Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She laughed, because … dear God … She had to give him huge points for persistence, creativity, and sheer chutzpah.

  He let go of her hand, and she looked down at that mark, despite her attempt not to. That’s me …

  And he wasn’t done slinging the bull. “Just because it’s not serious, just because we’re not going into this with the idea that it’s forever, doesn’t mean it’s not special. Because it is. It will be.”

  “God,” she said again. “You are so good.”

  “Two weeks,” he said. It had become his refrain. “Please, Jenn. I don’t get a chance like this very often. I really like you. And I want to spend this time with you before I go back to the war.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The crazy-ass bastard started screaming at them, his speech slurred and his words almost impossible to understand. “Don’t touch her!” Sam had thought the man was saying, over and over. “Don’t you touch her!”

  He’d first spotted the homeless man quite a few blocks back, as he and Alyssa had walked—slowly, because his entire right side was stiffening up and hurting like a bitch—from Margaret Thorndyke’s digs, which overlooked Central Park, to this comparatively crappier neighborhood where Maria Bonavita resided.

  And that crappier was a relative one.

  Because it was a case of super-fucking rich versus merely fucking rich, with a universal truth that the streets below both majestic buildings belonged to everyone. Including Don Quixote de la Crazy-Face, here, who was shouting what definitely sounded like, “Don’t you dare touch her!”

  It was Sam’s fault, completely.

  He’d stopped with Alyssa, there on the sidewalk a few blocks shy of Maria’s apartment building, because he hadn’t had time, during the long, frozen walk from Central Park, to say what he’d wanted to say. I’m not going to ask you not to go to Afghanistan. In fact, I think you should go. But as much as it scares me not to be part of your team and go with you, I think it would be selfish to do that. It would be unfair to Ash.

  He’d stopped Alyssa from walking those last few blocks, and he’d pulled her close and kissed her—something else he couldn’t do once they were inside. He’d gotten as far as a variation on In fact, I think you should go, when old Don Q made himself known by starting his tirade from way down at the other end of the block.

  He and Lys weren’t the only ones there on that sidewalk, but Sam knew that he wore his Texas roots pretty much stamped on his forehead. Yeah, he could conceal it when he wanted to. He’d learned to blend in to his current environment, both as an operative in the SEALs and working for Troubleshooters, but this job wasn’t about blending so he hadn’t bothered to try.

  And right now, what he was trying to do was have a conversation with his wife.

  When he’d first noticed the homeless man, he’d dismissed him. And although he’d learned early on in his life never to dismiss anyone completely, his training and instincts had told him that Don Q wasn’t a threat.

  Sam had first thought the dude was a lady, with that froth of wild gray curls exploding out from beneath his grungy knit cap, with its dingy Marines patch sewn on, right in the center. The puffy purple-and-grime-colored woman’s down-filled overcoat that flapped around his legs helped with the whole gender-bending effect. But the guy had a beard—unkempt, sparse, and gray. That and his shoulders-former linebacker wide, despite the fact that he now walked hunched over—screamed dangling genitalia.

  He was African American, and about the right age to be a Vietnam vet.

  Back about seven blocks, before the shouting had started, Sam had assumed that they were being approached not just because of his Texas tourist attitude, but also because both he and Lys were former Navy. Even though neither of them advertised that fact the way some folks did, with the word NAVY stitched across their jacket or the seat of their pants, there were just some people, usually former servicemen or women themselves, who simply knew.

  So yes, Sam had assumed that the Don had targeted them as compatriots—and as likely candidates in his quest for donations to buy tonight’s swerve-on, in its delivery vehicle of a bottle of Wild Turkey.

  And while Sam would’ve been fine with buying the man a roast beef sandwich, he had more than his share of friends and family members who were recovering alcoholics, so the idea of funding this man’s addiction didn’t sit well with him.

  So he’d picked up their pace, because La Mancha Man had a bad leg. His gait was unbalanced and although he could manage a surprisingly quick shuffle, he couldn’t possibly keep up with them—even with Sam’s pain-in-the-ass cracked rib.

  He’d made another mistake then—he’d believed that they’d left the Q-ster far behind. Part of it had to do with Sam’s being distracted by a wide variety of discussion topics—none of them easy or fun.

  It had started with a phone call Alyssa had received, back at the beginning of their walk, before Don Quixote had appeared, as they left the lobby of Margaret Thorndyke’s swanky apartment building, over in the super-fucking rich part of town.

  Unlike other fairly important breaking news of the day—such as the info about the impending A-stan trip coming directly out of the Oval Office in Washington, D.C.—this time, Alyssa relayed the news from her call to Sam as soon as she got off the phone.

  “Margaret Thorndyke’s cell phone was traced to Nicco’s, a restaurant not too far from Maria’s office, where she lunches somewhat regularly,” Alyssa had told him, her unhappiness clear in her tone. “It was on the floor, under a table—its ring set on silent. The proprietor couldn’t remember if she was in today or even yesterday. We should get a cab.”

  She stepped to the curb, probably because she knew that the arm motion necessary for flagging down a taxi might make Sam vomit from the pain. As it was, the cold was making him shiver, which wasn’t working well for him, either. Of course, with the weather being what it was, there were no unoccupied cabs in sight.

  Sam zipped his jacket up and tucked his scarf more securely around his neck. “I’m okay to walk. It’s not that far.”

  She gave him her what kind of fool do you think I am look—the one that he’d learned not to laugh at—so he tossed a little truth out there. “It’ll feel better to walk. It’ll help me keep warm. This shivering shit is killing me.”

  He headed south, and she fell into step beside him.

  “So,” he said, before the main topic of conversation became his rib, “Maggie’s cell phone. They find any prints on it?”

  “It’s at the lab,” she said. “They’ll run fingerprints, and a DNA test.”

  Lotta DNA and other crud on a cell phone.

  “That’s good,” he said. “And the restaurant… ?”

  “It’s a popular place,” she told him. “Upscale. Good food. Gourmet Greek, and always crowded. Lots of regulars, including Maggie Thorndyke. The owners are checking their records, see if whoever sat at that table paid with a credit card. If she was there with a date …”

  “We might also want to check to see if anyone sat at the bar, running up a tab, waiting for a table to empty so he could plant that phone,” Sam suggested. “We should talk to the bartender, too.”

  Alyssa was silent as they maneuvered their way around an oncoming woman with a double stroller, which held an obvious set of twins, a little older than Ash. God help the poor woman. He loved his son dearly, but if there were two Ashes, he’d have long since been driven mad from sleep deprivation.

  “I’m not saying that it happened that way,” Sam continued as they waited at an intersection for the light to change. “But it’s definitely possible.”

  “I prefer the scenario where Maggie Thorndyke had lunch there today, with her new boyfriend,” his wife said. Sam had told her that Mr. Jackson reported that when “Miss Maggie” was younger, every so often—every two months or so—there would briefly be a new man in her life. Very briefly, and usually accompanied by two or three days of massive alcohol consumption and possibly even drug use.r />
  It was a pattern that the doorman had seen again and again through the years.

  But he’d also reported that it had been years since she’d last run that pattern.

  And this time, although the disappearance felt familiar, he hadn’t seen her with anyone on the day she’d vanished—not man or woman.

  “And what?” Sam asked Alyssa now. “She lost her phone, which was coincidentally and immediately found by Mr. Pig Hearts R Us, who used it to make that call to Maria before he tossed it under the—”

  “No,” she said. “No, you’re right. It’s not a coincidence. Whoever took Maggie’s phone took it because he knew Maria uses caller ID. They also knew that as a big donor to the campaign, Maggie’s phone number was one that Maria would always pick up.

  “So really the two most likely scenarios,” she continued, “are that whoever did this stole Maggie’s phone on purpose. And yesterday, after literally years of being single, she hooked up with some new guy and is so totally in love that she still hasn’t noticed her stolen phone—” She broke off, shaking her head in disgust. “I don’t like that coincidence any better than the first one.”

  “Which leaves the second most likely scenario,” Sam said, “that whoever did this took both Maggie’s phone and Maggie.”

  Alyssa hated that idea, just as he’d known she would. “In which case, we’ve got the phone back, but where’s Maggie?”

  He’d reached over and taken her hand, squeezing her gloved fingers, and she’d looked at him.

  “We’ll find her,” he said.

  “So far this trip sucks,” she pointed out. “Are you having fun yet? Because I’m not. I particularly hated the part where the police detective threatened to shoot you.”

  She was fiercely, grimly pissed, but that, in combination with the bright red fleece hat that she’d bought in Times Square, made Sam smile. The hat was complete with earflaps, a little yarn ball at the top of an elfin point, and the eternal message I (heart) New York.

  Despite being one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known, his wife had nearly always forsaken fashion for comfort or convenience.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, I know the hat’s plenty foolish-looking, thanks.”

  “I was actually thinking it’s hot,” he teased. “With the right outfit—or lack thereof…”

  Alyssa laughed, but it was all too brief before she sighed her frustration. “I honestly thought this job would be easy. I like Savannah, I really do. But she’s gotten a little”—she searched for the right word—“hyper-cautious ever since Ken was injured. I expected to have to give a few lectures on personal safety and pick out a relatively inexpensive alarm system for Maria’s office and maybe go see Wicked and have dinner at Sardi’s and visit MoMA and the USS Intrepid and …” She exhaled hard. “Okay, I’m done whining. Sorry. I honestly didn’t expect this threat to be reality based, so … And I really didn’t expect you to immediately become one of the walking wounded.”

  “I am so sorry that I got hurt,” he said.

  “People, particularly men like Callahan, are going to say all kinds of nastiness about me, and you’re going to have to—” She cut herself off. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. Did you speak to Jules?”

  Oh, glorious segue on a shiny silver platter.

  “I did,” Sam said. And it was right around then that he first noticed Don Quixote watching them, muttering, “It’s you, it’s you,” as he headed toward them, no doubt looking for a handout. “He and Robin are driving down from Boston tonight.”

  “Robin’s coming?” Alyssa asked, surprised.

  “His show’s on hiatus.” Sam reported what Jules had told him as he picked up their pace—ow—and steered Alyssa across the street to avoid the homeless man. “Art Urban had a heart attack—a bad one, so … Robin’s coming along to babysit Ash, if we want it, and, you know. Be babysat. I think Jules is looking at this like a vacation, too. A chance to hang with us.”

  “I’d heard Art was in the hospital,” she said, “but I had no idea it was so serious. Is he going to be okay?”

  Sam nodded. “He will be—if the show goes on hiatus. Which leaves Robin with a lot of free time on his hands. Jules didn’t say it, but… he’s a little worried.”

  She was silent, lost in her own thoughts, so he cleared his throat and added, “Especially since he’s heading overseas pretty soon. He told me about the assignment in Afghanistan.”

  Alyssa looked at him then, and at that moment the sky opened up and started dropping big, fluffy, fake-looking snowflakes all around them. It was ridiculously pretty.

  “I’m assuming,” Sam continued, “that that was what the President called you about… ? You know, earlier today … ? Jules told me Max recommended you as an additional security consultant. Sounds like they’re creating one hell of a team.”

  “Oh, my God, Sam, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have time to tell you, and then, to be honest, I completely forgot.”

  “The President called and you forgot?” He believed her, but forgetting a phone call from the President deserved a certain amount of mocking.

  “Yeah, I know.” She looked at him, amusement, chagrin, and apology in her eyes. “I need a vacation. Oh, wait. This was supposed to be one. Instead I got a break-in at a public official’s office, a missing socialite, rotting animal organs, and, speaking of guts, an uncooperative police detective who apparently hates yours now even more than he hates mine.”

  He nodded. “Total suck-ass day. We’re going to find Maggie Thorndyke, you know.”

  Alyssa nodded, too, but he could tell that she wasn’t convinced. “Have you ever seen a pig heart?” she asked him, and he wasn’t surprised at all that that was the cause of her distraction, and that even now that he’d brought it up, her trip to Afghanistan was getting pushed back to the bottom of her priority list. “You grew up kind of in the country.”

  “Kind of? It was the suburbs,” he corrected her. She’d lived in a city for most of her childhood. To her, the burbs of Ft. Worth, Texas, where he’d grown up, had no doubt seemed positively rural.

  They’d rented a car once, during a lengthy layover in Dallas, and they’d driven past Sam’s childhood home. They’d also gone past the house where his beloved Uncle Walt and Aunt Dot had spent the bulk of their laughter-filled lives, and past the dusty airfield where Walt had first taken Sam and his cousin Noah up in a Cessna—where Sam had first discovered just how wide the world truly was.

  “But didn’t you say there was some kind of farm that you used to go to?” she asked him. “Wonderland Farm or…”

  “Wonderville Farms,” he said, amazed that she remembered that. He’d mentioned it maybe once, a few years ago. “It was a glorified petting zoo.” His elementary school had gone every year, in the spring, after the baby animals had been born. “And yes there was a pig there, but they never put its heart on display, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You studied some anatomy, though,” she persisted, “right? In the Navy? Basic stuff about the circulatory system?”

  Sam knew where she was going. “I’ve seen pictures of a human heart, sure, and, yeah, it could’ve been. In that drawer. Except…”

  “It couldn’t have been,” she finished for him. “I keep thinking that, too. Unless some total psychopath has targeted Maria.”

  “So okay,” Sam said. “When we get back to Kenny and Van’s, we’ll jump online and find a picture of a pig heart, so we can compare.”

  “What I need is the fucking lab report,” Alyssa said, her strong language betraying her frustration. “How hard could it be? Human—yes or no? I don’t need to know what kind of animal, just that no, it’s not human.”

  “When Jules gets here,” Sam said, “we can ask him to make some calls, apply some pressure.”

  “That,” Alyssa said, “would be good.”

  They walked in silence for a block or two before she spoke again.

  “I didn’t tell him yes,�
� Alyssa told Sam. “The President. I didn’t tell him no, but I didn’t tell him yes. I said I’d have to talk to you. He knew about Ash, and he knew we haven’t taken any overseas jobs since he was born. And he also knew that you’re usually my XO. But since this would be mostly advisory, the Troubleshooters team would be a small one, so—”

  “Mostly?” Sam asked.

  She nodded. “We’d be working with the advance unit, offering suggestions that the task force as well as the Secret Service would consider when making the final plans. Any red-cell work would be done with the assistance of SEAL Team Sixteen.”

  Oh, that hurt, way worse than any broken rib ever could.

  Red-cell assignments were those in which a group—in this case his former SEAL team, led by Alyssa—would attempt to breach the organized security, in order to illustrate the system’s weaknesses, flaws, and outright failures. Sam loved being part of a good red-cell attack, and in this one, he’d have had the chance to work with his friends from Sixteen.

  Alyssa frowned. “Did Jules say that he was definitely going to be part of the FBI advance team? Even while Robin’s on hiatus?”

  They both loved Jules’s husband, Robin. They truly did. But they were also both well aware of the young actor’s weaknesses, and of how hard it was for him when Jules willingly put himself into danger.

  Hell, it was hard for Sam when Alyssa did it, and he wasn’t a recovering alcoholic, like Robin.

  “Jules told me he was going to be over there for at least a month,” Sam reported.

  “I wouldn’t have to be gone for that long,” Alyssa told him. “More like a week, maybe ten days.”