Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “There’s nothing to say.” Jules straightened his pile of papers, clipped them together, and put them back into his briefcase. “I’ll wait in the kitchen.” He pushed back his chair.

  “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you to walk in there.” Robin’s voice shook. “To know that I’d do . . . what I did, even though I knew how much you cared for Adam . . .”

  Jules froze in the process of pushing himself out of his seat. “You honestly think . . . ?” He laughed, sat back down, applied pressure to the bridge of his nose, as if he had a killer headache. “You think I’m upset because of Adam.”

  “I know you still love him,” Robin said. He knew that even though Jules had expressed very real interest in Robin, he hadn’t yet let go of Adam. “I also know that Adam’s . . . infidelity was one of the reasons you split up, which must have—”

  “I once had this shrink,” Jules told him, “who theorized that I kept taking Adam back, kept giving him a second, third, eighteenth, forty-seventh chance because I never had that opportunity with my father, you know, because he’d died? When Dad was gone, he was gone. Adam, though . . . He would cheat or maybe even leave, but then he’d reappear. It was hard—it has been hard—not to try again. I couldn’t have my father’s love, right? But I could have Adam’s. The irony was that Adam couldn’t—can’t—give me what I needed, any more than my father could return from the dead.” He laughed. “And in the end the man who loved me the most is the dead one.”

  Jules stood up.

  Robin stood, too. What was he saying? That Adam didn’t love him? Wasn’t that kind of obvious? And didn’t that make both his and Robin’s transgression even worse?

  “Are you and Adam—” Jules stopped. Started again. “Have you . . . been with Adam again?”

  “No!” Robin said, startled. “God! I hate his fucking guts. It wasn’t . . . I’m not . . . gay. I’m not. I know that now. Definitely. It was just that one, you know, time. No repeats. No thanks. Not interested.”

  Jules gazed at him. “Let me get this straight. You know that you’re not gay because you don’t want to have sex—again—with someone whose guts you fucking hate? That makes perfect sense.” He gathered up his briefcase. “You, my friend, are in total denial.”

  Be a man. Robin blocked his route out of the room. “All that stuff between you and me, Jules, that was . . . I was just . . . acting. I told you that. I’m sorry if you took me too seriously. I should have been more clear and . . . Well, I shouldn’t have messed around with you in the first place, because I like you, I really do. As a friend, you know.”

  Jules nodded. “Friend, comma, straight. Check.”

  “And what happened with Adam . . .” Robin took a deep breath. “That night . . . I was just exploring Hal’s inner demons and it got out of hand. It wasn’t real.”

  Jules nodded again. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said. “Right. Like I haven’t ever heard that before. But this time it really didn’t mean anything. It was just meaningless sex between a coupla guys, one of whom fucking hates the other. Thanks for clearing that up.” He moved to step around Robin.

  Who stepped to block him again.

  “I don’t want you to think it was entirely Adam’s fault,” Robin said, “because it wasn’t. I was . . .” He cleared his throat. “Curious.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always been curious, too.” Sarcasm rang in Jules’ voice. “I really hate Tim Ebersole, the leader of the Freedom Network, and I spend, oh, five, six hours a day wondering what it would be like to have sex with him.”

  Jules’ anger was palpable, but beneath it lay hurt, which was far harder to deal with.

  Be a man. Robin didn’t run away. He stood there. Met Jules’ gaze. “I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “and that I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope we can be friends again someday.”

  Jules just laughed. But then he put down his briefcase, stepped closer and . . .

  Robin saw it coming.

  Jules was going to kiss him.

  He saw it coming, and he should have taken a step back, because this wasn’t research, it wasn’t necessary, it was . . .

  Sweet. It was unbearably sweet, just as it had been up in Jules’ hotel room.

  And he not only not stepped back, but he stepped forward, toward Jules and . . .

  And it wasn’t Jack kissing Hal, it wasn’t Adam kissing Hal, Hal wasn’t involved at all, it was Jules kissing him and it felt so unbelievably . . .

  Right.

  Robin wanted to run away, he had to run away, but his legs were melting and his arms were wrapped around Jules, who just kept on kissing him. Harder, deeper, longer, hungrier, Jules sucked the very breath from him, then—God!—reached between them and . . .

  Stopped kissing him.

  And there Robin was. Breathing hard, stone sober, staring into the desire-filled eyes of this man who quite obviously wanted to be far more than his friend.

  Staring into the eyes of this man who had the pretty obvious proof of Robin’s own equally enormous desire in his hand.

  God, God, God . . .

  “You,” Jules said, “are one hell of an actor.”

  Robin couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away.

  He didn’t want to pull away. He wanted . . .

  Oh, dear God, he actually knew exactly what he wanted.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and kissing Jules again and . . .

  “Whoops, sorry, guys.” They leapt apart as Cosmo did a quick 180.

  “Wait,” Jules said. He was nearly as wigged out as Robin. “Wait! I apologize—that shouldn’t have happened in such a . . . a public place. That was completely—”

  “What, you mean, here in Robin’s home?” Cosmo said, completely unperturbed. He glanced around the room. “Seems pretty nonpublic to me.” He looked at Robin, who’d totally had to sit down. “We cleaning things up or making more of a mess?”

  Jules answered for him, running his hands down his face. “Mess,” he said. “I think this qualifies as a mess. Although only a potential mess. Because we didn’t quite get to the messy part and . . .” He laughed. “God, I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. I think I better tell you what I came here to tell you, Chief, and then go.” He glanced at Robin, and added, “Actually, if you could give me two minutes, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  Cosmo nodded. “No problem. Take your time.”

  Jules watched Cosmo close the door behind him, then turned to Robin. “I’m sorry, I took that much too far.”

  Robin still couldn’t speak. He just shook his head.

  Jules sat down beside him, real concern in his eyes. “You all right?”

  He’d thought he’d had it all figured out. But now . . .

  Hal was sitting back and letting Robin take the blame for that one all on his own.

  And he was back in panic mode.

  “Robin . . .” Jules touched his arm.

  Robin rocketed up, out of his seat.

  Jules sat there for a moment, his head down. “Okay,” he said when he finally spoke. “This is a scenario I didn’t consider. I had it all figured out—what I was going to say when you realized that you were gay and . . .” He looked up at Robin, who had to turn away, toward the curtained windows. “I’m not ready to forgive you. You know, for the other night. For Adam. I may never be, so even if my little fantasy moment there had kept going, it wouldn’t have gone much further. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—I’m not going to be your science project. Especially not experiment number two in an as of yet undetermined number. And even if you begged my forgiveness, even if you got down on your knees in front of me—and I do mean that in the crudest possible way—”

  Robin’s hands were shaking and he jammed them into his pockets.

  “—that wouldn’t change a thing. You know when I kissed you right then?” Jules continued. “That was partly because I wanted to show you what you can�
�t have. That’s what you threw away when you went home with Adam.”

  He was serious. As Robin turned back to watch, Jules picked up his briefcase.

  “I’m not going to sell myself short again,” Jules continued. “Not even for great sex. Well, okay, maybe for great sex, but not for great sex with you. Not when I know what we could have.” He laughed. “But since you’re not gay, it’s all kind of moot, isn’t it?”

  He stood there, just looking at Robin, as if waiting for some kind of response.

  Robin finally found his voice. “Shit, I need a drink.”

  Jules laughed and headed for the door. “Yeah, that’ll help.”

  It was obvious that Jules Cassidy was tremendously embarrassed that Cos had walked in on him and Robin. The first thing he did when he came into the kitchen was apologize again.

  Cosmo got out his wallet and pulled out his PFLAG card and tossed it onto the kitchen table.

  Jules stopped stammering. “You have a . . . brother who’s—?”

  “Father,” Cosmo said.

  “Your father.” Jules laughed, but quickly stopped himself. “I’m sorry, I’m just so . . . surprised.”

  “My family was somewhat alternative,” Cos explained.

  “So, coming from that background, you decided to become a SEAL because . . . ?”

  Cos shrugged. “I kind of fell into it.”

  “I’m sorry. No one kind of falls into that training program and walks out with a SEAL pin.”

  “I joined the Navy to go to college,” Cosmo said. “Money was tight—my dad died from a car accident and the hospital bills were . . . I wanted to go to college, so I enlisted. Did two years at sea, hated it. Kept bumping my head, and the food on board sucked. But I needed to stay in to get my degree, so I applied for the SEAL program. I would’ve done anything to avoid another six-month cruise.” He smiled. “Nothing like a little incentive to get through BUD/S.”

  Jules laughed. “That’s unbelievable.” He sat down across from Cosmo. “You always scared me,” he admitted. “Out of all the SEALs in Team Sixteen . . . well, there are several of you who set off my homophobia red alert.”

  “It’s the eyes,” Cosmo said. “I thought it was the haircut for a while, but . . .” He shrugged. “Not much I can do about the eyes.”

  Jules laughed again as he opened his briefcase. “I have that list you called me for: cast members who own World War Two–era military uniforms, both German and American, cross-referenced with DMV records as to what kind of car or truck they own.” He looked up at Cosmo. “What exactly are you thinking?”

  Cosmo took the computer printout, flipped through it. There were about forty names on the list. Some of them he recognized from Jules’ first list of cast members with Nazi uniforms—he’d already checked them out. Just a few of these actors owned trucks. Which didn’t mean anything. Not only could his hunch be dead wrong, but if it wasn’t, the truck he’d seen could be borrowed or stolen or simply not registered.

  “I asked Jane about how extras get cast,” he told Jules. “You know, why pick Bob Smith over Tim Jones, if all they’re going to do is be part of the background. She said that age and physical description play into it—you don’t want to have a four-hundred-pound, balding, sixty-something man if you’re looking for seventeen- to twenty-one-year-olds for a boot camp scene, right?”

  “Obviously,” Jules said.

  “So you weed out all the unsuitables not just from their headshots, but also from Polaroids you take during an extras casting session. See, the extras show up, the casting agent makes sure they’re human, tries to eliminate the psychopaths and troublemakers, takes a quick photo of what they look like right now—headshots can be several years old and not accurate—and has them fill out an information sheet: Where do you live, do you own your own uniform or other period clothing, do you have an early 1940s model car or maybe a military vehicle like a jeep, and finally, what’s your availability?

  “Jane told me that anyone who owns a vehicle or costume gets put into a separate file,” Cosmo continued. “Their car or uniform gets checked for historical accuracy—if the extras pass that test, they get placed in a high-priority pile. They’re going to get used first because they come fully equipped—make sense?”

  Jules nodded.

  “From that list, it’s a crapshoot, depending on the actors’ availability. Jane told me that Patty takes that list and makes phone calls. Whoever’s home to take the call and is available at the time of the scheduled shoot gets the job,” Cosmo told him. “And when she needs crowds of extras—like for the big D-Day scene they’re going to start filming tomorrow—she’ll go to the general list.”

  “But the actors who own their own uniforms get called first,” Jules clarified. “So if I’m Mr. Insane-o and I want to get a job working as an extra on a World War Two movie so I can terrorize the producer, I should get an authentic-looking uniform.”

  “Or a period car,” Cosmo said. “If you have a car that can be used in a street scene, the production assistant is going to become your new best friend. You’ll get a lot of extra work, maybe even a day-player role—you know, a coupla lines like “Look out!” or “Incoming!” as kind of a trade-off for them renting your cool car. But I’ve already got that list from Patty—it was very short. I’ve already, um, checked them all out.”

  “Yeah,” Jules said. “That brings me to the other thing I wanted to ask you about. My good friends at the LAPD have reported a curious rash of break-ins in the Los Angeles area. Nothing’s stolen, nothing’s vandalized. Just a jimmied lock or an alarm system that’s been compromised, and a sense from a bunch of homeowners that someone was inside their house while they were at work.”

  “Really?” Cosmo said.

  “Yeah.” Jules closed his briefcase. “Even more bizarre—all of the addresses come from our master list. You know—cast, crew, studio employees?”

  “No kidding.”

  Jules shook his head. “Nope. I’ve spoken to Tom and Decker—they’re as baffled as I am.”

  “Sounds pretty mystifying.”

  “Yeah,” Jules said dryly. “I’m completely mystified.” He stood up. “You find this guy, you call and you let us take it from there, you understand?”

  “My priority right now is to keep Jane safe,” Cosmo said.

  “Yeah, right. Answer my question with a vaguely related statement that promises nothing.” Jules laughed as he went out of the kitchen. “I won’t notice that you were evasive. I’m only a federal agent.”

  Jules was on the verge of leaving the house, a process that involved coordination with the entire Troubleshooters team—although with all of the video cameras and sensors, not to mention the watchful personnel, the Chadwicks’ front yard was now probably the safest place in all of Los Angeles—when he heard Jane shouting.

  “Cos! Cosmo!”

  Jules had to leap out of the way as the SEAL came out of the kitchen like an express train. He went up the stairs by jumping and grabbing hold of the railing, flipping himself up and over it.

  Jules followed the more conventional way as Jane came barreling out of her upstairs office, her cell phone in her hand, a stricken look on her face.

  Cosmo nearly knocked her over, grabbing her shoulders, doing a quick visual. She looked okay, all in one piece.

  “He’s got Patty,” she said, and burst into tears.

  “Who’s got Patty?” Cosmo demanded.

  Robin had come into the entryway, drawn out of the conference room by the ruckus. Jules didn’t let himself look down at him.

  “He just called me!” Jane told him. “Mr. Insane-o. He called and said he was going to kill Patty if I didn’t . . . if I . . . Oh, God, Cos, we have to call Jules!”

  “Jules!” Cosmo called, holding tightly to Jane.

  “He called on your cell phone?” Jules asked her. “Just now?”

  Apparently Jane hadn’t noticed him climbing the stairs. She blinked at him in surprise. “Wow, you’re good,” she
told Cosmo with a watery smile. But it faded as she answered Jules’ question. “Yeah. He said if I didn’t do exactly what he told me, he’d do to Patty”—her tears returned with a vengeance—“what he did to Angelina.”

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  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  J ane sat in her conference room as the FBI set up equipment that—according to Jules Cassidy’s opinion—probably wouldn’t help them trace much of anything, if and when the killer called back.

  The killer who’d kidnapped Patty.