“Twenty-four years old, he had an arrest record, but nothing too serious,” Jules continued as he led the way inside and down the hall toward the kitchen. “Disturbing the peace, public intoxication, starting brawls by spouting white supremacist sentiment in black and Latino neighborhoods. He was earmarked as someone to look at for hate crimes in this part of town. You know—anti-Semitic graffiti shows up on the synagogue? Go talk to Avery. Always suspected, never convicted. It’ll be interesting to see if that kind of thing disappears now that he’s dead. Phew, it smells bad in here.”
It did. It smelled awful. Not just from the faintly metallic scent of the blood that had been sprayed against the far wall and now pooled on the linoleum floor. It was as if someone hadn’t taken out the kitchen garbage for two or three weeks.
Jules must’ve been thinking the same thing because he used a pen to lift the lid of the plastic kitchen garbage container. It had a brand-new white bag inside, as if Mark Avery had said to Patty, “Hang on a sec before you shoot me. I have to take out the trash.”
“The rifle was on the floor over here,” Jules said, moving to the opposite side of the kitchen, “near where Patty was lying. She’s apparently still really out of it—no official statement from her yet. She was given Rohypnol—aka the date rape drug.” He paused. “You know anything about Rohypnol?”
Decker shrugged. “Isn’t it supposed to make you really docile? Easy to manage and manipulate? It’s a horse tranquilizer, right?”
Jules nodded. “Walking unconscious.” He ran his hand across the lower half of his face. “As far as what the detectives who arrived first on the scene could tell, she somehow got both the weapon and the opportunity, and . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe Avery thought the drug had kicked in, but it hadn’t yet.” He looked at the forensics evidence decorating the far wall. “No wonder he didn’t call Jane last night.”
There appeared to have been a slight struggle, or maybe someone had had a temper tantrum. The remains of a meal had been swept from the kitchen table and onto the floor. And one of chairs had been knocked on its side. Jules carefully stepped over a broken glass as he made his way to the refrigerator.
“We’ve taken a computer from one of the bedrooms,” he continued. “Apparently it contains an entire unpublished blog—you know, weblog or journal—where Avery recounts exactly what he did. How he followed Murphy up to Malibu and . . .” He shook his head. “There’s a ton of evidence. Internet addresses match the ones used to send those e-mails to Mercedes Chadwick. Shit, we’ve apparently even got a Quicken program that keeps track of expenses for his trip to Idaho, when he killed Chertok.”
He opened the refrigerator, frowning at the contents.
Deck moved to look over his shoulder.
It was empty.
Well, nearly empty. A jar of mayonnaise sat forlornly on the center shelf.
The two men stared at it.
“Sometimes,” Jules said, “when a case ends unexpectedly, in a way that you don’t really anticipate, like without a lot of unnecessary violence, it can feel kind of weird. Not that I’m not extremely grateful that the violence was contained to this little kitchen, because I am.”
“Yeah,” Decker said as Jules shut the refrigerator door.
Jules looked around the room, frowning slightly. “Where’s Jane?” he asked. “When I left the house, she wanted to go to the hospital—to see Patty. Did she?”
Decker nodded. “PJ, Nash, and Tess are with her. They took her garage to garage.”
Jules nodded, too. “Good.”
“Want to go look out back, see what’s in the trash?” Deck asked.
Jules led the way. “Yes, I most certainly do.”
“They’re gone.”
This time, Cosmo didn’t even try to go in covertly. He just walked right up the middle of the driveway that led to Carl Linderman’s apartment, and sure enough, the elderly neighbor lady poked her head out of her kitchen door.
“Your friends,” she informed him. “They moved out. Couple of nights ago.”
“Really,” he said, his pulse quickening. Carl Linderman, who had been hired as an extra for the next four days, had moved out? After—no doubt—being told by his nosy neighbor that a “friend” had been in his apartment, looking for him.
“They loaded everything up into his truck—which is black, by the way. It’s the plumber living in the apartment upstairs whose truck is red. But they loaded the truck at three o’clock in the morning. Was I glad when they left. Do you know how hard it is to sleep when people are whispering?”
Black truck, not red. “Maybe Carl was helping his roommate move out,” Cosmo suggested.
“I don’t think so,” she told him. “I haven’t seen either of them around since then.”
“I hope you’re mistaken,” he lied to her with a smile. “I was supposed to meet Carl here this morning. I still have his key.”
What he had was his lock pick, but he blocked her view of the door as he made short work of the lock and . . .
Whoa.
The apartment was empty.
Not only was it empty, it was spotless. Someone had cleaned the hell out of it. The place gleamed.
Cosmo walked through. Not a beer can remained. Not a pizza box. Not even a dust bunny.
And, he suspected, nary a fingerprint.
Carl Linderman. Who owned both Nazi and American army uniforms. Who’d been on set over at HeartBeat a number of times, according to their records. Who owned a truck that wasn’t red, but black—a truck that wasn’t registered with the DMV. At least not under his name.
But Carl Linderman and his roommate . . . ?
Okay, so that part didn’t work. The FBI profilers had been shouting since day one that their guy was a loner.
And yet . . .
Cos let himself back out the door.
Neighbor Lady had a told-you-so smirk on her face.
He gave her the victory. “You were absolutely right. Do you know, did they have help cleaning the place?” he asked her. “I mean, I know these guys, they’re total pigs, but that place shines.”
“Marilyn, she owns the house,” the woman told him, “she told me they cleaned it themselves. Even took their garbage with them when they left. There’s nothing in the cans out back. Can you believe that?”
Oh, yes. Yes, he could. It was called sanitizing. He did it all the time in covert situations, when he wanted to erase his presence in any given area. “Any idea where they went?”
She shook her head. “Nope.” Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop or something?”
“Or something,” Cosmo said. “I need to call the FBI. May I use your phone?”
He could see a great big no in her eyes at the thought of letting someone who looked like him into her house, even to call the authorities. But her curiosity kept her from slamming the door in his face. “They in trouble?”
There was time for keeping secrets and a time for speed. Cosmo went for speed. “I’m pretty sure they’re connected to those death threats made to Mercedes Chadwick—you know, the movie producer?”
She was nodding—she knew Mercedes’ name.
“They may have helped kill the wife of one of her security guards,” he said. “We think they’ve kidnapped her personal assistant.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” she said.
In her eyes, Cosmo could see the fear of inviting him into her kitchen rassling with the possibility of appearing on Larry King Live as the woman who saved the day.
Larry King won. She stepped back and let him in.
As Robin stood on the beach, an extra dressed in a Nazi SS uniform limped past, another man’s arm around his shoulders. The second man’s head was lolled back—his uniform was covered with fake blood that looked amazingly realistic.
“He all right?” Robin asked. The last thing this movie needed was extras with sunstroke, needing hospitalization.
“Just rehearsing,” the conscious man told him.
Rehearsing extras.
Good grief. Some of these guys were unbelievably intense. Or maybe they were aware that he was one of the producers, and they were auditioning for a day-player role. God save him from that.
“It’s looking good,” Robin said, giving a thumbs-up as he backed away. Although, hey there. The limp-necked man was wearing an American army uniform. Chances were not too many Nazis would be carrying injured Americans to safety on Omaha Beach on D-Day.
Don’t call us, boys, we’ll call you.
He escaped toward the tent, his head pounding. Maybe he could find someone in craft services who could refill his prop canteen with something stronger than water.
“Robin Chadwick!”
Robin turned to see another one of the extras marching toward him. This one had war in his eyes.
And okay, yes, he’d definitely seen the guy’s face before, but where? What had Robin done to offend him, while in some drunken fog?
Of course the possibilities were even more limitless now, after . . .
Adam.
Who chose that moment to appear at Robin’s shoulder. Freaking perfect timing.
“Hey,” Adam said quietly enough so no one could overhear. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t send flowers. What’s a nice boy like me to think?”
Oh, good.
This was going to be so much fun. Robin’s headache, courtesy of last night’s worry, lack of sleep, and relentless drinking, drew itself into an ice-pick point of pain directly behind his left eye.
“Are you happy now?” the angry extra asked as if Robin would know what the fuck he was talking about.
“Um,” Robin said.
“Alana in makeup told me,” the angry extra started, and it all became crystal clear.
“Okay, hang on there.” Robin cut him off. “Alana told me she didn’t have a boyfriend. I asked, I swear, and she said . . .”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t where this was going, because now the extra was confused. But after his confusion passed, he got even angrier.
Adam’s eyebrows, however, were raised in amusement.
“You’re a total asshole,” the extra said. “You slept with both Patty and Alana?”
And Charlene and Margery and Susan and . . .
Adam. Robin didn’t dare look in his direction. Holy Jesus, just standing next to him like this was awful. He didn’t remember much of that night, but he remembered enough.
Don’t think about that, don’t think about that. . . .
“Alana told me there are rumors going around that Patty is missing,” the extra said. Wayne—that was his name. That’s right. Robin had seen him sniffing around Patty’s office. “That this guy who’s after your sister grabbed her.”
Ol’ Wayne was really upset. Shit, if he knew the truth . . .
But Robin couldn’t let on that anything was wrong. Mr. Insane-o had warned Jane not to tell anyone. So he fell on the grenade.
“She went home,” he told Wayne, playing the part of said total asshole, letting him see what he wanted to see. “And yeah, yeah, it was my fault. I got too drunk one night and . . . That shit just always happens to me, you know?” His tone was pure “it’s not my fault,” and he even managed a disdainful laugh. “But she was really upset that I wouldn’t, like, marry her, so . . . she went home to her mommy.”
But Wayne was shaking his head. “I know for a fact that she had no intention of going home. She was completely over you, asswipe. She was already seeing someone else.”
“Dude.” Robin shrugged expansively. “Believe what you want. What can I say? It was a mistake. I apologized. What else can I do? As much as I’d like to, I can’t go back in time and un-fuck her.”
He could see that Wayne wanted to hit him at that. If someone had said that about someone Robin cared about, he wouldn’t have been able to let it go. But Wayne was a better man than he was. He turned and walked away.
He was a nice guy, and he really liked Patty. And when he found out that she was kidnapped, or dead, he was going to be devastated.
Robin’s hands were shaking, his head was throbbing, and he had to sit down. But there was nowhere to sit except right in the sand, and when he turned, Adam was still there, watching him.
“So is there anyone on set you haven’t slept with?” Adam asked. But then he looked closer, stepped closer, concern in his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I need you not to touch me,” Robin said through clenched teeth.
Adam backed up. Nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s where I thought we were, so it’s not . . . too disappointing.” He forced a laugh. “Unlike Patty, I didn’t rush out and order wedding invitations.”
Robin closed his eyes. He couldn’t even look at Adam. How did he get here? To this place where his life was so completely screwed up? Where it hurt just to breathe?
Adam lowered his voice even more and spoke quickly. “I know you wish you could go back in time and un-fuck me, too. But you can’t. I’m not going to pull a Patty and run crying to my friends. I’m not going to tell anyone, Robin. What happened between us is between us. So you don’t have to worry about me outing you. I’m also not going to dog you, so you can cross that fear off your list, too. But just so you know, that doesn’t mean I don’t want a replay, because, well . . . just my luck, I do. If you ever decide you want to, you know where to find me.”
Robin just stood there for a long, long time. And when he opened his eyes, Adam was gone.
Patty was still unconscious, sleeping off the last of the drug she’d been given, so Jane wasn’t quite sure how all of the reporters who were down in the hospital lobby had gotten the word that she’d be here.
But of course it made sense—the story of Patty’s kidnapping had broken in a very major way. All of the TV affiliates wanted a shot of a reporter in front of the hospital for their noon news segment.
The evidence in the apartment where they’d found Patty was incredible. Apparently, Mr. Insane-o, who had a name now—Mark Avery—had planned to use Patty to lure Jane away from her twenty-four-hour protection. Apparently, that plan—the LAPD detective she’d spoken to had told her Avery went into graphic detail in some kind of computer journal—had also been to kill Patty after letting Jane speak to her on the phone.
But Patty had saved both Jane’s life and her own.
It was kind of funny, actually, to think that even though Jane had been surrounded by Navy SEALs and former Marines and FBI agents, her twenty-year-old powder puff of a college intern from Oklahoma had been the hero of the hour.
Jane had been checking her cell phone when she came out of the elevator. Cosmo still hadn’t called her back. Where was he?
“Mercedes, what are you going to do first, now that the threat is over?” one of the reporters called out, taking her by surprise.
God, she was a mess. She froze for a second as all those cameras swung in her direction. Jeans and a T-shirt, no makeup on her face, her eyes red from the tears of relief she’d cried upon seeing for herself that Patty was safe and in one piece.
PJ Prescott’s grip on her arm tightened. “Want me to get you out of here?” he murmured.
She shook her head. Smiled her best Mercedes Chadwick smile. And, holding Angelina in her heart, she grabbed hold of what most definitely was a killer promo moment for a movie that deserved to be seen, made in a country where freedom most definitely did not come for free.
“Hang on tight,” she murmured back to PJ. “We’re going to hold the line.”
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CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
“T hey found him, you know,” the neighbor lady said as she let Cosmo into her kitchen, pointing to the wall phone that was between the door and the refrigerator, next to a key rack and a photo of what had to be her two grandchildren.
“Found who?” he asked as he dialed Jane’s number.
“It’s been on the news all morning,” she told him, watching him like a h
awk in case he tried to steal one of her refrigerator magnets.
Damn it, Jane didn’t pick up. Of course she wouldn’t—an unknown number coming into her cell?
He tried calling Jules and got bumped to voice mail. Same with Decker. He didn’t take the time to leave a message.
“How many calls are you making?” the woman asked.
There was a little TV on the kitchen counter, its volume muted and— Christ!
That was Jane on that screen, being interviewed, half a dozen microphones jammed in her face. Cosmo lunged for the volume.
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