Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

  "I can't even picture that," Hack stated after a brief pause.

  "It's true. Listen, I'm sending you an image via text. It's the Stasi emblem that Dieter Goebel painted on his artwork to identify it as his. Look him up, and you'll see who I mean."

  "I know who he was—head of Intelligence for the Stasi."

  There wasn't much Hack didn't know. Tristan shook his head, marveling at the genius's range of knowledge.

  "I need you to run a search on the picture I'm sending you. See if it shows up anywhere after 1990. I'll call you later. I'm getting dirty looks."

  "OK, but—"

  Tristan hung up with a grimace of apology for both Hack and the students glaring at him.

  Feeling his stomach rumble, he wondered if Juliet had finished her work yet. He'd hoped they might rent a thriller on DVD that evening and hang out at her place. But after her suggestion that he fly out to confront his birth mother, he had reason to doubt she wanted him around.

  Maybe he should fly to California like she wanted.

  He sat still a moment recalling Cassidy King's hauntingly familiar features. There wasn't any question she had given birth to him.

  He had two weeks of leave, and Juliet didn't want him hanging around her place, so why not go west to meet this woman? If he couldn't find a military standby seat, he could purchase eleventh-hour airfare relatively cheap. On the West Coast, he could try to meet Cassidy King, explore the area, and still have leave time left over on the off-chance Juliet changed her mind.

  Making a decision as suddenly as he did most things, he pushed back his chair and scooped up the books to return them to the information desk.

  Apparently, you didn't have to be a student to get something useful out of a college library.

  * * *

  Juliet pushed the door to her dark apartment open and drew up short.

  "Tristan?"

  It was nearly ten o'clock at night. She reached out and snapped on the lights. Her astonished gaze searched the empty kitchen. Given the silence of her apartment, Tristan wasn't there. Her fluttering pulse subsided while her thoughts went into overdrive.

  Where could he be? His motorcycle was still in the parking garage downstairs. She'd expected to find Tristan kicked back on her couch, waiting for her.

  All the way home, Juliet had imagined what he'd been up to while left to his own devices. In her mind's eye, he had cooked her something delicious for dinner, waiting with a glass of wine for her and stories about his day. She had plenty to tell him, in turn, about the shenanigans of Rolf Royer's irresponsible and soon-to-be-ex-wife. The woman had spent two hours getting painted and waxed at her favorite boutique. After that, she'd driven her Lexus to a mansion in McLean that happened to belong to a professional football player.

  Juliet had sat outside the ostentatious house in her SUV with her bladder about to burst from sucking down two cups of coffee. The woman had finally emerged with her lover still pawing at her under the lights above his doorstep. Juliet had raised her long-range camera just in time to snap off some highly incriminating photos before putting her car in gear and burning rubber in search of the nearest restroom.

  She hadn't heard from Tristan in all that time—not that she'd ever given him her number. But he'd probably gotten it from Emma or Jeremiah ages ago. Since he wasn't waiting at her office, which Hilary had locked up tight when she'd left work for the day, Juliet had decided Tristan must have found his way back to her apartment.

  Except, he wasn't there.

  Maybe she should have texted Jeremiah to find out Tristan's number. Why should she have to keep tabs on him, though? He was the one who'd swept into her life demanding to be her boyfriend.

  She paused to consider his behavior. In all fairness, he hadn't ever used that word. Nor had he demanded much of anything from her. He'd driven her to Arlington to meet her grandmother. He'd bathed her and put her to bed. Don't think about that! Her girl parts tingled at the memory. He'd shopped for groceries and cooked breakfast that morning.

  And now he wasn't there, which felt very odd because she hadn't expected him to give up so easily.

  "Tristan?"

  She headed toward her bedroom, hoping to find him passed out on her bed. She knew he'd hardly slept a wink in the past two days. The light blinked on, revealing her empty bed, still unmade from when she'd awakened late that morning.

  Juliet wheeled away, marching to her study where Tristan had stowed his duffle bag that morning. Snapping on the light, she stared at the spot on the futon where it had been earlier. The bag wasn't there now, which meant he'd broken back into her apartment to get it, and now he was gone.

  Stripped of anticipation, it took her a second to realize Tristan had left a note in place of his belongings. She plucked up the folded piece of paper and warily opened it.

  Hey, beautiful. I'm taking the first flight from Dulles to Monterey Regional tomorrow, so I opted to stay at a hotel by the airport. Please look after my bike for me. When I come back, we can finish this. Tristan

  She swallowed at the last sentence, her stomach twisting with a mix of relief and consternation.

  He'd scribbled his cell phone number at the end of his message, providing her a modicum of comfort. Now she could reach out to him. She'd managed to get rid of him, if only for a while. He'd said he was coming back. And what did finish this mean, exactly?

  Balling up his note with inexplicable frustration, she hurled it at the trash bin and stalked out of her study to find some supper.

  The contents of her refrigerator offered no inspiration. Fortunately, Tristan had put away their leftovers from breakfast, so she had two pieces of bacon and some toast to grind between her teeth.

  As she warmed her makeshift meal in the microwave, she stood with her arms crossed, feeling like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way.

  Juliet had wanted Tristan out of her life; now he was gone. Why was she feeling so put out?

  Because he hadn't given her what her body wanted, that was why. He had primed her for sex with his selfless foreplay the night before, and tonight, he wasn't there to follow through. Damn it!

  Her bacon popped in the microwave, and she snatched open the appliance, burning her fingers on the hot plate as she pulled it out.

  Ouch! Shit! Hot. Hot. The plate clattered onto the counter where she dropped it.

  Oh, wait, she had Tristan's phone number. Should she call him? Text him? What would she say to him—that he hadn't needed to leave so suddenly? He'd already ensconced himself in some hotel so he could take the first flight out in the morning. What was his hurry when he had almost two weeks of leave left?

  Was it selfish of Juliet to want to stop him at this juncture? Yes. Obviously. She was the reason he had taken off. Guilt bit into her for making Tristan feel unwanted.

  "Way to go, Juliet," she muttered, turning to the fridge to get butter for her toast.

  She'd just popped the lid off the container when her cell phone rang. Dropping the knife, she pounced on her purse, pulling out the phone with the irrational hope that Tristan was calling.

  Seeing Emma's name on her caller ID, she expelled a ragged breath and answered the call. "Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"

  Emma had met their newfound grandmother that afternoon, taking Jeremiah and Sammy with her.

  "Oh, my gosh," Emma exclaimed. "It was... so bizarre and yet so gratifying."

  "Do you like her?"

  "I love her! I can see Dad in her when she talks."

  "The eyes," Juliet agreed, picking up the knife again and carving out butter to spread on her toast.

  "Exactly. Dad got her eyes, and her intelligence, too. And guess what? She used to teach English at the college level, just like me."

  "No way."

  "And she's giving me her classic book collection, which she keeps in storage."

  "Awesome."

  "And she told me so many stories about Dad when he was growing up. He sounded just like you, really into information-hunting. Once, w
hen he was ten, he cracked the case of a neighbor's dog that went missing."

  Juliet took a bite out of her toast. The crunch of crisp bread between her teeth drowned out the rest of Emma's story.

  "That's interesting," she said, realizing Emma was done talking and waiting for Juliet's reaction.

  "Oh." Emma hesitated. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. You've got company right now."

  Juliet stopped chewing. "Tristan's not here," she stated tersely.

  "Why not?" Emma sounded puzzled. "Where is he?"

  "Some hotel near the airport, about to fly out to California to meet his biological mother."

  Emma's muffled voice made Juliet realize she'd covered her speaker so she could relay the news to Jeremiah.

  "Emma." Juliet tried to recapture her sister's attention.

  "You just let him go?" The shrill voice had Juliet pulling the phone from her ear.

  "I didn't let him do anything. I told him where I found his birth mother, and he took off."

  "By himself?"

  "Of course, by himself. Tristan is a SEAL. He doesn't need anyone holding his hand."

  "But—"

  "Listen, I'm eating supper right now. Gotta go." Severing their call with a jab of her finger, Juliet laid the phone on the counter and reached for her bacon. Using her teeth to tear it viciously in half, she lifted a brooding gaze to the dark window overlooking her neighborhood.

  Tristan was out there, not too far away, lying alone in some hotel room, wondering how his birth mother was going to receive him.

  "I don't need to feel guilty for that," Juliet muttered, pulverizing her meager dinner with her molars. But she did. She felt guilty. And cheated. And oddly alone.

  * * *

  Tristan lurched out of a deep sleep to the sound of his phone ringing. He found himself sprawled face down on the bed in the hotel room, having collapsed there in a fit of despondency over an hour earlier, according to the bedside clock.

  "S'up?" he asked, recognizing Hack's number with a pang of disappointment. It wasn't Juliet calling to wish him bon voyage. She was probably glad to see the last of him.

  "Oh, were you sleeping?" Hack asked.

  Tristan cleared his throat and rolled over, rubbing the grit from his eyes. "Yeah, well, some people do that, you know." But not Hack, who seemed to be up at all hours of the night keeping tabs on terrorists lurking on the internet.

  "You said you'd call me back and you never did," Hack reminded him.

  "Oh, yeah. Sorry." Tristan had been a bit preoccupied with thoughts of landing on Cassidy King's doorstep unannounced. Plus, he'd been feeling sorry for himself. If Juliet had been so relieved to see him gone, Tristan had to doubt his ability to win her over, even if he was able to track down Goebel through his scattered art collection.

  Unwilling to throw in the towel just yet, he swung his feet to the floor and started at the beginning, explaining to Hack why Juliet was looking for Goebel. Right up to the part where her mother had been a mole.

  "No shit," Hack exclaimed.

  Tristan gave his buddy a condensed version of the facts uncovered over the previous two days, adding that Goebel might have tracked Anya down, exacting revenge for her betrayal.

  "I suppose it's possible," Hack commented. "When East Germany crumbled in '89, Goebel got tossed into prison only to disappear right out of it two years later. How he managed his escape remains a mystery. There are lots of conspiracy theories about that."

  "Well, fast toward twenty-two years." Tristan interrupted before Hack could dive into a history lesson. "The night Anya and her husband were killed, Juliet saw a stranger peering in one of the windows of the wrecked car, making sure her parents were dead. So the million-dollar question is, could it have been Goebel? Or did he send someone to kill her on his behalf?"

  "That's two questions," Hack pointed out.

  "Right. But we start with Goebel. Maybe we can locate him by tracking down his art. If he was that passionate about it, he might have tried to reassemble his collection."

  "That's not a bad tactic," Hack agreed. "Since he identified these pieces with his mark, there might be some record of them showing up in a transaction somewhere. I'll see what I can find in online art auctions."

  Tristan could almost hear the gears turning in Hack's head. "Thanks," he said. "Uh, listen, I'll be on a plane for most of the day tomorrow. If you find anything interesting, you'll need to contact Juliet's assistant. She's a geek like you," he added, "only smoking hot and conveniently available." Unlike someone else who was smoking hot but wanted nothing to do with a relationship.

  Hack went warily quiet.

  "I'll send you a picture of her business card. She wants to see if you're any better at finding information than she is. I guess she's got a competitive streak. Please call her tomorrow if you find anything. Here's your chance to impress a woman. Go ahead and knock her socks off," he encouraged, picturing Hilary's garter and stockings.

  "Come on," Hack mumbled. "You know I can't talk to women."

  Hack had been raised by a single mother. He ought to know how to talk to women. "Dude, if I haven't seen you staring at hot chicks, I would think you were gay. Not that I'd care if you were. I'd find you a hot guy instead."

  "I'm not gay," Hack insisted.

  "OK. Prove it. You still have Oscar, right?" Tristan was familiar with Hack's leopard-sized cat.

  "Yeah," Hack said with a question in his voice.

  "Send her a picture of him. She's crazy about cats."

  Hack heaved a sigh. "Fine," he finally agreed. "Let me have her number."

  "I'll send you her contact info now. Get some sleep," Tristan added, ending the call. Taking a picture of Hilary's business card, he forwarded it to his teammate.

  Pleased with his matchmaking efforts, Tristan put his phone down, snapped off the light, and laid down only to stare at the hotel-room ceiling. His hopes had been so high yesterday. He'd been sure that after meeting Juliet's challenge to forgo dating for six months she would welcome him with open arms. Instead, she'd deflected his efforts to win her over, then tossed him a bone in an obvious ploy to distract him.

  Hell, Hack had more chance of finding happily ever after with Hilary than Tristan had with Juliet.

  Heaving a long, despondent sigh, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  Chapter 6

  Juliet rubbed her aching temple while fighting not to close her burning eyes. The client seated in her office continued to rant. She'd come bursting through the door about an hour earlier, red in the face and hot under the collar. For twenty minutes, the plump brunette had complained about her lying, conniving, philandering asshole of a husband who'd been cheating for over a year.

  This, Juliet reminded herself, is why I am single.

  Then she thought of Tristan who would be landing in California in a couple of hours. The sense of loss that flooded her made her want to pick up one of the magazines next to her and lob it at her newest client's head.

  She had hardly slept the previous night. Not like the one before that, when she'd slept so deeply she hadn't even been aware of Tristan sharing her bed. Unlike most males, the man didn't snore. She'd learned that much about him back in Mexico. He had put her to bed, made her breakfast, and been so helpful in regard to her personal crisis that Juliet now felt ill-equipped without Tristan at her side.

  Sure, she still had Hilary, who was hammering at her keyboard in her corner of the office, following every loose thread Goebel might have left behind. But Hilary didn't make her feel the way Tristan did.

  Good thing he's gone, then, Juliet's logic insisted. If he got under your skin in less than a day, imagine what could have happened if he'd stuck around.

  "How much do you charge?" the new client asked, breaking into Juliet's private thoughts.

  Seizing the chance to wrap up their initial interview, Juliet popped out of her chair and crossed to her file cabinet to pull out some paperwork. "My fees are laid out in this agreement. It'll depend, of course, on how
long it takes to prove your husband's infidelity. From everything you've said, he doesn't go to great lengths to hide his indiscretions. It shouldn't take long."

  "Good, because I only have five hundred dollars."

  "That should cover it," Juliet replied. Like Hilary had said the other day, adultery cases were their bread and butter. She would much rather track down an arsonist or find a missing teenager, but those other jobs didn't come along as often as the former. "Why don't you fill this out and give it to my assistant when you've finished?"

  Hilary's ruby head tipped in their direction.

  "I need to head out for a while," Juliet said to her. "Let me know if you make any progress on that Goebel case, will you?"

  "Sure." Hilary's flat tone intimated she wasn't getting anywhere with her research.

  Grabbing her purse, Juliet bid goodbye to her newest client—she'd forgotten the woman's name already—and left the building.

  A bright sun stabbed her eyes as she pushed through the door onto the bustling sidewalk. Well-heeled yuppies on their lunch breaks were hotfooting it to the nearest eateries for lunch.

  Any other day, Juliet might have joined them. Today, she needed to work out—hard—before she hurt somebody.

  Her foul mood, she assured herself, had nothing to do with Tristan taking off. But she imagined him in Carmel, California, mingling with tanned and voluptuous movie stars. Golden Boy—that was the nickname Tristan's teammates had given him. With his movie-star looks, he was one SEAL who would fit right in on the West Coast. She couldn't help but wonder if he might enjoy himself there getting to know the local women. She sure hadn't gone out of her way to show him a good time here.

  Why are you jealous?

  It made no sense not to want Tristan for herself while seething at the thought of him with someone else. She'd only spent a day with him. He could not have gotten to her in that short a time.

  Could he?

  * * *

  Engrossed in a firsthand, online account of innocent civilians tortured by Dieter Goebel for various offenses against the Republic, Hilary ignored her cell phone as its chime signaled the arrival of a text message. The German citizen's description of how Goebel had chained his victim to the wall in a sewer where rats and vermin had crawled all over him made her shudder. His wasn't the only story of torture at the hands of Dieter Goebel. Hilary's loathing for the former spymaster had risen with every document she'd read.