Hot Target (41 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

“They 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 hawk 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.

“Hey!” the neighbor squeaked in alarm, moving to the other end of the kitchen.

“Shhh,” he ordered as Jane’s voice came through the set’s cheap speakers.

“. . . past few weeks
have
been frightening.” She was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt she’d had on when he’d left the house hours ago. “It’s still a little hard to believe it’s really over. I’m going to celebrate by going on location, where the cast and crew of
American Hero
are reenacting D-Day—the Normandy invasion. It seems only fitting that my first step out into the sunshine, into freedom, should be onto our version of Omaha Beach.”

Over? What the fuck was going on? Why did she think this was over? Unless . . . He turned to the woman as, on the TV, Jane continued to talk about freedom of speech. “You said they found him? Found who?”

“The man who was trying to kill Mercedes Chadwick,” she told him. “Someone named Mark Avery. He’s dead. That girl he kidnapped killed him with his own gun.”

“Mark Avery,” he repeated, forcing his voice past the fear that threatened to clog his throat. “Not Carl Linderman?” It could be an alias—the two could be one and the same. “Did they say that he was an extra in Jane’s—Mercedes’—movie?”

“Nope. They had lots of information about him, lots of evidence that proved he was the stalker, but I’ve haven’t heard anything about him being an actor.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re with the FBI, how come you don’t know all this?”

“I need to borrow your car,” he said as he dialed Jane’s phone number again. He’d seen an old station wagon out in the driveway as he’d come inside.

“If you think I’m just going to hand you my keys—”

She didn’t have to—they were right in front of him, hanging on that key rack. Cosmo pocketed them. “You’re welcome to come along, but I won’t be able to guarantee your safety when the shooting starts.”

She gasped, then said, “I’m calling the police!”

“Good. Tell them to send backup and a SWAT team to the
American Hero
set.” Again, Jane didn’t pick up, but this time, he left a message. “Jane. It’s Cos. Don’t go onto that beach. I’m pretty sure that the killer wasn’t working alone, that there’re at least two of them, and one’s still at large. You are not safe. I repeat, do
not
go onto that beach.”

“Too late,” the woman said, and he turned to see on the television—a little caption saying “Live” in the corner of the screen—Jane going through some kind of gate, and toward a crowd of applauding extras in what looked like bloodied uniforms.

She was there. On the beach. In the freakin’ open.

Dear, sweet Jesus . . .

“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

“Do I look like someone who has a cell phone?” she came back at him.

Cosmo dialed Jules’ number on the kitchen phone, then tossed it to the woman. “Hit redial until this number is answered,” he ordered her. “Tell the FBI agent who picks up that you have a message from Chief Richter—that Mercedes Chadwick is still in danger, that I have reason to believe that the shooter wasn’t working alone, that we need to get her off that beach now!”

As Janey made a speech for the news cameras, Robin stood with the elder Jack in a small patch of shade cast by the hillside, trying, unsuccessfully so far, to exorcise his headache.

He focused on the day’s good news. Patty was safe. Mr. Insane-o was dead, and the danger was over and done.

Because of that, Jane was able to be on set for this D-Day sequence. Robin knew how badly his sister had wanted to be here today. But he also knew she’d trade it all in a heartbeat to have Angelina back.

The helicopter had arrived early for this afternoon’s aerial shots. That was good news, too. Although, they still had two rather lengthy ground segments to get on film before the light got too harsh.

Out on the beach, the extras were starting to get restless.

But Jane was finally done. The news cameras were pulling back, packing up, most of them ready to move onto the next news story, despite her invitation to stay and watch some of the filming.

Some of the cameras had already taken footage of the extras waiting on the beach. It made for a good visual—Nazi storm troopers lounging alongside American Marines. And it was always a little freaky to see guys who’d been made up to look dead or dying, as they popped open cans of Pepsi, as they laughed and talked.

“Hey, Nazi, you’ve got the wrong kind of gun,” Jack suddenly called. “He didn’t hear me,” he told Robin. He pointed out an extra who had his back to them as he walked away. “He’s a German officer, but he’s carrying an American rifle—a Springfield. It’s completely inappropriate. Is there
anyone
in the prop tent who isn’t an idiot?”

“Most of the action’s going to be down at the other end of the beach,” Robin pointed out, because the last thing he wanted to do was chase after some extra who’d been given the wrong prop.

“Hey, Nazi!” Jack called again, but the extra, who was starting to climb up the hill, still didn’t hear.

Robin was saved by the assistant director’s call for places.

“He won’t be visible up there,” he reassured Jack, all but pushing the old man toward the spectators’ tent.

Jules was in Mark Avery’s kitchen when his cell phone rang.

He didn’t recognize the number, which meant that it could be Adam calling from a pay phone, so he let it get bumped to his voice mail.

The back door opened and Decker came in. “I just spoke to Tess. She, Nash, and PJ are still with Jane. They’re on the beach, on location with the movie crew.”

“She couldn’t wait?” Jules asked. “Even just a day or two, until we . . . ?”

Until they what?

Found even more evidence against Mark Avery? How much did they need?

Jules didn’t know why he was so on edge. But as he looked around the room again, at the broken glass on the floor, the knocked-over chair, the blood-sprayed wall, he realized what had been bugging him. “It’s like we’re on a movie set. Everything is so carefully laid out.”

Decker nodded. “Yeah, it’s very
Crime Scene Detecting for Dummies
isn’t it? Here’s the murder weapon, here’s the evidence. Except for the mystery of the kitchen garbage . . .”

Jules laughed. “Yeah.” Without a doubt, that was the biggest mystery in here. Something had made this room stink like this, yet the pails out back were as empty as the refrigerator. Neither the police detectives nor the FBI team had removed the trash as evidence. And he’d called and found out that garbage pickup was on Tuesdays. Those cans should have been full.

“I’m going over there,” Decker said, heading out the door. “To the beach. See if I can talk Jane into being more cautious.”

Good idea. He’d do the same. “Where’s Cosmo?” Jules asked, following him into the bright morning sunshine. It had been quite a while since the SEAL had called in. “He can talk her into just about anything.”

His phone rang again. Same number. Goddamn it. This had got to stop. He answered it. “Cassidy.”

“About time you answered,” a cranky old voice berated him. “I have a message from someone named Richter, who better not be lying because if he is, he just stole my car.”

Robin was supposed to run up the beach in a zigzag pattern, with Adam beside him, which just shouldn’t have been that hard to do. The camera shot started as a close-up, then did a slow zoom out to reveal the enormity of the battle that raged around them.

When he reached his mark—about a hundred feet away from where they started—he was to fall as if hit by German machine-gun fire.

He was rigged with squibs, and blood would spray as each “bullet” struck. It would look totally realistic, especially in such a wide shot.

“We ready?” the director asked over his megaphone, and Robin closed his eyes, letting Hal take control.

“And . . . action!” A starter pistol was fired—the cue for the extras to go to war.

Most of them were just pretending to fire their prop weapons, but the stuntmen all had guns that shot blanks. It was noisy as hell, and in order to signal a cut, a flare would be fired.

It wasn’t easy to run through the soft sand in his boots. His legs pumped, and he kept his head down, weapon cradled in his arms and—

Shit! His foot caught on something and he went down early—too early—and—

Mother
of God! The stock of his gun smacked him right in the balls, and Robin let out a stream of very un-Hal-like curses.

“We’re still rolling,” the director said through the megaphone. “Keep going—Hal and Jack back it up.”

“He wants us to start over again,” Adam shouted over the din.

No shit, Sherlock. But Robin had all he could handle just to stay curled in a ball, trying not to puke.

Well, so much for the trying not to puke part. He managed, however, to turn his head so the few remaining TV news cameras Janey had brought onto the set didn’t get the full Technicolor yuckatation.

“Aw, Jesus,” Robin heard Adam say as the director shouted, “Cut,” and a flare was shot into the sky.

“Why aren’t you wearing a jock?” Jane asked her brother, who had been helped up into the shade of the tent. He lay there in the sand, still looking a little green.

Men were such delicate creatures, and Robin was particularly fragile. She’d learned that back when they were teenagers, and even used it to her advantage a time or two.

He shook his head. “I didn’t think I’d need one.”

“Do you want me to see if Charlene can dig one up?” she asked, then shrieked, because she was being lifted into the air. PJ had grabbed her by one arm and Nash by the other, and together they were carrying her backward, away from the edge of the production tent.

“Decker just called,” PJ informed her. “He wants you out of here.”

Jane was exasperated. She straightened her shirt as they put her down in the center of the tent. “What’s his deal? He didn’t strike me as being such a worrywart.”

“Yeah, well, Jules Cassidy and Cosmo are both worried, too,” PJ said. “And that’s enough to get
me
worried.”

“We now think that the shooter may not have been working alone.” Jane turned to see Tess, who was carrying what looked like an umpire’s vest and a heavy jacket, coming from the direction of the parking lot. She now spoke to PJ. “These are the ones you meant, right?”

He nodded. Took them from her. Held them out for Jane. “Put these on.”

“Okay, wait.” She looked at Tess. “All along it’s been, ‘The profilers say he’s an outcast, a misfit, a single male suspect, he’s working alone. . . .’ And suddenly he’s not? What’s the deal with that? And . . .” She looked from the vest and jacket to PJ. “News flash: It’s neither December nor the Antarctic.”

“Profilers occasionally are wrong,” Tess explained.

“This is a Kevlar vest, and this is a flak jacket,” PJ told her. “If someone shoots you while you’re wearing these, you might live.”

Damn it. “This was supposed to be over,” Jane said as PJ strapped the vest onto her and stuffed her arm into one of the jacket’s sleeves.

“Decker and Jules are both on their way,” he told her.

“Jane, they’re going to want you to leave,” Tess said. “Once we have backup, we’ll bring a car right into the tent for you.” She noticed Jane’s eye roll. “It’s possible they’re just being overly cautious, but . . .”

“If Deck told me he thought there might be two feet of snow on a sunny day in June,” PJ said, “I’d go out and buy rock salt and a snowblower.”

Damn
it. “Where’s Cosmo?” Jane asked, the first flicker of real fear slipping out from beneath her annoyance. If Mr. Insane-o wasn’t working alone, then she wasn’t the only one who was still in danger.

Tess and PJ exchanged a look, then both shook their heads. “Maybe Deck’ll know,” Tess said.

It wasn’t as easy for PJ to force her other arm into the jacket, and Jane shook him off, stabbing it into the sleeve herself.

Robin was back on the beach. The director was getting ready to call action again.

“Can I at least watch the video monitor?” Jane asked.

PJ kept her from moving closer to the edge of the tent. “I’ll drag it over to you.”

Cosmo owed Carl’s elderly neighbor four new tires for her 1989 Taurus wagon.

He took off yet another patch of rubber as he cut across three lanes of oncoming traffic to pull into the beach parking lot.

The rent-a-cops at the gate, hired by HeartBeat as additional security for this on-location shoot, all leapt to their feet in alarm as the car bottomed out.

Make that four new tires and a muffler.

But Cosmo hit the brakes and threw the car into reverse because, oh my holy God, there it was.

The truck he’d spent the past week looking for. With a six in its plate number and that little dent on the back right of the bumper.

Parked in full view, right here in the lot with all of the other extras’ cars.

The bumper sticker that boasted of an honor student from Somewhereville had been scraped off, leaving telltale scratch marks behind.

Cos had no doubt. This was definitely the truck he’d seen all those nights ago, in front of Jane’s house. And he would bet every penny in his savings account that it belonged to Carl Linderman.