Hot Target (9 page)

He’d advised against having a press conference today, period, let alone holding it anywhere but indoors. But apparently bringing the reporters inside would disrupt the movie’s shooting schedule. And, also apparently, keeping to the schedule, as well as promoting this movie, were more important than a lot of things. Such as remaining not dead.

He’d urged Mercedes to give them more time to set this up. With a little advance notice, they could have done this in a way that guaranteed her safety. They could have requested a list of names of attending reporters from the various news agencies, run a security check on the individuals, set up metal detectors, searched all the equipment being brought in to a safe, secure, locked-down location . . .

She’d laughed and laughed. A list of names? For a press conference? Apparently the idea wasn’t just to catch the news editors’ attention with a fresh, different story, but to make it as easy and enticing as possible for the reporters to attend—not time-consuming and difficult. Because, gee, that lighthearted story about the baboon and the llama that appeared to have fallen in love over on the set of
Doctor Dolittle Part Seventeen
would suddenly seem pretty interesting, especially since it wouldn’t take four hours of equipment searches to gather enough footage for a fifteen-second sound bite on the evening news.

Did Decker know how many movies were in production in this town right this very minute, all sending out press releases? Mercedes had asked him. Did he have a clue exactly how many production companies were vying for the media’s attention, dying to create some early buzz about their project?

Apparently he did not.

They’d come to a compromise by erecting a tent just outside the studio door.

It was not the best setup, but it wasn’t the worst, either. They’d be surrounded on three sides by the big, warehouselike windowless soundstages, and by a narrow parking lot on the fourth. With the tent overhead and several team members stationed on the roof, there was virtually no threat from a sniper. As for short-range attacks, everyone on the studio lot had to pass through the main gate and get checked in.

It didn’t mean an assault couldn’t happen. But it was far less likely.

“Sunglasses on,” Decker told his team. “If you get asked a question by a reporter—any question at all, including, ‘Is the sky blue?’—your answer is ‘No comment.’ Is that understood?”

He waited for a murmured acknowledgment from them all before he continued. “Radio-up, but let’s keep the on-air chatter to an absolute minimum.”

“Jesus,” Dave said, his voice filled with wonder.

He was staring across the cavernous room, and Decker turned to see what had captured his attention so completely.

Mercedes Chadwick was walking toward them like a queen with her entourage behind her. The blond college girl with the clipboard trailed behind FBI agent Jules Cassidy, who followed Bailey and Nash, the last two members of the Troubleshooters team to arrive. Good. They were all here. They could get this over with.

“Jesus,” Dave said again, his glasses all but fogging up. “Is that . . . ?”

Ah, yes, Dave hadn’t yet met the client.

“That’s her,” Decker said.

She was crossing the enormous soundstage, with her miles of legs and her shiny, bouncing brown hair down loose around her shoulders in artful disarray.

Lips fully glossed, makeup applied to feature her exotic eyes and perfect, smooth skin, Mercedes was dressed in an updated version of the pin-striped suits Decker’s great-uncle used to wear when he worked at the bank, but in place of trousers, she wore a skirt. At least he thought it was a skirt. It may have been a headband.

Her jacket was tailored to accentuate her very female form. Although it covered her belly button ring, it was held together in front by a single button set nearly at her waist, giving the jacket a deep V neckline.

Unlike Uncle Lloyd, Mercedes Chadwick was not wearing a crisply starched white shirt beneath her jacket. In fact, as far as Decker could tell, she was not wearing anything beneath her jacket at all.

Decker knew it was impossible for someone to move in classic movie slo-mo, but somehow this woman managed to imitate the effect. Not only that, but there was a nearly palpable wake of pheromones trailing behind her.

Beside him, Dave had managed to close his mouth.

The entire team had fallen silent as they’d put on their radios—miniature earpieces and tiny wireless microphones that attached to their shirts. There was none of the usual chatter or even “Testing one-two-three.” For several brief moments, Decker could have sworn that Cosmo, one of the quietest and the least likely of all the men that he’d ever met to break into song, was actually humming a vaguely familiar melody under his breath. Was it that old Sly tune, “Dance to the Music”?

“Wow,” whispered Lindsey, who hadn’t met Mercedes yet, either. “She’s tall.”

Yeah, right. They were all standing there marveling at the woman’s impressive height.

“Deck, hi!” Mercedes said in her musical voice. She could do sincere really well. So many other Hollywood types pushed too hard, overacted, and ended up fawning. She sounded genuinely pleased to see him. “Thanks so much—all of you—for coming out here this afternoon.”

She held out her hand, and Decker shook it, and then he
was
marveling at her height, because she was towering over him. She hadn’t been this tall yesterday, had she?

Decker shook Cassidy’s hand, too, then introduced them both to Dave and Lindsey. He started in on the names of the rest of the team, but Mercedes cut him off. She remembered everyone without any prompting, making a point to shake their hands.

Each time she leaned forward, her jacket was on the verge of gapping. If she leaned just a little farther . . . Nope, not quite.

It was totally inappropriate and absolutely riveting, and Decker realized that that was the movie producer’s intention. Her outfit, including her fourinch heels—height mystery solved—was designed to draw and hold attention. No doubt she knew exactly how far—to the millimeter—she could move before exposing herself to the world. She wasn’t going to let that happen, but most people wouldn’t realize it, and all eyes would remain on her, waiting, hoping . . .

He had to admire her for her understanding of human nature—as well as her ability to manipulate the system to her advantage. It didn’t make him any less annoyed about the press conference, but it did drive home the differences between the two worlds in which they were used to operating.

“You weren’t able to talk her out of this, either, huh?”

Deck turned to see that Jules Cassidy, the agent in charge of the FBI’s investigation—the gay AIC; how had
that
happened?—had come to stand beside him. “No.”

“I don’t think it’s likely there’ll be trouble,” Cassidy said, his gaze on Mercedes, too. He glanced at Deck. “Do you want to field any questions about security procedures, or should I?”

“You can,” Deck told him, “as long as your answer is ‘No fucking comment.’ ”

Cassidy smiled. “I’ll be a little more diplomatic, but, yeah, that’ll be the gist of it.”

“Then be my guest,” Deck said.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Chief?” Cassidy asked—just whammo, balls out, point-blank—and no doubt calling Deck by his former military rank on purpose.

“Yes, but I’ll get over it,” Decker told him, because, yeah, as uncomfortable as he was with the idea of . . . Jesus . . . he’d liked what he’d seen of the guy’s easygoing leadership skills so far. And how many times had he worked with an FBI agent who actually listened to outside input the way Cassidy did?

The expression that flashed over the other man’s face made Deck realize that the honest answer he’d given was not one Cassidy heard all that often.

“Good,” Cassidy said with a nod. “Excuse me.” He turned away to take a phone call. He didn’t thank Decker for giving him the respect that should have been his by right.

Which made Deck like him even more.

He turned away from Cassidy and back to Mercedes, who had ended up next to Cosmo. As Deck watched, she smiled up at the SEAL, leaning close as she clasped his hand and asked with what sounded like warm sincerity, “How’s your mom?”

Cos, whose resting heart rate probably clocked in at about 22, gazed back at her expressionlessly as she added, “I was talking to Tess today and she said your mother broke her wrists—both of them? My God . . .”

He finally nodded. “Yeah,” he said, providing no further details as he took back his hand. It was pretty obvious that he didn’t think her worthy of the effort required to have a full conversation. “She’s improving, thanks.”

But Mercedes didn’t seem to notice. “I’m so glad.” She turned to look at Decker. “Are we ready to go?” But then she turned back to Cos. “You’ll be close to me, right? When we go out there?”

Deck stepped forward and answered for him. “Actually, out of all of us, Richter is best positioned toward the back.” The SEAL was on leave, and the Navy really couldn’t tell him what to do on vacation, but Team Sixteen had a new commanding officer. Deck knew from experience that the last thing Cosmo would want was to piss off the top brass by appearing in a picture on the front of
USA Today.

“Oh.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “We can’t cancel this, and we can’t move it inside, so don’t suggest it, but . . . I’m really nervous. I didn’t think I would be, and . . .”

On the other hand, in any pictures taken, even if he was in the front, Cosmo would be one of a group. With his sunglasses on, he’d be unidentifiable.

“I know this sounds crazy,” Mercedes said, “but . . .”

It wasn’t crazy at all. When it came to protecting someone who’d received a death threat, there were all kinds of psychological elements in play. It was important to remember that the person being protected had been thrust into a strange, new, extremely dangerous and frightening world. They coped with that in a myriad of ways, some of which could seem irrational or even nonsensical.

Deck’s policy was to do whatever was possible to lower stress levels for the client. If she honestly felt better with Cosmo by her side . . . He looked at Cos, who shrugged.

“No one’s going to be looking at me,” he said.

And wasn’t that the truth. All eyes were going to be on J. Mercedes Chadwick. “Okay,” Deck said, then nodded at his team. “Let’s do it.”

The SEALs had a word for a situation gone out of control.

Goatfuck.

Although, in this case, Cosmo was pretty sure this entire press conference had been choreographed by J. Mercedes Chadwick. She’d played them.
I’m really nervous. . . . I know this sounds crazy. . . .

She knew exactly what she was doing. She was totally in control. On her way up the stairs to the platform, she’d asked, “Do you have a girlfriend, Chief?”

“No, ma’am,” he’d told her curtly, not that it was any of her business.

“You do now,” she leaned in close to say as they stepped onto the makeshift stage, and the camera lights blazed like the surface of the sun, flashbulbs exploding.

But the dance wasn’t done. She caught a heel on something. Or at least she pretended to. Cosmo moved instinctively, reaching out to keep her from falling, and then there he was, holding her tightly, with her arms up around his neck, and damned if he hadn’t completely walked into that one, like a fucking puppet on a string.

Flashbulbs continued to go off, particularly when her lips brushed his cheek—she freaking kissed him for the cameras. “You saved me,” she said loudly enough for the reporters to hear. “However can I repay you? Hmmm, I bet we’ll think of something.”

The crowd laughed, and even as they approached the podium, even as Mercedes smiled and stepped up to the array of microphones, Cos could see that a large portion of those lenses remained aimed at him.

Decker pulled him into the back, but it was too late.

At the podium, Mercedes was saying something about Troubleshooters Incorporated, making it sound as if she were partying around the clock with her own private squad of men who were half James Bond, half Chippendale dancer, which absolutely put the icing on the cake.

Yeah, she’d planned for this to happen.

And he was the goat who was getting fucked.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Jules was feeling the brunt of his jet lag when he pulled into the hotel parking garage.

The sun had gone down hours ago, and several of the bulbs were out overhead, making it darker and far more shadowy in there than it had to be. Or maybe the bulbs weren’t out. Maybe they’d been unscrewed. Maybe the kid who’d tried to mug him wasn’t the only one who used this garage as a crime scene of choice.

Although if someone dared to hassle him now, when he was tired and hungry and, okay, yeah, a little depressed about being in L.A. all by himself, partnerless in every sense of the word, they were really going to regret it.

Jules got out of his car, grabbing his jacket and his briefcase from the passenger seat, but before he even turned around, he was aware that someone was behind him—someone who had been sitting on the front hood of a car over in the corner of the dimly lit garage.

The local police had advised him to find another hotel. Apparently they were currently having an increase in hate crimes against gays in this West Hollywood neighborhood—an ongoing backlash from the marriage issue. It was kind of funny, actually, the idea that a love strong enough to create a desire for a deep, permanent, legally binding commitment between two people could get other people riled up enough to injure, damage, or even kill.

Usually in the name of God.

Jules shifted his things to his other hand as he reached for his sidearm, flicking open the snap that secured it in his shoulder holster.

Shoulder holster. He was wearing a fricking shoulder holster, the bands black against his blue shirt, surely visible even in this dim light. It was possible that whoever was about to try to mug him was the dumbest perp in the history of criminal intent.

He kept his weapon holstered while he turned, but the grip was solidly against his palm.

“Whoa! Easy there, J. Edgar!” Adam stood in front of him, hands slightly raised. “I thought you might not be too happy to see me, but come on. . . .”

Adam stood in front of him.

Adam.

Who’d lived in their apartment with his new boyfriend while Jules was out of the country. Who’d packed up and moved out with the famous last words, “You know, J., you’ve really got to learn to lighten up.”

Adam, who’d said that he’d loved Jules, but apparently hadn’t loved him enough.

“What are you doing here?” Jules asked. God, Adam looked good. Healthy, like he’d been working out and eating something other than his usual junk food crap. His dark hair was longer than it used to be and it made him look younger than his twenty-seven years—no doubt a calculated move for an actor looking for work. He was dressed in faded jeans and an expensive leather jacket worn open over a white T-shirt, his trademark biker boots on his feet.

Of course. Some things never changed.

“I saw you on the news, figured you’d be staying here,” Adam said with a shrug and a smile.

They’d always stayed at the Stonewall when they came out to L.A., a hotel where the garage had an elevator, accessible by key card, that went directly to the room levels, bypassing the main lobby.

Adam knew quite well that if he wanted to catch Jules, he’d have to wait for him here, in the garage.

“That wasn’t very smart,” Jules informed him as he snapped his weapon back down. “How long have you been sitting in here? Hours?”

“Yeah, well, I know it probably looks creepy, like Adam the Stalker, but I wanted to see you and I had some lines to memorize. I’m auditioning for this play—”

Jules slipped his arms into his jacket, adjusted his tie. “I was mugged in this garage yesterday.”

Adam took a step toward him. “Oh, my God, are you all right?”

Jules took a step back. “Yes. Why are you here? What do you need?”

“Wow, J., that’s harsh.”

“What. Do you need?”

“Fuck you, I wanted to see you. It’s been years, and . . . Jesus, you’re an unforgiving fuck.”

Jules, unforgiving fuck that he was, just stood there.

“I thought we could have, I don’t know, dinner,” Adam continued. “You do still eat, don’t you? I mean, everyone has to—”

“I’m tired. I’m going to have something in my room.”

Mercurial as always, Adam slid easily from angry to mocking to seductive. He smiled, quirked an eyebrow. “Well, hey, that works for me.”

“Does it work for Branford?” Jules asked, but quickly cut himself off. Shit. Bringing Adam’s current live-in into this would only serve to make him sound jealous and petty. Which would stoke Adam’s already inflamed ego. “Look, I’m sorry—I’m tired. It was . . . interesting to see you, but I really have to—”

“I’m not with Bran anymore,” Adam told him. “I haven’t been for about eight months.”

And there it was. The reason Adam was here. He’d come back to try to mess around some more inside Jules’ head. And while Adam was extremely talented when it came to creative sex, it was the mindfuck in which he truly excelled.

He knew that Jules had rules about certain things, that he refused to hook up with people who were in so-called relationships, as open as they might claim them to be. He knew Jules wouldn’t so much as have dinner with him if he weren’t single.

Except that wasn’t what he’d said, was it? He’d merely said he wasn’t with Branford.

“So who are you with?” Jules asked.

“Right now?” Adam shook his head. “No one.”

“You’ve been alone for eight months?” His skepticism echoed off the garage walls and low concrete ceiling.

“Of course not.” Adam laughed. “After Bran, I bounced for a while. Why? You want a list?”

Jules just looked at him.

Adam was single, Adam was single, Adam was single . . .

And Jules would be the biggest fool in the universe to think that anything they started tonight would end any differently than it ever had in the past.

“I’ve changed, you know,” Adam said quietly, capable, as always, of reading Jules’ mind.

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Your hair’s longer.”

Adam laughed again. “That’s not what I meant, J.”

“I know what you meant,
A.,
” he said, mocking Adam’s habit of using cute nicknames as terms of endearment.

Adam looked away, perhaps actually remorseful. “Sorry. I just . . . I’m sorry.”

Jules sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, too. I’m tired—”

Just like with a wild animal, with Adam it was dangerous to show any sign of weakness, of softening. Remorse morphed into a fresh assault. “But you’ve got to have dinner.” Adam took a step forward.

Jules took a step back.

“Come on, can’t I even have a hug?” Adam asked. “I mean, we were together for two years. Surely I rate at least a friendly hug.”

“I can’t do this,” Jules said, but as Adam stepped toward him again, he didn’t move.

And then Adam’s arms were around him. God, oh God, it was as awful as it was wonderful and he dropped his briefcase and held on to Adam tightly, wishing to Jesus that his memory could be selective and he could forget about all the terrible times, about the anger and the jealousy and the bitter frustration of knowing that no matter what he did or said, Adam was never going to change.

“God, J.,” Adam whispered, “you smell exactly the same.”

“You don’t,” Jules said, turning his head to avoid Adam’s mouth, getting a kiss on his ear instead.

“Yeah, well . . .” Adam let him go and stepped back.

Was it possible that Adam was as shaken as he was by something as simple as a fully clothed embrace?

“I’ve changed, remember?” Adam continued, trying to turn it into a joke. “Look, let’s just ignore the fact that we’re both single again and go out and get something to eat.”

It was Adam’s thoughtless assumption that bolstered Jules’ resolve to keep his distance. True as it was, it was still goddamn arrogant of the prick. “You’re so sure I’m still single?”

Adam blinked, but then laughed. “If you’re not, where is he? Upstairs? And if he is, why are you still down here, talking to me?”

“Maybe he’s back home in D.C. Maybe he’s got a real job.”

“Bravo,” Adam said. “A direct hit.”

“Or maybe I just met him a few days ago,” Jules lied as he bent to pick up his briefcase, as he brushed it off. “Maybe I’m at that place where I’m starting something new, and it’s magic, and the last thing I want to do is risk that by—”

“Maybe you’re full of shit.”

Jules nodded. “Yeah, maybe I am. But here’s something that’s not a maybe: You’re not coming up to my room tonight. If that’s why you’re here, you should just leave right now.” His delivery was good. He almost believed it himself.

“I’m here to have dinner,” Adam said again. “To catch up.” He cranked up the sincere. “I care about you, G-man. I have no idea what’s going on in your life. Suddenly you’re this high-profile FBI guy all over my TV and . . . I want to hear about it. That’s all this is.”

Yeah, right.

“That Indian place right down the street is still open. Remember how much you loved their malai kofta and chicken vindaloo?” Adam continued. “Or if you want, we could go somewhere else. There’s this new House of Thai—it just opened, about two blocks over. I’ve been wanting to try it for a while.”

“I’m tired,” Jules said for the umpteenth time. He was truly exhausted, physically from the jet lag. And now he was emotionally drained as well, goddamn it.

“Let’s go with Indian,” Adam decided.

Maybe his being so tired was why he quit fighting and let Adam pull him out of the garage and onto the sidewalk.

Or maybe it was because it had been too damn long since he’d had decent chicken vindaloo.

Robin had to call Patty.

It was after eleven o’clock. Somehow eight o’clock had come and gone without his noticing, and now he was over three hours late for their rendezvous at her apartment.

Three was the night’s magic number.

It took him three tries to get the coin into the pay phone slot, another three tries to dial.

Only to find that he needed three dollars and eighty cents in coins to complete his call.

Not to mention the fact that the band had started playing and he couldn’t hear a thing.

He staggered outside to the phone in the parking lot, only to find he’d lost his quarter.

He dialed anyway, calling collect. Patty, his angel, wouldn’t mind.

She accepted the call, of course. “Robin, are you all right?”

“Hey, baby,” he said. “I owe you a . . .” He struggled to find the word. To pronounce it. “Apology.”

“Where are you?” she asked. “Why aren’t you using your cell phone?”

“I lost it,” he reported, as the world tilted and he had to cling to the privacy shield around the phone to keep from losing his balance as well. “I think I lost my wallet, too. And my backpack. Shit, my script’s in there, with all my notes. . . .” He shook himself. “Look, babe, I can’t come over. Cuz we’ll have sex and then Janey’ll be all mad at me. See, I knew if I came to your place, even just to tell you that we can’t have sex, I wouldn’t be able to resist because I’m so fucking in love with you—”

“Oh, Robin,” she said, her heart in her voice, which made tears spring into his eyes.

“So I came out here and got faced because I knew if I did, Carmin would take my car keys away from me and then I wouldn’t be able to get over to your place, only I forgot to call you to tell you that I wasn’t coming, but that’s a lie because I knew if I called you to tell you I wasn’t coming before I was faced, you’d talk me into it because I just cannot resist—”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“—you. I cannot. Cannot. See, even just talking to you now makes me want to drive over to see you because I—”

“No!” Patty shouted through the phone. He had to pull the receiver away from his ear, she was so loud. “Don’t you dare drive anywhere!” he heard her say, her voice tiny but clear through the telephone speaker.

“Well, I won’t cuz I can’t, baby,” Robin told her. “Carmin has my keys.” Whoa, shit, hey there, maybe Carmin had his wallet and his phone. His backpack, too. Wouldn’t that be cool?

“Thank God for Carmin, whoever he is,” she said. “Robin. Tell me. Where are you?”

“The Tropicana,” he confessed, knowing she was going to come pick him up, knowing he was going to end up doing exactly what he’d tried so hard to avoid, knowing he was exactly the fuckup Janey thought him to be, but unable to do a goddamn thing about it.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Stay there, okay? I’m on my way.”

Robin hung up the phone and lost his balance, sliding down to sit on the asphalt with his back against the concrete block building. A skinny man with a barbed-wire tattoo and cigarette with the world’s longest ash on the end came over to use the phone.

“I tried,” Robin told him. “I really, truly tried . . .”

Jane was still awake when the personal security team made a shift change.

She was still writing that blasted dream sequence, books and personal accounts of the Normandy invasion out and open on her bed, filmed footage on DVD from the History Channel playing silently on her TV.

She heard a car drive up, heard the front door open, heard PJ talking to whoever had come to replace him in the hallway outside her rooms.

It was supposed to be Cosmo Richter.

Jane was more than half hoping that this afternoon’s circus in the media tent had been the last straw for him—that he’d request reassignment or at least demand to be placed on out-of-doors guard duty and thus avoid all future contact with her.

But now she definitely heard his voice, and she knew that even if he was leaving, he’d come here one more time to administer a verbal ass-kicking.

She’d taken it too far today, no doubt about that. Decker had been angry, too. But oh, God, every news program in the country had carried a clip of her press conference, most of them in a “lighter side” type segment, with a headline that played with the words
body
and
guard.
She’d even seen a brief story on CNN, and they hadn’t even had a camera there.

That kind of national publicity was worth just about anything.

So what if Cosmo Richter hated her now and was here tonight to tell her that to her face. Big deal. He’d disliked her from the moment he’d first walked into her house, smug, superior bastard that he was.