Hot Target (33 page)

The thing about it was, she wasn’t worth dying for. She was nothing like him—and sooner or later Cos was going to figure that out. The knowledge made her throat ache.

“Talk to me, Janey. Tell me what you need,” Cosmo implored her.

She put down her mug because the tea wasn’t helping, and she reached for him. “You,” she said, her voice catching pathetically. “Cos, I need you.”

He didn’t hesitate. He kissed her.

And that was good because that meant his eyes were closed, too, and he couldn’t see the tears that leaked out from beneath her eyelids.

And her ragged breathing could well be the result of passion, couldn’t it? Either way, he didn’t mention it as he joined her on her bed, stopping only to help her kick free from the sheet and blanket that covered her.

She reached for the light, needing total darkness, but he got there first, switching off the lamp for her.

There was a rustling sound then, just for the briefest moment, then, God, he was back, kissing her again. His clothes had vanished, and the sensation of all that smooth skin made her desperately want . . .

Yes. He knew what she wanted. She tried to wipe her eyes with her T-shirt as he helped her pull it over her head, but it was futile since her tears kept on coming.

She knew he wouldn’t fail to notice her wet cheeks or the salty taste as he kissed her, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop, didn’t so much as mention it. He just murmured, “It’s okay, Jane. It’s all right,” as he kissed her again and again.

“Please.” She only had to say it once. He’d already covered himself, protecting them both, and as she lifted her hips to meet him, he pushed inside her, no games, no delay.

She’d learned last night that he was an exquisite lover, possessing an incredible sensitivity, an ability to empathize that took her breath away. He was capable of turning sex into an art form.

But what she needed and wanted right now, however, was a good old-fashioned shagging.

Which was exactly what he delivered.

She let herself cry, really cry, as he rocked her, as she clung to him, as she gasped and sobbed her release.

And then he held her, just silently stroking her hair, as she cried herself out.

It was later, much later, before she realized, before she lifted her head to ask, “Did you even . . . ?”

She heard him smile in the darkness. “I’m all right,” he told her. “Go to sleep.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Patty’s mother wanted her to come home.

She had about a million messages on her voice mail. The phone just would not stop ringing as the story about the shooting in Malibu hit the news.

She’d dressed for the crowd of reporters that she knew would be waiting outside the studio, and she’d read a brief statement that Jane had e-mailed her. Production would continue despite last night’s tragedy. Both victims of the attack remained in critical condition. Security on the lot would be increased.

Jane’s message to her had been just as succinct. Help make sure the filming went smoothly today.

Not an easy assignment for her, considering Robin was here.

She’d passed him on his way down to makeup. He looked awful—another day, another hangover. What a jerk.

She wasn’t sure what got into her, but she stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop.

He met her gaze only briefly. “I deserve whatever you have to say,” he admitted. “I know it.”

It was obvious he felt awful—or at least he was acting as if he felt awful.

She wanted him to feel worse. “My period’s late,” she told him, even though it wasn’t true.

That did the trick. The pure horror in his eyes would’ve made her laugh if she weren’t so angry with him.

Patty left him stammering some kind of apology. Was
I’m sorry
really the correct response to that news? Jerk.

She felt considerably cheered when one of her voice mails was from Victor Strauss. He’d called her himself, too, instead of relegating the task to his PA.

“Everyone’s probably calling to see how Mercedes is doing,” his message said. “But I thought I’d check on you.”

He was so sweet.

It was enough to give her the strength she needed to call Wayne Ickes and ask him to stop by the studio so they could talk.

He was early, of course, knocking on the door to Jane’s office, where Patty was sitting behind the desk. It was much nicer than her own, and Jane wasn’t using it today.

“I was actually a little surprised you weren’t on set, in the thick of things,” Wayne said, sitting down across from the desk.

Patty had been for a while. But the electricity that Adam and Robin were creating for the cameras was just a little too freaky to watch. She knew it was acting, but still. “With Jane working from home,” she told him, “there’s an unbelievable amount of administrative work to do.”

He nodded. There was so much hope in his puppy dog eyes as he asked, “So, what’s up?”

Like she was going to say, “Wayne, the way you follow me around endlessly and pathetically is just so romantic and appealing, I’ve decided I can’t wait another moment. Come have sex with me behind Jane’s desk.”

“I owe you an apology,” she said instead.

He laughed. “Uh-oh, that sounds like the intro to the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.”

Patty nodded. “It is. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner but—”

“You want to just be friends,” he finished for her. “Even though you’re not seeing Robin Chadwick any longer?”

She laughed. “How did you know?”

“Oh, come on,” Wayne said. “I saw the way you looked at him. I also saw the way he was avoiding you.” His gaze softened. “That must really hurt, huh?”

“Actually,” she said, “I’m more angry—and mostly at myself. He’s so . . . immature.”

“I’m very mature,” Wayne said. “I hold a very important, very grown-up job in a hospital—”

“Nice try.” Patty laughed. “Seriously, Wayne, I’d love to be friends with you.”

“Friends it is,” he said. “See, wasn’t that easy?”

It had been. Far easier than she’d imagined. He had such a nice smile.

“I’m already kind of on the verge of seeing someone else,” she admitted, thinking of Victor’s voice mail message.

“That’s good,” he said. “Forget about what’s-his-name.”

Her phone rang. She glanced at the number. “Darn it, that’s my mother,” she told him. “She’s, like, calling every hour. She wants me to come home. As if I would, you know?” She answered, “Hold on, Mom.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “I really have to take this so that I can tell her, ‘Nope, I haven’t been shot yet,’ ” she said. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay.” Wayne stood up. “Thank you for being so honest. I’ll see you around.”

“I’m glad you came by,” she said as he shut the door behind him.

Funny thing was, she honestly meant it.

“How’s Kelly?” Jane asked as Decker followed Tom Paoletti into her conference room.

“Doing well, thanks,” Tom replied.

Deck knew what Tom didn’t say was that he himself might never recover from last night’s attack. The fact that Murphy and Angelina were in a hospital ICU, fighting for their lives, was bad enough. But having the violence of his work follow him home, putting his wife and his unborn child at risk . . . He hadn’t put it into words, but Decker knew Tom was seriously shaken.

He wasn’t the only one.

Jane looked exhausted. Cosmo also appeared not to have had a lot of sleep in the past few days. He was in the corner of the room, making a pot of coffee. He nodded a greeting to Deck.

Their early morning meeting had been pushed to noon, mostly due to Jules Cassidy’s busy FBI schedule.

He breezed in now. “Sorry I’m late.” Jules set his briefcase down on the conference table and opened it up. He glanced around the room. “Are we all here?”

Decker did a head count. Tom, Nash, Tess, Lindsey, Dave, PJ, Cosmo, Jane, Sophia . . .

Sophia?

Decker crossed the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked her, even though he already knew.

“Replacing Murphy,” she told him.

He shook his head. Unbelievable. “Considering I’m team leader, didn’t it occur to you that you might want to ask me first?”

“I have fifteen minutes, tops, to do this,” Jules said loudly. “So if we can all sit down?”

Decker sat next to Sophia. “This isn’t going to work,” he told her quietly.

“I apologize in advance for having to run out of here,” Jules told them, “but I have a meeting downtown. I’m sure you’re eager to hear about the ballistics report.” He passed several copies of the document around. “Yes, yes, and yes. It’s the same gun that killed ADA Ben Chertok in Idaho—a Remington rifle, model 700P, reportedly stolen in 1999 from a Davis T. Carter, who was living at the time in Seattle, Washington.”

Decker flipped through the report. There were no surprises in it.

“There were no fingerprints on the shell casing, which was exactly what we’d expected,” Jules continued. “The note left at the crime scene was printed with an older model ink-jet printer. The paper is as of yet untraceable. I doubt we’ll get much from that—it’s pretty standard twenty-pound-weight copy paper. No watermarks, no chocolate-doughnut fingerprint upon it. There were no prints in the house that the shooter broke into, either. So much for a quick and easy end to the case.”

Sophia reached to take the report from Decker so she could look at it. She smelled impossibly good. “Murphy’s my friend, too,” she said quietly.

“What
do
we know?” Jane asked Jules.

He sighed. “Well, we know that whoever he is, he had or has access to your soundstage at HeartBeat, so we have his name or alias on one of our lists of cast, crew, and studio employees who’ve been past the front gate within the last few weeks. Unfortunately, there are thousands of names on that list.

“We’re pretty sure he’s good with computers—but these days that doesn’t make him anything special.

“We’re also pretty sure that, considering his ability to shoot,” Jules continued, “—and he’s either very highly skilled or a lucky novice—he’s been practicing. A lot. We’re compiling a list of visitors to local firing ranges, both regulars and out-of-towners. Of course, we’re cross-referencing every list of potential suspects with our main list from HeartBeat. And we may find nothing if he’s driving out to do his target practice in the desert.” He paused. “We also know that you should not go anywhere, Jane, until we catch this guy. And you should stay away from your windows, too.”

“So, what?” Jane was not happy. “I hide inside while he shoots my security team? Or my friends? Or my cast, or—”

“I’d like to suggest,” Tom interrupted, “that we move you to a different location. One that’s not just safer for you, but for the team as well. A hotel, for example, where we can monitor everyone coming onto or off of a floor.”

“An alternative,” Jules suggested, “might be for you to leave the area—the country, even. Temporarily, of course.”

As Decker watched, Jane shook her head. “No. I’ll go to a hotel if you really think that’ll keep the security team safe. Although I have to be honest, at this point all my money is in the movie. I don’t have the funds for much more than a Motel Six.”

“I’ll put in a request to HeartBeat,” Tom said, “of course.”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “About that. I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but yesterday HeartBeat was making noise about dumping me, just completely pulling all financing.”

Tom sat back in his chair. “Why would they do that?”

“They want me to cut the movie out of my movie,” Jane replied. “I haven’t heard anything from them today, though, so . . .”

Tom nodded. “Well, we’re not leaving you hanging. We’re in this to the end, whether they pay us or not.” He smiled ruefully at Jane. “Please don’t let HeartBeat know that.”

This was supposed to be easy money. The irony here was very intense.

Jane was clearly deeply moved. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“At the very least, sir, let’s bring all security inside,” Cosmo suggested. “We can watch the roads and the grounds from the attic windows, but we won’t be such obvious targets.”

“Good. And eyes open,” Tom told them all. “Stay alert, even after your shift ends. Take the long route home. Let’s make sure our families are safe.”

If Murphy had been paying attention when he left Jane’s house yesterday morning, he might have noticed that he was being followed. As team leader, Decker should have reminded him. God
damn
it.

Sophia handed him back the ballistics report. Somehow she knew exactly what he was thinking. “It’s not your fault, Deck.”

He just shook his head.

Jules’ phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” he said, standing up and moving out into the hall.

“It’s not,” Sophia persisted. But then she laughed softly. “You blame yourself for everything, don’t you?”

He couldn’t look at her. Goddamn it, Cassidy, get back in here and get this meeting moving again . . .

“You shouldn’t,” Sophia said. “What happened between us—”

“Should never have happened,” he cut her off, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Jesus, he dreamed about those eyes, her face. . . .

That mouth.

She’d been living on the street in a third-world country, hiding from a war lord who’d put a price on her head. She’d used sex to try to distract him, fearful he was some kind of bounty hunter who would turn her in.

Usually utterly non-distractible, Decker had let things go much too far.

“It wasn’t real,” she told him now, her eyes so earnest as she gazed at him. “Deck, really. You’ve got to let it go. It didn’t mean anything.”

It didn’t mean anything.

She had no freaking clue.

Jules came back in, pocketing his phone, saving Decker’s ass. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Nash and I are willing to move in here for the duration,” Tess volunteered. “Dave and Decker, too. There’s plenty of room.” She turned to Jane. “If that’s okay with you.”

Jane nodded. “This is going to sound so
Charlie’s Angels,
but can’t we catch this guy by setting a trap? By using me as, well, bait?”

“We’ve already started thinking about that possibility,” Jules said. He looked at Cosmo. “Easy there, you. We wouldn’t use
you,
Jane, but rather someone who looks like you. A trained FBI agent wearing your clothes and a wig—”

Jane was already shaking her head. “That’s unacceptable. I don’t want to do that. If anyone’s going to be bait, it’s going to be me.”

“And that’s unacceptable to us,” Jules told her, rummaging in his briefcase again. “I’m sorry, gang, I have to go. Obviously we’re still plugging away, cross-referencing all our databases, as well as creating lists of people our analysts feel might warrant an interview.”

An interview. They were going to talk to the people on that list, one by one. Knock on their front doors and ask to be allowed inside.

The FBI had to follow the rules. Warrants were necessary before houses could be searched.

But the members of TS Inc. didn’t have to follow those rules. As civilians, they could use their . . . special skills to get inside houses and look for the killer. Of course, another name for “getting inside houses” was breaking and entering.

Because of that, the TS Inc. team also needed to use their “special skills” to keep from getting caught.

Jules took a file from his briefcase. “I have a list of every actor, extra, or studio employee who ever lived within fifty miles of Seattle, where the weapon used to shoot Murph and Angelina was stolen. A list of every actor, extra, etc., who ever registered a weapon.” He tossed each list onto the table after he read its heading. “A list of every actor, et cetera, who has ever served in the military. A sublist of former military personnel who had sharpshooting or marksman training. And, just for shits and giggles, a list of every actor or extra who filled out costume information and claims to own their own Nazi uniform.”

“What?” Tom couldn’t believe that.

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Does it mean anything? I don’t know. I suppose owning one might come in handy if you do a lot of work in World War Two films. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you goose-step in your basement or invite friends over regularly to read aloud from
Mein Kampf.
However, it did seem like something that might warrant some attention.”

Cosmo was already over at the table, flipping through the pages of each of those reports. “You got a list of everyone who appears on two or more of these lists?” he asked.

“No,” Jules said, “but I will absolutely get that for you. That’s a good idea. I do, however, for you, Cosmo, darling-sweetie-cupcake, have two other lists—actors, extras, and studio employees who own white older model cars with a black soft-top, similar to your Pontiac mystery vehicle, as well as a list of actors, et cetera, who own a dark-colored truck with a number six in its license plate. Frankly, after your Pontiac surfaced in Malibu, I’m not sure why you’re still interested in the truck, but from now on, if you want something, I’m making it a priority.” He looked around at the Troubleshooters team. “No more jokes about Cosmo’s mystery car or the endless search for that bullet, is that clear? In fact, I think we all owe Chief Richter a very humble apology.”