Hot Pursuit (8 page)

Had his lie really been that transparent? Dan shook his head. “I’m not an officer. You don’t need to call me sir.”

“Still …”

“Your grandmother’s looking for you,” Dan told the boy. He held up Fred. “Thank Mindy again for me.”

H
e watched from the hallway, from the warmth of a supply closet that he’d discovered months ago.

It was dark, it was warm, and it was dry. He’d planned, from the start, to leave Savannah’s body there, and he’d sat there sometimes, right on the dirty floor, in anticipation, alone in the darkness—picturing Alyssa’s exquisite face as she opened the door and saw what he’d done.

He still sometimes sat there, sometimes all night. Waiting. Just waiting.

She was coming. She
would
come.

Today was finally the day.

He hadn’t had to kill Savannah. He hadn’t
had
to kill anyone at all. It was luck that Alyssa was coming—luck and a suggestion he’d made to one of the interns, who’d in turn approached Jenn.
Wasn’t Savannah connected to some personal security firm—via her Navy SEAL husband? Surely she knew
someone—
a woman—who could come in and talk to Maria about her safety. That might go over better than advice from some cocksure police detective
.

Jenn had, obviously, taken the suggestion to heart, and here they all were.

On the verge of destiny.

He watched through a hole that he’d made between the door and the jamb, and he knew that the men in Alyssa’s team—all five of them—were there as statement. But their focus was on protecting Maria.

Which left Alyssa for him.

Provided she stayed long enough.

He’d heard—because he was always listening—that Maria thought little of the threat. It came with her job, he’d heard her argue with Savannah, who had called from California. Maria would, out of courtesy, meet with Savannah’s friends, and allow them to install an office security system and update the locks. She’d even humor Savannah and meet Alyssa at the gym for a self-defense refresher.

She would give the team this one weekend, but come Monday, they’d be gone, and she’d be back to business as usual.

He’d fumed and raged because after waiting all this time, a weekend wasn’t long enough. And in his fury, he’d gone too far with the blade of his knife, and his recent guest had died, her blood soaking the floorboards of his kill room.

But then with the certainty he relied on to guide him, he’d realized that it was okay. It had been time for her to die.

Because she was coming—Alyssa Locke.

And he could make her stay for longer than a weekend.

And then she would be his, forever.

It was amazing how much space five Navy SEALs took up, well, four SEALs and one former SEAL, in the outer room of the assemblywoman’s tiny New York City office.

It was wall-to-wall shoulders in there, and still they came through the door: Jacked, Steamy, Parka Man, Lucky, and Hot Cowboy Dad, who was actually carrying a cheerful and heavily bundled
baby in a frontpack sling thing. And okay, those weren’t their
real
nicknames, but rather accurately descriptive monikers Jenn herself assigned them as they greeted her with a handshake and a smile.

Their real names were Zanella, Lopez, Starrett, Gillman, and Vlachic, and as good as Jenn was with names, they’d rattled them off so fast she’d lost track of everyone but Lopez, whose parka was the kind worn by explorers on an expedition to the summit of Mt. Everest.

The one she thought was Starrett—the Hot Cowboy Dad—had blue eyes that put Detective Mick What’sHisName’s to shame. He also had that adorable baby, who looked an awful lot like the Trouble shooters team leader, a seemingly diminutive and strikingly beautiful woman with short dark hair. She came in last, shutting her cell phone as she introduced herself. She was, of course, the one and only Alyssa Locke, and she was seemingly diminutive only in comparison to her hulking team.

Jenn wasn’t quite sure why, but she’d always pictured Alyssa as being a blonde, like Savannah.

Instead, she was at least part African American, which of course didn’t mean that she couldn’t have been a blonde, either from a bottle or even naturally. And there was something about her that was oddly familiar. “I’m Jenn. I’m the assemblywoman’s assistant and—You didn’t by any chance go to SUNY Binghamton?”

Alyssa shook her head.

“Or maybe to law school at—”

“No law school.”

“You look so familiar,” Jenn admitted.

The woman winced. “A few days ago, I did a bodyguard assignment for a movie star. There was an incident and pictures are everywhere.”

Jenn shook her head. “Not in
The New York State Assembly Quarterly.”

Alyssa smiled. “Thank goodness for small favors.”

“Maria’s on a conference call right now. She’ll be free in a few minutes, so …” Jenn looked around at them all. “Can I get anybody anything?”

“I would love a glacier,” the tallest one—Jacked—requested, “or even an avalanche would be nice.”

At first she didn’t understand. Were those California drinks like wheatgrass or acai berry juice?

But then Hot Cowboy Dad chimed in. “Mind if I use the conference table,” he asked Jenn in a Texas-laden drawl that on a less attractive man would have been annoying, “to peel some layers offa Ashton, here, before he parboils?”

And then she understood. “Of course. Please. Yes. Please. Take off your coats.” The office
was
nearing hypertropical today. She’d taken off her pantyhose hours ago.

“Excuse me,” Alyssa said as her cell phone rang and she checked the incoming number. She looked from Jenn to her husband. “I’ve got to take this. Will you … ?”

“I got him,” the Cowboy said as he took the baby to the table. “You must be from Florida, Jenn. Or maybe Death Valley … ?”

“No,” Jenn said, with a laugh. “And I am sorry about the climate in here, but this building is old. In order for the heat to reach the top floors, the radiators down here need to overperform. It’s like this all winter.”

“There should be a valve,” Steamy said, as he went over to the ancient thing, which lurked in a grill-covered box in front of the window that overlooked the street, “to allow for a bypass.”

“It doesn’t work,” Jenn said. “Believe me, we’ve—”

“Mind if I take a look?” he asked, already doing just that.

“I’ll help.” Parka Man was right behind him, taking off his rather ridiculous jacket and hood as he went. He had a thick sweater on beneath it, and as he pulled it off as well, his shirt nearly came
with it, revealing a set of abs that could have graced the cover of
Fitness
magazine.

My goodness, he was a well-constructed man. Jenn turned away, not wanting him to catch her staring, except, whoa. He wasn’t the only one eager to keep from overheating, taking off more layers than just their jackets.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, although she had to admit that she was lying at least a little, because all around her, as the SEALs stripped down to their T-shirts and jeans, the normally dingy little room was filled with a wide variety of muscles and sexy flashes of incredibly interesting tattoos on smooth expanses of sun-kissed skin.

And that, along with their many serious cases of hathead—or in Parka Man’s case, hoodhead—and still rosy cheeks from the frigid outside air, made them seem a curiously attractive mix of boyishly charming and curl-one’s-toes hot.

And the realization that this worked for her so completely made her pause. This attraction was, perhaps, at the basis of her failed relationships with both John One and John Two, neither of whom were particularly good at handling basic responsibilities, yet had mastered the art of using a boyish smile to get women—with the tried and true fallback being their own pathetic mothers—to do their laundry and feed them.

But both Johns got banished safely back into the distant past where they belonged when one of the SEALs all but lifted her out of his way. He was eager to help Parka and Steamy as they attempted to turn the knob on the radiator—a knob that hadn’t moved a whit for the past seventy years. If not longer.

He was the SEAL she’d dubbed Lucky, because his matinee-idol face, his lush brown hair, and his long,
long
eyelashes were purely a result of genetics. He’d been lucky to get the parents that he’d had, it was as simple as that.

He’d also come in with his not-particularly-thick jacket already
unzipped, as if he’d been walking around with it open, with no hat and no gloves to boot. Apparently, the minus fifteen degree wind-chill of the city streets didn’t bother him.

But the room’s current temperature certainly put him into a near panic.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to Parka. Jenn clearly wasn’t meant to overhear him, because he mumbled, “Excuse me, ma’am,” when he looked up and saw she was watching him.

Okay,
staring
at him. She was staring, she’d cop to that. He was just so … stare-able.

“It’s okay,” she told him, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It took me awhile to get used to it, too. I went through the whole process. You know, anger, denial, bargaining …”

He laughed at that, and his smile—a flash of straight, white teeth—was perfect. A dash of rue and a pinch of chagrin mixed nicely with his genuine, intelligent amusement.

“The cost of replacing the heating system is astronomical,” Jenn told him, told his friends, too, because she didn’t want him to think she’d singled him out. Although she bet that, looking as he did, he was often singled out. “The landlord won’t do it without raising the rent—at which point we’d have to move. I’ve got the same problem in my apartment, too. It’s part of living low-budget in New York City.”

“I’m not sure I could ever reach that kind of acceptance,” Lucky admitted.

“You’ve absolutely got to want it,” Jenn agreed. “Living here’s not for everyone. But if you love it enough … Well, I’ve lived in Jersey, and I’ve found I can put up with almost anything to stay in Manhattan.”

“Gilligan’s okay with it being hot, hot, hot,” Jacked chimed in. “As long as he’s outside. It’s the heat plus no open windows thing that makes him super-squirrelly. Tight places bug him, too.”

“And
I have bad breath in the morning.” Lucky wasn’t very
happy with Jacked. “Don’t forget that. As long as you’re listing my failings. Jesus, Zanella.”

“And here we go,” Starrett murmured to his laughing little son, whom he’d stripped down to a short-sleeved onesie and a diaper.

Okay, so Jacked was Zanella, and Lucky was also known as
Gilligan
—which had to be a nickname for Gillman. Which meant that Steamy was Vlachic by process of elimination.

He and Lopez-of-the-parka had given up on the valve and turned their attention to the window. Like most windows in elderly buildings in this part of the city, it was glued shut with around thirty coats of paint.

“Anyone have a knife?” Vlachic asked.

“Don’t open that!” Starrett said, in near perfect unison with Zanella and Lucky-Gilligan-Gillman.

“Whoa,” Vlachic said. “Why not?”

It was Lopez who explained, “There’s no window lock. We crack the seal, we’re making it less safe in here.”

“You want me to find a hardware store?” Vlachic asked. “The frame is wood, a basic lock’s gotta cost around three dollars.” He turned to Jenn. “Are there more windows in your boss’s office?”

“Two,” she said. “Equally ancient.”

“Do you have a tool kit or even just a screwdriver?”

“Um,” she said.

“I’ll get a screwdriver, too,” he decided.

“Tell Alyssa where you’re going. See if she wants you to get anything else while you’re there,” Starrett told him.

“Yes, sir.” The SEAL grabbed his jacket and sweater and went out the door.

“You know, I wasn’t listing your failings, Fishboy,” Zanella told Gillman, giving him yet another nickname as he sat on the conference table, next to the pile of baby’s clothes. “It’s freaking impressive for someone who’s claustrophobic to become a SEAL. Although to be completely honest, the bad breath
has
been”—he made a face—
“an issue. Glad you finally know about it, bro. Large quantities of Scope next time, before you try to kiss me good morning.”

“I’ll go with Vlachic,” Gillman volunteered, reaching for his jacket.

But he didn’t put it on.

Because Maria came out of her office, and he, like his friends, was struck dumb.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. She turned to Jenn, concern on her face. “I just got the strangest phone call—”

But then Vlachic stuck his head back inside. “Sorry, sir. Excuse me, ma’am. But Ms. Locke’s not out here. I don’t know where she went.”

“What’s on your schedule for today?”

Robin Cassidy looked up from his Cheerios as Jules poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Not much,” Robin answered. “I’m going to visit Art, then probably hit the noon meeting at the Arlington Street Church. If you’re really going to be home by two, I’ll make sure I’m here before you.”

“Hat and sunglasses, please,” Jules told him. “Heavy scruff—don’t shave. And yes, I’ll be home by then. This meeting won’t take long.”

“Good,” Robin said. “And I know the drill. I’ll be fine. Alfonse says hi, by the way.”

It had snowed again last night, and when Alfonse-the-plow-guy came—while Jules was still in the shower—Robin had gone outside, too. He loved being out in the pristine, winter-wonderland cleanness of it, but Jules would’ve kicked his ass if he’d gone out alone, so soon after last Thursday’s freakshow out in Hollywood.

Even though the investigation was ongoing, everyone and their police detective sister believed the attack at the movie premiere to be an isolated incident. Dude didn’t even have bullets in his gun
and was currently on suicide watch in a psychiatric hospital in Anaheim.

There was no doubt about it, some people were quite literally crazy, but with Alfonse there, handling the big equipment, Robin was safe enough to shovel the walks and porch.