One Hot Target

by Diane Pershing

  So she tried it. Stroked the cat’s head, stared at a lone palm tree in the distance, and slowly breathed in, then out. In, then out. And after a while, amazingly enough, she felt herself calming down, sensed the jumble in her head disintegrating, smoothing out, becoming manageable.

  Her thoughts cleared enough for her to remember that she and JR had had an awkward sort of discussion, sort of fight, about the relationship thing. As she pictured that vulnerable look on JR’s face when she’d made a lame joke about lovemaking being better than a massage, she wanted to cry. She’d hurt him.

  What was it with JR and this whole fantasy he had about the two of them? The one where she would suddenly realize how deeply in love with him she was and would fall into his arms, and, like that, start the babies and the house in the suburbs? Cue the strings.

  This was so weird, a real role reversal. Weren’t men the ones who didn’t want to commit too soon, and weren’t women the ones who wanted that commitment? JR, usually the logical and unsentimental one of the two of them, was, in this instance, the total romantic. And she, Carmen, whose emotions and hormones had ruled most of her life, was just the opposite, not allowing herself to be swept away, asking for time to consider. The old shoe-on-the-other-foot thing. JR being emotional, Carmen being rational.

  Or…maybe not rational. Maybe terrified. She’d admitted as much, to JR, to herself. Just what she was terrified about, she really wasn’t sure.

  What did she want to do about this? Whenever she’d encountered romantic problems in the past, Carmen’s pattern was to avoid controversy and confrontation by just running away. If he were any other guy, she would simply become unavailable. Not return phone calls. Just…not deal with it. But this was JR. She couldn’t not deal with JR.

  Who was in love with her.

  Or who, at least, said he was in love with her. She wasn’t sure she believed him—he might be mixing up desire with love. But that didn’t matter, because he believed it.

  Did she love him? Well, sure. But was she in love with him? How did that kind of love feel? Was she missing some key element in her makeup? He’d asked her why she’d never fallen in love and she’d said she’d been waiting. Was that the truth? Had she been waiting? For JR?

  Her brain hurt. Really. She wasn’t used to this kind of self-analysis. She wished she had answers. To everything. Why someone wanted her dead. What kind of person her biological mother was. Why JR loved her. And if she loved JR.

  Lastly, what would she be when she grew up?

  She rubbed her nose on Owl’s soft head and walked over to the picture of the ship. It had, for some reason, always called to her. As she gazed at it, she realized why. The little ship was her. Carmen was, as JR had said, strong. Whatever chaos life threw at her, she always survived. Maybe not gracefully, but still, she’d gotten through.

  She’d also gotten into the habit of leaning on JR and, recently, Mac. Shannon, too. Turning to them to fix her, protect her, do her thinking for her, when she was perfectly capable of doing it herself.

  With all that had happened this past week, others would have had a complete breakdown. Not Carmen. Sure, she’d done a little falling apart, but not for long periods. After each blow, she’d bounced back, ready to take on whatever was next. So she needed to stop whining and shaking and getting all lost inside her head. She needed to stop feeling so passive.

  She needed to take action.

  Heading for the kitchen and the hot coffee, she considered her options. Her would-be killer was invisible, so she couldn’t exactly take any action against him or her. She and JR had discussed all kinds of theories last night, but they were all just that, theories—how did you take action against something that wasn’t concrete?

  There was one place she could take action though. She could find out more about her biological origins. On her own, of course. No JR. She’d been taking up way too much of his time for an entire week.

  The Kurtz connection was the next step. And she would take it. Alone.

  Right after she had coffee.

  JR listened as his home phone rang and rang before the machine picked up. After he heard the outgoing message, he said, “Carmen? It’s me. Pick up if you can hear this.”

  He waited, but the phone wasn’t picked up. She could be in the shower, he told himself. Or still sleeping. She was fine, of course she was. But just to be safe, he called her cell phone. No answer there, either, so, keeping his tone casual, he left her a message on her voice mail to call him right away.

  He sat at his desk, stared out the window and told himself there was no need to panic. She would call him back in a few minutes. All he had to do was wait.

  After Carmen said goodbye to Ben, she stood in the doorway of his apartment building and looked up and down the street. No men in parked cars, no out-of-place pedestrians. She was still wearing the disguise she’d cobbled together from JR’s closet this morning—old gray sweats, a black wig from when he’d gone as Moe to a Three Stooges New Year’s Party, a pair of ugly, black-rimmed glasses. She looked nothing like herself, and so far, the disguise had done the trick of keeping her safe. Not even her police protection had recognized her as she’d left JR’s Santa Monica condo and gotten into a taxi to come here.

  Not that she was complaining, but what had happened to her would-be killer? Was he or she truly incompetent, or had someone changed his or her mind about the need for her violent death? Theory number two was the definite winner. Wouldn’t it be great if this whole thing just…went away?

  She glanced down at the information Ben had gotten for her this morning after her knocking on his door had woken him from a sound sleep. She would have called, of course, but JR had the number and she’d been determined not to bother him.

  The Kurtz family lived in Scottsdale, Arizona. Her grandfather’s name was Hiram Kurtz, age ninety-one, confined to a wheelchair. His wife, Phyllis Canter Kurtz, died five years ago. Phoebe had an older sister, Barbara, married name Gale, three kids. On the paper was Hiram’s home address. Also the name of the family lawyer, Peter Hausner, also in Scottsdale.

  Which meant, next stop, LAX.

  Keeping an eye on the street from Ben’s doorway, Carmen called for another taxi. She would head to the airport, making a quick stop at an ATM to withdraw a whole bunch of cash. Good thing she’d sold her car; there was plenty of money in her account.

  For once.

  JR tried to study his notes for his upcoming court appearance on behalf of Angel Lipsky, a laboratory technician and part-time inventor with a lawsuit against a huge drug company for infringement of copyright. It was a fairly straight matter—the drug company, in its arrogance, had left a paper trail a mile wide—but he was having a terrible time concentrating. Carmen hadn’t called him back, and he didn’t know what to make of that fact.

  Was she at his place and avoiding him? Had she left his condo? If so, had it been of her own volition? Or had the police protection failed and was she now lying on the floor, dead?

  He was aware his imagination had headed straight for the worst possible scenario, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Things between them were so unsettled; now that he wasn’t in contact with her, it was even worse. He’d called again, twice, actually, but she wasn’t answering her phone, and the damn message center was full again, so he couldn’t leave word. He’d also called Mac and left a message for him. Should he call Shannon? Maybe she knew where her sister was.

  Why, all those years ago when he’d first met the Coyle sisters, why hadn’t he picked the bright, relatively stable, together, high-achieving one to fall in love with, instead of the quirky, intelligent but underachieving, disorganized and forgetful one?

  The answer, of course, was that there never was an answer to that kind of question. It just was, that was all.

  He finally picked up the phone to call Shannon, but in the serendipitous way that life sometimes works, he was interrupted by his secretary, telling him that Carmen was calling. He punched in line two, then the spea
kerphone, and barked, “Where are you?”

  There was a moment before she answered and he wondered if she was considering hanging up on him. So he said quickly, “Sorry, Carm. I’ve been kind of worried.”

  “Then I’m sorry, too, JR. I meant to call earlier, but I’ve been so busy.”

  “I called your cell a couple of times.”

  “You have? Oh, that’s right. I turned off the ringer last night. I’ll turn it right back on, promise.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Just fine. I’m at the airport.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m flying out to Phoenix.” He could hear the grin in her voice as she went on. “That’s where my birth mother’s family is and I kind of want to nose around. I’ve been real careful, JR, promise. I didn’t use a credit card, so they can’t trace me. I’m sure no one’s following me. I’ve got a great disguise!”

  “Well, good,” he said, not quite sharing her enthusiasm. “I wish you’d waited for me. I would have gone with you.”

  “But you had to go to work. And face it, JR, I’ve taken up way too much of your time lately. You can’t always be taking care of me. I’m fine. Please believe me. I’m just fine.”

  He wanted to believe her, tried very hard to believe her. “Do me a favor, then. Clear your messages so I can leave word for you if I need to.”

  “Oh, did I do that again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Will do. Hey,” she said cheerfully, “I can’t reform all at once, but I’m working on it. Be patient with me, JR. Okay? Bye now.” And then she hung up.

  Okay, he told himself. She wasn’t dead. She’d been funny and sweet on the phone, so she wasn’t angry with him. This was good. He could relax now, go back to his trial prep.

  He glanced again at his notes, but he kept replaying the phone conversation in his head instead. She was off to Phoenix. In disguise. What kind of disguise? Where in Phoenix? Did she have a destination or was she just figuring on walking the streets and seeing if someone named Kurtz popped up?

  No, that wasn’t fair. Carmen had a plan, of course. She was going to “nose around.” What the hell did that mean? And why hadn’t she shared more details with him? Because she owed him nothing, that’s why. He’d told her she needed to take some responsibility for herself and, wouldn’t you know it, she’d listened to him.

  And like that, he was back to worrying again.

  Downtown Scottsdale was a hodgepodge of what looked like 1950s-style adobe gift shops and sleeker, more modern restaurants and galleries. Camelback Mountain rose in the distance. The offices of Chernoff, Morgan and Hausner were in a pretty, three-story, Spanish-style building on a side street right off the main drag. Before she went in, Carmen grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut in a nearby café, then used their bathroom to change out of her disguise. From her backpack she pulled out the one conservative outfit Shannon had packed for her, a dark gray, ankle-length skirt, black V-neck sweater with a gray rose appliquéd across the chest and a pair of ankle-high black leather boots. She put them on, combed her hair, applied lipstick and a little mascara. The picture of modesty and respectability, she decided as she checked her image in the mirror.

  But she was nervous, she had to admit it. She wasn’t quite sure just what she’d say to Peter Hausner. She would, of course, not mention the threats on her life, but she wanted the family lawyer to know of her existence, so she could find out more about her birth mother, get a sense of her genetic heritage. It seemed a reasonable quest to her.

  And if in some part of her brain she wished JR were there, to come up with the right questions, to be able to talk to another lawyer in that special language they all had, well, then, she’d just have to do the best she could on her own. It was becoming more and more obvious to her how much she’d grown to depend on JR and how little he trusted her to take care of herself. Their recent phone conversation had proved it.

  The offices were decorated with pale wood paneling and richly upholstered couches; the artwork on the walls was signed and numbered. The receptionist, according to the nameplate on her highly polished antique desk, was Gwendolyn Payne. She was about Carmen’s own age, and there the similarity ended. She was perfectly groomed and made-up, in an ivory silk blouse with pearl buttons, little pearls in her ears, straight, dark hair worn shoulder length and not a strand out of place. It was a look, she was starting to realize, she probably would never be able to pull off.

  “Hi,” she said, with determined cheer. “My name is Coyle, Goldie Coyle, actually, but everyone calls me Carmen.”

  “And what may I do for you, Ms. Coyle?”

  “I’m wondering if Mr. Hausner is free.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The perfectly painted mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hausner is quite busy, Ms. Coyle. May I set you up with something for the end of the week? Perhaps,” she went on, perusing the screen on her computer, “on Friday? Say, at eleven?”

  Carmen scrunched up her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t live here in Scottsdale. I’m only in town for the day. And there’s some personal business I need to discuss with him. It concerns the Kurtz estate.”

  Pursing her lips in disapproval, she picked up a phone. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Hausner,” the receptionist said in a beautifully modulated voice, “but there’s a Ms. Coyle here and she’d like to see you. She says it has to do with the Kurtz estate and that it’s confidential.”

  She listened for a few moments, then nodded. “Yes, I told her you were busy…. Yes, I did…..” The frown again, followed by, “Well, all right. If you say so.” She hung up and said stiffly, “Mr. Hausner says if you’ll wait, he can give you ten minutes in about a half hour or so.”

  Carmen settled herself in a chair and read the latest showbiz magazine, getting about a lifetime’s fill of the most recent divorces, face-lifts, awards and visits to drug rehabs, not to mention the latest round of celebrity adoptions of Third World orphans, who were not only dragged across continents to be fussed over and posed for photographs with their famous celebrity moms, but were also given names such as Orange, Kong and Delphinium. Poor babies.

  Of course, someone had named her Goldie Raquel. Both of them movie star names from the previous generation. She needed to ask Mom whose idea that was, because she wasn’t particularly nuts about either name.

  “Ms. Coyle?” At the sound of a deep male voice, she looked up.

  The gray-haired, rather portly, middle-aged man with an expensive suit and haircut was not tall, maybe five-eight or so. When Carmen stood and offered her hand, they were at eye level. “Mr. Hausner?”

  As he shook her hand, then quickly dropped it, his expression was pleasant, if not exactly welcoming. “Come back to my office. Gwen, hold my calls for just a few moments.”

  Hausner’s office was quietly tasteful and nonostentatious, filled with antiques. A wide window let in soft Arizona light. He sat behind his uncluttered desk, indicating she should sit in an upholstered chair, facing him. He didn’t offer coffee or any kind of refreshment. Instead, he glanced at his watch, as though to remind her of the ten-minute limit he had agreed on, and said, “This is about the Kurtz estate?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is your connection?”

  She’d rehearsed this speech earlier. “Mr. Hausner,” she began with a smile, “this is going to sound strange, but I ask your indulgence.”

  The jangling salsa music of her cell phone interrupted the moment. Hausner frowned as she frantically searched her backpack for the phone. When she found it she flipped it open. “Yes?”

  “Carmen, I—”

  “I can’t talk now, JR. I’ll call you later.”

  Turning off the ringer so this wouldn’t happen again, she closed the phone, returned it to her backpack and offered an apologetic smile to the lawyer. “I’m so sorry. Now, where was I?”

  “Asking my indulgence.”


  She nodded. “Just two days ago, I found out something startling, having to do with my birth. The woman I call my mother is not actually my biological mother. I was born to a woman named Phoebe Kurtz. She died shortly after I was born.” She watched his face for any reactions, but he had his show-nothing, keep-your-lawyerly-distance mask on; she’d seen both JR and Shannon use it, and Hausner was as good as they were. “Are you aware of any of this?”

  Instead of answering her question, he studied her smilelessly for a moment or two, then said, “May I ask the nature of your inquiry?”

  “I just told you.”

  He rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “No, I mean, what do you hope to accomplish by coming here today and telling me this?”

  “Accomplish? Nothing. I mean, I don’t really know.” She smiled again, inviting him to understand how earth-shaking the recent news had been for her. “I just found out and it took me totally by surprise. So I thought, well, that I’d come here and—” she shrugged “—maybe visit with my grandfather, find out if there are any other relatives, you know, ask some questions about what Phoebe was like. Maybe even get some names of her friends. Get a picture of just who she was. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s kind of strange. Finding out that one half of your genetic makeup was inherited from someone you had no idea existed until yesterday. Anyhow, I thought I’d start with you. And that’s why I’m here.”

  She smiled again, encouraging him to smile back.

  Instead, he studied her some more, this time through half-lidded eyes. Although he kept his expression unreadable, she had the sense that he was having a reaction. A pretty strong one.

  Her intuition was validated when he finally rose, walked to his office door and opened it. “I’ll ask you to leave now, Ms. Coyle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, Ms. Coyle.” Now the disdain was obvious. “As anyone who is anyone in Scottsdale knows, Hiram Kurtz is a very wealthy man. He worked hard and long to achieve his wealth, beginning as a lowly gardener and winding up owning gardening and home improvement centers all over the Southwest. He is an admirable man, a respected man, a pillar of the community. Hiram Kurtz is also a very old man, ill and incapacitated. My job is to protect him, from shock, from bad news—” he paused for emphasis “—and from fortune hunters. Now, either you are incredibly naive or incredibly skilled. Either way, I intend to look out for his best interests. That does not include answering your questions.”