Hot Target (34 page)

He snapped his briefcase shut. “With that, I must run.”

“Deck.” Tom had noticed him sitting near Sophia. “Sorry, I should have mentioned Sophia’s request to help out. To fill in for—”

“I’m sorry, sir. That doesn’t work for me,” Decker said. “Unless you insist.”

Tom was surprised, but he quickly recovered. “Of course not. You’re the team leader.”

Sophia wasn’t happy. But before she could say anything, Decker excused himself and got the hell out of there.

Cosmo’s favorite time of day for a well-executed B&E was late morning, when most people were at work and the kids were in school. But early afternoon worked well, too.

If the lock on the front door was too challenging, he’d drop through an open bathroom window, take a quick cruise around the house.

Looking for something that didn’t sit right.

Searching for hiding places—good locations to stash a stolen Remington rifle and ammunition. Everything from the traditional—a loose floorboard beneath which was a hidey-hole—to the more creative—false backs built into closets—to the literary—a hole in the drywall hidden behind a poster of Sarah Michelle Gellar or Jennifer Aniston, à la Stephen King’s
Shawshank Redemption.

He was going down the list Jules Cassidy had given them—extras who owned Nazi uniforms.

It seemed as good a place to start as any. And it was significantly shorter than the other lists.

He was up to L—Carl Linderman. A good German name, but it had nothing on Richter.

Carl lived in an apartment on the first floor of an older house that was perched on a postage stamp–size lot in a neighborhood where the houses were ridiculously close together. It had been easy to get inside. The lock on his door was one that could have been compromised by a kindergartner.

Carl lived in one-bedroom, stale-aired squalor. A card table was set up in the dining area off the kitchen, along with a pair of folding chairs. A tattered sleeping bag was open on an air mattress in front of a small television set, but that was it for the furniture in the living room. In the bedroom there was another air mattress, another sleeping bag.

A couple of duffel bags were filled, but only with clothes. Standard jeans, cargo pants, T-shirts. This guy dressed a lot like him. Only there were two different sizes of clothing—one set quite a bit larger than the other. There were two people living here.

The Nazi uniform in question was cut to fit the smaller of the two. It hung in the closet, under dry cleaner’s plastic. There were several other recently cleaned suits hanging there, too.

Pizza boxes, fast-food and candy wrappers, beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and dirty laundry were everywhere.

There was nothing hidden—at least not that Cosmo found.

A telephone wire led from the outlet on the kitchen wall to the card table, as if someone had sat there using a laptop computer, accessing a dial-up Internet connection.

A copy of the shooting script to
American Hero
was on the kitchen counter, but that was it. There were no books, no magazines, no photographs, no personal items at all.

It was as if this apartment were being used only as a place to eat and sleep.

Which wasn’t really that strange—lots of people came to Hollywood to become actors. They spent all their time auditioning or doing extra work, or working some pathetic low-paying day job to cover their rent.

Before he let himself out the door, Cosmo looked out the window to make sure no one was outside—that the inhabitants of the upstairs apartment hadn’t just come home. Movement from behind what looked like a kitchen window in the house next door made him pause. But a closer look revealed that the window was open and what he’d seen was a curtain moving behind the screen.

He slipped out of the front door, locking it behind him.

“Who are you?” an elderly-sounding voice came from that open window.
Shit.
It had been more than a curtain moving in the breeze that he’d seen. “What are you doing here?”

One option was to run. Just book it out of there.

Another was to take advantage of someone who probably spent a lot of time noticing what went on outside of her kitchen window.

He turned to face the old woman, arranging his face in a smile. “Carl lost his script—you know, for the movie he’s in? He asked me to come by and see if he’d left it here.” He held out his empty hands as he shrugged. “No luck.”

“Carl,” the woman repeated. “That the fat one or the skinny one?”

This was definitely a test that he had a fifty-fifty chance of failing. “Skinny,” he guessed, remembering that uniform hanging in the closet.

She seemed satisfied and opened up her back door to peer out at him. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Percy,” he told her. “Me and Carl go way back. In fact, I came out to L.A. on his recommendation. He says he’s doing real well, but you’d think if that was the case, he’d be able to afford some furniture. Dude lives like a nomad. Has he been in this place for long?”

“Just a few weeks,” she told him.

“Ah, maybe that’s it,” Cosmo said. “No time to furniture shop. Nice meeting you, ma’am.” He turned away, but turned back. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know if he’s still driving this big ol’ Pontiac battle cruiser?”

She shook her head. “He’s got a truck.”

“Black?” he asked.

“Red,” she said.

“Have a nice day,” he told her. So much for that.

On to the next.

Robin sat at the bar, squinting into his seventh drink. Or was it his eighth?

He was at that point in the evening where counting became irrelevant.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Adam. Of course. Just his luck. He was still wearing his hair like young Jack’s, which was disconcerting to the bit of Hal that lingered inside of Robin.

It was hard to be someone else for hours and hours and then just expect to return to normal when shooting wrapped. Robin didn’t understand how some actors could just snap their fingers, reclaim their bodies, and go home after a hard day’s shoot.

He needed a good six, seven drinks to calm down both himself and whoever was rattling around inside his head this month.

In this case, Harold Lord. This role was either going to kill him or bring him everything he’d always wanted.

Now, if only he could figure out just what that was. Fortune and fame as Hollywood’s “hottest rising star”? Or . . .

“I’ve already seen way too much of you today,” Robin told Adam, working hard not to slur his speech. He was good at that—not sounding drunk when he was toasted.

Adam laughed, his pretty eyes dancing. More than his hair was Jack’s. Instead of his usual tight jeans and gleaming white T, he was wearing military-style pants and an army-green shirt. He balanced himself on the brass foot rail, but his boots were slippery, and he slid off, bumping into Robin. Obviously intentionally. He caught himself with a hand on Robin’s leg, then draped his arm around his shoulders. “I haven’t seen quite enough of you, so where does that leave us?”

“It creeps me out when you say things like that.” Robin pushed him away. Although the part of Robin that was still Hal kept him from pushing Adam too hard.

“Pretend I’m Jack and you’re Hal.”

“No.”

“I know—pretend I’m Jules.”

“Leave me the fuck alone.” Robin ignored Hal, pushed Adam harder.

The bartender scowled at them. “Take it outside or in the back. Fight or fuck, but don’t do either while you’re sitting here.”

“Two more of what he’s having,” Adam ordered. “And keep ’em coming. We’ll be good, I promise.” He faced Robin, elbow back on the bar. “Come on, Robbie. It wasn’t
that
bad today, was it?” He laughed. “We sure fogged up the fart’s glasses.”

“The director’s name is Lenny,” Robin said.

“Yeah, like he’s your best friend. I read the trades—I know he came with the distribution deal from HeartBeat. Did you know his claim to fame is a laxative commercial?”

“He’s done a bunch of movies,” Robin countered. “Look, just . . . go be negative somewhere else. He’s doing fine.”

The bartender delivered the drinks and Adam took one, shoving the other toward Robin. He raised the glass. “Here’s to finishing what we started, hot stuff.” He took a sip. Licked his lips.

Robin closed his eyes. “Get away from me.”

“I’m kidding. Come on.” He took another sip. “Although, seriously, can’t you admit, just a little, that you enjoyed—”

“Here’s how it works,” Robin told him. “Hal’s in love with Jack. I’m playing Hal, you’re playing Jack. It’s called acting.”

“Why do you hang out in gay bars, I wonder?” Adam asked, obviously changing tack. “Why are you here tonight, Roberta? You had to know I’d be here, too.”

It was a good question. One Robin didn’t have an answer for. He’d thought about going over to the hotel where Jules was staying. Sitting in
that
bar. Both hoping Jules would come in and hoping that he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d gone out with Harve and some of the other guys from makeup, and wound up here.

Where, in retrospect, yes, it made sense that Adam would find him.

Adam, whom he’d made out with for hours this afternoon, while cameras rolled. Adam, who’d taken advantage of the fact that Hal was in control to put his hands all over him.

All
over him.

Hal had loved it.

Hal had gotten so freaking aroused, he’d practically embarrassed them both right there on the soundstage.

Hal, who despite eight drinks—or was it nine now? Holy Jesus, Robin was running out of fingers and Hal still would not leave him—Hal, who seemed to have retained possession of a certain part of his anatomy, was damn near ready to drop to his knees and beg for Jack to touch him like that again.

Except Jack wasn’t here. Adam was.

“Okay, here’s a question maybe you
can
answer, drunk boy,” Adam said, finishing his drink and signaling the bartender for another. For both of them. “I couldn’t help but notice that Mercedes’ initials were forged—and badly, I might add—on those revised pages of script. You know, the handshake version that we filmed today.”

Oops. “You noticed that, huh?” Robin said.

Adam laughed. “What, you thought maybe I wouldn’t?”

“You know how HeartBeat Studios wants us to cut Jack Shelton out of the movie entirely?” Robin asked. “Obviously, one option would be to cut the Hal-Jack relationship, which is stupid, right? It’s the heart of the movie. So what I’ve started doing—don’t tell Janey—is working with the director on a ‘compromise.’ ” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “We’re writing a second version of each ‘questionable’ scene. This keeps Jack in the movie, but really downplays his relationship with Hal. It’s become a ‘friendship’ instead.”

“So you’re cozying up to HeartBeat and rewriting your sister’s movie without her knowledge?” Adam said.

“No, see,” Robin said, “I’m, like, a double agent. I’m
pretending
to work with HeartBeat. We’re still filming Janey’s script; we’re just doing this other version, too. HeartBeat thinks we’re considering the changes they want—they’re happy. The word leaks out to the public that we’ve made some changes, the shouting dies down. And maybe even this guy Janey calls Mr. Insane-o, maybe he disappears, too.”

“But she doesn’t know anything about this?” Adam asked.

“She’s a little distracted right now,” Robin told him. “What with Murphy and Cosmo.”

“Oh, shit, what happened to Cosmo?” Adam was seriously upset.

“No,” Robin said. “Nothing. I mean, Janey happened to him.” He looked at his watch, but he couldn’t read it. Not a good sign. Still, it had to be pretty late. “They’re probably playing Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf right now. Or whatever Janey’s into. I’m kind of just guessing based on the fact that we’re related.” Whoops, that came out sounding sort of flirty. Hal watched Adam for his reaction.

There was none. At least not to that. “God, you scared me,” Adam said. “You asshole.” He laughed, tossed back his drink. “Whew. I needed that. God. I thought the body count was going up or something. The thing with Murphy . . . Man. And his wife? That’s bad shit.”

“You should’ve seen the blood on the driveway,” Robin said.

Adam was silent for a moment, just looking at him. “Was Jules there?” he asked. “Because that’s what he does. People start shooting and bleeding and dying and stuff. Most people run in the opposite direction—he runs toward it.” He shook his head. “It’s crazy.”

“He drove me up there,” Robin said. “We were having dinner and—”

“Dinner?” Adam laughed. “Wow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Adam made eye contact again with the bartender. “No, I’m just . . . Dinner’s a very big step for J. He must really like you, Robskie. I’m impressed. And isn’t it cool watching him do the FBI agent thing? Very manly. It’s a turn-on. And a turnoff at the same time, because, well . . . He show you his scars yet?”

Scars, plural? Jules had more than one? “During dinner?” Robin asked.

“Was it room service?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’m slightly less impressed.”

“I’ve seen one of them,” Robin said. “His scars. On his back.”

“Well, go J.” Adam smiled at Robin, but it was tight. “And go Robbie, you devil, you. I’m proud of you, babe. Way to push the edge of your sexual envelope. Who got to be the wolf?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Robin went to work on his new drink. “Very funny.”

“I guess you got the story, then, huh? How he was shot?”

He sloshed it on the bar. “Jules was
shot
?”

“So you didn’t get the story,” Adam said. “It was just sex, huh? No talking? Why, J., you nasty beast.”

“We didn’t have sex,” Robin growled. “He changed his shirt. I noticed his scar. That’s all.”

“Because you’re saving yourself for me?” Adam said. “That’s so sweet.” He put his hand on Robin’s leg.

Robin shifted away, but Hal kept him from shifting too far. “I can’t believe he was shot.”

“It was pretty bad,” Adam said. “You know, he almost died.”

Died as in dead? Shit. “When’d this happen?”

“Couple years ago,” Adam told him, stopping to look closely at the fresh drink the bartender had just pushed his way. “What
is
this? Whatever it is, it’s my new favorite drink.”