Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Her phone was in her bag, which was still on the front seat. Her keys were in the ignition. She could run, but she wouldn’t be able to get back into her building or her apartment.

  There was a twenty-four-hour convenience store two long and one short block away, but she wasn’t much of a runner. Still, running—while continuing to scream loudly—was probably her best option. But before she took off, as she filled her lungs with air to scream again, she realized that the man, too, was scrambling out of the car. But he was going out the far door, on the sidewalk side—moving not toward her, but away from her.

  And then she recognized him in the glow from the street light. He was the ancient-seeming homeless man that she’d seen in the neighborhood over the past few months. She’d spotted him many times, going through the dumpster in the back alley behind the office or napping in the waning sunshine in the little park down the street.

  Everything about him was grayish-brown—his clothes, his long, scraggly hair and beard, his hands and face, his teeth.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, slamming the car door and backing away, his hands outstretched, as if he were attempting to calm a wild animal. Or to show he was unarmed, which was good. “So sorry. Saw you park it earlier, figured you wouldn’t be back until mornin’. You done scared me half to death.”

  She’d scared him?

  “You were trespassing,” she told him, her voice too loud to her own ears, her heart still pounding. She was still not completely convinced that he was harmless and that she was safe, so it was stupid to take such an accusing tone, but her fear was rapidly morphing into heat—into anger and indignation. “This car was locked.”

  He shrugged as he shuffled away. “Lock’s not a lock to everyone, missy. Jus’ wanted to be outa the rain. Stormy weather’s comin’.”

  It was starting to rain, Jenn realized. It was coming down lightly in a mist that she wouldn’t have noticed unless she was walking more than a few blocks—or sleeping on the street.

  He faded into the shadows as Jenn exhaled hard, and—peering into the back of the car first, to make sure he hadn’t left behind a companion—she climbed back in and locked all of the doors.

  Her hands were shaking, but she put them on the steering wheel and forced herself to drive. Traffic was nonexistent, and in just a few minutes she made it to the building where Maria and Savannah both had condos.

  Van’s place was just a pied-à-terre—a home base for when she was in town—yet it still managed to be bigger and nicer than Jenn’s miniscule studio apartment, and yeah, she so wasn’t going to complain or even be envious. Nuh-uh. Not her. At least she had a place to live, unlike a lot of people these days, including Strong Aroma Man, who hadn’t been even remotely stymied by Ford’s security system. True, it wasn’t close to state of the art, but still. … Note to self: get one of those steering-wheel locks, ASAP.

  As she pulled to the curb, there came Maria and Van out of a door held respectfully open by the always-on-duty doorman. Maria came around to the driver’s side—that’s right, she wanted to drive.

  But that was Maria—always wanting to drive.

  Jenn grabbed her bag and slid out, climbing into the back seat as Savannah and Maria took over the front. They were both traveling light and they passed their bags back so that Jenn could stow them on the seat next to her.

  “Van,” she started to say, “I can’t imagine—”

  “He’s going to be all right.” Savannah spoke with total conviction.

  “Oh, thank God,” Jenn said with a rush of relief. She looked from Van to Maria, who glanced back at her in the rearview mirror as she pulled into the street, doing a hair-raising youie that pointed them downtown. “You spoke to the doctor?”

  But Maria’s dark eyes were filled with warning as she looked into the mirror again and shook her head no.

  “Not yet,” Van admitted. “But I spoke to Meg. She’s at the hospital, and she knows the surgeon. KatiAnn Watson. Meg said she’s the best—Ken’s in good hands.”

  “That’s good to know,” Jenn said, looking to Maria again for more information.

  “Meg is the wife of one of the officers in Ken’s SEAL team,” Maria explained, driving as she always did—like a NASCAR champion.

  “Is she the FBI agent?” Jenn asked, sitting back so she could fasten her seat belt. There was something hard back there, and she reached beneath her to pull free an old sock, its toe filled with God knows what—coins or marbles or maybe even gravel.

  Ew. It obviously belonged to the homeless man, and she didn’t want to look inside. She didn’t want to touch the thing more than she had to. She dropped it on the floor, on the other side of the center bump.

  “No, that’s Alyssa,” Maria was saying. “She’s former FBI. She works for Troubleshooters now.”

  “She wasn’t hurt, too, was she?” Jenn asked, as she saw that the sock wasn’t the only thing the homeless man had left in the car. He’d stuck a ragged photograph of a dark-haired woman into the pocket in the back of the driver’s seat. It must’ve slipped down during the drive, because only the woman’s eyes and the top of her head protruded, as if she were peeking out at Jenn.

  Van shook her head as Jenn pulled the photo free. “I don’t think she was there.”

  The woman in the picture was African American, with short hair that framed her exceptionally beautiful face. It was hard to see in the dim light, but her eyes looked to be light-colored, and they seemed to sparkle as she looked into the camera’s lens—her smile warm for the photographer.

  She was young enough to be Aroma Man’s granddaughter. Jenn flipped the photo over, but there was nothing written on the back-no date, no Happy Birthday, Grandpa. She reached over and tucked it into the top of the sock—then checked the pocket to see if he’d left anything else there when he’d moved in. But it was empty.

  “Meg’s married to John Nilsson,” Maria explained as they sped south on the island, green traffic lights stretching out in front of them on the nearly deserted avenue, “who just got promoted. He’s the new executive officer of Team …” She looked at Savannah. “Ten?”

  “Twelve,” she corrected.

  “But Ken’s still with Team Sixteen?” Jenn asked, and Savannah nodded.

  Just last week, Van had showed her what looked like a class picture of the men in SEAL Team Sixteen—although it was unlike any class picture Jenn had ever seen before. In it the group of men were wearing swim trunks that looked as if they’d last had a design update back in 1943. Which was a good thing. The trunks—small by today’s baggy standards—fit snugly and highlighted the men’s amazingly sculpted bodies. Van had gone through the rows of men, name by name, teasingly picking out her choice for a potential hookup for Jenn—some junior grade lieutenant who bore the nickname Grunge.

  Yes, Grunge. Thanks a million, Van.

  Many of them—particularly the youngest, fresh from SEAL school, which Van had said was called BUD/S training, which stood for Basic Underwater Demolition slash SEAL—had ridiculous nicknames that made poor pathetic Scooter’s self-proclaimed handle seem ordinary and lame.

  Cosmo, Jazz, Gilligan, the Duke, Chickie, Hobomofo—who had a one syllable sub-nickname, Fo, for his nickname, and yes, there was no doubt a good story behind all four syllables of that one—Wiley, WetDream, and, of course, the esteemed Grunge. Ken’s nickname was WildCard, which, okay, was kind of cool, but Jenn had never, ever heard Van call him that.

  “Ken’s going to be really angry,” Van said now from the front seat, the streetlights that flashed across her face illuminating her anxiety. “Meg told me that the man he was guarding got taken. I want to be there before they tell him, because he’s going to try to climb out of his hospital bed to be part of the team that goes and gets him back.” She laughed, but her eyes filled with tears. “He’s going to be all right,” she said again, more to herself than to them. “He has to be.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Jenn murmured.

  “My laptop is in the office
,” Van turned back to tell her. “I didn’t want to take the time to stop and pick it up.”

  “I’ll send it to you,” Jenn promised. “First thing in the morning.”

  But Van shook her head. “Let me get to California,” she said, “and figure out where you should send it. I’m going to be at the hospital with Ken, and—”

  “Wait to send it,” Maria instructed, “until you hear from us.”

  “Absolutely,” Jenn said. “And just let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Maria said.

  “I made a list of all the meetings both Maria and I had scheduled for the next two days.” Van handed Jenn a legal pad. “Maria should be back after that.”

  “But if I’m not—” Maria interjected.

  Jenn didn’t let her finish. “I’ll take care of everything,” she promised again, flipping through the pad. Savannah had filled five pages with notes and lists.

  “Page three and four are the interns’ schedules,” Van instructed. “Keep them going with the voter registration drive—these next few weeks are vital. Oh, and Douglas was helping me organize both a literature drop and weekend canvassing—again, focusing on getting out the vote. He can be a little defensive and I’ve found he’s easiest to deal with if you give him plenty of time to talk. You don’t have to do it his way, you just have to hear him out, okay?”

  “Got it,” Jenn said.

  “Gene and Wendy are working with him to create a list of block captains,” Savannah continued, “and … You have my number. If you have any questions—”

  “Call me,” Maria interrupted, as she pulled to the curb in front of… Zachary Towers?

  No way. The “friend” that Savannah’s Uncle Alex knew was Robert Zachary?

  But yes, as they all clambered out of Ford, as Jenn humped her friends’ bags out of the back seat, she saw that it was, indeed, the real-estate mogul emerging gracefully from his trademark stretch limo, dressed down in jeans and a sweatshirt. His eyes widened, as most men’s eyes did, when he caught sight of Maria and Savannah. But then Savannah’s uncle was there, too, pulling up in a cab, introducing them all.

  Well, almost all.

  Jenn wasn’t affronted by the oversight, just resigned. The good news was that she would never need a cloak of invisibility when her gorgeous friends were around.

  “Thank you,” Van said, giving Jenn a hug.

  “If you need anything,” Jenn said again, but then they were gone, swept away into the building as the night guard leapt to unlock the door for his rich and famous boss.

  Jenn climbed back into Ford and headed for home.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Savannah was gone.

  She’d flown back to California before the sun had come up, long before he’d realized she’d escaped him and that his plan was ruined.

  He’d wanted to scream when he found out. Scream, and wail, and tear at his clothes and hair.

  He wanted to kill her—Jenn, the one who’d told him the news—right there and then. He hated her in that moment more than he’d ever hated anyone, as she promised all who were standing there in that pathetic little office that she’d keep them posted as to the husband’s condition.

  He was glad that he’d decided, back when he’d first worked out the details of his plan, not to make her his girlfriend. He’d done that before—played at normal with his victim, sometimes for weeks, before making her more permanently one of his own.

  But Jenn wasn’t his target and the thought of having to talk to her, to sit with her, to share her bed and make love to her…

  He couldn’t do it, couldn’t settle for her mundaneness, couldn’t betray his powerful emotions.

  And although he wanted to, he didn’t now slash Jenn into a hundred bleeding pieces—because doing so would not get him that which he wanted most.

  Alyssssa …

  He knew he was going to have to be patient again, he was going to have to wait longer. Maybe the husband would die, or maybe he’d live—either way Savannah would eventually return and he’d proceed as he’d long planned. He’d kill Savannah, and Alyssa would come.

  Still, his chest was so tight and the roaring in his ears so loud, he knew he needed to find relief.

  But it couldn’t be now, and it absolutely couldn’t be here. It had to be far enough away, and it had to be different—no long, lingering terror, no teeth.

  Somehow he walked home.

  Maybe … one tooth, broken as if accidentally, perhaps from a tire iron to the face.

  Somehow he changed his clothes, changed his appearance, changed his very identity.

  He knew how to not get caught, how to not get noticed, and he rented a car using a credit card he kept on hand for emergencies like this one. The camera behind the counter recorded the transaction, but its grainy images wouldn’t help them find him, even if they got as far as connecting his rental to that which was to come.

  He was more calm now, knowing what his immediate future held.

  He left the garage, careful to obey the speed limit, careful not to cause gridlock, or to otherwise break the law.

  He drove for hours, heading south through Jersey, almost to Baltimore. There was a mall in White Marsh, upscale and sprawling, with vast parking lots that became deserted at night—except for the areas near the movie theater. It had a Sears, and as the sun began to set, he parked and he went inside and bought a tire iron with cash.

  And she was right there, behind the counter, as if waiting for him, a little worn around the edges, older than he usually liked and stinking of stale cigarette smoke. But she was blond and blue-eyed like Savannah—and as different from Alyssa as night was from day. So he smiled at her and she flirted with him and there was no one behind him in line, so he lingered.

  She was working until nine-thirty, did he want to go out and get a drink … ?

  It was that easy.

  He went to his car to wait, and to look at his pictures—he’d taken a dozen with him for this trip—and to dream.

  Of blood on his hands.

  And of Alyssa Locke.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  MONDAY, 26 JANUARY 2009

  The police detective was not impressed. “What is it, exactly, that you would like us to do?”

  His name was Michael Callahan and he was young and not quite handsome, unless you went for the vaguely Popeye-esque, third-generation New York Irish cop type. Strawberry blond with blue eyes that could twinkle on command or look flat and bored, as they did right now. Lean face with sharply chiseled angular features, and a wiry, compact body. He played shortstop in the local softball league, Jenn would’ve bet her turkey-on-seedless-rye on that.

  She answered his question with a question, aware that the interns were watching her. “What is it you usually do in situations like this?”

  Situations in which a computer-printed note—obscene and rambling, but not quite a death threat—had been stuck to Assemblywoman Maria Bonavita’s New York City office door with a sharply bladed knife, while Jenn and the interns had all been out at lunch.

  Truth be told, Jenn hadn’t expected the death threats to start quite so soon. Cranky e-mails were one thing, but this … ?

  It was only Maria’s second week in office, and wasn’t there supposed to be a so-called honeymoon period for an elected official? Perhaps a solid month, maybe two, before they’d have to make a call to the police?

  “What we usually do is waste valuable lab time examining the fingerprints on the weapon,” Callahan said, “and confirming the fact that everyone here touched it before calling us.”

  Ron and Gene looked abashed, and Jenn stepped to the interns’ defense. “The note contains offensive language. There’s a pediatric dentist’s office right down the hall—”

  “So you tear the paper,” Callahan pointed out, “and leave the knife.” He sighed again. “Not that it would’ve mattered. Whoever left this
probably didn’t leave prints. We wouldn’t’ve found anything—at which point I would’ve called you back, and told you to be careful.”

  “Be careful,” Jenn repeated.

  “And to give us a call if you see anyone or anything suspicious.”

  “That’s it,” Jenn said. “Seriously. That’s all you can do? I mean, thank God no one was here—”

  “Whoever did this probably waited until he was sure that no one was here.”

  “Probably?”

  “Lookit, for a threat this vague—” he started.

  She interrupted, reading from the note, “Next note gets pinned to your face is vague?”

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “Whose face? There’s no mention of the assemblywoman. Maybe whoever wrote this was targeting the dentist down the hall and got the suite number mixed up.”

  “Her name is clearly on the door,” Jenn pointed out.

  “Okay,” he said. “So when’s this pinning going to take place? Today? Tomorrow? Two months from now? Maybe you want us to post a guard in the hall, 24/7 … ? Of course, if we post a guard in the hallway of everyone in this city who’s received a threat from some crackpot, we’ll need to hire at least two million more uniformed officers. You might want to check with your boss, see if she thinks she can’t find the funding to make that happen. Hey, I know, she could cut ammunition completely out of the budget, outfit both the Staties and the NYPD with swords, get one of those whetting stones for each department and boom—we’re done.”

  Jenn had had enough. “Are you?” she asked sharply. “Done? Because Assemblywoman Bonavita was fact-finding, okay? She asked a simple question—does the State of New York really need to spend that much money on ammunition? She had no idea that police training was constant and required that many bullets, and when she found out, she agreed—completely and absolutely—that this was not a line item that could be cut or even marginally reduced. She’s been vocal—throughout her campaign—about her support of New York’s need for additional first responders, both in the police and fire departments, and about the supreme necessity of giving them the supplies and equipment required for them to do their jobs. Which is what you should be doing—your job. Whether or not you think that the assemblywoman asked a stupid question, whether or not you believe that questions that upset the status quo should never be asked at all, whether you voted for Maria or for the idiot, I don’t care. Check it, Detective, at the door, and tell me what I need to do to keep my boss and my staff safe from crackpots who like to play with knives.”