Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He stopped. Turned back.

  “I don’t know what I want,” Robin admitted.

  Jules gave him a tired smile. “I do,” he said. “For the first time in years, I know exactly what I want.”

  As he turned and walked away, Robin could’ve sworn he heard him laugh and say, “Adam who?”

  When Cosmo went inside the beach house, Jane was washing the dishes.

  She was standing right in front of the kitchen window.

  He grabbed her and pulled her into the other room, dripping soap bubbles across the floor as he asked from between gritted teeth, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “How?” he asked. “How does it help if you die now, too?”

  “The curtains were closed!”

  “They’re thin—you can see through them from the street.”

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

  Cosmo pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “Christ, Jane, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, clinging to him. “I’m such an idiot.” She started to cry. “When I drove up and saw Murphy, and I didn’t see you, and I thought . . .” She pulled away from him, wiping her face, her eyes, using sheer will to stop her tears. God damn, but the woman hated for anyone to see her cry. “Tell me you didn’t know Sophia was going to be here.”

  Sophia? Holy God. “I didn’t,” Cos told her. “Is that really what you thought? That I was—”

  “Are you really quitting?” she asked.

  How the hell had she found that out? He had been planning to tell her tonight. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. Because it felt wrong to be paid to protect my, well, my girlfriend. If you don’t mind that label. I hope you don’t. I hope I’m not assuming too much. . . .”

  She didn’t understand. “So instead, you’re just going to leave?”

  “I was hoping you’d be okay with me moving in,” Cosmo explained. “Not into your room,” he quickly added. “Into your house. Into, you know, the room I’ve been using.”

  “But I thought you needed the money.”

  “Not as much as I need you to be safe.” He steeled himself against the new flood of tears in her eyes. “Jane, what were you thinking tonight? You shouldn’t have left your house. You should have waited for me to call you back. It was reckless and . . . stupid. I know you’re not stupid.”

  “I didn’t think it was real,” she said, wiping her eyes before her tears could fall. “The threat. Not really. I didn’t . . . I wanted . . . I made sure there was a garage. You know. Here. So I wouldn’t have to walk outside.”

  “It sure as hell looked like you were walking outside to me. Stupid thing number two—leaving the car when you knew there was a shooter in the area. Decker said he told you to drive but you stood on the brake. What the fuck? Excuse me, but—”

  “I thought . . .” She turned away.

  “It’s not just yourself you’re putting in danger when you don’t follow the instructions of the trained professionals who have been hired to keep you alive,” Cosmo said. She had to hear this. “You want to take a stroll down Rodeo Drive in broad daylight even though we tell you not to? Well, when you go ahead and do it anyway, we’re going to be right beside you. You won’t be the only one to die.”

  She stood with her head down, arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  He reached for her, putting his arms around her, but it was like hugging a stone statue. “This isn’t your fault,” he told her. “What happened tonight. You know that, right?”

  She breathed a laugh of disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s not—”

  “You know, I am stupid,” she said, stepping out of his arms. “I thought you weren’t calling me back because . . . I thought you were quitting and you were running off with Sophia. I thought you weren’t ever going to call me back.” She laughed. “God, I’m an idiot.”

  Christ, she was serious. “Janey, how could you think, after last night, that I’d—”

  “It was too perfect,” she said. “Nothing’s that perfect. Although God knows I try to be. . . .” Again she fought her tears and won. “Has Decker called from the hospital?”

  “Just to say Angelina’s gone into surgery. They’re trying to stabilize Murphy a little bit more.”

  “She looks like me.” Jane turned to look at Cosmo, anguish in her eyes. “You said it’s not my fault—”

  “It isn’t.”

  “—but he shot Angelina because he thought she was me, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” he told her. “That’s what we think.”

  “At first I thought it was my fault because he’d somehow followed me,” she said, “but Tom told me he—the gunman—was in place, probably in the neighbor’s yard, before I even left Hollywood. That he must’ve followed Murphy. So okay, that’s good. Angelina and Murphy aren’t going to die because I was jealous and stupid, but . . . It’s still my fault.”

  “It’s your fault that someone crazy picked up a gun and shot people? You can’t take responsibility for that.” Cosmo could see that she didn’t believe him.

  She hugged herself again. “If Angelina dies . . .”

  Cosmo reached for her. “Janey, it’s really okay if you cry.”

  But it wasn’t, because Tommy Paoletti came in. “Excuse me. I’m sorry. . . .”

  Jane pulled away from Cosmo, wiping her face. “Any news?”

  “Not from the hospital, no,” Tom said. But Cosmo could tell there was something, and it wasn’t going to be good.

  “We were right about the shooter,” Tom continued. “He was firing from that open window across the street. And you’re going to love this, Cos. We’ve got four different sightings of your mystery vehicle in this area this evening.”

  “Oh, my God,” Jane said.

  “The truck?” Cosmo asked.

  “The Pontiac Catalina—a white wreck with a peeling black soft-top. It really stood out in this town.”

  That didn’t make sense. After thinking about it pretty much nonstop for days, Cosmo had recently become convinced that the truck was the vehicle they should be looking for.

  “One woman reported seeing it parked on her street, about a quarter mile from here, during the time of the shooting,” Tom told them. “She was keeping an eye on it—if it was still there in the morning, she intended to call the police.”

  “Anyone get plates?” Cosmo asked.

  “No. And no one could give a description of the driver, either.” He looked at Jane, and Cosmo could tell from the expression on his face that there was more news, but Tommy was pretty sure Jane wasn’t going to like it.

  “Whatever it is, sir,” Cosmo told his former CO, “she needs to know.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “Jane, the shooter left behind a note. He’s our e-mailer.”

  “Oh, fuck,” she breathed. “You mean, Mr. Insane-o?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “He was in the house across the street—he fired from a second-story bedroom window. A rifle shell casing was left in the room. On top of the note. I suspect ballistics is going to prove that both the bullets and that casing came from the Chertok murder weapon.”

  Oh, fuck, indeed.

  “The note was an e-mail,” Tom said. “You know, printed from a computer with an e-mail heading? It was sent to Jane’s e-mail address, from our guy’s Hotmail account. Today’s date. Subject line said, ‘Remember me?’ ”

  And the e-mail itself? Cosmo took Jane’s hand, and she clung to him.

  Tom didn’t look happy. “The message said, ‘Oops, thought it was you.’ ”

  “What?” Jane was horrified.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  “He’s saying, what? That he knew it wasn’t me?” she continued. “That’s what that means—oops? That it wasn’t mistaken identity, that he shot Angelina—that he planned to shoot
Angelina—as part of his sick game? I mean, he had to plan it—he’d printed that e-mail out in advance, right?” She looked from Tom to Cosmo, as if imploring them to tell her she was wrong.

  But she wasn’t. “There’s more,” Tom said grimly. “This is both good news and bad news. He didn’t just print it out, he sent it, too. You received an electronic copy as well. And he made sure—like with the e-mail sent from that Kinkos—that we could trace the origin computer.

  “To where?” Cosmo asked.

  “It was sent from the American Hero offices at the soundstage,” Tom told them, “at HeartBeat Studios.”

  What?

  “When?” Jane asked. “Today? We had only a few people over there today.”

  “It was sent today,” Tom said, “but it was programmed—scheduled to be sent—like in some kind of flash session. The sender didn’t need to be present. In fact, we’re pretty sure he wasn’t.”

  “But he definitely gained access to the studio,” Cosmo said. “Right? At some point? Which means he had to come through the main gate—get checked in.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “But we have no idea when. The FBI’s compiling a list from HeartBeat, but over the past couple weeks, thousands of people went through that gate.”

  “If he was at the studio . . .” Jane was terribly upset. “Why didn’t he just kill me there?”

  “No escape route,” Cos said.

  “Because he wouldn’t have been able to get away,” Tom clarified. “And because he really seems to like playing games.”

  “Shooting Angelina and Murphy is a game?” Jane pulled away from Cosmo. She walked out of the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. God forbid she cry in public.

  Tom met his eyes. “Maybe you should get her home.”

  Cos nodded. As if that would help.

  “We’ll need to meet later,” Tom said. “I want Jules Cassidy there, but he’s going to be tied up, probably until the morning.”

  “Morning’s good,” Cos said. That would give him some time with Jane. Time to try to make her understand that this wasn’t her fault.

  Tom nodded. “I’ll get the car into the garage.”

  “Get her brother, too, please, sir,” Cos said. “If you don’t mind. I want to make sure he’s contained.”

  Tommy shot him a look. “Good luck with that.”

  Robin folded himself into the backseat of Janey’s car for the ride back to Hollywood.

  Jules had barely glanced up when he’d said good-bye—he was busy being official and investigative. Although when Robin looked out of the rear window, Jules was definitely watching their car drive away.

  Holy Jesus, he needed a drink.

  The Navy SEAL was driving Janey’s car. He kept looking over at her as if he were worried about more than just her physical safety. She finally reached out and took his hand—well, wasn’t that interesting?—as if she were the one comforting him.

  “I guess you’re not gay,” Robin said.

  Cosmo gave Robin a long, pointed look in his rearview mirror. “Guess not,” he finally said.

  About three miles passed before Robin spoke again. “I might be gay,” he said.

  Jane turned and looked at him. She was obviously exhausted, with dark circles beneath her eyes. “Are you drunk?”

  “I might be drunk,” he agreed, “but I don’t think the being gay thing changes with blood alcohol levels. Although I could be wrong. I seem to be less gay when I’m drunk. Or maybe just more willing to fuck anybody. And by anybody, I mean women. I’ve never . . .” He shook his head.

  “Robin, if you’re playing some kind of freaky method acting game, like you are now Harold Lord all the time, 24/7, just stop, all right?”

  “What if he’s serious?” Cosmo asked her.

  Janey rolled her eyes. “He’s never serious.”

  “What if this time he is?” Cosmo looked into the mirror at Robin again. “What you’re supposed to say is, ‘So what? Gay, straight, bi—it doesn’t change a thing. You’re my brother and I love you.’ ”

  Robin wanted to cry—those words coming from this big, tough sailor. Jules’ voice echoed: Coming out doesn’t have to be traumatic. “Nobody ever said anything like that to Hal. And he knew no one ever would. He would have lost everything. Not just his family, but his career—his entire future.”

  “That must’ve been hard for Hal,” Cosmo said quietly. “Having to face that.”

  Janey looked back at Robin again. “How could you be gay? Every time I turn around, you’re with a different woman. You’re, like, the least gay person I know.” She glanced at Cosmo and smiled. “Well, except for you.”

  The reflective heat from that front-seat eye contact nearly scalded Robin. Well, hey now. And good for Janey. She hadn’t had sex in . . . Jeez, it was probably years.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that I’ve never had a steady girlfriend?” Robin asked her. “I mean, not since middle school.”

  “That doesn’t make you gay,” Jane said. “That makes you a selfish, commitment-shy asshole. Didn’t you just have sex with my personal assistant? My very female personal assistant?”

  “Yeah,” Robin said. He’d been thinking about that a lot and was pretty sure he’d figured it out. “I thought I was in love with her, but I think I was just in love with the fact that she was unattainable. I couldn’t have her, so I wanted her. And I was horny, too, so . . .”

  “You suck,” Jane said. “You are, like, the lowest scum on the bottom of the pond.”

  “Today I’m in love with Jules Cassidy,” Robin said, mostly to see what it would sound like if he said the words aloud. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it. Besides, he had no idea what real love felt like. Everything he’d felt in the past—the intense need—always faded away too fast.

  He was definitely feeling something powerful now, although it may have been indigestion from drinking whiskey on a newly emptied stomach.

  All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Although he supposed that didn’t make him gay. Just obsessive.

  “You are so screwed up,” Janey said as he closed his eyes and relived the surprising softness of Jules’ mouth, of the sensation of crisp cotton shirt beneath his hands, the hard body beneath that. . . . “I hope he stays away from you, because all you’ll do is hurt him, too. He’s a really nice guy, Robin. Are you listening to me?” She snapped her fingers at him. “Focus. Do not play your make-believe games with him. He won’t know it’s not real.”

  “Jane,” Cosmo said.

  “He’s just being a jerk,” she said. “He doesn’t mean any of this.”

  Cosmo looked at her. He didn’t say anything, he just looked, and she sighed with exasperation. “Gay, straight, bi—it doesn’t change a thing. You’re my brother and I love you,” she rattled off, “but if you continue to mess with people I care about, you selfish prick, I will make you sorry you were born.” She laughed her disdain. “Like that threat has ever stopped you before.”

  Well, of course not. Because he was in a perpetual state of being sorry he was born. Always so freaking dissatisfied. Always looking for something that he couldn’t identify, let alone find . . .

  Had he found it tonight in Jules Cassidy’s eyes? For the first time in years, I know exactly what I want. . . .

  Holy crap, what a total lose-lose situation.

  Entertainment Weekly had called Robin “a sex symbol waiting to happen” and “one of Hollywood’s hottest rising stars.” He could take gay roles like that of Hal Lord and be thought of as “daring” and “edgy.” But if he was gay, he’d only get gay roles.

  He’d be stereotyped. Labeled. And eventually he’d get no roles at all.

  He’d sink back into a life of obscurity. Or worse.

  Pretty boy. Homo. Little faggot.

  God, he remembered far too well the sheer terror as the older boys, the bigger boys, grabbed him in the middle school hallway, pushed him into the b
athroom, and locked the door. They threw him to the floor, and he’d pressed his cheek against the cold tile as he cowered in the corner, flinching from their taunts, praying that they wouldn’t do more than kick him. Because if they bruised his face, his father might notice and ask what had happened, and he couldn’t tell him he’d gotten beat up again—he couldn’t bear the shame.

  Little faggot. Little faggot. Little faggot . . .

  Then, almost overnight, it all changed. Jane, the least likely guardian angel on the face of the planet, had swooped down and rescued him. It took her over a year, but she got him transferred to her town, to her school district. She dressed him up, taught him how to walk and wear his hair, how to stand.