Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She’d stunned him into silence. Not so Ron and Gene, who’d expected her to blow—having seen it happen many times before. And oh, good, Hank the UPS man was standing in the open doorway, a package in his hands, grinning his handsome ass off. Gene went to sign for it, but he took his sweet time as they all just stood there, in her post-outburst silence, waiting to see what would happen next.

  The detective was looking around—at the campaign posters that still adorned the walls, at the big whiteboard that they used to keep track of all of Maria’s special projects, at the clutter atop Jenn’s desk, at the radiator that clunked and hissed and made the office far, far too warm, and finally at her.

  At her shoes, at her legs, at her dress, at the necklace she wore at her throat, and finally at her face.

  And it was only then, as he met her eyes, that Detective Callahan laughed.

  And it wasn’t a nasty, you’ve-crossed-the-line-bitch laugh. It was genuinely amused—as if the mean, bored robot cop had been replaced by a real human boy.

  And when he finished laughing, he was still smiling, and that smile, with the accompanying warmth in his eyes, further transformed him, and he was no longer not-quite-handsome. He was now stunningly good-looking—completely jello-knee inducing—like the even-more-attractive love child of Denis Leary and Damian Lewis. And he was particularly attractive because he was now looking at Jenn as if she were not just interesting, but an interesting woman.

  “I voted for the idiot,” he admitted. “But he was the idiot I knew, so …” He shrugged expansively, charmingly.

  Hank sent Jenn an air kiss as he closed the door behind him. Now that the show was over, Ron and Gene, too, escaped into Maria’s office with the package.

  “Our website was extensive and easy to access,” Jenn told the detective, hiding her fluster and resisting the urge to fix her hair. There was nothing she could do to make it look better anyway, and if she touched it, her body language would shout that she was vulnerable to his charm. She wasn’t certain of much—except for the fact that she wanted to keep that newsflash from him. Instead, she pushed her glasses up her nose and folded her arms across her chest. “It still is. The assemblywoman’s positions are clearly outlined. She’s your champion, Detective. The idiot thought the solution to budget cuts was to downsize the police department and instead impose a strict youth curfew. A curfew, in the city that Frank says doesn’t sleep.”

  “Really?”

  “You voted for him, and you don’t know that? His position was that cuts to the police and fire department were inevitable. Maria, on the other hand, has been outspoken in her belief that New York needs to grow both departments—”

  “And pay for it how?”

  “We’re still working on that,” she admitted. “Hence the line-byline perusal of the budget—”

  “Hence,” he said, with another laugh. “Who says hence?”

  “—and the accompanying hoopla over the question about ammunition,” she continued.

  “Hoopla, I like,” he told her, the twinkle in his eye on full power.

  “The hoopla,” she repeated, enjoying the eye contact. Was he actually flirting with her? “… is nothing compared to the full-on uproar over the Ten Commandments issue, which is what this”—she gestured to the threatening note and the knife—“is about.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I actually heard about that one.”

  One of the newly elected assembly members from a more conservative upstate district wanted to reinstall an antique plaque with the Ten Commandments in the lobby of the building that housed Maria’s office in Albany. It had hung there over fifty years earlier, was removed during renovations, believed lost, but had now been found.

  Maria had made a statement announcing that because her many constituents in New York City had a wide variety of religious beliefs, the presence of this plaque in a state building should also mean that other religious icons and messages could now be placed in the lobby as well.

  It was then that the flood of angry e-mails and phone calls started—most of them from out of state. They’d received a number of anonymous threats, all of which they’d reported according to legislative guidelines, but it wasn’t until this ugliness—delivered at the end of a very sharp knife—that Jenn became more than just mildly concerned.

  Maria was worried about it, too—enough to drive back from Albany, even though Ford was developing an odd-sounding cough.

  “The really stupid thing,” Jenn told the detective now, “is that it’s over. Completely. We all compromised—we found common ground. The plaque is a part of New York’s heritage, and everyone agreed that in order to preserve it, it should be in a special glass case.” With another plaque documenting its history, as well as a clarification from a local constitutional scholar as to the importance of separation of church and state.

  “In the back of the lobby,” Callahan pointed out. “Near the rest -rooms.”

  “Which nearly every guest to the building visits,” she countered.

  He laughed. “Nice spin.”

  “Both sides are satisfied,” she told him. “But we’re still getting the angry e-mails—more each day. I’ve done some research—basic Google searches—and I found out that some wing-nut radio talk show hosts are targeting us.”

  “Isn’t that part of the job description?” he asked. “Both theirs and yours?”

  “Not when it incites something like this.”

  She could brush aside the threats that came from brainwashed people sitting on their sofas with their laptops, able to send an e-mail, but too lazy to actually get off their butts.

  Someone clearly had, however, gotten off his butt this morning.

  As Callahan glanced over again at the threatening note that was atop her desk, his expression turned rueful. “I wish there were easy answers, but…” He shook his head. “I’m not going to lie to you, Jennifer—”

  “Jenn’s short for Jennilyn,” she corrected him.

  “Jennilyn,” he repeated, making a note on the scruffy little pad that he’d pulled from the inside pocket of his leather jacket when he’d first arrived. “Pretty name. Two words? Hyphenated?”

  “One word,” she told him, spelling it for him, spelling her last name, LeMay, while she was at it. “And I’ve found that people usually say I’m not going to lie to you before they actually, you know, lie to you?”

  He smiled again as he nodded. “Yeah, me too. It’s just… there’s not much to go on. The paper that the note’s printed on is standard copy paper. Maybe the lab could tell us whether this was printed on an inkjet or some other kind of printer. They could certainly ID the font, but—”

  “I can do that. It’s Times New Roman, size eighteen or twenty,” Jenn said.

  “There you go,” the detective told her. “That’s narrowed our suspects down to most of the people in Manhattan. And who’s to say he or she”—he looked at the knife and made a choice—“he didn’t come in from out of town—and don’t start screaming that I’m being sexist—”

  “I’ve been assuming it’s a man, too,” she cut him off, “which is definitely sexist, but probably true. Men often suck.”

  “Not all of ’em,” he said. “And as far as the knife goes …” He picked it up. “It’s a Wüsthof—a high-end kitchen knife, sold not just in a set but also separately at Macy’s, and the only reason I know that is my cousin Julie just got engaged and there was this whole crazy thing with my aunt about not giving or getting knives as a gift. Turns out if you do, the world will end and … Just… Trust me. They sell ’em, by the dozens at Macy’s and God knows where else. So …” He shrugged again. “Short of my sitting outside your door day and night, I think the first thing you should do is upgrade your security system. Both here and at yours and the assemblywoman’s residences.”

  He looked around the tiny front office, at the two desks and the conference table that was covered with stacks of files from the school-safety project. “Any other full-time staffers in the office?�
�

  “No,” she answered. Savannah hadn’t returned since Ken was injured. With Jenn’s help, she’d managed the campaign long-distance from beside her husband’s hospital bed, and had only come back to town—very briefly—for election day and their victory party. She still stayed in touch by phone, though. Jenn was looking forward to her input and opinion on how to keep Maria safe. In fact, she was going to call Savannah immediately after the detective left. “Just interns and the occasional volunteer.”

  “And they’re all people you trust?” Callahan asked. “People whose backgrounds you’ve cleared?”

  “Yes,” Jenn told him, but then shook her head. “The interns, yes. But the volunteers … You can’t exactly grill someone who comes in to help stuff envelopes for a mailing.”

  “But everyone who’s got a key has been checked?” he asked, as he glanced at his watch and frowned.

  “I don’t think so,” Jenn admitted. “We were pretty free and easy during the campaign, handing out keys to just about anyone. It’s not as if there was anything in here to steal, so …”

  “Lookit, I’m sorry, I gotta go. I’m already late to a meeting and …” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a business card, which she took. “This is my number. If there’s trouble call 9-1-1, but after that, make sure you also call me.” With a nod, he turned to the door.

  “Detective Callahan,” Jenn said.

  He turned back. “Mick,” he told her. “One of my many cousins is Michael, too. He’s older, so I got stuck with Mick.”

  “Are you going to file a report?”

  “Since there’s no real threat, best I can do is make a note about it,” he said, apologetic. “Beat cops’ll keep an eye out, but… It would be good if you punched up your own security.”

  “Yeah,” Jenn said. “About that. Maria—the assemblywoman—she’ll definitely get an alarm system installed here, but… It’s her own safety that she tends to be somewhat cavalier about. I wonder if you could … come back and … maybe … talk to her directly?”

  He glanced at his watch again, but he didn’t sigh with disgust. “When’s she gonna be in?”

  Maria had been nearly to Kingston when Jenn had called her. She looked at her own watch. “With traffic … ? Probably four thirty or five.”

  “Keep her here till six,” Mick said, “and I’ll drop in after my shift.”

  “No,” Jenn said. “You don’t have to do that—”

  “Yeah,” he said, with another of those killer smiles. “I know.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and despite the fact that her insides were melting—or quite possibly because of it—she found herself adding, “I’m also curious. I’m, um … What just happened here?”

  Her heart was in her throat, because it was completely unlike her to be so flirtatious. She hadn’t gone out on a date, hadn’t so much as looked twice at a man in the four months since the tragedy with Scooter Randall.

  Of course the detective didn’t understand what she was asking, so now she was forced to explain. “You weren’t very, um, friendly when you first got here and now you are. Friendly, I mean—and …” Jenn trailed off, unable to bring herself to say I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get a drink later?

  “Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Sorry about the attitude before. I just… It’s been a bitch of a week and … I wasn’t expecting … But then you kinda crushed me like a bug, and … You reminded me so much of my sister, it just, um …”

  His sister.

  “Ah,” Jenn said. “Of course.”

  “We’re twins and …”

  “Twins.”

  “She moved to England three years ago, and, well, I guess I haven’t had a good bug crush since.” He winked at her, the way he might wink at a little kid or, yes, a sister. “I appreciate it, Jennilyn. I’ll see you later.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  She usually hated it when people used her full name—it was so feminine and flowery and it made her feel like a misnamed giant. And not a good giant like an Amazon warrior or Xena, but an ungainly one who wore sturdy shoes and support hose to keep her ankles from becoming even more sausage-like—even though her own ankles were actually quite nice.

  But when Mick Callahan called her Jennilyn in his slightly husky voice, it had sounded like music.

  Except he’d already gone and sistered her. He was not the first to do that—and he wouldn’t be the last. In fact, the only thing that she could predict more accurately than the fact that the attractive, friendly man she’d just met was going to tell her that she reminded him of his sister, was the fact that the attractive, friendly man whom she reminded of his sister always, always fell in love with her gorgeous best friend at first sight.

  Always.

  So even if Detective Steamy Hot hadn’t sistered her—twin-sistered her, which, okay, was a first—she’d be facing that impending heartbreak in just a few short hours.

  As it currently stood, with her hopes already brotherishly dashed, she would feel no more than a pinch of regret when Mick took one look at Maria, fell to his knees, and broke into song.

  It would sting, sure, but the disappointment wouldn’t last long.

  And one of these days, she’d meet a guy who thought of Maria as a sister and he’d fall madly in love with Jenn.

  He was out there—she believed it. Although, truth be told, he probably didn’t look quite like Detective Mick Callahan.

  Which, frankly, was kind of a shame.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  THURSDAY, 29 JANUARY 2009

  The man with the neck tattoo was reaching for a handgun.

  It was a marvelous piece of artwork—the tattoo, not the gun—the swastika embellished and intertwined with curlicues and baroque swirls, to the point of being nearly completely disguised.

  Although the handgun was beautiful, too. The theater’s lights glinted off of it as the gunman pulled back his shirt to reveal it tucked into the top of his ragged jeans. It was a museum-quality Nambu Taisho—long and skinny, a Japanese relic from WWII—that he’d no doubt lifted from some wealthy collector’s inadequately locked display case.

  Alyssa Locke had already looked into this man’s hazy eyes, back before he’d jumped the flimsy metal fence that still contained most of the tourists, fans, and autograph-seekers. She’d picked him out of the crowd that came to cheer or jeer the stars as they walked the red carpet that led into this Hollywood movie premiere. She knew, just from one look, that he was jacked up on something that impaired his judgment.

  And in those fractions of a second after he jumped the fence and reached for that pistol, as she sifted through her options and settled on the obvious—disarm him by force or someone was going to get shot—she also knew, without a doubt, that using reason to talk him into surrendering that weapon wasn’t going to happen.

  He wasn’t looking to get out alive. He wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, with his picture flashed, postmortem, on AOL and CNN, his name spoken by the news anchors in hushed tones as he gained notoriety as the man who killed movie star Robin Chadwick Cassidy.

  And the killing-Robin part was probably a secondary goal, since he could have taken the shot from the crowd instead of making that theatrical leap over the ineffective waist-high fence.

  No, Alyssa was certain that what this man wanted, most of all, was for his life to be over and done.

  He’d targeted her as the weakest link in the Robin Cassidy security chain. True, she wasn’t built like her husband, former SEAL Sam Starrett, or their current team leader Ric Alvarado, or team member Jones, or even Annie, who was tall and voluptuous.

  Alyssa wasn’t insulted that he’d singled her out—it happened often enough. Plus, it gave her additional insight into his reasoning abilities, or lack thereof. He was not any kind of trained operative, or else he would’ve instantly picked up her years both as a Naval officer and as an agent with the FBI in her movement and stance.

  Instead, he’d chosen to trespass in
to her quadrant, flinching but not retreating when she’d first hit him with the full power and volume of her “I am in charge here” voice.

  “Stay behind the barricade. Sir! I said Stay. Behind. The barricade!” As Alyssa got even louder, she’d felt the swift movement behind her.

  She hadn’t had to look to know what the rest of her team was doing. They’d surrounded Robin, providing a very literal human shield as they hustled him into the safety of the theater.

  Sam, she knew, would dump and run—straight back to her, to provide assistance. But she also knew that this was going to be over before it started.

  Until, of course, the man pulled back his shirt to reveal that weapon.

  Which was when time slowed way down, seconds stretching endlessly out, as she opened her mouth, and, as if possessed, words tumbled out.

  “I have a baby,” she heard herself tell him. The mother in her was as much of an infant as her son Ashton was, yet it somehow effortlessly overcame the tough-as-nails operative and even the jaded little girl she’d once been—both of whom knew that any attempts at communication with this man were useless.

  It was strange to realize how swiftly her life had changed; how differently she felt inside of her more matronly body, inside of her often noisy and crowded head, simply because this miniature person who was part her and part Sam and fully his own incredible self had entered her world. At times she still felt as astonished as Ash had been months ago when he’d first flailed and spotted one of his own tiny fists, staring at it like some UFO overhead, in gleeful, wide-eyed wonder.