You Don't Know Jack (22 page)

His one distinctive feature was a gentrified New England accent. "What brings a homicide detective and my deceased client's ex-wife to my doorstep on such a horrendous night?"

"This isn't a social visit, Mr. Hawks," Stone said, cutting off the pleasantries. "I'm investigating a break-in at Lars Larsons' home that occurred earlier in the day, and I need to ask you a few questions. In private."

I started to protest, but Stone silenced me with a glare.

"Of course," Carter said without so much as a hit of surprise about the break in at Lars' house. "I'm sure I don't know what help I can be, but my office is this way."

The two men retreated to a room in the back and shut the door.

Left alone, I gave the outer office a once over, surprised and disappointed that on closer inspection I could detect nothing magical or mystical about this place. It was just an office reception area, with a desk, laptop computer, and phone, a leather loveseat, empty coffee table, and one dusty, plastic philodendron. The one distinguishing difference was the poster-sized covers of Lars' books decorating the walls. If Carter had other clients, he wasn't advertising the fact. Lars seemed to be the engine running his boat.

"That's right, darlin'. Without me, Carter'll have to slither back beneath the rock I plucked him out from under," Lars said.

My take on the situation starred Lars as the slithering rat snake.

"Don't just stand there, darlin', find my manuscript."

If Carter had taken the manuscript I doubted he'd be foolish enough to hide it in the outer office, but Lars was right, I had to look. I hurried to the desk and sat. The drawers were locked. The laptop was running and when I moved the mouse, the screen saver — a photo of Lars and Carter celebrating the first book of the series to hit the extended NYT List — disappeared. I removed my driving gloves and stuffed them into my pocket. I searched the files listed on the desktop for one related to Lars' latest book. Nothing.

I clicked on the e-mail function and began scrolling. I was about to give up when Lars' e-mail address appeared. An e-mail with an attachment. The attachment was titled BBK.

My mouth dropped open. Did this BBK stand for the Black Boutonniere Killer? Heart racing, I opened the file. The working title was Lars Larsons' Latest. Nothing to explain the BBK. Nor was it a manuscript, but rather an outline/synopsis. I read through the ten pages, my anger growing exponentially as I realized just how my ex had played me. Was playing me still. "Damn you, Lars, what have you got to say for yourself?"

I wasn't surprised at the cowardice silence.

Stone had to see this, but I could hardly call him out here to look at what I'd found by snooping on Carter's computer, especially with Carter in tow. I would show it to him later. After I'd copied it to my computer and printed it out and come up with a plausible excuse as to how I'd come by it.

I forwarded the e-mail to my computer. Just in case, though, I reached for chain around my neck and withdrew the thumb drive I always carry with me. It contained a copy of my current work in progress. As I tugged the chain from beneath my sweater a creepy sensation of being watched pricked along my spine. I cast a suspicious glance toward the ceiling, expecting to find a hidden security camera. But if there was one, it was cleverly disguised.

The unease crawled across my neck like a long legged spider. Maybe it was the bare windows that brought the expression "sitting duck" to mind. With the lights in the room on and pure darkness outside, I could be seen without seeing more than my own reflection in the glass.

I squelched the impulse to shut the blinds. Stone and Hawks could return any moment. Nerves ticked like the counter on a bomb descending toward the moment of explosion. I inserted the portable data holder into a USB port and downloaded the synopsis. Men's voices startled me. Loud. Near the office door, signaling the end of their private chat. I closed the synopsis file, then the e-mail file, then extracted the thumb drive.

The door to Carter's private office snapped open. I jumped, and the thumb drive leapt from my jittery fingers. I dove for the floor to retrieve it. A loud pop sounded outside. The air seemed to still for a split second. I froze, uncertain why, petrified at the jarring crack that rent the sudden quiet. Then all hell broke loose.

The window at my back imploded. I screamed as glass and rain poured over me. Cut me. Chilled me. Stone swore, then shouted, "Jack? Jack! Get back in your office, Hawks. Call 911."

"Jack!!"

"Stone, what is it?" I shielded my head, frozen with fear. "Earthquake?"

"Are you hit?" Stone's voice was coming closer.

Hit? Was he talking glass or rain or —

Bam! This time without the barrier of the window glass, I recognized the loud pop for what it was. Gunshot. Oh, my God! Someone had shot out the window. Shot at me. Was still shooting at me. I curled tighter into a ball, trying to make myself kitten small. I started to shake. Or maybe I was already shaking and only then became aware of it.

"Jack?" Stone was at my side, crouched low. "Are you hit?"

"D–d-don't think so."

"Stay here." I wanted to crawl completely under the desk and drag him with me, but moving on glass shards hurt.

At the sound of more glass crunching, I peeked through fingers that were starting to ache from tiny slices of torn flesh. Stone had doused the lights. The only illumination came from outside, other buildings. He was stepping through the door, gun in hand.

"No, Stone—" But he was gone, out into the night and the danger, moving fast, ducking and dodging, chasing an armed assailant without backup or protection.

No, God no. I had to do something, but what? I found the courage to uncurl and cautiously rise.

Outside, Stone shouted. His footsteps grew farther away. Another shot, then an exchange of gunfire. Tires squealed and headlights sprayed the room. Then another shot and quiet fell on me, cutting deeper than the glass.

Stone?

Imagination in a mystery writer is a good thing. Imagination in a lover can be a very good thing. Imagining Stone lying on the cold wet pavement bleeding to death was all kinds of bad.

Sirens in the distance got me moving. I shook off the glass and fear and raced for the door and out into the steady downpour. With every slam of my feet on the slick ground, I prayed that I would find Stone before it was too late. I charged through the parking lot and out toward the main street, calling his name.

Rain struck my face, light now, like tears wetting my cheeks, blurring my vision, ramping up my fear. I'd gone a block when a hand snaked out of the darkness and grabbed my arm. My heart stopped. My eyes gaped. A scream died in my throat as I realized my assailant was Stone. He wore a worried, anxious expression, edged with pain. He was bent over at the waist, holding himself. Breathless. "I... told... you... to stay... where you...  were."

I shuddered out a breath. "Oh, my God, Stone. Oh, my God. Are you shot?"

"No." The word rang with frustration. "Hitch... in... side."

Relief swept through me and I thanked God for keeping this man safe. But the killer had gotten away. Where was the justice in that? I locked gazes with Stone. "Did you get a look at him? Do you know who it was?"

"No."

"What kind of car was he driving? Did you get a license number?"

"No." This time the word ground out of him like bits of burnt pepper. I was asking
his
questions, stepping on his cop sensibilities and he didn't like the role reversal. He straightened, caught me by both upper arms and scanned me up and down like he was reviewing a crime sheet. "Were. .you hurt?"

I blinked through the raindrops, not wanting to be pulled to this man, not wanting his concern to lure me into believing we could be together for more than a slap and tickle, not wanting to face again the broken, unfix-able part of me that kept us apart. I shrugged. "A few glass nicks, but nothing serious."

He plucked a chard from my hair, then hugged me, and so help me God, I hugged him back, reveling in the contact, in how safe I felt with his arms around me. If only we could stay like this forever. If only... the cruelest two words in the English language. Sirens neared. Stone released me, and we started back to Carter Hawks' office, hands, bumping, but not touching.

Two Bellevue Police cars pulled into the parking lot. Stone went to meet them, warning me to stay outside, out of the crime scene.

I waited until his back was turned and hurried inside to the reception area to retrieve my thumb drive.

The lights were on, glinting off jigsaw-shaped window bits that littered the desk and carpeting. Jagged slashes of glass still hung precariously in the frame. Wet wool scented the cold air. If it had ever been a place of magic, I couldn't see it now. I picked my way to the desk, every step crunched.

"Why did someone shoot up my office?"

I froze. I hadn't seen Carter Hawks standing against the wall, a shadow within a shadow. He stepped toward me now. His face was eerily pale in the defused light. But his eyes were as sharp as those of the predatory birds whose name he shared.

He had a lot of nerve looking so vulnerable. No one had tried to kill him. I realized he had the closed laptop clutched to his chest, and my heart skipped a beat. He said, "You were sitting at the desk. What were you doing on my computer, Ms. Smart?"

Something inside me shriveled a little — like being chewed out by a favorite teacher. I had to get over my fear of perceived authority figures, my awe of literary agents. He wasn't
my
agent, or offering to become
my
agent. "Where is it? In a safe in your office? Upstairs in your private suite?"

"I beg your pardon?" His expression went blank, the ultimate poker face — an asset in the art of deal making, I realized, as well as for thwarting nosy PIs.

But I wasn't easily thwarted. I'd been shoved into traffic and shot at and I'd survived. My lucky streak might not last. I might be living on borrowed time. "We both know you broke into Lars' house and knocked out Bruce this morning when he caught you stealing the manuscript."

The only crack in his armor was a dent of a smile. "Lars told me you were an aspiring writer, Ms. Smart, and I can see you have an imagination, but you're letting it get the better of you. As I told Detective Maddox, I don't believe in violence or in breaking the law."

"And I don't believe you. I heard you threaten Bruce at the nightclub." Every instinct told me he had the purloined manuscript somewhere in this building, but he wasn't about to admit that, or hand it over, or better yet, let me search for it. I was fortunate to have found the synopsis. My thumb drive. Had he found that? Was it in his pocket even now? "You shouldn't have moved the laptop, this is a crime scene."

The police bustled in, and Carter pushed past me to greet them. I used the diversion to scramble around the desk. I squatted, eyes searching the debris on the floor for the thumb drive. Let it be here. But I couldn't see it. "Jack?"

Stone. I felt a new chill that had nothing to do with the wind and cold blowing through the broken window. How would I explain what I was doing under the desk... again? Would I be arrested? Visions of the non-fun, non-furry handcuffs filled my mind. I started to rise, then stopped as my gaze spied something red poking from beneath a chunk of glass. Not blood. The thumb drive.

I snatched it up, heart thudding, stomach knotted, and before standing upright again, I shoved it into my jeans pocket. "Jack, what are you doing?" Stone and one of the Bellevue cops were leaning over the desk, peering at me with curiosity and suspicion. "I told you to stay outside."

I rose, face red. I held up one of my gloves. "Dropped this in the melee."

Stone glowered, his expression said, "Like hell."

"These guys need to lock down the scene," Stone said, voice clipped. "And we need to meet them at the precinct to give statements."

I released a taut breath, silently thanking Stone for the second save of the night, knowing the green-eyed devil would later claim his due when he demanded the truth about what I'd actually lost under the desk.

Damn my nether regions for clenching with anticipation of that encounter.

I was evasive with the Bellevue police, keeping to myself my pet theory that the shooter was Frankie Steele. I doubted they'd accept an eavesdropped conversation as proof. Stone was the one to tell about Frankie and his sister Eve discussing my so-called "accident" as well as plotting my future demise. He would hunt them down and arrest them.

But Stone had taken off while I was still being questioned.

I stood just inside the exit doors, peering out into the rainy darkness, feeling like Lois Lane after a Superman rescue. He swept in for the save, all sexy and seductive, all hot muscles and heroism, then flew off into the night leaving me alone and vulnerable and cat screeching horny... only I didn't have Clark Kent to bitch to about it.

If Stone was called away, maybe he left a voice message. I checked my phone. Fourteen messages. My mom, Aunt Abby, Aunt Mamie, Sharkey, Apollo, Duke, Dinah Edger, all three of the Golden Oldies, and four mysterious hangups. Nothing from Stone. Fury stabbed me. This was why I'd sworn off men in general and Stone in particular. He needed from me what I couldn't give, and I needed from him what he wouldn't give.