Dan Gallagher couldn’t have been more opposite. When Max had suggested Dan as a Bullet Catcher a few years earlier, Lucy’s first reaction was amazement that the two were friends. They had, in fact, grown up together, gone to the same elementary school in Pennsylvania, and remained close friends, choosing to work together as often as they could. Unlike the indecipherable Max, she never doubted where Dan stood on any issue. He wore his emotions and values on his sleeve, and all over the ever-changing expressions of his handsome face. He was a man in constant motion; clients appreciated his easy sense of humor. Even more, they appreciated his ability to kill with either a gun or his bare hands if necessary.
Neither of these men had ever lost a client. No Bullet Catcher ever had, in the five-year history of their existence.
That record was safe as long as Jessica Adams was alive. If she was, these two men would find her and protect her; Alex could continue to do the real job she’d sent him to do.
“We proceed with the usual caution,” she told Max and Dan. “And Alex will continue to keep Jasmine Adams out of any precarious situations.”
Dan chuckled dryly. “Then she should stay away from him.”
“He’s on his best behavior,” Lucy assured them.
Max raised one eyebrow. “I heard he gave new meaning to tea and crumpets over in Geneva.”
Lucy fought a smile. “As though you two have never had to fend off a principal’s admiration.”
“A principal, sure,” Dan said with a laugh. “Not a principal’s wife.”
Max shook his head, disgusted. “Romero’s a hothead, and too damn pretty for his own good.”
Dan punched him lightly. “Good thing you don’t have to worry about that, Mad Max.”
“He’s keeping the situation under control,” Lucy said. “And he knows the consequences of a mistake.”
Dan sliced his throat with his index finger and let his tongue hang out. “Adiós, Señor Romero.”
“Or worse,” Max said quietly. “Adiós to the client.”
Lucy wasn’t being entirely honest with them, which left an unwelcome weight in her chest. She’d agreed to handle this intriguing assignment a particular way for what seemed a very good reason. She hoped to God it didn’t cost any jobs or lives in the process.
“He knows you’re coming in as backup,” she told them. “Call him on his cell phone when you get to Miami and he’ll brief you in full.”
“Are you heading back to New York after we land?” Dan asked as one of the attendants approached with appetizers.
She raised one eyebrow in the direction of the crew member. “I have some business in Miami.”
Dan and Max were far too well trained to ask what it was, and Lucy was relieved they didn’t. She hated to lie to her employees.
In all of the years Alex spent growing up in Miami, he never knew there was a thriving porn industry tucked into the run-down commercial neighborhoods of Hialeah. If not for Jazz Adams and her relentless pursuit of information, he never would have discovered the studio sets and distribution warehouses that produced, edited, and exported sizeable amounts of USA-made porn to South American countries. Evidently they paid extremely good money to see the American girl next door perform.
Ever since they had struck their “deal” that morning, Jazz seemed to hum with energy. She’d talked him into taking the little BMW, saying that if she needed to convince someone she was Jessica in order to get to Denise, it would be easier if she drove Jessica’s car. Plus, the Z4 had a GPS system installed.
So Alex found himself in the passenger seat of a convertible two-seat sports car being driven by a bold and beautiful woman who not only resisted his efforts to protect her, but embraced every risk he tried to avoid.
At a nearly deserted studio, Jazz charmed her way past a bored security guard who seemed to recognize her. Inside, they meandered through vacant offices, then found an editing suite where a large man with a mane of black curly hair worked on a computer.
He looked up from his desk, color draining from his face at the sight of Jazz.
“What do you want?” he asked as he clicked the screen blank. “What are you doing here?”
She took a step into the office and Alex gripped her elbow lightly to keep her from going any farther. “I’m looking for Desirée Royalle.”
He pushed his chair back and turned the monitor away from them, his gaze moving toward Alex, then back to Jazz. “I thought you were done with her.”
“I need to ask her a few more questions. Do you know where I can find her?”
Alex turned at the sound of footsteps behind them, bracing himself to protect Jazz and take down two men if he had to.
“Find who?” The voice, and footsteps, belonged to a petite dark-haired woman, wearing a bright orange University of Miami football jersey. “Oh…” She swept Jazz with a gaze. “You want Denise Rutledge.”
“She’s not here,” the man offered quickly. “She’s gone for a few weeks, maybe longer.”
The woman gave him a look of disbelief. “She’s shooting next week, Howie. She might even be in today to pick up this script.” She waved papers she was holding at him and then let out an exasperated sigh. “You fired her, didn’t you?”
Howie glared at her. “She quit.”
“Jesus,” the woman muttered, shaking her head. “She was just trying to help.”
Without another word, she marched down the hallway. Jazz watched her for a moment, then turned back to Howie. “I have to speak with Denise. It’s urgent.”
He stood, his sheer bulk menacing in a clumsy way, and Alex moved his hand toward the gun in his waistband.
“She’s done with you,” Howie said to Jazz. “She’s done with this studio. I don’t have a number, an address, or any other way to reach her. And no one else is going to help you with your story.” He cocked his head toward the hall. “Leave now.”
Alex nudged Jazz. “Let’s go.”
She stood just long enough for him to believe she was going to put up a fight and demand information, but she didn’t. She looked at Howie, glanced at his computer, then turned and left.
The minute they were out of the building, Jazz pulled at his arm. “Let’s go find her.”
“Denise Rutledge?”
“No, the woman we just talked to. She knows something.” Jazz responded, looking left and right. “I saw her dig into her pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes. We just need to find the place the smokers hang out.”
They followed the warehouse-style building around to the north side, and sure enough, under an overhang blocking the sun, the woman stood puffing on a cigarette and looking furious.
Jazz marched toward her. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
The woman squinted through her stream of blue smoke and nodded. “Sure. But I can’t really help you.”
Of course not, Alex thought, she’s probably afraid she’ll get fired, too. But why?
“I’m not who you think I am,” Jazz said, pausing at a foot-high metal ashtray overflowing with butts. “My name is Jazz Adams and Denise has been talking to my sister.”
The woman’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief and she stepped back. “No shit. You look exactly alike.”
Jazz stuffed her hands in her jeans pocket and her whole demeanor changed to one of a trusted friend. “I know. We’re twins. What’s your name?”
“Carla. I’m the script supervisor.”
Jazz extended her hand, and the other woman shook it. “Hi Carla. Look, I really, really need to find Denise. Do you have any idea how I could do that? Today? Now?”
Carla shrugged. “I don’t think she has a phone, but I know she lives somewhere out in West Kendall. But she might be gone now. Off to Wisconsin or Minnesota.”
“Why would she go there?”
“She has a son there. I don’t remember exactly where. Somewhere up north and freezin’ ass cold. But that’s why she did all this, why she talked to you—your sister.”
“Because of
her son?” Alex asked.
Carla stuffed her cigarette butt in with about a hundred others in the ashtray. “All the time we smoke together out here during breaks, she talks about that kid. He’s living with his father’s parents up there. She don’t have a clue where the father is. Anyway, she wants custody, but these grandparents won’t let her have him.”
“Why not?” Jazz asked.
“Insurance,” she said as though it were perfectly obvious. “This kid has some weird heart condition and Denise doesn’t have any health insurance. So they found some legal loophole and have custody.”
Jazz looked at Alex, then back at Carla, clearly confused. “How could talking to my sister change that?”
“She thinks Channel Five is somehow going to get people upset about how these poor actors and actresses are paid and treated.” Carla smirked. “As if that’s happening.”
“That’s the story?” Jazz couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “An exposé on the mistreatment of porn stars?”
“Not stars, honey. This ain’t Hollywood, and she sure as hell ain’t Jenna Jameson. This is export trash, and Denise and those girls are more like naked laborers. And it’s only getting tougher, with the Internet cutting into the business. Denise hoped that if the TV station made people aware…” Carla glanced at the building behind them. “But Howie…”
“What?” Jazz prodded. “What about him?”
She shook her head quickly. “Nothin’. I just want to keep my job like everybody else. Denise—she wasn’t going to last much longer. She can’t keep the extra weight off and, let’s face it, this is a young girl’s business.”
Across the parking lot, a man emerged from the building and they all turned to see Howie’s hulking frame walking toward the cars. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them talking. Then he turned the corner out of sight.
“Howie Carpenter,” Carla said the name with obvious contempt. “He’s got no heart at all.”
“What does he do here?” Jazz asked.
“Makes a shitloada money.” Carla stuck her Marlboros back in her pants pocket. “I gotta go. If you see Denise, tell her I said hey.”
When she left, Jazz looked at Alex. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“I don’t know.” He put a hand on her back and headed back to the car. “Health insurance for porn actors doesn’t strike me as a network-worthy story. And don’t forget the first amendment, Jazz. Not much is illegal in this industry anymore, just pedophiles and animal acts.”
She made a face as she clicked the keyless entry to the BMW. “The ick factor is too high for network TV. Jessica wouldn’t waste her time on anything like that. She doesn’t work for the Enquirer.”
“You ever heard of snuff porn?”
“Killing people during sex on film?” She rolled her eyes and reached beneath the driver’s seat to pull out her laptop. “Urban folklore. There has to be a more obvious angle.”
“Maybe she just wanted to break open the story of Hialeah’s secret porn industry.”
Jazz considered that, but shook her head as she fired up the computer. “Too local a story for network.”
Her fingers skimmed the keys, and he noticed she had a habit of slipping her tongue between her lips when she concentrated. Mesmerized, he watched her hands. Her tongue. And everything in between.
Man, he admired her.
The thought smacked him as hard as his Cuban grandmother had when he took the Lord’s name in vain. That’s what felt so disconnected and alien. Plenty of women had earned his attention and affection and protection, and he enjoyed nothing more than showering all of those on a worthy lover.
But no one had earned his respect until Jazz Adams. With her wickedly sharp memory and talented fingers and daring attitude…and a body that made him rock hard and starved for sex.
“She doesn’t have a phone,” Jazz confirmed, peering at the screen. “But I still might be able to get an address.”
As she worked, his cell phone vibrated. Dan Gallagher’s ID appeared on his screen and Alex bit back a curse. Not only had he found himself relegated to the passenger seat, now he had to contend with backup. His lips curled in a wry smile as he answered the phone. What a pair he and Jazz made: two people who hated help, but desperately needed it.
“Dan the Man,” he said as he flipped open the phone. “Welcome to Miami, amigo.”
Jazz flashed him a quick look as Alex listened to Dan’s quick laugh. “Hey Alex. We’re at the Delano. Nice place.”
“If you like topless supermodels,” Alex said.
“Well, except for them.” Dan chuckled again. “Where are you?”
“You don’t want to know. I can meet you later tonight, but can you do me a favor right now and see if Raquel can get a home address for a Denise Rutledge, somewhere in west Dade County, probably Kendall?”
“Hang on.”
Dan put him on hold as Jazz’s look became more pointed. “Who’s Raquel and how can she get the address?”
He grinned, enjoying the twinge of resentment that colored her voice. “Come on, Jazz. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one who can steer through cyberspace?”
“The only one in this car,” she muttered.
“Raquel is Lucy Sharpe’s assistant.”
In a moment, Dan got back on the line. “I got it.” As he read the street address, Alex leaned forward and punched it into the GPS.
Jazz’s jaw dropped as she watched the screen transform into a map of the western suburbs of Miami, a star indicating the house where Denise Rutledge lived.
“Thanks, man,” Alex said. “I’ll call you back later.” He pointed the phone at the screen. “She’s good, Raquel. Well on her way to being a full-fledged Bullet Catcher.”
Jazz swallowed an unwelcome rush of envy. “Good for her,” she said, hitting the switch to flip the convertible roof down.
She drove fast, quietly thinking through her puzzle. Every thread brought her back to Miles Yoder, so when they stopped at a light on U.S. 1, Jazz shared the story of how the Yellowstone board member had missed their rendezvous the night before. Alex immediately jumped to the conclusion that Jessica was having an affair with Miles.
“Never. He’s married. Not Jessica.”
He looked up to the open sky. “You’ve gotta dismantle that pedestal, Jazz. I think we’ve established that the woman’s human. Now you’ve got a powerful guy who leaves his wife in a hotel room to meet a sexy, good looking chick who calls him for a late night rendezvous. This wasn’t a job interview, querida.”
“You’re wrong,” she insisted. “Remember, he didn’t show.”
“Two possibilities there,” he said thoughtfully. “The wife woke up, or he has Jessica bound and gagged in the Biltmore with him and was playing with your head.”
Damn, she hadn’t considered that possibility. “He may have recognized that I wasn’t Jessica and left.” She closed her eyes and reviewed each of the faces she’d seen in the bar that night. She hadn’t been able to find a recent photo of Miles Yoder on the Internet. After 1999, when he unloaded a boatload of tech stocks and got ridiculously rich, there were no more pictures.
She zipped the Beamer onto a side street, past identical houses distinguished only by the various piles of junk in the yards and driveways. This was a thoroughly working class neighborhood, with early 1980s architecture and few paint jobs since then.
Alex peered at the address and driveways. “I saw her get out of a beat-up Plymouth Reliant in the studio parking lot,” he said. “Gold. Maybe an eighty-three.”
“Here’s the number,” she said, pulling into the driveway of a tiny, washed-out ranch with no landscaping…and no Plymouth Reliant in sight. “God, I hope she’s home.”
The doorbell didn’t work, and no one answered their knock. Blowing out a breath, Jazz walked to the front window and peered in. Between the blinds, she could see a ratty sofa with cushions pulled off and thrown on the floor, a few overflowing ashtrays, and a Peo
ple magazine with an open soda can on it.
Several kids rode by on bikes, calling in Spanish to each other. A few doors away, a heavyset man pushed an old lawn mower into his garage. Other than that, everyone seemed to be indoors escaping the heat.
“Come on,” she said, marching toward the side of the house.
“Wait,” Alex called. “Let me go first.”
She paused and sighed. “Determined to take that bullet for me, aren’t you?”
There were only two windows on the side, both covered with closed blinds. Alex opened a chain-link gate to a small, unkempt backyard, and jiggled the sliding glass door.
“It’s unlocked,” Alex said as it rumbled over a rusty metal track.
She stuck her head into the house and called, “Anybody home?” Then she looked up at Alex. “I’m sure you want to do the honors and scope the place out first.”
“As if you’d wait out here.” He stepped into the house and called out again. He walked into the kitchen with Jazz on his heels, his hand close to his gun.
“Denise?” she hollered. “Are you home?”
The place was tiny; it couldn’t have been a thousand square feet. Off the kitchen was a short hallway with one bedroom, and a bathroom, all reeking like the ashtray at the studio. A double bed was unmade and women’s clothes were strewn over the floor. On top of a bureau where all five drawers hung open, half a dozen photos of a blue-eyed boy were flattened as though the display had been wiped down by an angry hand.
Jazz returned to the living room, to an empty cardboard box that lay next to a pile of DVDs on the floor. Crouching down, she plucked through the jewel cases. Porn. Every single one.
She lifted up Teenage Twats and waved it at Alex. “A busman’s holiday?”
He picked up another. “Maybe she’s just studying her craft.”
Jazz stood and glanced around, looking for clues to what made this woman tick. Except for her taste in movies, this could be the ordinary house of any single woman. A coffee mug in the sink had been rinsed clean, but not put away. There were no dishes in the drainer and the refrigerator was nearly empty. A few fast food containers were in the trash.
No drugs, except for tobacco and caffeine. No sign of the wild living of a porn actress. Sifting through the open drawers in the bedroom, Jazz found nothing damning, nothing incriminating. Nothing at all.