You Don't Know Jack Page 15

  Or had he perhaps lost his nerve, figured someone might notice and remember a neon orange bubble leaving the scene of the crime, once the slain body was discovered? TV cop shows were always busting folks for not reporting a murder immediately upon discovery, an offense not only as bad as actually murdering someone, but one that usually proved the scene-leaver was the culprit.

  The front door opened. Apollo stood there, too pale, too frazzled, his black spiked hair flat, crisp black shirt rumbled and splotched with something that looked like dried rusty paint spatters.

  Spatters?

  My heart tensed. Blood spatter? Oh, God, don't let it be that. But it was. I knew it was. I swallowed hard. "W-where is he?"

  Then I swallowed hard again just thinking of viewing another murder victim.

  "In there."

  I balked. "We need to call the police. We need to wait out here until they arrive."

  "You don't understand," he dragged me inside.

  I resisted, glad I was wearing my driving gloves. I didn't want to compromise the crime scene, but Apollo had already done that. "We'll have to wipe every surface you've touched."

  He tugged.

  I relented, responding like a robot to a remote control, moving in slow jerky motion. My heart jack hammered. The horror of being in the locked dressing room with Stone and Lars' dead body walked with me, tapping chilly fingers of fear up and down my spine. My knock-off Manolo Blahniks felt like concrete booties with stiletto heels.

  I trudged through the slate foyer, stepped down onto the bamboo flooring of the sunken living room, blinded by the unrelenting white of the walls, the furniture, the fireplace. Like stepping into an indoor blizzard. I was barely aware of touches of chrome defining rectangular shapes that might be chairs and sofas, tables and lamps. Even the art was minimalist, monochromatic. Everything as pristine as that damned Stetson of Lars'.

  The one break in the relentless snowstorm was Lake Washington framed in picture windows... and nerve-jarring, dark stains on the white throw rugs. More blood spatter. I stopped ten feet from where Bruce lay sprawled on an armless sofa. Dried blood matted his ice blond hair near the temple. More blood smeared his forehead and cheek.

  "How was he—?" I choked.

  Bruce sat up. "What is she doing here?"

  I'm pretty sure I passed out.

  Or died — because when I opened my eyes, I swear I was staring at a humongous white sheet about to be dropped over me.

  "Jack B," Apollo's face popped between me and the sheet. He lifted me into a sitting position. "Are you all right?"

  My focus readjusted. Not a sheet. Just vast white ceiling.

  I struggled up, staring at Bruce. He stared back. I didn't trust what my eyes were seeing. "Are you dead?"

  "Do I look dead?"

  "Well..." His skin was rather gray.

  He pinched me.

  "Ouch." My last nerve cracked. For the second time in two hours I felt the urge to shoot someone. Probably good that I had yet to acquire a gun. Anger dragged me to my feet. I had to bite my tongue not to verbally relieve Bruce of his spray-tanned skin. I was equally pissed at Apollo. He should have phoned back and told me Bruce wasn't dead.

  The tension in the room could melt the white off the walls.

  "One of you had better start explaining," I said. Apollo looked as jumpy as a tied down frog. He reached to straighten my scarf. I slapped his hand away. "Now."

  He raked his fingers through his ebony hair. "Bruce interrupted a thief in Lars' office."

  "Who?" I asked Bruce.

  He shook his head and winced. A pain I recognized from my own recent concussion flashed in his blue eyes.

  "The intruder wore a ski mask," Apollo blurted. "Totally cliché, right? Right?"

  "Man or woman?"

  "Too dark to tell," Apollo said.

  Obviously he'd already covered this ground with Bruce. I glared at Bruce. "Did the intruder rob your tongue?"

  I could only hope.

  He huffed. "No. Lars' unfinished manuscript."

  "WHAT?" Lars chose that moment to scream inside my head.

  Where had he been when I thought Bruce was the latest murder victim of whoever had killed him? I ignored Lars. "Were you able to discern whether the intruder was a man or a woman?"

  "Didn't need to. I know who stole it. That sleazebag Carter Hawks."

  "My agent?" Lars said.

  "I overheard you arguing with him about it at the nightclub the other day," I said. "Why did he want an unfinished manuscript?"

  "Yeah, why?" Lars said.

  "Probably plans to hire a ghost writer to finish it," Bruce said looking at his chipped nail polish.

  "No..." Lars said on a moan. "I'm a ghost. I'm a writer. I can ghostwrite it. I can finish it."

  But he couldn't, and I felt his pain. I wouldn't want someone else finishing one of my manuscripts either.

  "Carter Hawks is the agent of record on the contract for that book," Bruce said, talking with all the emotion of someone about to make a manicure appointment. "I'd guess he's freaked about the thought of returning his fifteen percent of the advance."

  Wouldn't Bruce have to return the rest of the advance to Lars' publisher once the will was through probate? Or had he planned on offering it to the publisher and letting them find someone to finish it?

  "Darlin' you're killin' me."

  I continued to ignore Lars. "Have you called the police about the theft, yet?"

  "I was unconscious until a few minutes ago. But I'm about to sic Stone Maddox on that money-grubbing douchebag."

  My heart clicked into overdrive. I needed to get to Carter Hawks before Stone did. My cell phone rang. Wouldn't you know? Stone. Never there when I wanted him. Always showing up when I didn't.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chanting while driving is as dangerous as texting while driving — even if you chant with your eyes open. Both could land you in a ditch. Or in Stone's handcuffs.

  And not the fun, fur lined ones.

  I was on I-405 heading through heavy traffic in a heavy downpour to the office Carter Hawks maintained in his condo in Bellevue. The windshield wipers slapped to my mantra.

  One day I want a literary agent. One day I want a literary agent. One day I want a literary agent.

  Repeating the words in a monotone did nothing to ease the knot in my gut or to alleviate the unjustifiable fear that if I walked in and called Carter Hawks a thief, I would somehow be blacklisted from all future, potential literary representation.

  "You have to confront him," Lars whined. "Before he hires some hack to finish my manuscript. You can't let that happen."

  "Like you can finish it."

  "I wouldn't mind if John Grisham finished it. Or perhaps, Stephen King. Or James Patterson. He's always working with other writers."

  Yeah, that was gonna happen. I rolled my eyes, peering through the wet windshield as a memory stirred. "Apollo says it's all over Twitter that you were trying to get Carter's name removed as the agent of record on this book. Is that true?"

  "Gossip, darlin'."

  "Why don't I believe you?"

  "I'm sorry to be blunt, Jack B, but your cynicism is a real character flaw."

  I pulled onto the off ramp on NE 8th and out of the rooster tail spray of a semi-truck. My hackles were up. "I thought you wanted my help."

  "I do."

  A red light provided a glance at the directions Bruce had given me. "Then you'll need to stop insulting me and do something that goes against your nature."

  "What's that?" Lars asked, sounding leery.

  "Stop lying."

  He huffed, and I knew he was pouting.

  "I mean it."

  "The relationship was no longer workin'."

  I pressed the gas, turned right. "So, you weren't even going to give him his 15% on this book?"

  "You don't understand. This book is gonna be a blockbuster, the one that makes numero uno on the NY Times List, the one that lands a movie contract."
<
br />   "You weasel. That agent took you on when you were nobody, and he went to bat for you when your first publisher only wanted one book and offered that measly advance. He got you a two book contract and a decent advance with a good royalty percentage instead."

  "Humph."

  I turned left onto Bellevue Way NE and joined the sluggish stream of vehicles inching past the mall. Rainy day shoppers. "Carter got you an auction for the next three books and moved you to your current publishing house."

  "My, oh, my, darlin', aren't you the one with the elephant memory."

  Memory had nothing to do with it. "You bragged about it non-stop."

  "I wouldn't call it braggin'."

  "The point is, you were about to cheat your agent out of a much earned reward. If I were him, I'd have stabbed you."

  "Well, I... that's no reason to murder someone."

  "Seriously? You specialized in action adventure novels. What are the top two motives for murder?"

  "Uh... sex and money."

  "Exactly." I turned right onto Main Street toward Lake Washington Boulevard. Almost there.

  "Look darlin', I'll give you Carter is a shark with contracts and negotiations, but he's not the type to resort to physical violence... he's too short on cahones."

  "He wasn't lacking in that department when he coldcocked Bruce and took off with the manuscript."

  Personal opinion: Everybody has a limit to which they can be pushed. Everyone is capable of murder in the right circumstance.

  But Lars' murder hadn't been a rage killing. So what did that do to my theory about Carter Hawks stabbing him?

  "Do you think Carter killed me?"

  "In the words of a great detective, I forget who, 'I suspect everyone'." Unfortunately, so far, I had not eliminated one name from my suspect list.

  "Look, Jack B, the idea of me finishin' the manuscript isn't as farfetched as you think. I could dictate it to you and you could input it into a computer. Voilá. A true Lars Larson manuscript."

  "And I would get what out of this?"

  "Well, ah, I guess there's no way I can arrange monetary payment in my current condition. I'm not even sure Heaven allows that."

  "You are not in Heaven."

  "I'm not?"

  "Does it feel like Heaven?"

  "No, now that you mention it." He was a small boy in a haunted house, lost and alone and scared. "Where am I, then?"

  You mean beside my head? "I'm guessing you're in that place where the elevator either takes you up or down."

  "Purgatory."

  "Yeah, that."

  "Dear God, I might be stuck here forever if you don't solve my murder, darlin', and help me finish that manuscript."

  Like finishing the manuscript would not resolve his elevator problem. Not. We'd arrived. I pulled into a parking space. "I'm working on solving the murder, but I still don't see where you and I finishing your manuscript benefits me. If you think of something, let me know."

  "Crankier and crankier. If you're any example, celibacy should be outlawed."

  "It's not celibacy's fault." I'd been trying not to think about sex, and pretty much thinking of nothing else. Especially since talking to Stone a while ago. Just the sound of his voice roused unwanted thoughts and urges.

  "And makes you cranky."

  "Stop reading my mind." I shut off the motor and peered through the rain at the two story, brick building. The upper level was, apparently, the living quarters and the downstairs had been set up as office space, complete with a glass front store door and gold lettering proclaiming Carter Hawks Literary Agency.

  My heart gave a thump. Dream come true: I was about to step over the threshold of a literary agent. Nightmare personified: I was about to accuse a literary agent of being a crook.

  A flash in my rearview mirror caught my eye. Damn. Stone was pulling into the parking lot. Twenty minutes ago, he'd told me not to meet him here. The sex-deprived part of me leapt with joy at the sight of him. The rest of me braced for a lecture on not interfering with his case.

  I'd never been saved by rain before.

  As I stepped from the car, and Stone stepped from his SUV, the sky opened up like Armageddon; rain pelted like hail. Blinding. Deafening. We ran for the office door, guided only by the light within. We reached the portico and collided, breathless and drenched. My feet slipped out from under me. Stone caught me, hauled me to his chest, and my body met his like a plug to a socket. Houston, we have connection. Pure, sweet, electrical charge.

  I gazed up into those green eyes and saw fire, not anger, lust, not reproach. My feminine nether regions clenched. My lips parted, not to speak, but in sheer unmitigated invitation. I wanted his kiss so bad it vibrated off me and turned his eyes a shade of moss as soft as velvet. He lowered his mouth toward mine. I shivered in anticipation.

  The office door snapped open.

  "What the hell are you two doing out there?" Carter Hawks barked. "This isn't a motel, you know."

  We broke apart. My face was wet and hot. Unmentionable parts of me were wet and hot. I was embarrassed and so turned on steam wafted off me. I was also annoyed at being caught almost kissing the man who'd made me swear off sex, and for wanting that same man enough to disregard the basic credo of Man-o-holics Anonymous.

  "You need to leave," Stone said in a low, whispered growl.

  "I—" Leave was right. Get the hell as far from him and his willpower bending voodoo skills as possible. But not without hearing what Carter had to say. No, no, no. Stone, however, wore his "do as I say or I'll arrest you" scowl. Shit. My determination faltered. I glanced at my car, back at Carter, up at the black clouds. Lastly at Stone.

  I stepped from under the portico. The sky let out a roar, then drove pellets of rain into the ground with the power of a crazed nail gun. Stone grabbed me out of harms' way, and I took back everything foul I'd ever said about rain.

  Carter ushered us into the front office. I stepped over the threshold on wobbly legs and watched with horror as raindrops dripped from my jacket onto the blue wool carpet. How dare Mother Nature defile this place where magic happened? Where an aspiring author's every sentence could begin with those two delirious words: My agent. Butterflies tap danced in my stomach. Don't hyperventilate. Don't pass out.

  I breathed in a noseful of English Leather cologne. I started to introduce myself, but Carter stopped me. "I know who you are, Ms. Smart."

  Should I be flattered or worried? Good news: a powerhouse agent knew who I was. Bad news: Lars' powerhouse agent knew my name; the possibilities for disaster were endless.

  I knew of Carter Hawks, knew that he'd started out as an assistant to a top agent in a prestigious literary firm in New York. That discovering Lars in the slush pile lifted him from assistant to agent status. That the success of Lars' series prompted him to open his own agency. That sometime in the interim he'd opted to move that agency to the Northwest. That he could negotiate lucrative literary deals.

  That he wanted Lars' manuscript so desperately he might have killed to get his hands on it. This man might be a murderer.

  The sobering thought released me from the grip of agent-awe. Carter was a suspect. Looking at him with that mindset, I saw a white male, medium height, medium build dressed in expensive, nondescript slacks and sweater. Overall impression: beige. Beige hair, beige skin, beige eyes. If he stood too close to the beige walls, he might disappear. Color me green. He could do what I never could: Walk into a room and not draw attention.

  His one distinctive feature was a gentrified New England accent. "What brings a homicide detective and my deceased client's ex-wife to my doorstep on such a horrendous night?"

  "This isn't a social visit, Mr. Hawks," Stone said, cutting off the pleasantries. "I'm investigating a break-in at Lars Larsons' home that occurred earlier in the day, and I need to ask you a few questions. In private."

  I started to protest, but Stone silenced me with a glare.

  "Of course," Carter said without so much as a hit of surprise abo
ut the break in at Lars' house. "I'm sure I don't know what help I can be, but my office is this way."

  The two men retreated to a room in the back and shut the door.

  Left alone, I gave the outer office a once over, surprised and disappointed that on closer inspection I could detect nothing magical or mystical about this place. It was just an office reception area, with a desk, laptop computer, and phone, a leather loveseat, empty coffee table, and one dusty, plastic philodendron. The one distinguishing difference was the poster-sized covers of Lars' books decorating the walls. If Carter had other clients, he wasn't advertising the fact. Lars seemed to be the engine running his boat.

  "That's right, darlin'. Without me, Carter'll have to slither back beneath the rock I plucked him out from under," Lars said.

  My take on the situation starred Lars as the slithering rat snake.

  "Don't just stand there, darlin', find my manuscript."

  If Carter had taken the manuscript I doubted he'd be foolish enough to hide it in the outer office, but Lars was right, I had to look. I hurried to the desk and sat. The drawers were locked. The laptop was running and when I moved the mouse, the screen saver — a photo of Lars and Carter celebrating the first book of the series to hit the extended NYT List — disappeared. I removed my driving gloves and stuffed them into my pocket. I searched the files listed on the desktop for one related to Lars' latest book. Nothing.

  I clicked on the e-mail function and began scrolling. I was about to give up when Lars' e-mail address appeared. An e-mail with an attachment. The attachment was titled BBK.

  My mouth dropped open. Did this BBK stand for the Black Boutonniere Killer? Heart racing, I opened the file. The working title was Lars Larsons' Latest. Nothing to explain the BBK. Nor was it a manuscript, but rather an outline/synopsis. I read through the ten pages, my anger growing exponentially as I realized just how my ex had played me. Was playing me still. "Damn you, Lars, what have you got to say for yourself?"

  I wasn't surprised at the cowardice silence.

  Stone had to see this, but I could hardly call him out here to look at what I'd found by snooping on Carter's computer, especially with Carter in tow. I would show it to him later. After I'd copied it to my computer and printed it out and come up with a plausible excuse as to how I'd come by it.