Hot Target (31 page)

“Are you sure she’s . . .” She paused, then said tactfully, “You told me once that you seem to attract women who are, well . . . You used the word
freaks.
”

“No,” he said, laughing. “She’s not like that. What I meant was . . .” His phone was having trouble finding service. Cosmo moved a few feet to the left. Much better. “Most women are . . .” He searched for the right word. “Cautious around me. Sometimes it seems like the only women who, you know, try to, um, meet me have an issue or two or maybe a slightly nasty streak or . . . But Jane’s . . . You’d like her.”

Kelly didn’t seem convinced.

Cos tried again. “I can talk to her, Kel. I’ve . . . told her things I’ve never . . .” He shook his head.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He dialed Jane’s number again and it finally rang.

Out in the living room, the conversation had moved from bug sex to Angelina’s pictures from their trip.

Kelly pushed open the door and poked her head out of the kitchen. “I want to see them.”

“They’re in the car. Are you really sure . . . ?” Angelina said as—shit—Jane’s cell service bounced him over to her voice mail.

“Yes. Get ’em,” Kelly told her. “I’ll be right out.” She turned back to Cosmo, who was closing his phone. “No luck?”

He shook his head as the screen door screeched open and banged shut as Angelina went outside. “I already left a message. I don’t want to, you know, inundate her. Two messages inside a half hour . . . Look, I have to go,” he said again. “Before the pictures come back inside. Thanks for the pizza and, well . . .”

“The misguided matchmaking?” she finished for him, and the kitchen window shattered with a crash.

Gunshot!

Two of them, three . . .

Cosmo grabbed Kelly. What the
fuck
?

There was screaming, the screen door slapping, shouting—Murph’s voice,
“No!”
as he raced outside.

Four gunshots, five!

Tom’s voice: “Kelly!”

Cosmo already had her on the floor, careful of her pregnant girth, shielding her. “In the kitchen!” he shouted. “Kelly’s safe!”

Murphy was still screaming, “No!
No! Angelina!
”

“What happened?” Kelly said, her voice shaking. “Vinh. My God, is Vinh . . . Cosmo, where’s Tom?”

“We need an ambulance!” Tom roared, his voice coming from the front of the house. “Now! Cosmo!”

“Stay down,” Cos ordered Kelly. “Stay on the floor—do you understand?”

“For God’s sake, I’m a doctor. You have to let me help!” she shouted back at him, struggling to get free.

Sophia burst in, blood on her shirt, skidding on the broken glass. “Where’s the phone?”

She saw it before Cosmo did, nearly ripping it off the wall in her haste to dial 911. “Murph and Angelina have both been—” The operator must’ve picked up because she cut herself off. “We need an ambulance and the police,” he heard her say as he ran for the front door, and oh, Jesus God . . . “There’s been an attack, a shooting,” Sophia reported. “We have two people seriously wounded. You need to get here fast.”

“What was that?” Jane asked as she followed Pacific Coast Highway north. Explosions. A bunch of them, in a row.

“Gunshots,” Decker said. “Drive.
Drive!
”

He stomped on her foot, pressing it down on the gas pedal, and the car lurched forward.

Except then she saw Cosmo’s truck, parked near Murphy’s and . . .

She jammed on the brake with her left foot, because, oh God, oh dear God, Murphy was in the driveway, lying beside someone else. Tom was kneeling next to him, or had he fallen there? Had he been hit, too? She couldn’t tell. All she could see was blood. So much blood.

Please, God, don’t let that be Cosmo lying there with Murphy.

Jane threw the car into park and opened the door and ran toward them. “Cosmo!”

“What’s she doing here?” Tom was incredulous as he looked up at Jane.

But Cosmo wasn’t on the ground. He was coming out the door of the house, a hugely pregnant woman on his heels.

“Oh, Jesus God!” he said as he saw Jane, saw Murphy. “Get down!” he shouted at her. He spun to face the pregnant woman. “Get back in the house!”

Murphy was holding on to a woman. A woman whose long dark hair was matted with blood. Oh, God, oh,
God . . .
The woman was dead. How could she be anything but dead?

“Kelly, get down or get inside!” Tom roared, and the pregnant woman dropped to the ground, crawling toward him on her hands and knees.

Decker was several steps behind Jane, and he pulled her down to the pavement, shielding them with Murphy’s car.

Her knees were in a puddle of blood.

“I’m now certain,” Decker told her, “that the threat is real. Keep your head down!”

“Angelina,” Murphy gasped, blood flecking his lips.

“Sophia! Grab the first-aid kit from under the kitchen sink!” shouted the pregnant woman—Kelly—who was next to Tom. “Help me,” she ordered him.

“God damn it,” he said to her. “You’re pregnant.”

“What, you just noticed that?” she shot back at him. “I’m a doctor—I’m not going to sit inside and let them die.”

“Come on, man,” Cosmo said to Murphy. “You’ve got to let go of Angelina so we can help her.” He was down on his knees, fearlessly helping Tom and Kelly try to stop the bleeding. “Where’s that first aid kit?”

“Murph,” Tom said. “Did you see where the shooter was?”

“One,” Murphy whispered. He touched his watch.

“Ambulance is on its way.” A blond woman came out of the house carrying a plastic case—a first aid kit—that she gave to Tom as she ducked down behind the car, too. She was covered with blood. She had to be Sophia. God, had she been shot as well? “The emergency operator wants everyone inside as quickly as possible. Can we move them?”

“Are you hurt?” Decker asked. He was looking at Sophia.

“Shooter’s probably gone by now,” Cosmo said.

“What can I do?” Jane asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Stay down,” Cos barked at her.

Distant sirens. Approaching . . .

“Angelina . . .”

“She’s all right, Murph,” Cosmo said. “She’s hurt but she’s going to be all right. She’s strong—you know she’s strong.” He looked up, met Jane’s eyes briefly. “You’ve got a pretty nasty chest wound, man. You’ve got to lie still or you’re going to drown yourself.”

Oh, dear God . . .

“Sophia,” Decker said, grabbing the blonde’s arm and all but shaking her. “Are you hurt? Were you hit?”

She shook her head, no. Smiled tremulously. “Nice to see you, Deck. It’s been a while.”

Decker seemed to know Sophia quite well. Apparently everyone did. As Jane watched, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her, hard. But only for a second, because then he was over next to Tom and Cosmo, helping them.

The sirens were getting louder.

“What can I do?” Jane asked again.

“Get inside the house,” Tom ordered. “Sophia, get Mercedes inside. I need someone to update the emergency operator.”

Sophia grabbed Jane’s arm, pulled her to her feet, and hustled her toward the door. She was stronger than she looked.

“Keep her covered!” Cosmo shouted.

“Deck, when the ambulance arrives, I need you with me.” Jane could hear Tom’s voice, even from inside the house. “The shooter was positioned at about one o’clock, probably somewhere across the street.”

Sophia picked up the telephone, which was off the hook and dangling from the wall.

“We’ve got two multiple gunshots—the worst is a chest wound and a head wound,” Sophia told the operator. “The female looks bad. We can’t move her.”

“Oh, God, no,” Jane whispered.

From outside, Tom bellowed, “Did somebody call Jules Cassidy?”

At last. Something she could do. Jane got out her cell phone—which was beeping. She’d just received voice mail from Cosmo. She cleared the screen and dialed.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

Robin puked in the bushes alongside the Malibu beach house for the second time.

It was the bloodstains on the driveway that got to him.

Or maybe it was the two gin and tonics he’d chugged on an empty stomach.

After sucking face with his gay lover.

Okay, well, maybe that was an exaggeration. Jules had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in being part of what he called Robin’s science project. What he
was
interested in, Robin wasn’t sure.

After he’d run out of the hotel restaurant, Jules had chased him down to tell him that Vinh Murphy and his wife had been shot in an attack meant to kill Jane.

The drive up here to Malibu had been tense. Jules had spent most of it on the phone, thank God, talking to the local police, the local FBI, and even his boss, the magnificent Max Bhagat, who was back in D.C.

The reality of what had happened—someone had tried to kill his sister—didn’t hit until Robin saw the blood.

At which point he’d had an intimate conversation with the shrubbery.

He’d eventually gone inside to see Janey, but she was bustling around the beach house, cleaning up the broken glass and helping Kelly, Tom’s very pregnant wife, pack up her things. Some friends—a man who looked like his nose had been broken once a year starting when he was fourteen, and his much younger, much prettier wife—were helping, too. They were going to take Kelly back home to San Diego.

The vacation is definitely over when the dinner guests get gunned down in the driveway.

Robin had explored until he found the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a tall one, then leaned against the wall and watched for a while. Mrs. Broken Nose—her name was Teri—had quite the trim little body. Under normal circumstances, she was the type he would’ve made a play for—cute as hell and married to an ogre.

He’d spent some time mentally undressing her, but Mr. Broken Nose didn’t give him a second glance. The man was not worried by Robin’s obvious attention at all.

No doubt he’d picked up a huge gay vibe from him.

God.

Robin had gone back outside, where the sight of that blood on the driveway had sent him to the bushes for round two of tonight’s puke-a-thon.

Jules was standing with a group of men—police, members of Troubleshooters Incorporated, and other FBI agents. He was clearly in charge, but he glanced over as Robin came up for air, and he excused himself.

And came over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Robin told him, sitting on the steps that led into the house. He took a solid slug of whiskey to rinse his mouth, but it seemed such a waste to spit it out, so he swallowed.

“Easy there,” Jules said. “You sure that’s going to help?”

Robin was sure of nothing anymore. It was all he could do not to start crying.

Jules sighed and sat down next to him. “Maybe you should go back inside.”

And risk having Janey fold him up and pack him in one of the Paolettis’ suitcases? No thanks.

“How did this happen?” Robin asked, clinging to his glass. “How did this guy know Janey was going to be here?”

“He didn’t, sweetie.” Jules’ eyes were so sympathetic, so warm and kind. “Best we can figure, he followed Murphy when he left your house this morning, caught sight of Angelina, and followed them up here, thinking she was Jane. From a distance, someone could make that mistake.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Robin said. “Isn’t Angelina black?”

“She’s Latino,” Jules said. “She’s got slightly less olive in her skin tone than Jane. They really do look quite a lot alike.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Robin said. “I mean, just because they look alike . . .”

“Yeah,” Jules said.

“Is she going to die?” Robin asked. “Angelina?”

“She’s in surgery right now. She’s pretty badly hurt.”

“And Murphy?”

“Same,” Jules told him. “Although he doesn’t need brain surgery to pull through, so his chances are slightly better. Still . . .” He shook his head.

Robin couldn’t hold it back any longer. He put his head down and started to cry. That could’ve been Jane. As it was, Murphy and his wife . . . God, they’d just gotten married. Murphy had told Robin about Angelina. “My woman,” he’d called her. She did combination security and counseling at some kind of teen center. Murphy made her sound like a cross between Mother Teresa and Lara Croft. And now, because some nutjob didn’t like the movie he and Janey were making, she was having brain surgery.

“It’s times like this that being gay sucks,” Jules said quietly. “Because even if you wanted me to, I couldn’t put my arm around you. Not here, in a work situation.” He stood up, putting distance between them, as if, despite his words, he needed help resisting temptation. “I shouldn’t have brought you up here. That was a mistake. You didn’t need this on top of everything else. I’m really sorry, Robin.”

He started toward the other agents and officers.

“Jules.”

He stopped. Turned back.

“I don’t know what I want,” Robin admitted.

Jules gave him a tired smile. “I do,” he said. “For the first time in years, I know exactly what I want.”

As he turned and walked away, Robin could’ve sworn he heard him laugh and say, “Adam who?”

When Cosmo went inside the beach house, Jane was washing the dishes.

She was standing right in front of the kitchen window.

He grabbed her and pulled her into the other room, dripping soap bubbles across the floor as he asked from between gritted teeth, “Are you
out
of your fucking
mind
?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m just trying to help.”

“How?” he asked. “How does it help if you die now, too?”

“The curtains were closed!”

“They’re thin—you can see through them from the street.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

Cosmo pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “Christ, Jane, what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, clinging to him. “I’m such an idiot.” She started to cry. “When I drove up and saw Murphy, and I didn’t see you, and I thought . . .” She pulled away from him, wiping her face, her eyes, using sheer will to stop her tears. God damn, but the woman hated for anyone to see her cry. “Tell me you didn’t know Sophia was going to be here.”

Sophia? Holy God. “I didn’t,” Cos told her. “Is that really what you thought? That I was—”

“Are you really quitting?” she asked.

How the hell had she found that out? He had been planning to tell her tonight. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. Because it felt wrong to be paid to protect my, well, my girlfriend. If you don’t mind that label. I hope you don’t. I hope I’m not assuming too much. . . .”

She didn’t understand. “So instead, you’re just going to leave?”

“I was hoping you’d be okay with me moving in,” Cosmo explained. “Not into your room,” he quickly added. “Into your house. Into, you know, the room I’ve been using.”

“But I thought you needed the money.”

“Not as much as I need you to be safe.” He steeled himself against the new flood of tears in her eyes. “Jane, what were you thinking tonight? You shouldn’t have left your house. You should have waited for me to call you back. It was reckless and . . . stupid. I know you’re not stupid.”

“I didn’t think it was real,” she said, wiping her eyes before her tears could fall. “The threat. Not really. I didn’t . . . I wanted . . . I made sure there was a garage. You know. Here. So I wouldn’t have to walk outside.”

“It sure as hell looked like you were walking outside to me. Stupid thing number two—leaving the car when you knew there was a shooter in the area. Decker said he told you to drive but you stood on the brake. What the fuck? Excuse me, but—”

“I thought . . .” She turned away.

“It’s not just yourself you’re putting in danger when you don’t follow the instructions of the trained professionals who have been hired to keep you alive,” Cosmo said. She had to hear this. “You want to take a stroll down Rodeo Drive in broad daylight even though we tell you not to? Well, when you go ahead and do it anyway, we’re going to be right beside you. You won’t be the only one to die.”

She stood with her head down, arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He reached for her, putting his arms around her, but it was like hugging a stone statue. “This isn’t your fault,” he told her. “What happened tonight. You know that, right?”

She breathed a laugh of disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s not—”

“You know, I am stupid,” she said, stepping out of his arms. “I thought you weren’t calling me back because . . . I thought you were quitting and you were running off with Sophia. I thought you weren’t ever going to call me back.” She laughed. “God, I’m an idiot.”

Christ, she was serious. “Janey, how could you think, after last night, that I’d—”

“It was too perfect,” she said. “Nothing’s that perfect. Although God knows I try to be. . . .” Again she fought her tears and won. “Has Decker called from the hospital?”

“Just to say Angelina’s gone into surgery. They’re trying to stabilize Murphy a little bit more.”

“She looks like me.” Jane turned to look at Cosmo, anguish in her eyes. “You said it’s not my fault—”

“It isn’t.”

“—but he shot Angelina because he thought she was me, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” he told her. “That’s what we think.”

“At first I thought it was my fault because he’d somehow followed me,” she said, “but Tom told me he—the gunman—was in place, probably in the neighbor’s yard, before I even left Hollywood. That he must’ve followed Murphy. So okay, that’s good. Angelina and Murphy aren’t going to die because I was jealous and stupid, but . . . It’s still my fault.”

“It’s your fault that someone crazy picked up a gun and shot people? You can’t take responsibility for that.” Cosmo could see that she didn’t believe him.

She hugged herself again. “If Angelina dies . . .”

Cosmo reached for her. “Janey, it’s really okay if you cry.”

But it wasn’t, because Tommy Paoletti came in. “Excuse me. I’m sorry. . . .”

Jane pulled away from Cosmo, wiping her face. “Any news?”

“Not from the hospital, no,” Tom said. But Cosmo could tell there was something, and it wasn’t going to be good.

“We were right about the shooter,” Tom continued. “He was firing from that open window across the street. And you’re going to love this, Cos. We’ve got four different sightings of your mystery vehicle in this area this evening.”

“Oh, my God,” Jane said.

“The truck?” Cosmo asked.

“The Pontiac Catalina—a white wreck with a peeling black soft-top. It really stood out in this town.”

That didn’t make sense. After thinking about it pretty much nonstop for days, Cosmo had recently become convinced that the truck was the vehicle they should be looking for.

“One woman reported seeing it parked on her street, about a quarter mile from here, during the time of the shooting,” Tom told them. “She was keeping an eye on it—if it was still there in the morning, she intended to call the police.”

“Anyone get plates?” Cosmo asked.

“No. And no one could give a description of the driver, either.” He looked at Jane, and Cosmo could tell from the expression on his face that there was more news, but Tommy was pretty sure Jane wasn’t going to like it.

“Whatever it is, sir,” Cosmo told his former CO, “she needs to know.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Jane, the shooter left behind a note. He’s our e-mailer.”

“Oh, fuck,” she breathed. “You mean, Mr. Insane-o?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “He was in the house across the street—he fired from a second-story bedroom window. A rifle shell casing was left in the room. On top of the note. I suspect ballistics is going to prove that both the bullets and that casing came from the Chertok murder weapon.”

Oh, fuck, indeed.

“The note was an e-mail,” Tom said. “You know, printed from a computer with an e-mail heading? It was sent to Jane’s e-mail address, from our guy’s Hotmail account. Today’s date. Subject line said, ‘Remember me?’ ”

And the e-mail itself? Cosmo took Jane’s hand, and she clung to him.

Tom didn’t look happy. “The message said, ‘Oops, thought it was you.’ ”

“What?” Jane was horrified.

She wasn’t the only one.

“He’s saying, what? That he knew it wasn’t me?” she continued. “That’s what that means—oops? That it wasn’t mistaken identity, that he shot Angelina—that he planned to shoot Angelina—as part of his sick game? I mean, he had to plan it—he’d printed that e-mail out in advance, right?” She looked from Tom to Cosmo, as if imploring them to tell her she was wrong.

But she wasn’t. “There’s more,” Tom said grimly. “This is both good news and bad news. He didn’t just print it out, he sent it, too. You received an electronic copy as well. And he made sure—like with the e-mail sent from that Kinkos—that we could trace the origin computer.

“To where?” Cosmo asked.

“It was sent from the
American Hero
offices at the soundstage,” Tom told them, “at HeartBeat Studios.”

What?

“When?” Jane asked. “Today? We had only a few people over there today.”

“It
was
sent today,” Tom said, “but it was programmed—scheduled to be sent—like in some kind of flash session. The sender didn’t need to be present. In fact, we’re pretty sure he wasn’t.”

“But he definitely gained access to the studio,” Cosmo said. “Right? At some point? Which means he had to come through the main gate—get checked in.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “But we have no idea when. The FBI’s compiling a list from HeartBeat, but over the past couple weeks, thousands of people went through that gate.”

“If he was at the studio . . .” Jane was terribly upset. “Why didn’t he just kill me there?”

“No escape route,” Cos said.

“Because he wouldn’t have been able to get away,” Tom clarified. “And because he really seems to like playing games.”

“Shooting Angelina and Murphy is a
game
?” Jane pulled away from Cosmo. She walked out of the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. God forbid she cry in public.