Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

  Juliet had found the vignettes odd but interesting, especially these murals closest to the mural center to which they were returning. She slowed her step to regard one of them more intently. Brown-skinned youths were about to be arrested by white police officers drinking out of "Starsucks" coffee cups.

  She pointed it out to Tristan. "Check this out. I wonder if the CEO of the world's leading coffee franchise has seen this."

  Tristan frowned at the colorful vignette. "That's not just a protest of the status quo," he stated.

  "What do you mean?" She looked back at the vignette and frowned.

  "I think it's a call to revolution. See the weapons?"

  "No." To her, the painting seemed merely like a harmless cry for change. "Where?"

  "Here," Tristan said, stepping closer and pointing out the butt of a pistol jutting from one boy's rear pocket. "Also here." He stepped sideways to indicate a migrant worker in the process of loading a shotgun while, nearby, a well-dressed man prepared to step into a snazzy sports car.

  "Oh, come on. He's just angry that the man has a car and he doesn't."

  "Then what the hell is this about?" Tristan indicated a robed figure holding something over his head.

  Juliet sidled closer to examine the image. "It's a priest displaying the communion bread."

  "Right. Why is he standing in the crosshairs of a rifle scope?"

  On closer inspection, she noticed the crosshairs centered right over the priest's heart. "Well, the guide did mention the corruption of the Catholic church."

  "So violence is the solution," Tristan interpreted. "That's what these murals advocate."

  All at once, what appeared to be art depicting social inequality took on a more sinister aspect. Juliet rubbed her arms through her thin sleeves and wished she'd worn something warmer than a lavender blouse.

  "Cold?" Tristan threw an arm around her, enveloping her in warmth.

  She willed herself to shrug him off but found she didn't want to. Being with Tristan in San Francisco wasn't like being with him back home, she rationalized. This was more like a vacation—a working vacation, not much different than going on a cruise. She'd let her hair down then. In theory, she could do so now and not jeopardize her heart because a vacation wasn't real life.

  "Why is it so chilly here?" she groused. "I thought this was sunny California. And where is Goebel's emblem hiding?"

  According to Hilary, it was on the wall closest to The People's Eyes Mural Center. But that wall stood ten feet high and a city block long. They could hunt for it all day and never see it.

  "Didn't Hilary send you a picture?" Tristan reminded her.

  "Oh, yeah." Pulling out her phone, Juliet compared the emblem's placement in the picture to the scenes near where they stood. At last, she spotted it, positioned above a vignette of politicians driving farmers off their land. "There it is."

  "Oh, wow." Moving around behind Juliet, Tristan pulled her against him a second time, wrapping both arms around her as they studied the image together.

  "Time to talk to Renata Blumenthal?" His voice by her ear gave rise to a pleasant shiver.

  According to their guide, the founder of The People's Eyes—just back from her travels abroad—would be at the center shortly after one. After they met with Ms. Blumenthal, Tristan and Juliet would drive seven miles to Russian Hill to knock at the door of the man whose features matched those of her parents' killer.

  "It's time," Juliet confirmed. Sudden doubts assailed her. She twisted in Tristan's arms to look up at him.

  "Hey, maybe you should do the talking," she suggested.

  His eyebrows quirked. "Me?"

  "You're far more charming than I am," she insisted, recalling how he'd gotten information out of a pawnshop owner in Merida. "Plus, she's a woman, which means she'll adore you. Flirt with Ms. Blumenthal. Make her like you. Then ask her about the emblem."

  He gave an affable shrug. "Sure. If you want me to."

  Relief swamped her. "Thanks." She stuffed her phone back into her purse. "Come on, let's go." As they strode toward the mural center, Tristan caught her hand in his. His warmth felt too good to relinquish.

  Cars vied for space along the curb that fronted the three-story, Victorian building. With its vivid purple façade and a yellow sign hanging over the entry, the non-profit enterprise was impossible to overlook. More than that, it buzzed with activity. Individuals greeted one another on the sidewalk before proceeding into the building through the glass-paneled door.

  "Is this a church, too?" Tristan asked, his step slowing.

  Juliet propelled him forward. "If it is, we're just in time for a service."

  They entered with the other visitors, only to stand awkwardly at the sales counter in the front room while everyone else continued through a second door into a large room at the rear.

  Listening to the warm greetings of people who appeared to have known each other for years, Juliet questioned whether the murals advocated violence or not. The social upheaval depicted in the paintings didn't carry over to what seemed to be happening here—a community potluck, based on the aroma of food wafting from the back room.

  She was about to suggest to Tristan that they return later when the treads on the old staircase creaked. They turned to see a woman descending into the front room. Juliet recognized Renata Blumenthal from her online photo.

  The founder of People's Eyes moved with the grace of a younger woman. Platinum hair pulled into a tidy bun atop her head complemented her rather austere, long black dress. Spying the guests standing in the lobby, she smiled at them warmly.

  "Welcome," she called, coming off the last step to approach them. "I'm afraid you missed the only tour we have on Sundays."

  "We just did the tour," Tristan countered. "It's the reason we came to see you."

  "Oh?" The woman's pale blue eyes jumped to Juliet. She regarded her closely for a second, blinked, and looked back at Tristan.

  "But if you're busy, we can come back later," Tristan said, as the door to the back room closed, sequestering its occupants.

  Renata dismissed his offer with a wave. "Nonsense. We are never too busy for guests. I'm Renata." She extended a hand devoid of rings. "CEO and founder of The People's Eyes."

  "John Whitby," Tristan answered, startling Juliet with his glib lie. "This is my wife, Jeanette."

  Renata released Tristan's hand and firmly squeezed Juliet's.

  "We're from North Carolina," Tristan emphasized his Southern drawl.

  Renata chuckled. "I hear it in your speech."

  The woman's own speech, Juliet noted, betrayed the faintest German accent, reminiscent of Juliet's mother's.

  "How did you like the tour?" Renata asked, forcing Juliet to answer as she held her hand in a grip that bordered on crushing.

  "Fascinating," she admitted, rather relieved when the woman let go.

  "Did it engage your empathy?" Pale blue eyes rested intently on Juliet's face.

  "Absolutely," Juliet replied, even as she categorized Renata as a bit of a fanatic.

  "We had a question about one painting in particular," Tristan inserted.

  Renata showed polite interest. "Then I hope to answer it."

  "My wife and I bought a painting recently," he continued, "marked by the artist with a symbol instead of a name. We saw that same symbol on the mural around the corner."

  Juliet masked her surprise. Her own method of questioning people tended to be direct. Tristan, on the other hand, found indirect ways of extracting information. If Renata knew anything about Goebel's art collection, she'd surely want to share what she knew, given the line he'd fed her.

  However, the woman's beautiful face betrayed only interest and puzzlement. "What's this symbol look like?" she inquired.

  "Show her your picture of it, honey." Tristan turned to Juliet and gestured at her purse.

  Taking out her phone, Juliet accessed the online image Hilary had sent. Then she held it out so Renata could see it. The woman's arctic eyes consider
ed the emblem without a trace of recognition.

  "I'm afraid I have no idea," she apologized. "Over a hundred artists have expressed themselves with their murals, so naturally I have trouble keeping up with all of them. But, if you like, I'll research the matter further. Why don't you leave me your contact information, and I'll do some digging and get back to you?" She nodded at Juliet's cell phone.

  "That'd be great," Tristan answered.

  "Yes, thank you," Juliet agreed.

  "Just write your number here," Renata instructed, sliding the guest ledger down the counter toward Juliet, "and I'll give you a call. How long are you in the area?"

  "Only a few more days," Tristan supplied as Juliet picked up a pen and jotted down her phone number, remembering at the last instant to append the names Tristan had given them—John and Jeanette Whitby.

  If Renata was going to call her, Juliet needed to change her voice mail message right away as it currently identified the name of her practice.

  Putting the pen down, she cocked an ear to the sound of singing coming from the adjacent room. "Do you run a church here, too?" Juliet asked, curious to know what was going on.

  "A community center," Renata explained. "You're welcome to join us," she added, gesturing toward the closed doors.

  "Thank you," Tristan declined the offer graciously. "We don't have much time left to sightsee, so we'll pass."

  "Well, enjoy your stay." Reaching out, Renata squeezed Tristan's arm admiringly. "Do come back if you're ever in the area again."

  "We will, thank you," Juliet replied.

  Tristan put a hand under her elbow and steered her toward the exit. "Bye, now."

  "I will call as soon as I have information," the center's owner promised, waving a hand in farewell.

  At the door, they nearly collided with a young man rushing in with a carton of fast-food. The delectable aroma of fried chicken reminded Juliet that they'd skipped lunch since their breakfast was so large, and now she was ravenous.

  Walking back toward their parked car, Tristan broke the silence. "She was pleasant enough."

  "Had a grip on her like a linebacker," Juliet answered.

  He slanted her a sidelong look. "Ready for phase two?"

  Her stomach tightened at the reminder of what they were going to do next. Go to the current address of retired police officer Hans Coenen and casually inquire whether he'd murdered her parents. Longing for some caffeine and calories to fortify her first, Juliet eyed an upscale bistro across the street.

  "Need a snack?" Tristan guessed.

  "Yes, please."

  Together they pushed into a cozy eatery filled with enticing scents. The venue offered comfortable-looking furniture, and the menu's selection of drinks and edibles rivaled the notorious "Starsucks." A woman with Middle Eastern features took their order, promising to bring it to their table right away, as they were the only customers.

  "Is everyone at the community meeting?" Juliet inquired as she paid for their order.

  The faintest pursing of the woman's lips conveyed disapproval. "Most likely." Averting her dark gaze, she swiped Juliet's card then turned away to blend their drinks.

  Juliet and Tristan selected a booth by the window, both of them sliding toward the wall to peer up the street. The doors to the mural center were closed and the blinds, pulled. Juliet took out her phone and promptly deleted her voicemail greeting, in case Renata Blumenthal gave her a call.

  "Are you nervous?"

  Tristan's question caused her to look at him with her most impenetrable expression. That morning, she'd advised him of her intent to interview Coenen but had left out certain details—mostly because she knew he wouldn't like them.

  "'Bout what?" Having worked with police and lawyers, she'd learned to keep the ins and outs of her investigations to herself. She put her phone away.

  "Come on, honey." He leaned over the table, pitching his voice on a soft, silky note that did funny things to her insides. "You have got to be nervous about ID'ing this guy."

  When, exactly, had she become so transparent to him?

  "For all we know, he could have been an assassin in his past life, working for Goebel. What if he did kill your parents?" Tristan's eyebrows pulled together. "You look a lot like your mother, you know."

  The fact that his thoughts closely mirrored her own made her swallow hard. Juliet wasn't about to admit to Tristan that she was counting on Coenen to recognize her.

  The proprietress of the shop saved her from having to reply as she marched up to their table. "Pumpkin spice latte, a large café mocha, and two cream-filled donuts," she announced, placing each item on their table.

  "Smells amazing," Tristan complimented her.

  Juliet's gaze rose to the woman's name tag. "Shaza." She sent the shop keeper a winning smile. "What is it about the community meetings you don't approve of?"

  Shaza shot a wary glance out the window before looking back at them. "You're not from here, are you?" she asked.

  "No, we're from... North Carolina," Juliet answered, remembering to stick to Tristan's story.

  Shaza chose her words carefully. "Let me just say that I came from a destitute district of Pakistan in Southern Punjab. There was no way to get ahead, no way to improve one's social situation regardless of how hard one worked. But here in America, things are different. If you are smart, get a good education, you can work your way up. Capitalism has fed my family. I have sent my oldest to the university," she added proudly.

  The reference to capitalism caught Juliet off guard. She darted a look at Tristan who seemed equally perplexed.

  "Does Ms. Blumenthal not hold with capitalism?" she inquired.

  Shaza's lips tightened. "She does not," she answered shortly. "There is more sugar and creamer if you need it." She gestured to a table against the wall, putting an end to their conversation. "And should you have need of the restrooms, the key is next to the cash register in the red cup. Enjoy."

  With a professional smile, Shaza turned her back on them and retreated behind the counter.

  Juliet sank her teeth thoughtfully into her donut. "I think we hit a sore subject there," she mused around a mouthful of pastry.

  "Sounded like it," Tristan agreed. His phone, which was sitting on the table, lit up. Peeking at it, he took a swig of his café mocha, and announced with satisfaction, "Hack's driving up to meet your assistant, as we speak."

  Juliet tore into her donut "Seriously? He told you that?"

  "I thought they'd hit it off." Tristan saluted himself with his cup. "Hilary is exactly the type of woman he needs. Hooyah," he added, cheering them on.

  "What type is that?" Juliet asked, though she already knew.

  Tristan's eyes danced with merriment. "Let's just say Hack hasn't been laid in about a year. He's shy with women."

  "Oh, and you think Hilary's going to do all the talking and tear his clothes off, do you?" She demolished the rest of her donut.

  Tristan grinned. "Don't you?"

  Juliet chewed until she could talk again. "Most likely. Maybe Hack can help her dig up history on Coenen. I need to link him to Goebel if I'm going to establish a motive for murder."

  "Aw, leave Hack and Hilary alone. Let them get to know each other." He imbued the word with all its baser meanings.

  She had promised her assistant Sunday and Monday off, but Juliet was only in California for a few more days. "Can't. I'll need information now. It'll give them something to do besides—you know," she added, washing down what was left in her mouth with a swig of her latte.

  Tristan shrugged. "Have it your way." Polishing off his donut in two bites, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. "You can call her in the car. Ready to head out?"

  Juliet's heart rate sped up at the prospect of paying Coenen a visit. "Almost." She concealed her anxiety by licking the tips of her fingers. "I think I'll use the restroom first." Slipping out of the booth, she picked up her purse and went to fetch the key from the red cup.

  Once in the restroom, she shoved
a magazine, loaded with hollow-point, 115 grain, brass-fitted cartridges, into her Ruger until she heard it lock. As she washed and dried her hands, she took a good hard look in the mirror. From her coloring to the slight cleft in her chin, she did resemble her mother.

  It would be interesting indeed to see if Coenen recognized her.

  * * *

  Hilary fussed around her living room, plumping pillows, to ensure that her apartment looked as tidy and welcoming as possible. Stuart Rudolph would arrive at any moment. Excitement fizzed in her as she envisioned how the day could end. Turning toward the mirror hanging beside her coat closet, she assessed her appearance with a practiced eye.

  Too sexy? Too orange?

  The cashmere sweater hugged her well-supported double D's, making them look like a pair of matching pumpkins. The fuzzy top, paired with a black skirt and black fishnet stockings, screamed Halloween, which was only two weeks and a couple of days away.

  What she wore beneath the ensemble was even sexier—a mega push-up, leopard-print bra, with matching thong panties. Designed to drive a man wild, she'd put them on with the calculated intent of blowing Stuart Rudolph's rational mind—and maybe some other part of his anatomy, should the opportunity arise.

  Of course, she wouldn't rip his clothes off as soon as he walked through the door. She'd let the tension build over a bottle of wine and the latest Star Trek movie running on Netflix. At the peak of the action, when it looked like Jim wasn't going to make it, she would shift closer to Hack and hug his arm between her breasts. Her breathing quickened as she pictured what would happen after that.

  Suddenly, her cell phone jangled, startling her from her reverie. Oh, God, he had better not be calling to cancel. She ran to her kitchen table and snatched the phone. Wait, why was Tristan Halliday calling her? Maybe Hack had put him up to it.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Hilz." Juliet's greeting made Hilary purse her lips with annoyance. "I knew if I called you from my own phone, you wouldn't answer."