Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  There was stress, and then there was stress.

  The kind that came from helping bury a friend . . .

  Stress that came from mistakes that couldn’t be fixed, from enormous loss that was irrevocable.

  It fucking sucked.

  So, yeah. He recognized emotionally fried when he saw it.

  Something bad had happened to Jules Cassidy between last night and this morning.

  “Bitch.” Mercedes was reading the third and final e-mail aloud. “You’ll be news for a day, but then you’ll be gone. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be here, laughing. They won’t catch me. They’ll never catch me. You’ll be rotting and I’ll still be free. You can’t touch me, but I’ll touch you.” She put the paper down. “So, okay. Aside from the different e-mail addresses, these are all obviously from the same person. I mean, the writing—the voice—is clearly the same, right? But what I don’t get is how these are any different from the three hundred others we get each day.”

  Patty returned with Cassidy’s mug of coffee along with an entire extra pot that she placed on the end table. He managed to smile as he thanked her.

  They all waited for the intern to leave the room and close the door behind her, and both Cosmo and Cassidy eyed Decker, obviously wondering who should take the point and answer Mercedes’ question.

  “Do you want to, uh . . .” Deck ordinarily would have just motioned for the FBI agent to take it away, but the man looked like he needed at least fifteen solid minutes alone with his coffee.

  “Yes,” Cassidy said much too crisply. “Certainly.” He put down his mug, opened his briefcase, handed another sheet of paper to Mercedes, and gave a second copy to Deck. “Sorry, I only have—”

  “That’s okay.” Cosmo moved closer to Mercedes on the couch so he could read over her shoulder.

  This document was a copy of an e-mail sent from one of those free e-mail accounts. It started with a slightly different salutation, “Pigfucker,” but other than that . . . Whoa-kay. The body of this message was identical—word for word—to the first of the e-mails Decker had just shown to Mercedes.

  You think you’re so smart. You think you’re going to get away with this? You may be smart, but I’m smarter. . . .

  “This was sent to ADA Benjamin Chertok on April 12, 2003. Thirteen days before he was fatally shot,” Cassidy informed them. “He was murdered by an unknown assailant with a Remington 700P long-range rifle.”

  On the sofa, Mercedes looked up from the e-mail, directly at Cosmo. “Shit,” she said.

  Cosmo nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What’s an ADA?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Cassidy said. “Assistant district attorney. Ben Chertok worked in the Idaho Falls office. He headed a team of lawyers who had just successfully prosecuted John Middlefield—a prominent Freedom Network leader. It was a tax evasion case, with a huge penalty as well as a mandatory prison term. During the trial, the Freedom Network started an Internet smear campaign targeting Chertok. Two weeks after the trial ended, he was dead in his driveway, shot as he was coming home from work on a Friday afternoon.”

  “My God,” Mercedes said. “Why haven’t you arrested the entire Freedom Network?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Cassidy said. “I wish it was. But we haven’t been able to connect these e-mails to the Freedom Network, or even to Chertok’s murder.”

  Mercedes looked from Cassidy to Deck to Cosmo questioningly. “But if you can’t connect them, then . . .”

  “This could be a coincidence,” the SEAL explained.

  “While we’re as close to certain as possible that these four e-mails were sent by the same person,” Cassidy clarified, “we have no proof that this e-mailer is the shooter who killed Ben Chertok. They could well be two different people.”

  “But . . .” Mercedes prompted him.

  “Personally, I think it’s one and the same,” he admitted. He was sitting there, looking Mercedes straight in the eye, putting it all into plain-speak.

  Deck had worked with both FBI and Agency personnel who refused to share guesswork with anyone. Until they could verify something as a fact, it didn’t get talked about.

  He preferred Jules Cassidy’s all cards on the table approach. It was clearly the correct way to deal with someone with such a strong personality as Mercedes Chadwick.

  “If it is,” Cassidy continued, “if the e-mailer and the killer are one and the same, then we’re up against someone who’s killed before and gotten away with it. Not only that, but by sending you an exact copy of the e-mail he sent to Chertok, he wants us to know for sure that he’s coming after you. In a sense, he’s issued a challenge.”

  “This is not someone who’s going to make sloppy mistakes,” Decker told her.

  “Of course not,” she quipped. “God forbid Mr. Insane-o, my personal psycho, is actually of the careless variety.”

  “We’re not going to let him or anyone else hurt you,” Cosmo said quietly.

  She looked at him, holding his gaze for several long seconds before she turned back to Decker and Cassidy. “But if he’s got a Remington whatsis long-range rifle, isn’t it likely that someone’s going to get hurt?”

  “Yeah,” Cosmo told her. “He is.”

  Mercedes laughed as she nodded, but Decker could tell that, as much as she wanted to, she didn’t quite believe him.

  As Jules let himself out the front door of Mercedes Chadwick’s house, her brother, Robin, pulled into the driveway in a neat little Porsche Speedster that screamed movie star.

  God, he had a headache. As he headed for his stodgy rental car, Jules searched his pockets for his sunglasses and slipped them on.

  Not that they helped.

  What he needed was sleep—at least six uninterrupted hours of it. But first he had to call his boss, Max, and verify that the FBI hadn’t managed to trace those e-mails. Then he had to fax Cosmo’s list of license plate numbers to Max’s assistant, Laronda—what a total wild-goose chase that was. Maybe he’d put that off until later. Until after he’d checked out of his hotel room and checked in someplace else.

  Someplace where Adam wouldn’t be able to find him.

  God damn it.

  “Hey.” Robin had opened the driver’s side window several inches. He was sitting there, engine running, as he furtively motioned Jules over.

  The man looked like shit. Worse even than Jules had looked this morning when he’d realized exactly what last night had been about. It was amazing, in fact, how someone as good-looking as Robin Chadwick could look so awful.

  As Jules approached, Robin opened the window wider, and Jeezus. The man reeked of alcohol. But it was last night’s alcohol—partially sweated and puked out of his system, partly spilled on his clothes.

  The good news about that—if there was good news about that—was that Jules didn’t have to call his new friends in the LAPD and have Robin arrested for driving while intoxicated.

  “Is she in there?” Robin asked in a stage whisper.

  “Your sister?” Jules said. “Yeah, but she’s getting ready to go to some meeting at the casting director’s office—”

  “No,” Robin said. “Not Jane.” He lowered his voice even more. “Patty.”

  O-kay. “Yeah,” Jules said. “Patty’s in there, too.”

  “Not so loud,” Robin hissed at him, then swore.

  “Don’t want her to see you like this, huh?” Jules asked, knowing full well that it was more likely that Robin was the one who didn’t want to see Patty. Period. Not right now, not ever again.

  “Yeah. Yeah, um . . .” For an actor, Robin was really a dismally bad liar. Or maybe he was just too hungover to make much of an effort. “Hey, will you do me a giant favor—”

  Jules shook his head. “No.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like it’s a hugely giant favor. It’s more like a small and extremely easy giant favor. Very tiny in fact. If you could just go back inside, see if she’s right by the door—”

  “No,” Jules sa
id again, but it was as if Robin hadn’t heard him.

  “If she is, will you ask her to, I don’t know, make some copies for you or something? You know, to get her out of there so I can run upstairs without . . . ? No?”

  About time he noticed that Jules was standing there shaking his head.

  It was pathetic—doubly so, considering the entire presentation was coming at Jules in glorious Smell-O-Vision.

  “What’d you do?” he asked Robin. “Wake up in some strange bed, all alone, with a note on the pillow telling you to help yourself to coffee and breakfast? Except the note wasn’t signed, was it? So you had to find a stack of mail by the front door in order to figure out who you fucked last night.”

  Robin stared at him.

  He wasn’t sure if the wide eyes were because he’d gotten it all correct, or if Robin was surprised by the ugly edge of rancor that Jules couldn’t keep from his voice.

  “I was young and stupid once, too,” Jules told him. Well, young anyway. Last night, when he’d let Adam in, he proved that he was still plenty stupid. “You have to talk to her, Robin.”

  Robin rubbed his forehead. “And say what? Hey, babe, gee, what happened last night? All I really remember is the part where I realized we didn’t use a condom, and the part where I did the Technicolor yawn for some undetermined amount of time—somewhere close to, but just short of, forever. So, hey, was it good for you, too?”

  Oh, Robin, Robin, Robin . . .

  “And oh, by the way, baby,” he continued with his mock speech to Patty, “remember how yesterday I was dying to get my hands on you? Well, today I can’t even think of you without feeling like I just might puke. Again.”

  Jules could relate. Right now, just the thought of Adam . . .

  God damn it.

  “I am such a fucking loser,” Robin lamented.

  “Yeah.” Jules had to agree. “You really are. I was in the running for a while, you know, in terms of morning-after official loser status, but wow. That no-condom thing combined with the change of heart induced by slackage of desire? God, Robin, you’re not just a fucking loser, you’re a heartless, intern-fucking loser. What is she, all of nineteen? I’m pretty sure that makes you a scum-sucking, bastard-asshole, heartless, intern-fucking loser.” He smiled at Robin. “I’m so glad I ran into you this morning. It really puts things into perspective for me. Have a nice day.”

  “Wait!” Robin turned off his car and clambered out, following Jules across the driveway. He moved in that hyper-careful, cringing, the-world-is-both-too-bright-and-too-loud manner of the super-hungover. “Are you really, really sure you don’t want to star in a movie?”

  What?

  Heavens to Murgatroid, not this again. “Yes,” Jules said. “I’m really, really sure.”

  “I mean, here we are, doing this huge casting search for the right actor to play Jack, only every time I see you, I hear this thousand-voice choir of angels, and I think, ‘Holy shit, there he is.’ ” Robin squinted at him, using one hand to shade his eyes against the sun. “What is wrong with you? How could you be the one person in the United States who doesn’t secretly want to win an Oscar?”

  “Are you sure you’re not in love with me?” Jules countered. “A hundred-voice choir—now, that says be in my movie. But a thousand angels . . .” He shook his head. “Gee, I’m sorry, sweetie, but I don’t date actors. Not anymore. Too bad you didn’t tell me this yesterday.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Robin said. “Ha-ha. You gay guys are so witty. Can’t you just—as a giant favor—come to the casting session and—”

  “We’re back to giant favors, are we? No.”

  “I mean, just read a few lines, do a quick screen test . . .”

  Jules unlocked his car door. “How can I say this to make you understand?” he asked. “Hmmm, how about: No.”

  “What if you—”

  “Robin, sweetheart, you know how you made a whole fuckload of mistakes last night?” Jules told him. “Well, I did, too—only I didn’t find out the particular bargelike size of my personal fuckload until about twenty minutes before I was scheduled to show up here for a very important meeting. So listen close when I tell you that I would rather stick a needle in my eye than go to your casting session.”

  “Shit,” Robin sympathized. “What happened?”

  “Someone like you happened,” Jules told him. “Someone who knew that I hadn’t given up on my goddamn idealist dream of—” He stopped himself. What was he doing? This man was a stranger, and an obvious asshole to boot. Not to mention the fact that Jules was here in his official capacity. “Nice seeing you, Robin.” He got into the rental car.

  Robin got in the way of the door. “Is there anything I can do to, you know, help? I mean, if you want to talk or—”

  Jules looked at him. “Like I’m going to take romantic advice from a man with vomit breath?”

  “Sorry.” Robin pulled the neck of his T-shirt up over his mouth. “Better?”

  Jules rolled his eyes. “Go talk to Patty,” he said. “Don’t leave her hanging, thinking that it’s real when it’s not. She’s a sweet kid and—”

  “Robin! Hi!” There she was, as if on cue.

  For a moment, with his back toward her, Robin closed his eyes, scrunching up his face in pain. Then he braced himself, plastering a weak smile on his face before he straightened up and turned around. “Hey, babe.”

  She was all aglow at the sight of him, poor little thing.

  “You better hurry and get showered,” she told him. She waved to Jules. “Mr. Cassidy, I called your friend—Adam. He’s free so he’s coming to the casting session. We haven’t seen him before, so that’s good, but . . . You might want to warn him not to get his hopes up too high. His résumé’s a little sparse. We usually wouldn’t even consider such a total unknown.”

  “Yeah,” Jules said. “Thanks for giving him a chance. I, um, appreciate it.”

  Robin was looking at him, realization dawning. “You were on the news last night,” he said. “With my sister. Weren’t you?”

  Yes, he was. And Adam had seen him on the news. Adam had seen that Jules was connected to the controversial movie American Hero. He’d recognized that this connection could quite possibly result in something he’d wanted for a long time—a chance to audition for rising-star producer J. Mercedes Chadwick.

  Adam, being Adam, hadn’t just called Jules up and point-blank asked for a favor. For old times’ sake.

  Possibly because the old times had been filled with lies and deception and relentless betrayals.

  But most likely Adam hadn’t just called and asked because he loved to play games. And here was a challenge. Win Jules back. Convince him to take yet one more chance on something he’d always wanted.

  On the other hand, that really hadn’t been that much of a challenge, had it?

  It never had.

  The sun had come up, and the new day had been so bright and filled with hope.

  But then, after Jules got out of the shower, already late but too happy to give a good goddamn, Adam had said, “I’ve heard this rumor that Mercedes Chadwick is still looking for someone to play one of the leads in her movie.”

  It was a casual comment, but Jules had turned to look at him. Adam. Wonderful, amazing, gorgeously vibrant Adam—still in bed, hair rumpled, glint of beard on his perfect chin. And he knew. He suddenly knew.

  For several seconds, time stopped as he replayed all the times last night that Adam had brought up Jules’ current assignment. Even during dinner, he’d asked, “What’s Mercedes really like?”

  “Yes,” Jules had finally answered Adam. “Yes, she is. There’s a casting session this afternoon. Too bad you don’t have a copy of your headshot and résumé with you.”

  Adam sat up. “Yeah, no—I do have one. Would you really do that?”

  “You brought your résumé.” Any doubt that remained was gone. Adam hated carrying a bag or a briefcase. He never walked around with more than his wallet in his pocket. If he’d
brought his résumé, it was because . . .

  Because his goal last night had not been to reconcile with Jules. His goal had been to snag an audition with Mercedes Chadwick.

  “Well, yeah.” Adam had surely noted the look on Jules’ face, and he tried to make excuses. “I brought it to show you. I thought you might want to see it.”