You Don't Know Jack Read online

  I forwarded the e-mail to my computer. Just in case, though, I reached for chain around my neck and withdrew the thumb drive I always carry with me. It contained a copy of my current work in progress. As I tugged the chain from beneath my sweater a creepy sensation of being watched pricked along my spine. I cast a suspicious glance toward the ceiling, expecting to find a hidden security camera. But if there was one, it was cleverly disguised.

  The unease crawled across my neck like a long legged spider. Maybe it was the bare windows that brought the expression "sitting duck" to mind. With the lights in the room on and pure darkness outside, I could be seen without seeing more than my own reflection in the glass.

  I squelched the impulse to shut the blinds. Stone and Hawks could return any moment. Nerves ticked like the counter on a bomb descending toward the moment of explosion. I inserted the portable data holder into a USB port and downloaded the synopsis. Men's voices startled me. Loud. Near the office door, signaling the end of their private chat. I closed the synopsis file, then the e-mail file, then extracted the thumb drive.

  The door to Carter's private office snapped open. I jumped, and the thumb drive leapt from my jittery fingers. I dove for the floor to retrieve it. A loud pop sounded outside. The air seemed to still for a split second. I froze, uncertain why, petrified at the jarring crack that rent the sudden quiet. Then all hell broke loose.

  The window at my back imploded. I screamed as glass and rain poured over me. Cut me. Chilled me. Stone swore, then shouted, "Jack? Jack! Get back in your office, Hawks. Call 911."

  "Jack!!"

  "Stone, what is it?" I shielded my head, frozen with fear. "Earthquake?"

  "Are you hit?" Stone's voice was coming closer.

  Hit? Was he talking glass or rain or —

  Bam! This time without the barrier of the window glass, I recognized the loud pop for what it was. Gunshot. Oh, my God! Someone had shot out the window. Shot at me. Was still shooting at me. I curled tighter into a ball, trying to make myself kitten small. I started to shake. Or maybe I was already shaking and only then became aware of it.

  "Jack?" Stone was at my side, crouched low. "Are you hit?"

  "D–d-don't think so."

  "Stay here." I wanted to crawl completely under the desk and drag him with me, but moving on glass shards hurt.

  At the sound of more glass crunching, I peeked through fingers that were starting to ache from tiny slices of torn flesh. Stone had doused the lights. The only illumination came from outside, other buildings. He was stepping through the door, gun in hand.

  "No, Stone—" But he was gone, out into the night and the danger, moving fast, ducking and dodging, chasing an armed assailant without backup or protection.

  No, God no. I had to do something, but what? I found the courage to uncurl and cautiously rise.

  Outside, Stone shouted. His footsteps grew farther away. Another shot, then an exchange of gunfire. Tires squealed and headlights sprayed the room. Then another shot and quiet fell on me, cutting deeper than the glass.

  Stone?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Imagination in a mystery writer is a good thing. Imagination in a lover can be a very good thing. Imagining Stone lying on the cold wet pavement bleeding to death was all kinds of bad.

  Sirens in the distance got me moving. I shook off the glass and fear and raced for the door and out into the steady downpour. With every slam of my feet on the slick ground, I prayed that I would find Stone before it was too late. I charged through the parking lot and out toward the main street, calling his name.

  Rain struck my face, light now, like tears wetting my cheeks, blurring my vision, ramping up my fear. I'd gone a block when a hand snaked out of the darkness and grabbed my arm. My heart stopped. My eyes gaped. A scream died in my throat as I realized my assailant was Stone. He wore a worried, anxious expression, edged with pain. He was bent over at the waist, holding himself. Breathless. "I... told... you... to stay... where you... were."

  I shuddered out a breath. "Oh, my God, Stone. Oh, my God. Are you shot?"

  "No." The word rang with frustration. "Hitch... in... side."

  Relief swept through me and I thanked God for keeping this man safe. But the killer had gotten away. Where was the justice in that? I locked gazes with Stone. "Did you get a look at him? Do you know who it was?"

  "No."

  "What kind of car was he driving? Did you get a license number?"

  "No." This time the word ground out of him like bits of burnt pepper. I was asking his questions, stepping on his cop sensibilities and he didn't like the role reversal. He straightened, caught me by both upper arms and scanned me up and down like he was reviewing a crime sheet. "Were. .you hurt?"

  I blinked through the raindrops, not wanting to be pulled to this man, not wanting his concern to lure me into believing we could be together for more than a slap and tickle, not wanting to face again the broken, unfix-able part of me that kept us apart. I shrugged. "A few glass nicks, but nothing serious."

  He plucked a chard from my hair, then hugged me, and so help me God, I hugged him back, reveling in the contact, in how safe I felt with his arms around me. If only we could stay like this forever. If only... the cruelest two words in the English language. Sirens neared. Stone released me, and we started back to Carter Hawks' office, hands, bumping, but not touching.

  Two Bellevue Police cars pulled into the parking lot. Stone went to meet them, warning me to stay outside, out of the crime scene.

  I waited until his back was turned and hurried inside to the reception area to retrieve my thumb drive.

  The lights were on, glinting off jigsaw-shaped window bits that littered the desk and carpeting. Jagged slashes of glass still hung precariously in the frame. Wet wool scented the cold air. If it had ever been a place of magic, I couldn't see it now. I picked my way to the desk, every step crunched.

  "Why did someone shoot up my office?"

  I froze. I hadn't seen Carter Hawks standing against the wall, a shadow within a shadow. He stepped toward me now. His face was eerily pale in the defused light. But his eyes were as sharp as those of the predatory birds whose name he shared.

  He had a lot of nerve looking so vulnerable. No one had tried to kill him. I realized he had the closed laptop clutched to his chest, and my heart skipped a beat. He said, "You were sitting at the desk. What were you doing on my computer, Ms. Smart?"

  Something inside me shriveled a little — like being chewed out by a favorite teacher. I had to get over my fear of perceived authority figures, my awe of literary agents. He wasn't my agent, or offering to become my agent. "Where is it? In a safe in your office? Upstairs in your private suite?"

  "I beg your pardon?" His expression went blank, the ultimate poker face — an asset in the art of deal making, I realized, as well as for thwarting nosy PIs.

  But I wasn't easily thwarted. I'd been shoved into traffic and shot at and I'd survived. My lucky streak might not last. I might be living on borrowed time. "We both know you broke into Lars' house and knocked out Bruce this morning when he caught you stealing the manuscript."

  The only crack in his armor was a dent of a smile. "Lars told me you were an aspiring writer, Ms. Smart, and I can see you have an imagination, but you're letting it get the better of you. As I told Detective Maddox, I don't believe in violence or in breaking the law."

  "And I don't believe you. I heard you threaten Bruce at the nightclub." Every instinct told me he had the purloined manuscript somewhere in this building, but he wasn't about to admit that, or hand it over, or better yet, let me search for it. I was fortunate to have found the synopsis. My thumb drive. Had he found that? Was it in his pocket even now? "You shouldn't have moved the laptop, this is a crime scene."

  The police bustled in, and Carter pushed past me to greet them. I used the diversion to scramble around the desk. I squatted, eyes searching the debris on the floor for the thumb drive. Let it be here. But I couldn't see it. "Jack?"

  Sto
ne. I felt a new chill that had nothing to do with the wind and cold blowing through the broken window. How would I explain what I was doing under the desk... again? Would I be arrested? Visions of the non-fun, non-furry handcuffs filled my mind. I started to rise, then stopped as my gaze spied something red poking from beneath a chunk of glass. Not blood. The thumb drive.

  I snatched it up, heart thudding, stomach knotted, and before standing upright again, I shoved it into my jeans pocket. "Jack, what are you doing?" Stone and one of the Bellevue cops were leaning over the desk, peering at me with curiosity and suspicion. "I told you to stay outside."

  I rose, face red. I held up one of my gloves. "Dropped this in the melee."

  Stone glowered, his expression said, "Like hell."

  "These guys need to lock down the scene," Stone said, voice clipped. "And we need to meet them at the precinct to give statements."

  I released a taut breath, silently thanking Stone for the second save of the night, knowing the green-eyed devil would later claim his due when he demanded the truth about what I'd actually lost under the desk.

  Damn my nether regions for clenching with anticipation of that encounter.

  I was evasive with the Bellevue police, keeping to myself my pet theory that the shooter was Frankie Steele. I doubted they'd accept an eavesdropped conversation as proof. Stone was the one to tell about Frankie and his sister Eve discussing my so-called "accident" as well as plotting my future demise. He would hunt them down and arrest them.

  But Stone had taken off while I was still being questioned.

  I stood just inside the exit doors, peering out into the rainy darkness, feeling like Lois Lane after a Superman rescue. He swept in for the save, all sexy and seductive, all hot muscles and heroism, then flew off into the night leaving me alone and vulnerable and cat screeching horny... only I didn't have Clark Kent to bitch to about it.

  If Stone was called away, maybe he left a voice message. I checked my phone. Fourteen messages. My mom, Aunt Abby, Aunt Mamie, Sharkey, Apollo, Duke, Dinah Edger, all three of the Golden Oldies, and four mysterious hangups. Nothing from Stone. Fury stabbed me. This was why I'd sworn off men in general and Stone in particular. He needed from me what I couldn't give, and I needed from him what he wouldn't give.

  I shoved out into the wet night, and immediately spider feet skittered over my skin again. I hurried through the empty parking lot to Old Yeller, made sure no one lurked inside the Mustang, then locked myself in and tore out of the parking lot. It was too dark, traffic too heavy to detect any one vehicle that might be following me down I-405 to Renton.

  Sometimes only speed blows off the stench of rage. I was mad as hell, reeking of it, and driving on the slippery road as though I could outrun my fears. Stupid. Really stupid. But damn it. Someone had tried to kill me. Twice. Tears threatened. Pity tears. I swiped at my eyes. I was glad Stone didn't care enough to stick around and make sure I got home safely. Who needed him? Not me.

  Full blown pity parties are best when attended alone.

  Nothing like some well-meaning, party pooper — aka friend — to drop in and talk you out of it. Or the State Patrol. Spotting twirly red lights ahead, I eased off the gas. Last thing I wanted was more interaction with cops.

  My phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Private caller. Probably the jerk who'd left all the hang-ups. I punched "send" and screamed: "Don't you know it's against the law to use your phone while driving?" I hit "end." Wow. Venting felt good. Great, actually. Sort of like being in control.

  How had things gotten so bad so quickly?

  Two weeks ago I was an aspiring writer, supporting myself on a series of part time jobs. Like other women my age, I dreamed of a career I loved, a hot relationship, eventually marriage and children. Okay, so my sex life sucked and I was barely making ends meet; I was getting by.

  Two weeks ago, I seldom saw, let alone spoke to my rat-fink, first ex-husband. Now he was dead and we spoke nearly non-stop.

  Two weeks ago, I shared an amazing friendship with my BFF. The trust, the fun, the understanding. Now he was accused of murder and might very well be convicted if I couldn't figure out who kept trying to kill me.

  I needed a time machine. I needed to travel back two weeks and drag Apollo to Disneyland, the happiest escapism on Earth. No frowny faces or killers allowed.

  Sadly, until I became a mad scientist, I was stuck in the here and now. That meant solve this case or die. The thumb drive nestled my breasts. Obviously the closest I was getting to sex for a while. Maybe the information I'd downloaded would hold the key to identifying the killer. Pity party done. I had direction and purpose again.

  Traffic lightened at the I-90 corridor, and I made the trip from Bellevue to my parking lot in under twenty minutes.

  I shut off the engine. I regretted not "borrowing" Carter's laptop for a thorough search. I know, dumb idea. If that computer held anything incriminating and I found it by less than legal means, whatever proof there was would be inadmissible in court. No help to Apollo.

  The parking lot was all but empty this time of night. I glanced around, leery. Cautious. The light I'd left on in my apartment outlined Ken-doll's form on the window blind. All seemed normal. Safe. Still, I dashed for the stairs to my apartment, key in one hand, pepper spray in the other. The stairwell was empty, overhead light on.

  I darted up the stairs, itching to collect the forwarded e-mail. I wanted to pour over a print out of the synopsis to make sure my initial read-through was correct. My chilled body, however, yearned for a long soak in a bubble bath with a cup of soothing tea nearby. Okay, I'd read the hard-copy while I bathed.

  I reached my apartment door. My phone rang. Private caller. I answered. "Hello?"

  Nothing.

  "Hello?"

  Nothing.

  My temper reawakened. "I can hear you breathing, asshat."

  An eerie voice said, "Mind your own business or you're the next to die."

  I dropped my phone. The lid flipped shut. All chance to trace the call was lost. Not that I knew anyone who could trace a phone call from a cell phone anyway.

  I hustled into my apartment, locked the door and engaged the chain. The only light was the one I'd left on in the kitchen. The living room was all shadows, Ken-doll a lumpy silhouette. I was breathing hard, shaken from the scare in the hallway. Where was Apollo? He should have been here by now. I stuffed my gloves in my pockets, shrugged off my jacket, and tossed it onto the hook by the door. I had to listen to my voice messages, but first I wanted the hard copy of Lars' synopsis.

  My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Maybe Apollo had been here, grown hungry and gone after something to eat. I grabbed a banana and peeled it on the way to my office. The sweet, ripe scent elicited another comment from my stomach. My home felt as empty as my belly, only eerily quiet. I talked to Ken-doll, needing to fill the shadowy silences. "Ken, you won't believe what I found out today about Lars."

  I flipped on my office light. Glanced at the suspect board, switched on my computer and inserted the thumb drive into the USB port. Between bites of banana and as I waited for the computer to boot up, I said, "Remember when I said I was sure Lars had some devious motive for wanting me to follow Bruce? Well today I discovered what that was."

  I paused, giving Lars opportunity to pop in and defend himself, but since I'd found and read the synopsis and discovered his dirty little secret, he'd gone mute. I muttered, "That's right, hide from me, coward. Be glad you're out of reach of my wrath."

  Even threats didn't rouse him. I opened Word and loaded the synopsis onto my hard drive. "His latest book is based on the murders attributed to the Black Boutonniere Killer. Lars only wanted me at the nightclub where Bruce works, where the first two victims had worked, in hopes that I would discover whatever Stone knew about the case but wouldn't share with Lars. I don't know why Lars assumed Stone would tell me, but he did, and he also figured I'd pass the info onto him to use in his current manuscript."


  The unfinished manuscript. Key word: unfinished. I put paper into the printer. When I'd lived with him, Lars wrote a fast, rough first draft of his books. Always. But not this time. Why was this book different? Was it the story itself? Lars, the man of a thousand plot ideas, had based his latest novel on an actual ongoing murder case. The synopsis was more like a re-enactment of the crimes than a piece of fiction, and I was struck again as I re-read it, why the manuscript remained unfinished. Lars had no ending until the BBK was caught.

  But he had had a deadline. No wonder he was desperate.

  The ramifications of my discovery reverberated through me like echoes off a canyon wall. Jarring and chilling.

  I watched the printed pages easing from the printer. I should be furious at Lars for using me, and I guess part of me was, but another part, the writer part, felt sad for him. Why had Lars locked himself into such an impossible situation? The only reason that made sense was critical writer's block. The kind that kills a career. The panic he must have felt. The pressure to produce.

  Should I worry for my own storytelling lifespan? Did my creative well that seemed so full of ideas — all filed for future use — have limited depths? Like Lars, would I one day hit a wall cutting off the words and inspiration? The thought threatened to make me sick.

  No. I couldn't dwell on that right now. I had to figure out which of my suspects was determined to kill me. I glanced at the list, weighing what I'd learned today against previously known motives. I made notations and studied the board more.

  Bruce and Carter Hawks had dropped from prime positions to lower possibilities. Since I was now positive Lars plagiarized Ruth Lester's story for his last published book, she owned a spot near the top of the list. My favorite suspects, however, remained Frankie Steele and his sister Eve. I added her name below Frankie's. Other than the overheard death threats, though, I had yet to find a motive for them. What had I ever done to either of them to make them want to kill me? Another question I had to find an answer to.