Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Wait’ll you see just how much of a turd.” Patty savagely punched the TV’s power button.

  In the picture that appeared on the TV screen, Robin was gazing at Adam, his heart in his eyes. “I love you,” Adam breathed.

  “I know that, too,” Robin whispered, and lowered his head to . . .

  Okay. Yeah, Jane had written this scene. It was the farewell between Hal and Jack, but watching her brother kiss Adam like that was just a little too weird, considering.

  Patty, however, was surprisingly unperturbed. “Wait a sec—I must’ve rewound it a little too far.” She fast-forwarded through to the end of the scene. “Here.”

  The scene started again, with Jack opening the door to find Hal standing there. There were several lines of dialogue, but nothing that Jane could see warranted Patty’s crossed arms and “what do you think about that” attitude, other than the fact that this time around, her brother was playing Hal totally flat, as if they’d filmed a blocking rehearsal, his dialogue little more than marked.

  Jane opened her mouth to speak, but Patty cut her off. “Watch your brother. Don’t you see it?”

  On the TV screen, Robin said, “They need someone who speaks fluent German.” He was providing zero energy, considering this was a hugely emotional scene.

  Patty spoke over Adam’s line. “Wait for it. It’s coming.”

  “I came to say I’m sorry,” Robin said, sounding about as insincere as humanly possible. “And good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?” Adam repeated.

  “See?” Patty said.

  Yes, Jane did see. This was where Hal was supposed to give Jack an envelope containing a letter he’d written. Open in the event of my death.

  “We’re leaving tonight,” Robin told Adam.

  “No.” Adam was playing it upset, but not heartbroken.

  “I’m sorry. I’m already late. I have to go.” Robin had either jumped several lines of dialogue, or yes, Patty, someone had indeed changed Jane’s script.

  On the TV screen, the two men clasped hands instead of embraced. “Godspeed,” Adam said.

  Patty triumphantly pushed the pause button. “Robin’s been providing HeartBeat with rewrites of the Jack and Hal scenes. In this version they’re friends, not lovers. They’re shooting everything twice.”

  “Yeah, but look at what he’s doing,” Jane said. “He’s phoning it in.” She had to laugh. “He was keeping them off my back.” She shut off the TV. “He had no authority to make those changes. And as long as I never saw the dailies and didn’t know what was going on . . .” She sighed. “I know you didn’t mean to make things worse, but now I’m going to have to call HeartBeat and duke it out with them.” And they were probably going to pull their funding. “Shit.”

  “No,” Patty said. “They just called.”

  “HeartBeat?”

  “Yeah. They said the D-Day sequence was definitely a go for day after tomorrow,” she told Jane. “The beach and the helicopter have been secured, and the extras have been hired—they’re taking care of all the arrangements for a four-day shoot, including catering and a special tent for the press. We just show up.”

  “HeartBeat?” Jane said again. They’d originally told her she’d have one day—at most—to get the location footage for that scene. She’d been planning to film the dialogue and close-ups inside, on the soundstage. “The studio previously known as Those HeartLess Bastards?”

  “They’ve just released a statement saying that they’re behind you two hundred percent,” Patty told her. “That they absolutely are not trying to change a single word of American Hero—hah!—and that their thoughts and prayers are with Angelina and Vinh Murphy and their families, and that they are doing everything in their power to ensure your safety.”

  Jane couldn’t believe it. “What?”

  “Jane, that was the good news.” Patty had clearly expected Jane to be upset by the fact that Robin had “betrayed” her and thrilled by HeartBeat’s sudden unexpected support.

  “It’s because of the attack—it’s made national news, hasn’t it?” Jane was practically foaming at the mouth. It had taken this, a brutal attack, to make HeartBeat offer their complete support. And the pathetic thing was, it could just as easily have gone the other way. She could picture the studio executives having a meeting to decide how to respond to this latest event. That’s how they saw it—an event that would make their stock prices either rise or fall.

  Meanwhile, Murphy and Angelina were lying in the hospital, fighting for their lives. And Robin was missing.

  A knock on the door.

  Jane leapt for it. It was Cosmo. “Got him,” he said.

  Oh, thank you, God! “Was he . . . where we thought he’d be?” At Adam’s?

  Cos nodded.

  “Holy shit,” Jane said. Robin had been serious, the other night in the car. I might be gay. Either that, or his role-playing game had gotten way, way out of hand.

  “Where did you think Robin would be?” Patty asked, her voice tight, and Jane looked over and into her eyes. Eyes that were filled with far more hurt than anger.

  Oops. Jane met Cosmo’s eyes briefly before he shut the door behind him. “You’re going to need to talk to him about this. I just don’t think I—”

  “If it’s not Charlene, then who?” Patty asked. “Alana from makeup? Or what’s-her-name—doughnut girl—from craft services? Or one of the Karens in accounting?”

  “Does it really matter?” Jane asked as gently as she could.

  “No,” Patty answered. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” She laughed the way women sometimes laughed when they were hurt but trying not to show it. “As long as it’s not, you know, Adam.”

  Jane didn’t bat an eye. She didn’t move a muscle. She absolutely didn’t react.

  But somehow Patty stopped cold. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, staring at Jane. “Robin was with . . . Adam?”

  “Maybe you better sit down,” Jane said, but Patty turned and bolted from the room.

  The expression of shock and dismay on Adam’s face when he opened the door was all Jules had to see.

  That, and Robin’s backpack sitting right there by the front door.

  Still, as his stomach twisted, as he dialed Cosmo’s phone number, he requested verbal verification, looking up from his phone and into Adam’s face. “Is Robin here?”

  Amazingly, Adam considered lying. Jules could see it in his eyes. The same eyes that glanced over at that telltale backpack.

  But even Adam knew when not to push it. So he nodded. Now the emotions on his face were a mix of guilt and remorse. “Yeah.”

  Cosmo picked up. “Richter.”

  “I’ve found him,” Jules reported. “I’ll see him safely home.” And wasn’t that going to be a treat. He snapped his phone shut over the SEAL’s thanks, pocketing it.

  As he came inside, shutting the door behind him, he let himself look at Adam.

  His ex wore a pair of ratty sweats that he’d obviously pulled on to come to the door. He was leaning against the wall as if he were too tired to stand. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave and a shower.

  And a serious beating.

  Jules worked to unclench his fists. “You look like shit.”

  “I feel like shit,” Adam said. “Jesus, J., I don’t know what to tell you. I was drunk and he was all over me, and—”

  “Stop.” He was all over me. How many times had Jules heard that? The next part of the speech was I didn’t mean for this to happen, and if those words came out of Adam’s mouth right now, in this situation where they both goddamn knew that Adam had meant for exactly this to happen, God only knew what Jules was going to do.

  “Where is he?” As if he had to ask.

  “In the master bathroom,” Adam said. “He’s been riding the porcelain bus all night. Ask me how much fun that’s been.”

  Jules had never hit anyone that he wasn’t on the verge of arresting, and as badly as he wanted to, he wasn’t
going to start now. He took off his jacket and hung it neatly on the coat tree near the door.

  He could see into the living room from here. There was no furniture, just a few boxes. Beyond that, he could see a kitchen.

  He went in, rolling up his sleeves.

  It was spacious and beautiful with a tile floor, maple cabinets, and granite countertops. Stacks of more boxes that hadn’t yet been unpacked sat in a corner. He opened the refrigerator, which was stocked—as he’d expected—with bottled water. Adam didn’t drink from the tap.

  “For the record,” Adam said, following him into the kitchen, “for half the night, it was all about Jack. Jack this, Jack that. The rest of the time, he called me Jules. I think he’s in love with you.”

  Jules managed not to throw the bottle he’d grabbed, but just barely. He closed his mouth over words that would only give Adam satisfaction. The bitch had to goddamn make it harder. He had to make it hurt worse than it already did.

  How could it have come to this? Adam had loved him once—Jules knew that he had.

  Adam opened his mouth to add some additional pearl of wisdom, but Jules spoke right over him. “Make some coffee, and then sit here with your mouth shut. Do not leave the kitchen.”

  “You know, you can’t just come in here and tell me what to—”

  “Make. Coffee. Mother. Fucker.”

  Adam grabbed the coffee beans. “All right, all right. Chill. God . . .”

  Jules carried the bottle of water into the living room and down the hall that led to the back of the apartment. He had to go through the bedroom to get to the bath, and he tried not to look at Adam’s king-size bed. Tried and failed.

  He failed so badly, he stopped walking. He just stood there, taking in the sheets and blankets that were twisted and askew, at the pillows that had been knocked onto the floor along with the color confetti of condom wrappers.

  God damn it. So much for the hope that nothing had really happened.

  “So, okay,” he said.

  Life was filled with tragedies of all sizes. And, frankly, compared to Murphy and Angelina lying in that hospital over at UCLA, this didn’t even register.

  And yeah, maybe if he repeated that to himself, over and over, this would hurt a little less.

  But probably not.

  I think he’s in love with you.

  Yeah, right, A. Thanks for taking advantage of Robin, for giving him yet another reason to loathe himself, for making everything that he was going through right now more difficult than it had to be.

  Jules went to the bathroom door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

  No surprises here.

  The bathroom was as nice as the kitchen, with a shower stall big enough for two and an enormous jacuzzi tub. The most eye-catching feature, however, was the extremely well put together naked young man stretched out on the tile floor.

  Robin was sleeping or unconscious—hard to tell which—with his head between the toilet and the wall.

  Buck, stark, shiny-white-ass naked.

  God, but it smelled bad in here. Jules stepped over Robin to flush the toilet, then stepped back to open the shower door and turn on the water, letting it heat.

  He set the bottle of water on the sink counter and moved to get a closer look at the best way to extract Robin’s head from— Ah, jeezus, he was sleeping with his cheek against the toilet bowl brush. Gross.

  Someday this was going to be funny. Someday, years from now, he’d have lunch with Alyssa and they would laugh and laugh and laugh.

  Robin stirred as Jules took his shoulders and dragged him away from the potential to bump his head on either the wall or the toilet. Or both. He groaned as Jules turned him over—hel-lo!—and helped him up into a sitting position. Jules grabbed the water bottle and helped him take a drink.

  “Oh, fuck,” Robin mumbled, closing his eyes, wincing against the brightness.

  Jules crossed to the wall, turned off the lights. “Let’s get you in the shower,” he said.

  Robin’s eyes opened, and a certain amount of awareness dawned. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed.

  “Actually,” Jules said, working hard to keep his voice light, “where I’m from, the more traditional greeting is Good morning.”

  He could see from the way Robin was looking around that he had no clue where he was. The hangover had already been noted. The fact that he was naked also registered pretty quickly. As well as the fact that he was . . .

  Oh, to be twenty-four again and to wake up ready to take on the world, in spite of the other crippling side effects from a level-ten hangover.

  Robin reached for a towel, but the sudden movement no doubt made his head explode. “Fuck!”

  Jules had mercy and took the towel from the rack and . . . Hey, this was his—one of the many things that had gone missing when Adam moved out. Didn’t it figure?

  He tossed his towel to Robin, who modestly covered himself, and then stared at Jules, a curious mix of hope and fear in his eyes. “Did we . . . ?”

  “Sadly, no.” Jules had to turn away. He pretended to look through the bathroom closet to see if any others of his towels were there. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. “I’m just here for the cleanup. I promised Cosmo Richter I’d shine you up and bring you home. Your sister was pretty worried about you—you picked a bad night to drop off the map, sweets.”

  Robin groaned and when Jules glanced back, he was looking decidedly greener. “Careful there, you’re . . . Do you need to . . . ?”

  Robin shook his head.

  “Do you want me to help you into the shower,” Jules asked, “or do you want to crawl—keep your center of gravity low for a while?”

  He could tell from the expression on Robin’s face that bits of last night were coming back to him. Still, he gingerly shook his head. “Where . . . Whose . . . ?”

  “This is Adam’s bathroom,” Jules told him, no doubt filling in that final, important missing piece.

  “Adam?” Never had a name been uttered with more horror and dismay. Robin turned a whole new shade of green.

  Jules nodded.

  And Robin lunged for the toilet.

  Cosmo knew when he saw Tom Paoletti in Jane’s conference room that the news wasn’t going to be good.

  “She upstairs?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Cos swallowed. He came farther into the room and saw that Decker was there, with PJ and Nash. Tess, too. She was crying. “Murph?”

  Tommy shook his head, no.

  Angelina.

  Damn it to hell.

  “You should probably come up with me, to tell Jane,” Tom said.

  Cosmo nodded. “Does Murphy know?” Jesus, help him.

  “No.” Decker answered for him. “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

  “Depending on his condition,” PJ added, “his doctors may not want him to have this info right away.”

  “He loved her so much,” Tess said through her tears. “What’s he going to do without her?”

  “They’re just going to lie to him? Tell him she’s not dead?” Nash asked. “Are we supposed to lie, too? Isn’t he going to figure it out?”

  His arms were around Tess, but it was probably more for his sake than hers. They were all feeling it—this strange feeling, this . . . fear.

  Fear of death.

  It was a new one for most of them, which might’ve seemed odd, considering their jobs involved facing danger and death at any given time.

  Cosmo himself had made peace with his own death a long time ago. When his time was up, his time was up. So be it. Which was not to say that he’d die willingly. On the contrary. When the time came, he’d fight death to the, well, death. But it wouldn’t be out of fear. His strength would come from his desire to live.

  This, however, was different. The death of a loved one.

  Christ.

  For a group of control freaks—and, yeah, they nearly all fell into that category—this was terrifying.

  Jane—dead. It was a horrible thought. Gon
e forever. Vanished. Erased. No more.

  Just thinking about it nearly brought Cosmo to his knees.

  He could see it in all their faces, too. Especially Tommy’s. He’d come way too close to losing Kelly a few years back. This must be hitting awfully close to home.

  “I think Murph already knows that she didn’t have much of a chance,” Decker said quietly. “That’s probably why he’s not waking up.”