One Hot Target

by Diane Pershing

  “And I told you I do.”

  This was not the first time they’d had this particular exchange and probably wouldn’t be the last. Carmen folded her arms across her chest and stood her ground.

  Narrowing her gaze, Shannon seemed to study her sister before shrugging, as though giving up on a hopeless cause. “Fine. Whatever.”

  Carmen didn’t like being dismissed so cavalierly and was about to say so when the sound of the outside door jingling announced that they had a visitor. Shannon walked briskly out of her office; Carmen followed.

  A young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or -three stood in the reception area with two nursery-school-aged children. Her face was badly bruised; one eye was swollen shut and her upper lip was red and puffy.

  Lupe smiled at her. “May I help you?”

  The woman seemed both shy and scared. “I was told that, um, I mean, my friend said…”

  Shannon walked over to her and held out her hand. “Shannon Coyle,” she said with a welcoming smile, shaking the young woman’s hand. “I’m a lawyer and your friend was right. What can we do for you?”

  Lupe piped up. “Shannon, we need paperwork filled out first.”

  Shannon waved her away. “We’ll do all that later. Why don’t you and your kids come into my office,” she said to the woman, “and tell me all about it.”

  Lupe opened her desk drawer and took out a tin, then followed them into the office. “How would you children like some freshly baked cookies?”

  After the door closed behind them, Carmen stood there staring at it, feeling abandoned, for some stupid reason. All kinds of thoughts and emotions roiled around inside her. Anger at whomever had beaten up the poor young mother. Admiration for Shannon…and just a tinge of envy, which she’d had all her life, it seemed. Naturally warm and smart as could be, with all that legal education, her sister had always been at the top of her class.

  Carmen admired Lupe, too—she was hardworking and determined. The daughter of immigrants, she’d saved her money and owned real estate. She gave her time to help others, always had cookies for the kids and was good with paperwork.

  Who was Carmen? And what did she have to recommend her? A high school education, never even near the top of her class. No real purpose in life, no goals to work toward. She was impulsive, had always had trouble staying with anything for long, had a terrible history with men, was too trusting, was always needing to be bailed out of stupid situations she’d gotten herself into. She had no savings, not even a car.

  Granted, the list was one-sided. She did have some positive qualities, a talent or two. But they were minor. The fact was her life so far had not exactly been admirable. This was not a pretty picture, and it was rare that she forced herself to look at it. JR’s lecture had been the catalyst.

  Speaking of JR…

  When Carmen thought of Shannon’s declaration, she actually laughed. JR in love with her? Nonsense. She’d never heard a more absurd statement in her life.

  She was sitting in the bleachers watching JR train for a marathon race by doing laps. It was a beautiful, warm day, with lots of overhead sunshine and not a cloud in sight. JR was dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt; his long, tan, muscled legs and arms were all shiny with perspiration, and as he passed her, he glanced over at her with a grin.

  Then, as though suddenly remembering something, he stopped running and turned to face her. Hands on hips, his posture all male confidence and pride, he gazed at her, his expression serious now…and really hot. Look at me, it said. Look at what you could have. And she found her gaze wandering from the top of his hair, all mussed and sexy from his workout, over the chiseled bones of his face, glowing and slick with sweat, down past his neck and his soaked T-shirt to the area just below the waistband of his shorts.

  As her gaze came to rest there, on the nicely rounded bulge between his legs, he grinned again, a sly, knowing grin. Check it out, babe, he said. It’s yours if you want it.

  Only now he wasn’t JR. He was Tio.

  And the look on his face wasn’t sly or sexy, it was crude and arrogant.

  The sun disappeared behind a huge, gray cloud, and all the joy went out of the day. Tio left the track, coming toward her, kicking over some sports equipment as he did, making way too much noise. Everyone in the stands was looking at her and she hated it. Tio kept coming, kept kicking all kinds of things as he did—saw horses and punching bags and huge, metal storage bins. A dog growled, then began to bark, a high-pitched, truly annoying and truly terrifying bark. And over that was another sound. Someone knocking. Knocking. Knocking…

  Carmen sat up in bed, her heart racing. What? Where was she?

  “Carmen!” The voice came from outside her front door. It was a woman’s voice, and the dog kept barking. Bonzo was the dog’s name and it was Gidget who was calling her.

  Scrambling out of bed, Carmen checked to make sure she was wearing something, which she was. Most nights she slept nude, but tonight she had on an old pair of pajamas because the weather had turned cold. She ran across the floor to the front door, calling out, “Gidget? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  Flicking the switch for the outdoor porch light, Carmen opened the door to see the tiny, wrinkled, white-haired, homeless woman whom she considered her friend looking at her with grave concern. A shaggy brown mutt stood by her side, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

  “I’m fine,” Carmen said. “Hey, Bonzo. Come on in, both of you.”

  Always, Carmen asked, but always, Gidget refused; she was one of those people who couldn’t tolerate being inside four walls. Her shopping cart and the oversize cardboard box she called home were situated in the narrow alleyway that ran from the front door of Carmen’s one-room cottage to the street.

  “Nah,” Gidget said, pulling the thick Native American blanket she usually wore tightly around her shoulders. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Hugging herself against the chill, Carmen looked down the alleyway, dimly lit by the yellow porch light. “What was all that noise?”

  “Someone was tryin’ to break in to your place. Didn’t you hear ’em?”

  For the first time since opening her eyes, Carmen came fully awake. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone, a stranger, couldn’t see the face, was at your door, sniffin’ around your windows. Good thing Bonzo woke up, scared him off.” The elderly woman chuckled. “’Bout killed himself trippin’ over the garbage cans.”

  The shiver that went all through her had nothing to do with the cold. “Did you see who it was? Are you sure it was a man?”

  Gidget shrugged. “Couldn’t tell. They wore black, had a baseball cap on, is all. Bonzo saw ’em, but dogs can’t talk, now can they?”

  Black. Baseball cap. No. She really didn’t want to hear that.

  Carmen bent over and stroked the dog’s soft head. “Thanks, Bonzo. I really appreciate it.”

  The shaggy brown mutt gave her a doggy grin.

  Gidget backed off the porch. “You go back to bed now,” she said.

  “Can I get you a glass of water? Some crackers?”

  “We’re fine,” the woman said, turning around and walking away, the dog following right behind.

  “Thanks again, Gidget,” Carmen called after her before closing the door and double-locking it. Then she ran around the room, turning on every light in the place before heading into the small kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  The dream came back to her. It had been about JR, of all people. Because Shannon had put a ridiculous idea into her head. And then JR had turned into Tio.

  And a black-clad figure wearing a baseball cap had tried to break in.

  All of which didn’t have to mean a thing, she told herself. And she needed to stop shaking. Tea. The reason she was standing in the kitchen. Hot tea would help. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove.

  Hugging herself, she wandered out of the kit
chen and gazed around the room, taking in the mixture of family hand-me-downs and thrift-store rescues, throw rugs, pillows of varying fabrics and colors, many of which she’d made or embroidered herself, piles of CDs on the floor, some artwork by friends on the walls. Her little nest, her own little tiny, ramshackle house with its postage-stamp-size rear garden in the not-so-nice part of Venice, fifteen blocks from the ocean. She loved it here.

  And someone had tried to invade it. Someone dressed in black.

  Another involuntary shiver took hold of her body.

  Carmen had always felt safe here. No more—that feeling was gone. Without thinking, she tore off her pajamas and put on a pair of sweats and old tennies, hunted down her purse and felt around in her purse for her car keys. She needed to get out of here, take a drive, go somewhere other than here, where she didn’t feel safe.

  And then she remembered. She had no car.

  The sound of the whistling teakettle made her jump.

  Her heart was beating way too quickly. She was terrified. Scared to death.

  And she had no idea what to do about it.

  Chapter 3

  JR glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen in the morning. He’d been at work since seven, catching up, and would have to leave for the Venice storefront in a few minutes. But before he did, he wanted to check in on Carmen, see how she was doing. After he punched in her home number, he let it ring several times, but when the answering machine switched on, he didn’t leave word. Instead, he called her cell phone.

  She answered right away. “Hi, JR.”

  “How are you doing, Carm?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “You know…”

  She was not okay, he could hear it in her voice, in her lack of energy. Carmen was, by nature, pretty upbeat. Even if things weren’t going well, she usually tried to act as if everything was just fine. That she wasn’t even making an effort today meant it was bad.

  It was going to take her a while to get over witnessing a murder.

  “Hey, Carm,” he said, more quietly now, “Monday was a rough day. I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thanks.”

  He waited for more than “thanks.” But there was nothing. No “Oh, JR. I’m so sad and I need a friend.” No suggestion he come over tonight for pasta, or that they take a stroll together on the Venice boardwalk so she could shake the blues, or head down to Hermosa Beach to catch some jazz or any of the myriad ways they’d socialized over the years, cheering each other up in down times, celebrating in up times.

  Not today. Just…nothing.

  He kept his tone casual as he said, “So, what’s on the agenda?”

  “I’m about to get on a bus.”

  He could practically see her shrugging listlessly. Again, he waited for an explanation, but she remained silent. This was troubling; there was never silence between them, never. Sure, Carmen usually did most of the talking and he the listening, but it worked well for them that way. Not now. Was she mad at him? Was it because he’d given her grief about selling her car? Yes, he knew it was her business how she got around town and not his. Although, he also knew he was right—she’d just made getting a job, navigating the sprawl that was Los Angeles and its environs, much, much harder.

  Dial it back, he told himself. He was doing it again, thinking of Carmen in a protective way. Paternal, even. Filled with advice. She wasn’t his child, his job or his responsibility.

  He glanced out the window of his office. He wasn’t senior enough to have a corner with an ocean view, but at least there were mountains to gaze at, the ones beyond the buildings. And sky, which today was slightly overcast, a pearl-gray illuminated by the sun trying to break through.

  “Where’s the bus headed?” he asked, again keeping it light.

  “Santa Barbara. Mom wants me to come up.”

  “Good.”

  He felt his posture relaxing. Grace Coyle was one of the all-time great mothers, just what Carmen needed right now. An actual parent, instead of a coward who used the smokescreen of looking out for her to cover the fact that he was too chicken to declare himself.

  “Yeah, she has some kind of emergency with her hedges.” Carmen gave a little chuckle. “Or so she says. I think Shannon called her and told her what happened on Monday and mom wants to see for herself that I’m all right.” She sighed. “And you know what? It sounds nice, to get away, take a walk in the woods up there. Even though I guess I’m running away.”

  “From what?”

  “You know. The job search. Hey, maybe I’ll look for something up there, in the Santa Barbara area.”

  “Are you thinking of moving?” He said it offhandedly enough, but something inside seized up at the thought. No. No way Carmen could leave L.A. Leave him. Not okay.

  “Probably not,” she said. “I don’t know. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Look—here’s my bus. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  “Sure.” And then she was gone.

  He hung up the phone, a troubled frown forming between his brows. He’d never known Carmen to be this depressed, this lost and sad and defeated. But she was. And, like clockwork, that ache in the area of his heart was back.

  The nursery might have been midsize, but it was chock full of healthy green plants, shrubs, trees and flowers. Carmen felt downright jubilant as she sniffed the air. Yes! Mulch and freshly watered grass, a tang of fertilizer, mist from the low-hanging fog that almost always filled the skies above Santa Barbara—all of it combined to make a simply heavenly smell, her own version of the perfect perfume, courtesy of Mother Nature. It cleaned out her pores and her troubled head, made everything okay again.

  “I think several of these will do,” she told her mother happily, adding some tulip and narcissus bulbs to her cart that was already overflowing with other bulbs and individual plants in temporary cardboard pots.

  Grace Coyle smiled warmly at her daughter, the fine lines radiating from her gray eyes the only indication that she was no longer in her forties and was already solidly in her fifties. “I knew you’d find the right thing. You’ve always been so gifted, my green-thumb girl,” she said, just a hint of her Boston origins still in evidence.

  She put an arm around Carmen’s waist and gave her cheek a kiss, having to reach up to do it. Her mother was short and compact, attractively rounded, like Shannon. Carmen and her baby brother, Shane, took after Dad, as they were tall and long-limbed.

  “I’m so glad you came up,” Grace added.

  “And I’m amazed. You actually did need me to do some plant doctoring—those Japanese weevils have just about devastated the hedge.”

  “Of course I needed you. I had been putting off asking you to spend some time in my garden, but then when I heard what happened the other day, I thought you might welcome the change of scenery.”

  “Oh, Mom, you know me way too well.”

  “I sincerely hope I do, after all these years.”

  Carmen chose a few verbena shrubs to set off the dark-pink color of the bougainvillea. “It’s funny, though,” she said, eyeing an orange-flowered plant she’d never heard of and deciding against it, “how well you do know me, considering how different we are. Like night and day.”

  “Mothers and daughters often are.”

  “You and Shannon are so much alike it’s scary.”

  Grace frowned. “But I don’t love her any more than I do you.”

  “Well, I know that,” Carmen said with a grin. “I’m not talking about that.” Perhaps one or two salvia superba, she thought, for a little change of pace in that shaded corner of the patio. “I’m so different from all of you,” she said offhandedly. “You and Shan and Shane, and even Dad. I used to think I was a Martian, you know, someone from another planet who had been dumped on this poor, unsuspecting family.” She chuckled. “Then later, I got that that was just a fantasy and decided I must have been adopted. You know, left at the doorstep and you and Dad took me in out of the kindness of your hearts.”
>
  “Oh, Carmen.”

  The distress she heard in her mother’s voice drew her attention away from the plants she was considering. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite. “This was back when I was a kid. Not a biggie now, trust me.”

  Grace’s face resumed its usual good-humored expression as she nodded. “Actually, being adopted is a fairly common childhood fantasy. I see it in my clients all the time.” Grace had her master’s in child psychology and had a thriving practice.

  “Yeah, I know I’m not unique.” Carmen propped a hip against her cart, thought about it for a moment. “But you know I’m right. I mean, I just didn’t…fit in. You, all of you, you worried about me because I was so different, remember? You all just loved school, and science and math problems were fun. And you sat around reading all the time—newspapers and these thick journals with tiny print. I read fiction and made weird clothing for my dolls and had trouble sitting still.” She smiled, squeezed her mother’s hand. “This is not about poor Carmen, I promise. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. It’s just that I’m, well, I’m different, admit it.”

  Grace gazed at her for a long moment before assuming what Carmen had always thought of as her professor face. “But you’re using the obvious markers—mathematical aptitude, school grades—that are only two of the countless traits we inherit from our families. You’re very bright, extremely intuitive. You’re just not a scholar. There are worse things in life.”

  Carmen raised a brow. “Says the woman with two master’s degrees.”

  “The same woman whose garden—” she pronounced it gah-den “—always looks like the ‘before’ in a ‘before and after’ home improvement ad.”

  Carmen waved it away. “All it needs is a little love and water.”

  “Says the woman who makes things bloom just by smiling at them.” Grace raised an eyebrow. “See? I can’t do that. In fact, I stink at that.”

  “I know. Remember when Dad used to come in from the backyard, shake his head and say, ‘The black-thumb strikes again’?”