Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Cos, come on, you really don’t need to worry about that. Anyone who cares about you will absolutely adore your mother, too,” Kelly told him. “It’s so obvious that she loves you. Clearly she just wants you to be happy.” She paused.

  Uh-oh.

  “Are you still seeing . . . oh, God, I’m blanking on her name,” Kelly asked. “I’m sorry. You know who I mean—the accountant.”

  “Stephanie,” Cosmo said. “No. That was . . . No. She took a job in New York.” He shook his head. “That was never meant to be long-term.”

  She reclined her seat a bit in an attempt to get comfortable, turning slightly to watch him as he drove. “You told me you liked her.”

  “Yeah,” Cosmo said. He’d told Kelly a lot of things that he probably shouldn’t have in the past nearly two years that they’d been unlikely friends.

  He was friends with Tommy’s Kelly. Who would’ve thought that? It had all started when Commander Tom Paoletti had been held under house arrest, charged with the unlikely treasonous crime of providing weapons to terrorists—among other equally ridiculous accusations.

  Kelly had been hell-bent on running her own investigation, determined to find the proof she’d needed to clear her husband’s name. At Tom’s request, Cosmo had started hanging around her, riding shotgun, so to speak.

  And when she dug just a little too deep, they’d both been injured from a car bomb that was intended to keep her from digging further.

  She’d had some serious internal injuries and he’d badly broken his leg. Their friendship had solidified as they’d helped each other with physical therapy after getting out of the hospital.

  “I did like Steph,” Cosmo told Kelly now. “I guess she just never got that attached to me.”

  How could she have? They never spent any of their time together talking. Well, she’d talked. He’d listened. And before he’d gotten around to telling her how he felt, she’d found a replacement and left.

  “I’m sorry,” Kelly said.

  He shrugged. “It happens.”

  They drove in silence for a mile or so before Kelly said, “So.”

  Cos didn’t dare look up from the road. He just waited for it.

  And it came, of course. “Sophia Ghaffari,” Kelly said.

  He laughed, swearing under his breath.

  “Tom mentioned that you came into the office and, um . . . noticed her,” Kelly said.

  “Tommy told me she just lost her husband,” Cos countered.

  “It’s not a just,” she said. “I mean, okay, it hasn’t quite been a year, but it’s close. I don’t really know her that well, but she comes across as being lonely. At the very least, she needs a friend. And if there’s anybody I’d trust to take it slowly with her, it’s you. I think you should ask her to dinner.”

  They drove for a mile. And then another. She just sat there, watching him, waiting for his response.

  “I don’t know, Kel,” he finally said. Dinner. With Sophia Ghaffari. Jesus God.

  “How about this,” Kelly suggested, because she knew exactly what he was thinking. “A dinner party. This week. At the beach house. Me and Tom. And John and Meg—”

  “No, no, no, no,” he said. “No officers from Team Sixteen. No way. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny like a brother, but in that kind of formal setting, he’d be Lieutenant Nilsson and I’d be S-squared, all night long.” Even without Nilsson’s presence, Cosmo would be inclined to sit down and shut up. He sucked at small talk. He was still rolling his eyes at his attempt to tell Mercedes how much he’d liked her screenplay. He didn’t even like the woman. There was nothing at stake, and he’d still ended up sounding like an idiot.

  “It wouldn’t have to be formal,” Kelly argued. “We could have a cookout—”

  “It would be hard enough with Tommy there.” Cosmo laughed his disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.”

  “How about Vinh and Angelina Murphy?” Kelly was not going to let go. “They just got back from their honeymoon, and I’ve been dying to hear all about their trip to St. Thomas. You know Vinh, right?”

  “Yeah,” Cos said. “He’s part of the team on this op in Hollywood. I’ve never met his wife, though.”

  “She’s great,” Kelly told him. “You’re going to love her.”

  That was a given.

  She pushed harder. “It’s a plan, then, okay? I’ll call Sophia and find out when she’ll get back from Denver and—”

  “Whoa,” Cosmo said. “Wait. I need to think about this.”

  “Think fast,” Kelly said. “Or else while you’re thinking, Bill Silverman or Jazz Jacquette or, God, Izzy Zanella is going to beat you to it and ask her out first. You’re always grumbling about how you don’t get to meet the nice women until after they’re married to your friends.”

  Always? Cosmo had uttered those words only once to Kelly, obviously in a moment of insanity.

  “Can we stop talking about this now?” he asked, desperation leaking into his voice.

  “Think fast,” Kelly said again.

  He could feel her watching him again as he drove. One mile. Two.

  “What’s on your schedule for later this afternoon?” she finally asked.

  Thank you, Jesus. “After I drop you off in paradise,” Cosmo told her, “I’m heading into L.A. Mercedes—the producer—asked the entire team to show up at some kind of meeting over at the studio at 1630.”

  “Mercedes Chadwick, right?” Kelly mused. “I’ve read about her, I don’t remember where . . . People magazine, maybe? What’s she really like?”

  “Baby’s got back,” Cosmo said. “Her body could make a dead man dance.” He could see that he’d surprised her, so he tried to explain. “She’s this really intelligent woman, an awesome writer, but that’s not what she wants the world to see. She hides behind her knockout body: cleavage set on stun and belly button ring always in full view—you know what I mean?”

  Kelly nodded, sighed. “Yeah. I’ve met too many women like that in California, unfortunately.”

  “Most of the time, I don’t like her very much.”

  She looked at him, eyebrows up. “And the rest of the time . . . ?”

  Figures Kelly would pick up on the fact that he’d said most of the time . . .

  “A five six seven eight!” Cosmo said, then sang a few bars of the instrumental riff of the opening dance number from A Chorus Line, and she laughed.

  Yeah, Cosmo was far from dead. And where J. Mercedes Chadwick was concerned, he was just a little too ready to break into a dance.

  Robin Chadwick looked incredible in his paratrooper uniform, his hair slicked back from his face in a classic forties style.

  His scene had wrapped an hour ago. Any other star would have left by now, but several of their extras hadn’t shown up and Robin was filling in, careful to keep his back to the camera at all times.

  He stood with a small crowd of extras, all wearing period clothing, on a set dressed to look like a nightclub in London in the late winter of 1945, listening as the director gave instructions for the upcoming shot.

  Patty would’ve liked nothing more than to stand there, clipboard clutched to her chest, dreamily reliving last night.

  When she’d kissed Robin Chadwick . . .

  He’d wanted more. He’d pulled her with him into the kitchen, into the darkness of the formal dining room that was never used and . . .

  There definitely would’ve been more to relive this morning, if it hadn’t been so late and his on-set call so early.

  She’d caught him watching her when she arrived at the studio today. He’d smiled, and her heart had galloped in her chest.

  She’d nearly gotten knocked over by one of the crew. “Heads up, watch out, coming through! Hey, you there, girlie with the time to stand still! Can we switch jobs?”

  Outside of the actors, who spent most of their time waiting for action to be called, no one stood around on set. At least not on this set.

  Patty had bee
n running all morning, all through lunch, too—the one block of time that Robin, who was also one of the movie’s producers, had been free. She’d felt him watching her, but she hadn’t found more than a spare few seconds to give him a breathless hello.

  Would this day ever end?

  Patty put her clipboard under one arm as she carried two coffees—one black, one with extra milk and sugar—across the studio.

  One of her many jobs was to make sure all guests to the set were comfortable—and that they stayed seated in a special area, out of the way of both actors and technicians.

  Jack Shelton was here today, as was that FBI agent, Jules Cassidy.

  With his stylishly short hair, trim athletic body, and soulfully dark brown eyes, Jules was nearly as cute as Robin. He’d told her when he’d arrived that Mercedes had called and asked him to meet her over here this afternoon.

  That was news to Patty, but then again, as a lowly intern, she was often the very last to know.

  After introducing them, she’d seated Jules next to Jack, hoping he wasn’t one of those former military types who got all freaked out by the idea of an openly gay man. Because despite his advanced age, Jack was flaming. No doubt about it. Especially when he greeted Jules with “And aren’t you just absolutely adorable?”

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked after delivering their coffee. When she’d approached, they were talking and smiling in agreement. The FBI agent didn’t look as if he were eager to run screaming away. He was far cooler than she would have been—Jack Shelton made her nervous.

  “Settle!” came the cry from the assistant director.

  “That means you need to get comfortable fast,” she quickly told Jules. Jack had been on set plenty of times in his long, weirdly colorful life, and knew the drill. “She’s going to call action soon, and at that point you can’t speak or even move—not even to shift your weight. I’m sorry, but is your cell phone off?”

  Jules nodded. “It’s on vibrate.”

  “Oh,” Patty said. “No, I’m sorry, but even that makes too much noise. I’m going to have to ask you either to step outside or—”

  His smile was warm and quite possibly a little flirtatious. My goodness, he was good-looking. “No problem.” He turned off his phone. “Actually, I’ve been on a soundstage before, so—”

  “And. . . .” the director called loudly, drawing the word out. Patty put her finger to her lips, then closed her eyes. “Action!”

  They’d already filmed this very same segment—two lines of dialogue and a reaction shot—so many times that she took the opportunity to rest. And have her favorite daydream.

  Robin, winning the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of Hal Lord in American Hero. He’d take the stage and thank his sister and HeartBeat Studios, as well as his supporting cast. And then, right there, on prime-time television in front of billions of viewers, he’d ask Patty to make his life truly complete by marrying him.

  Photos of her face with tear-filled eyes, her hand over her mouth in heartfelt surprise, would be on the front page of every industry-related publication for the next week and a half—followed by invitations to lunch and job offers.

  Patty Leshane Chadwick, associate producer.

  As for Oscar night, she and Robin would attend endless after-parties, schmoozing with everyone who was anyone in Hollywood. Then, as dawn lit the morning sky, they’d go to the best party of all—a private party at the beach house they called home, where they’d make slow, glorious love until they fell asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms.

  Much in the way they were going to, tonight.

  She was determined to make it happen.

  “And cut!”

  The set came to life again. Assistants and technicians who’d been frozen in place by the command to settle now prepared to shoot the scene again, moving the camera back to the starting point.

  Patty turned back to Jules. “Were you part of the team investigating that Russell Crowe thing a few years back?”

  He blinked at her with his enormously long, dark eyelashes. “Excuse me?”

  “You’d said you’d been on set before, so—”

  “Oh,” Jules said, “right,” as he realized she was continuing the conversation they’d started before the call for action. “No. No, I, um”—he cleared his throat—“lived with an actor a few years ago, and, uh, he was in this little indie movie that was filmed in New York, and—”

  “Excuse me.”

  Patty turned to see one of the extras standing beside her, a young man whom wardrobe had dressed in an American Army Air Corps uniform, complete with captain’s bars. It was pretty surreal that she knew that—just a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to tell a Marine sergeant from a four-star Army general. Now she could actually read rank.

  This captain wore his brown hair slicked back from his face, and he juggled his hat into his left hand as he held out his right to shake. “Hi. Miss Leshane. I’m sorry to interrupt—”

  “Patty,” she corrected him.

  “Patty,” he echoed with a warm smile. “I am sorry to bother you, but every time I’ve had a break, you’ve been on the phone, so, I thought this would be . . . We were just given five, so I thought I’d come say, well, hi. I’m Wayne.”

  “Wayne,” she repeated. Oh, God, was she supposed to know a Wayne? Was there a special guest who was on set today as an extra? She was pulling a total blank.

  He looked amazingly unfamiliar, with brown eyes and a nice smile, good teeth—of course all American actors in L.A. had good teeth.

  “Wayne Ickes,” he said, which sounded a small bell of recognition. She’d heard that name before, but where? “We spoke on the phone last night?”

  Bingo. Right before Robin had returned home.

  Right before that incredible, amazing, toe-tingling kiss that had turned her world, her life, her hopes and dreams completely upside down.

  “College roommate’s sister lives in Tulsa . . . ?” he tried, because she was still standing there, gaping at him.

  “Yes,” Patty said, realizing he was still holding on to her hand. “Right. Wayne. Of course. I’m sorry. . . .” She pulled her fingers free.

  “It must be hard to recognize any of us,” he said, giving her a good excuse. “You know, with the uniforms, and the hair . . .”

  “Right,” she said. “Yeah.” He was sweating, poor kid. “You must be dying, wearing that, under the lights.”

  “Oh,” he said. “No, it’s not bad. It’s kind of cool, actually. I mean, not cool cool, because it is pretty warm in here, but it’s . . . See, this was my grandfather’s uniform. It’s the real thing. Which is probably why I was hired—because I had my own uniform. Not that I’m complaining. A job’s a job and . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I must sound like an idiot.”

  “No,” she said. He was actually kind of cute, the way he was falling all over himself. She gave him a “gotta run” smile, but he mistook it for an invitation to keep chatting.

  “My grandfather flew a B-29 Superfortress—a long-range bomber,” he told her. “He was stationed first in India, and then in the Mariana Islands. This was his winter uniform—he rarely wore it, I mean, considering where he served.”

  “That is really cool,” she lied. Her eyes had started glazing over at long-range bomber. It would have been cool if only there were more hours in the day. Everyone had their own important story that they just had to share, but she had a list of forty things that she had to do right now. On top of that . . . She scanned the set, searching for . . .

  Robin. He was finally coming over to her, working his way through the crowd. She met his eyes across the room, and he smiled and her heart leapt and . . .

  “My schedule’s nuts, too. I work over at Cedars-Sinai. The hospital. I’m an orderly. It’s a good job—not the most glamorous, I know, but I like helping people and my boss is flexible. Anyway, I was thinking if you weren’t busy one of these nights,” Wayne was saying, flipping his hat over and over,
“there’s this great place that serves the best barbecued—”

  “Excuse me,” Patty interrupted him. Weren’t busy one of these nights— what a joke. “I’m sorry, but I need to . . .” She pointed toward Jack and Jules. And Robin, who had made his way to them, and was shaking hands with both.

  Wayne was immediately contrite. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this wasn’t—”

  “I’m just so overwhelmed and . . . Did you need something? One of those forms for additional pay?” The costume department was providing an additional stipend for extras who came with their own period clothing. Someone named Carl Something had asked her for one of those forms about an hour ago, but now she couldn’t find him to give it to him.