad to hit him with his fists.
After Sherlock finished doctoring him, Savich, with a grin at his hands that now sported two Flintstones Band-Aids, pulled the Taurus out of the narrow driveway that sat atop stilts a good thirty feet from the canyon floor, and said, “Kleypas is one miserable lad, but he’s more pathetic than dangerous. He’s too busy drinking to be doing much of anything else.”
“The word over at the studio,” Dane said, “is that Kleypas is having trouble getting work because of that drinking problem. The Consultant was more or less his last chance. He’s really bummed that it’s been pulled. He’d be the last one to submarine the show.”
The following morning, Nick was blow-drying her hair—another item Dane had bought for her—half an eye on the local TV news. She dropped the hair dryer and yelled, “Oh, no!”
It bounced against the wooden dresser, then clattered to the floor.
Dane was through the door in a flash, zipping up his pants.
“What is it—” He came to a fast stop. She was standing there, clutching her middle, staring at the TV. She didn’t say a word, just pointed.
There she was, in living color, walking beside him down Pico Boulevard toward their parked car. There was a close-up of her face and the newscaster said in a chirpy voice, a voice so carefree and pleased he could have been talking about how he’d gotten laid the previous night, “This is Ms. Nick Jones, the San Francisco police department’s key witness in the Prime-Time Killer murders. Sources tell us that Ms. Jones was living in a homeless shelter in San Francisco and just happened to see the killer at Saint Bartholomew’s Church.”
“Well, damn,” Dane said. “I’m not surprised that they’ve got something, but all this? They’ve got everything, including your name and a shot of you.” He saw that Nick was as white as the bathroom tile.
He walked over to her and pulled her against him. “It will be all right,” he said against her still-damp hair. “You’ve got the fastest guns in Hollywood on your side. We’ll keep clear of the reporters. It’ll be okay.”
She laughed, a desperate laugh that felt like a punch to his gut. She raised her head to look at him and splayed her palms on his bare chest. “I’ve got to get out of here, Dane. There’s no choice for me now.”
“No. I said I’ll protect you and I will. You want more Feds around? Fine, I’ll speak to Savich. He’ll arrange it.”
“It was luck that saved me at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral, not you.”
“You’re right about that, Nick.” Dane hated to admit it. “I’ll get more folks to guard you,” he said again.
She just shook her head. Then, to his astonishment, she leaned her head forward and lightly bit his shoulder. Then she pulled away from him. “I hope I didn’t break that very nice hair dryer you bought for me.”
“You’re not going to run, Nick.”
She gave him a long look, then nodded as she said, “Very well,” and of course he knew she was lying. She didn’t do it very well.
He said nothing, just rubbed where she’d bitten him and left her room to finish dressing. He realized he’d never been bitten before. Did it qualify as a hickey?
Forty-five minutes later, they were in the Los Angeles field office, in the conference room with the SAC, Special Agent in Charge Gil Rainy. Sherlock said, “Sure the press found out about the murders being based on the first two episodes, but how did they find out about Nick? Not just her name, but that she was homeless.”
“Maybe the murderer himself,” Dane said. “He wants to flush her out, put her in the limelight.”
Delion said, “Already the media idiots—oops, I’m being redundant—have labeled the murderer the Prime-Time Killer. I swear, even if it cost lives, the media would spit it all out, no hesitation at all.”
Rainy said, “I bet they sat aro
und and brainstormed to come up with the cute handle. But, bottom line, the leak isn’t any big deal. The murderer already knows about her so who cares if everyone else does, too? Still, it’s like the media wants to offer her up as the sacrificial goat.”
Savich said, “I called Jimmy Maitland and told him what they showed, asked him to rattle some cages, find out how this happened. The thing is—where did they get the photo of Nick and Dane? To be honest, it seems to me like a plant. I think someone sent the photo in along with specifics.”
“The murderer,” Dane said, and looked over at Nick, who hadn’t said a word. “Who else would have?”
Flynn said, “You’re right. If a reporter had found them, he would have shot some video, not just taken a photo of them, so maybe Dane’s right, it was the murderer.”
Dane said, “Actually, that’s not what’s so bad about all this.” He sat forward as Nick grabbed his arm.
“No, Dane, don’t.”
He ignored her. “Nick was in the homeless shelter in San Francisco because she’s running from something or someone she hasn’t told any of us about. So I think she’s got two people after her, both dangerous. Being on TV was the worst thing that could have happened to her.”
Sherlock said, “Okay, Nick, then it’s time for you to level with us. We’re the Feds. The perfect audience. Flynn and Delion are locals, but they aren’t bad either, what with all the sugar they eat. We will do everything we can for you, count on it. Now talk.”
Nick actually smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock, but I can’t. I just can’t.”
Savich said, “We could lock you up, you know.”
“No, you can’t,” Nick said. “I made a deal with Delion and Dane. Leave me alone. This is over.” Then she simply pushed back her chair and walked out of the room.
“Well, hell,” Dane said, and shoved back his chair to go after her.
“Not to worry,” said Gil Rainy. He spoke into his cell phone. “She won’t get out of the office.”
Flynn said, “But we can’t hold her, can we?”
“Sure,” Delion said. “She’s a material witness, in the flesh.”
They heard some orders, a yell, and furniture crashing over. They ran out of the conference room to see four male agents holding Nick’s arms and hands, trying to protect themselves. That left her the furniture to kick, which she was doing. She’d lost control. She was fighting as if her life depended on it. Dane realized he’d pushed too hard, but he hadn’t felt he’d had a choice.
Delion yelled, “Don’t hurt her, dammit!”
Three chairs lay on their sides, and a computer monitor was hanging off the edge of a desk. An agent grabbed it just in time.
“Give her to me,” Dane said, although he knew she’d try to kill him, too. The agents gladly handed her over. This time she didn’t bite him, she tried to kick him in the groin. He heard Rainy yell, “Hey, not that!” as he quickly turned to the side, just in time, and her knee struck his thigh. He pulled her back against him and closed his arms around her body, pinning her arms to her sides, her legs against his, giving her no leverage at all. But she just wouldn’t stop. She heaved and jerked and didn’t make a sound.
“Hey,” Dane said finally, “anybody got any handcuffs?”
“Don’t you dare, you jerk,” Nick said.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Listen to me, Nick. You are not going to die, at least not in my lifetime. You really might try for a little trust here.” He shook her again. Rainy handed him a pair of cuffs. Dane jerked her arms behind her and cuffed her.
He thought she was going to explode. She kicked and bit and twisted until Sherlock walked right up to her, got in her face, and said, “Stop it, Nick, or I’m going to belt you. The men won’t because you’re a woman. You’re really pushing me here.”
Nick believed her. She got control of herself, but it took a bit of time before the hideous panic subsided. She was white, shaking, her breath coming in gulps. “Don’t hit me, Sherlock,” she said, and just went limp. Sherlock held her up.
“Somebody give me the key to these ridiculous handcuffs.”
One of the agents tossed Sherlock the keys. She opened them up, slipped them off, and rubbed Nick’s wrists. Sherlock said, “Okay, don’t you move or I’ll coldcock you. Now, Nick—”
Dane said, “Her name’s Nicola. At least she told me that much. And she’s a Ph.D.—medieval history.”
Nick lunged for him. Sherlock grabbed her and managed to hold her, as Nick yelled, “You just had to blab it, didn’t you, Dane Carver? I’m going to bite you again really good, when you least expect it, damn your eyes, just like I did this morning when you were half-naked and I bit your shoulder!”
There was complete silence, at least twenty special agents frozen in place, all ears.
Sherlock blinked, eased her hold on Nick, who ran at Dane, her fists up, ready to kill him. He was fast, grabbed her, pulled her back up tightly against his chest, and held her arms against her sides. “This is familiar,” he said, remembering how he’d saved himself in the police station in San Francisco by holding her immobile just this way.
She was still breathing too fast, but at last her muscles were beginning to relax. “I’m not going to let you go just yet. I really would like my body parts intact.”
One of the special agents guffawed. “Hey, Agent Carver, speaking of body parts, let’s see the bite on your shoulder.”
“Ah,” said another agent, “the perils of being an FBI agent. I think Dane should get combat pay.”
Nick growled. At least her breathing was slowing down.
TWENTY-THREE
SAC Gil Rainy assigned two agents to protect Dane and Nick. Old geezers, Gil said, who needed to do something different because they’d just about burned out on bank robbers.
“Old geezers, hell,” Delion said when he met Bo and Lou, neither of them over forty-five. “I’m gonna belt Rainy in the chops.”
It was just after lunch, eaten at a KFC, Nick and Dane each eating only one piece of deep-fried chicken breast, when they headed back to Premier Studios to speak to Frank Pauley. The two special agents, Bo and Lou, were hanging a good ways back.
They were at the corner of Brainard and Loomis when out of nowhere a motorcycle came roaring up to the driver’s side of the car. The rider was dressed in black leather, a helmet covering his head and face. He pulled a gun out of his leather jacket and began shooting. He was fast and smooth. The window exploded. Dane felt glass shower over his head and face, felt the sting of a bullet that came too close to his ear.
“Nick, get down on the floor! Now!”
She was down instantly. The bullet missed her by no more than an inch, and shattered the passenger-side window, spewing glass shards all over her.
“Jesus, keep down!”
Dane jerked the steering wheel to the left, trying to smash the Grand Am into the motorcycle. He nearly managed it, but the bike swerved hard left, then pulled back. Dane jerked out his SIG Sauer and held it in his left hand, waiting, while he tried to control the car and not kill anyone. Suddenly, the bike came back up again, the guy firing rapidly, at least six shots, emptying his clip. He stuffed it inside his black leather jacket, pulled out another, and fired again. Dane fired back, still wrestling with the car. He felt a smack of cold against his left arm, ignored it, and fired again. In the next instant, they were at a side street. Dane jerked the steering wheel sharply right. They screeched on two tires as the Grand Am barreled onto the street, barely missing three cars whose drivers were sitting on their horns and yelling curses.
Dane managed to bring the Grand Am to a stop next to a curb in front of a small 1940s bungalow. He was breathing hard, adrenaline flowing so fast his heart was nearly pumping out of his chest.
The motorcycle flew past, revving hard and loud. The guy fired two more shots, both high and wild. Then Dane just couldn’t believe it—the guy turned a bit and waved to them. In the black leather gloved hand he waved, he held a gun.
“Yes, just some glass in my hair. Oh dear, my hands are cut a bit, but nothing bad. Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Where are Bo and Lou?”
“They’re coming up behind us right now.” Dane opened the door and got out. Then he looked down at his shirt. “Well, shit.”
She yelled from behind him, “You’re shot, dammit, Dane Carver. How could you?”
He heard her voice shaking, felt the shock building in it, and said calmly, “I’m all right. A through-and-through shot, a flesh wound, nothing broken, everything works. I’ve cut myself worse shaving. It’s hardly worse than what Milton’s bullet did to your head. Take it easy, Nick. We’re okay, both of us, and that’s what’s important.”
“The guy waved to us. Did you see that? He actually waved to us as he was holding the gun!”
“Yeah, I know. Some balls, huh? How did you see that? I told you to keep way down.”
“I just looked up there at the end. The bastard.” She was starting to tremble, then shudder. He took off his bloody jacket and wrapped it around her, pulled her against his side. “It’s okay. Just hang on, breathe deeply. That’s right, nice and deep. Bo and Lou will be here in a minute.”
“I thought we were going to be bored out of our gourds,” Lou said when he trotted up. “I’m sorry, guys. We were really hanging back. We won’t do that again.” He looked at the shattered windows, closed the driver’s-side door, and waved away the six or so civilians who were closing in on them.
“Everything’s okay here, folks. Just go about your business. Hey, what’s all that blood? Jesus, Dane, you got hit.”
Bo said, breathing hard, “The guy clipped you, Agent Carver. Okay, let’s get you over to Elmwood Hospital, it’s the closest good emergency room. I took Lou there just last month.”
Dane said, “What was wrong with Lou?”
Eleventh Hour Page 18
