Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Um, yeah,” Kelly said, sounding more and more perplexed. “This place is really nice. It’s right on the beach. There’s a two-car garage, actually.”

  “Fabulous,” Jane said. “It’s on Pacific Coast Highway right? Number . . .” God, the street numbers up there had to be huge. “Seventy-two thousand and . . . ?” she guessed, picking a number out of thin air.

  “It’s in the twenty-threes,” Kelly said, which was good enough, considering Cosmo’s truck would be parked in the driveway. “If you want, I can get you the name of the rental agent who handles—”

  “That’d be wonderful,” Jane said. “Thanks so much!”

  She cut the connection before she did something stupid, like start to cry into the ear of a total stranger.

  She was going to Malibu, where she’d give Cosmo the chance to tell her to her face why he was quitting, and why he was attending a pizza party with Sophia-the-perfect on the evening after he’d shared Jane’s bed.

  It was serendipitous, because if his answer was “Because I’m scum,” Jane could use the opportunity to warn Sophia.

  Because no one, not even women who were perfect, deserved to be hurt like that.

  Jane grabbed her purse, a scarf, and dark sunglasses and thundered down the stairs.

  “I’m going out.”

  Decker looked up to see Jane standing in the kitchen doorway. He laughed—for about half a second. But then he stopped because she wasn’t kidding. “Jane. Wait. You know that’s not a good idea.”

  “Tell me,” she said, holding his gaze with an intensity that was alarming, “that you know—without a doubt—that this threat is real. Tell me you’re convinced, absolutely, that I’m in serious danger.”

  “Well,” he started, stalling, because it was obvious she was upset.

  “Yes, Jane, the threat is real,” she persisted. “If you truly believe it. . . .”

  But he didn’t. He wasn’t convinced. “It’s not that cut-and-dried. Until we have more information, we need to treat this as if it’s—”

  But Jane had already turned away. “Feel free to come along and throw yourself between me and any stray bullets,” she said as she headed for the garage, putting the scarf over her head—like that was some kind of useful disguise.

  “Wait,” he said again. “Stop. Where are you going? Are you going to the studio?”

  Jane didn’t stop. “I’m going to Malibu.”

  What? Why? “Okay,” Decker said. “Hold on. Let’s slow down here. You know I can’t tell you what to do, but I can certainly recommend that—”

  She got into her car.

  He got in beside her. “Jane. I don’t know what’s in Malibu—”

  “My life,” she said, her eyes flashing and her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. “My life is in Malibu. And in Hollywood and Beverly Hills, and all those ‘dangerous’ locations where my movie is being made without me! It’s not locked up here, in this stupid house! How long am I supposed to hide from some loony tunes psycho e-mailer who probably isn’t even a real threat?”

  Decker nodded. “I can understand your frustration, but taking these temporary precautions—”

  “Temporary?” she said. “Temporary?”

  “Yes, temporary. Look, I know what you’re feeling. Everyone goes through it. There’s even a name for it—prison fever. It’s when the anger catches up with the fear, and protective custody feels more like a jail sentence—”

  “How long is my sentence going to last, Deck? Four months? Six to twelve? Two to four years?”

  “I don’t know,” Decker told her. “You know I don’t know. What I do know is you need to take a deep breath and let me make some phone calls, set up backup, arrange this for you—for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” She laughed. “Want to hear something really funny?” she asked. “HeartBeat is going to kill our deal and pull their money because I won’t cut those pesky gay people from my movie. ‘The World War Two drama is just as compelling without Jack Shelton,’ ” she said, pitching her voice to sound deep and stupid. “ ‘The director agrees with our assessment—that the movie doesn’t lose a thing by removing the controversial material.’ Fuck! That! I’m not changing anything. So tomorrow you won’t be here anyway—I’ll be on my own.”

  Decker shook his head. “Jane, we’ll work something out—we’re not just going to quit.”

  For some reason that made her laugh, but again it wasn’t a “ha-ha, you’re funny” laugh. It was more of the “oh, my God, I can’t believe you said that” variety.

  “I can’t afford you.” She reached up to hit the button for the automatic garage door opener that had just been installed. “You better get the bill for this equipment submitted to HeartBeat tonight.”

  Deck grabbed her wrist. “I should drive. You should be in the back with your head down.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Then we’ll go where you want to go, which won’t be Malibu. Nice try, Smokey. I’m driving.”

  “Start the car first,” Decker told her. “Then open the door. Move fast. Floor it as soon as possible—I’ll tell you when the car’ll clear the garage door.” He now spoke into his radio. “Nash! Stay out of the driveway. Is there traffic on the street?”

  They were all exiting the house like this now, every time any one of them left, even if it was just to run to the store to get cream for their coffee. Put their car into the garage, close the door, wait a few seconds, get an all clear from the street, and Starsky and Hutch it out of there.

  The goal was to keep the shooter guessing and off balance. Had Jane left the house? Was she in one of those cars? All of the info that the FBI analysts had given them suggested that their man worked alone. Kind of hard to follow every car that left the driveway and keep an eye on the house, all at the same time.

  “Everything’s quiet,” came the reply. “Nothing’s moving. What’s going on?”

  “Open it,” Decker told Jane, and the garage door went up. “Go,” he said. They hit the street, tires squealing, as he told Nash, “We need a little air.”

  Jane headed west.

  “What’s in Malibu?” Decker asked her.

  But she didn’t answer. She just drove.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  J ules’ cell phone woke him.

  His nap had lasted all of seven minutes.

  The FBI office was still in the process of reviewing the list of extras, actors, and crew for American Hero. Reviewing and analyzing and checking via computer. Hoping someone’s name would come back with a big red flag saying “homicidal psychopath.”

  For most of the day, Jules had stood around with his head up his ass, waiting for the analysts’ results.

  Just after lunch, he’d attended a meeting in which the cause of the accident in the studio was determined to be a mystery. Officially, they still did not know if it had been an intentional attempt to disrupt filming—as opposed to yesterday, when their inability to figure it all out had been unofficial.

  Later tonight, after dinner, Jules would be meeting with Lawrence Decker—who was already back to work after yesterday’s hospital visit. Topic of discussion: how to find the crazy e-mailer before he killed Jane.

  After checking out the usual suspects from the Freedom Network, they had exactly zero leads. Or maybe they had four hundred thousand leads, considering that Cosmo had left a message on Jules’ voice mail, asking for two lists. One was of all people living in the Western U.S. who owned ancient white Pontiacs. The second was of owners of dark Ford pickups with a six in their plate number.

  Like those lists wouldn’t take two weeks to print out and four dump trucks to deliver. Sheesh.

  All the emotional drama of the past few days had seemed to catch up to Jules all at once this afternoon. He’d left the analyzing in the hands of the analysts and gone back to his hotel to catch a short nap before an early dinner.<
br />
  His plan was to stop back in the office and see if there was any new information that he could bring to tonight’s meeting. Unlike some FBI agents, he didn’t have a problem saying “We just don’t know.” But it could get old after the seventeenth time inside of five minutes.

  He now scrambled for his ringing cell phone. If this was Adam, he was going to throw the phone across the room.

  But it wasn’t Adam. It was . . .

  “Robin Chadwick,” Jules said as a greeting, as he sank back into bed. “What’s up?”

  Robin was part of the reason he was so tired. Although they hadn’t stayed too long at that little Mexican restaurant in West Hollywood, Jules had been out later than he was used to these days. And coming on top of the week that he’d had—a too-generous dose of both Adam and the great state of Idaho . . .

  He and Robin had talked for about a half hour about the movie industry, favorite films, acting techniques.

  Then they’d spent nearly twice as much time talking about Jules’ work, about Alyssa, about how hard it was to lose an FBI partner, about how glad Jules was that Alyssa’s marriage hadn’t meant an end to their friendship.

  Robin was unbelievably easy to talk to. He asked questions, digging deeper as he strove to truly understand everything Jules had to say. He was genuinely interested.

  Unlike Adam, who would start checking out the waitstaff when Jules talked about work.

  Okay, that was a little too harsh. The truth was that Adam had always been jealous of Alyssa. He only pretended to be bored when Jules talked about her.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you,” Robin said now, on the other end of the phone. “But I could really . . . I need . . .” He sounded upset.

  Jules sat up. “You’re not bothering me.”

  Robin took a deep breath, let it out fast. “I need a giant favor, but it’s too much to ask, so I’m just going to hang up and pretend I never called—”

  “Whoa,” Jules said. “Wait. Robin. Talk to me. Don’t just assume. You know, some people’s giant favors are other’s insignificant no-big-deals. Try me.”

  There was silence from Robin’s end.

  “You still there?” Jules asked.

  “I’m standing outside your door,” Robin finally said. “May I come in?”

  Well, didn’t that surprise the screaming bejesus out of him? “Uh,” Jules said.

  “Yeah, see, never mind—”

  “Wait!” Jules leapt out of bed. Scrambled for his pants. Flung open the door.

  “Oh, crap.” Robin stared at him, at his rumpled hair, his bare chest. “You were sleeping. I woke you.”

  Jules closed his phone. Smoothed down his hair. “That’s okay. I’m okay. A little underdressed . . .” He finished fastening his pants while Robin watched, which was a little weird.

  “Nice abs. I can’t believe you keep a six-pack like that hidden under a suit.”

  Jules rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t want to be an actor. Don’t start. Let me grab a shirt and my shoes and we can go down to the bar—”

  “I’ve already had a couple drinks,” Robin said.

  No kidding.

  His blond hair was charmingly rumpled, and his tie was about as loose as it could get without being undone. He should have been relaxed, and he leaned against the door frame in a nonchalant manner, but Jules could see that he was wound pretty damn tightly.

  “Irish courage,” Robin continued. “My mother was Irish. Maureen O’Reilly—can you believe it? Jane’s mother was Greek. Dad’s third wife came from Mississippi. Four was from Australia. Number five is Russian. She’s actually won the longevity award, but her days are numbered—Dad’s planning a trip to Taiwan.”

  Well, okay, then. “Let me grab a shirt,” Jules said again. He motioned for Robin to hold the door, but he must have misunderstood, because he took it for an invitation to come in. As Jules took his shirt from the back of the desk chair, the door closed with a ca-chunk.

  “Wow,” Robin said, and Jules knew he’d seen the scar on the back of his shoulder.

  Which meant he was still looking, still checking him out.

  “What happened to you?” Robin asked.

  “Hazardous duty is part of my job description,” Jules told him. “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo to cover it. Something cute, like Bert and Ernie or Big Bird.”

  Robin laughed.

  And wasn’t this just perfect. He was alone in his hotel room with Robin Chadwick, who was way too charming and attractive even though he was half-drunk at 4:58 in the afternoon.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Jules asked as he buttoned his shirt. “How did you get my room number?”

  Robin fished into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He held it out, and Jules took it. It was a receipt. From this hotel. For breakfast. Jules had charged the meal to his room—he’d written his number on it.

  “This was in with the money you gave me last night,” Robin told him. “Stuck between two bills.”

  Oh, shit.

  Jules had insisted on going dutch. Robin had put the bill on his credit card and pocketed the cash Jules had given him for his share, without looking at it. At least not at the restaurant. Apparently he’d found this receipt later.

  Found it and surely wondered . . .

  “I wasn’t sure it was intentional,” Robin added, “or . . .”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Robin obviously lied. “It was actually stuck to a five-dollar bill. I think with maple syrup.”

  Jules nodded. “The waitress was rushed when she brought the French toast. The plates bounced when they hit the table. Big splatter factor.”

  “So now I’ve completely embarrassed us both,” Robin said. “Because you think that I think that you gave that to me so that I’d come here—”

  Enough dancing. Jules went for point-blank. “Why did you come here?”

  “We’re shooting a scene tomorrow,” Robin said. “It’s the first scene where Hal and Jack kiss and . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never kissed another man before, and somehow the thought of it being Adam . . . I was hoping maybe you wouldn’t mind. . . .” He was embarrassed. “Forget it. I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”

  He was hoping Jules could be his first. It was so unbelievably sweet.

  “I mean, who the fuck cares, you know?” Robin continued. “I’m acting, so I’ll just kiss him. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t—”

  Jules stepped closer and kissed him.

  It was nothing profound, just a light brushing of lips against lips, but it was enough to shut Robin up.

  He stared at Jules, all gorgeous cheekbones, blond hair, and haunted eyes.

  “Not quite as terrifying as you thought, huh?” Jules said.

  But Robin shook his head. “That’s not, uh . . . The scene is, um . . .”

  Jules nodded. “More intense?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tongues.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Robin said.

  Jules nodded. “Who, um . . . ?”

  “I kiss— Hal kisses Jack,” Robin said. “It’s, uh . . . You know, so it’s clear that he’s the pursuer.”

  “Not some innocent victim of Jack’s insidious gay agenda,” Jules said.

  Robin actually managed to laugh. “Yeah.”

  “So, um, you must’ve given some thought to the, uh, blocking. That’s what you actors call it, right? Blocking?”

  “Yeah,” Robin said, scratching behind his ear. “Screen kisses are different than, you know, real-life kisses—you want to be able to show the emotion, so you kind of tip your head back and keep your face open. . . .” He tilted his head to demonstrate. “Either that, or the cinematographer puts the camera lens right in the middle of it, and . . . Either way, it’s bizarre.”

  “So how are you going to do it?” Jules persisted. “What kind of kiss is it? Is it, like, lunging? Zero to sixty in a flash, or . . . ?”

  “We’ve got one like that
in a later scene,” Robin said. “This one, the one we’re doing tomorrow, is sweet. Very romantic. Tender. At least it is when it starts. By the time we fade to black, it’s pretty, um . . . Hungry, I guess is a good word for it. Starving, actually, because here’s this guy who’s been sitting on his sexuality for, like, seven years. At least that’s how I’m, um, planning to play it.”