CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Hit
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. . .
Now, Juliet felt, the mission was fully real, because now she and Carlton were truly under the microscope.
They made their plans in whispers, in bed, under the covers, interspersed with lovemaking—because desire was always so very close to the surface. She honestly couldn't fathom how she'd worked side-by-side with this long lean luscious blue-eyed man for years without being pulled inexorably into his grasp.
He was just so… delicious. Exploring his body, tasting the salt and heat of his skin, she was exhilarated by his arousal and his need and those glorious blue eyes which were every warm summer day and every deep blue sky just before sunset and a host of other incredibly accurate (albeit romance-novel-esque) phrases.
"What are you seeing when you look at me like that?" he asked with a gentle touch to her face.
"You," she answered simply, and a kiss said all the rest.
In the early evening they emerged from the bedroom and set about making dinner. Carlton did as much as he could with his eyes closed to authenticate his actions, even though it was only audio surveillance. It was interesting how much simple speech had to be adjusted; it wouldn't do for her to say, "turn down the water when it gets to a boil" or for him to say casually, "That looks as good as it smells."
She didn't think Hugo suspected Carlton wasn't blind. His main interest was to be certain she was sticking to the plan. But if they gave away the game with unguarded speech, it was all over now and she might as well be on actual suspension.
They ate at the table, very aware of the microphone underneath, and had a carefully scripted conversation about the next day. She reminded Carlton she had afternoon errands—grocery, pharmacy, a run by her place. They talked of upcoming (mythical) doctor's appointments for him. He expressed regret that she had to do all this by cab and suggested she call on a friend, or even Guster, but Juliet was cheerfully adamant she could do it alone. She wanted to be sure he'd be all right for the afternoon and they discussed an audiobook he would listen to. He wanted to get some exercise—sit-ups, push-ups, and so on—and she pointed out slyly he'd been 'exercising' with her the last couple of days.
They flirted enough to either rev Hugo up or turn him off, and the side effect was that by the time they took everything back to the kitchen, Carlton had a gleam in his decidedly not-blind eyes and did some rather wicked things to her from behind while she was trying to wash the pots and pans and he was supposed to be drying them.
Yeah, they'd end up back to the bedroom before too long. She considered asking him to do her on the table above the microphone, but decided they probably didn't need to provide quite that level of authenticity.
The nicest part of the evening was sitting on his sofa in the falling light, cozy together. Carlton told her more than he ever had about his summer weekends at Old Sonora; Juliet talked about her brothers and how her stepdad Lloyd filled the void Frank O'Hara had left in her young life. Lloyd was a little odd, she admitted, but he was steady and there and that was more than she'd gotten from her blood relation.
And then they kissed, slow luxurious unhurried kisses, and Juliet thought of all the evenings she should have spent just like this, in his arms, in his love, a love she could feel enveloping her without him having admitted to it.
Carlton whispered sweet words, his breath warm against her ear, and it was far too much trouble to move to the bedroom now. They made love quietly, breathlessly, under the velvety blue throw, and Juliet fell asleep in the embrace of the man who already held her heart.
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. . .
Leaving for 'work' late Monday morning wasn't much different from other Mondays in Juliet's life—up, dressed, breakfasted, news read, mail checked, day organized—with one exception: she'd never before been held back and French-kissed at the front door by her freshly-showered and still half-undressed partner, best friend and lover on her way out.
But she could get used to that.
The 'trouble' started earlier when he asked for a shave, and this time actually let her do it for him. She could hardly concentrate with those ocean-blue eyes watching her, and Carlton seemed to have a little trouble too, and whether it was because they remembered how the previous shave ended or it was just their ongoing lust for each other, Juliet ended up on the bathroom counter with her legs around his waist, her moans echoing down the hall as he plundered her, shave forgotten, all forgotten—just need. Connection.
Damn.
Yes, she could get used to that too.
Refreshed if a bit dazed, Juliet set out at twelve for her assigned task.
Hugo had said every key player on his team would have a solid alibi during the afternoon, but that didn't mean she wasn't being watched by a lesser player, or eye-for-hire, so her first stop was at the hospital, supposedly to pick up meds and information for Carlton, but where Berman had arranged to meet her in one of the rooms along a back hallway.
He grinned at her. "You ready?"
"To pretend to kill a man I've never met? Bring it." She spoke with mock defiance, but something about Berman's expression gave her pause.
"About that. Damski wants to meet you."
"What?"
"Damski wants to meet the woman who's going to put him on the evening news." His tone was dry. "He said he wouldn't cooperate further unless he spoke with you first. I pointed out that I could kill him myself right there, but my supervisor said no."
"What is the point of—" She stopped. "You know what, whatever. I don't care. Let's just get this started already."
"Good choice. Come with me."
Juliet followed him out into the hall and down two doors into a small exam room filled with bristling Federal agents and one smirking killer.
Sage Damski, she thought, looked a lot like Gérard Depardieu on a bad day, which admittedly had to be most days for the aging and creepy actor. She didn't like Depardieu, and there was nothing to like about Damski either.
The agents parted and Juliet met Damski's appraising gaze without feeling the need to be polite.
"The lady killer," he said.
"That's the plan."
"Lovely, too," he added, and his smirk grew salacious.
Juliet inquired, "When it's time, would you prefer a shot between the eyes, or one directly to your crotch?"
Berman snickered. "We'll stick to the script, I think."
"Shame," she said sweetly. It was a mere chest shot, easier for all parties to fake.
Damski laughed, but then he could afford to laugh: the Feds were going to a lot of trouble to keep his worthless ass alive just to bring down DiMera and his operation, and so far as he knew, they'd have to drop their investigations into his other alleged crimes. "I like you."
"Glad to hear it. Are we done now? I really need to go refresh my memory about the weakest parts of a Kevlar vest."
His dark gaze flickered, and Juliet considered she'd won that round. She nodded to Berman, who took her back to their original meeting room.
Her itinerary was simple: in ninety minutes, Damski was going to go to his usual afternoon haunt, a beach bar close to the pier. From a pre-selected vantage point across the street at the mouth of an alley between a florist and a sidewalk boutique, a red-wigged Juliet was to wait until he stepped onto the deck, and at precisely 2:03, shoot him in the heart.
He would go down—and despite his innate nastiness, he simply had no reason not to cooperate now—with his conveniently burst blood pack, and 'customers' in the bar would rush to his aid, call the police, declare his deadness, etc.
Juliet would be long gone, of course: once the shot was fired, she was to high-tail it down the alley to a door Berman's people would have left unlocked, so she could make her escape unseen.
She wondered why they needed her to perform the 'kill' if no one was going to see her; any one of those agents could have fired the shot, or hell, they could have programmed the blood pack vest to explode with enough force to burst the pack and send Damski reeling.
But there needed to be a bullet, Berman reminded her, and the potential of witnesses, so the evening news would be full of colorful details (including the discovery of the wig in a nearby trash can after a 'witness' near the florist spoke of seeing a red-haired woman loitering near the alley before the shooting), all to convince Hugo and DiMera the deed was really done.
They gave her a wig which she could tell Hugo she'd had at home—necessitating a cab run by her apartment to 'prove' she'd picked it up—and with every detail in place, she was left only with a burning need to talk to Carlton. To hear his voice.
Later, she reminded herself. Work now, be with him later.
With forty-five minutes to spare, she found herself headed to the bar where she'd met Hugo Nardi to begin with. Might as well maintain that 'routine' as well.
The bartender nodded when she approached to order her drink. "Thought you'd moved on," he commented.
"Nope. Just couldn't get here this weekend. You missed me?"
He gave her a look. "You don't cause trouble, you don't ask to run a tab, and you're not bad-looking, so yeah. I always miss customers like you. Peanuts?"
Despite the laconic nature of the answer, she was amused, but found a table near the door before he could decide to chat her up.
Forty minutes. In twenty, a cab was picking her up to take her to a spot three blocks from the Alley Of Doom.
Three minutes later, Henry Spencer came in.
Juliet froze, glass halfway to her lips.
Too quickly, he scanned the dim room to find her, and without ceremony, sat down and folded his arms on the table. "Hey."
"Henry. Nice to see you." She took a swallow, bracing herself for what the senior Spencer might have lined up for her.
"Yeah? I don't know if it's nice to see you. Not in a bar, anyway."
"Take what you can get," she suggested mildly.
"Guess I have to. So what's going on with you and Lassiter and Shawn?"
She gave him a look similar to the one the bartender had given her. "There's no longer anything going on with me and Shawn, I'm taking care of Carlton, and what's your real question?"
His eyes—faded blue, but sharp as ever—locked on hers. "Juliet. I know it's early days yet, but from what Shawn said it sounds like you've dug your heels in and set your course already."
"Meaning what, mixed clichés aside?"
"Meaning you shouldn't be so sure you're the one who has to do all the taking care of Lassiter."
Juliet sighed. "What did Shawn say? Is this about his pride, because I broke it off with him?"
Henry blinked. "You broke it off with him?"
Now she got it. "Uh yeah, about a month ago. He's had a little trouble accepting it."
"Oh." He was annoyed. "I guess he has."
Shawn, she thought, you are so very selective with the details you share.
"So what did he say? I'm neglecting him, and he's worried about me because I've subjugated myself to a life of drudgery, since no one could ever stand to make a life with Carlton?"
He leaned back. "Something like that."
"And what do you think?" she challenged him.
Surprised again, he shifted in the chair and looked away for a moment. "What do I think?"
"Yes. You think I'd be wasting my life if I built it around Carlton? My best friend and long-time partner and the person I trust most in the world?"
He studied her. "I didn't hear the word love in there."
Juliet said quietly, "That's because it's none of your business."
"Okay, look." Henry rested his arms on the table again, obviously feeling he was back on firmer ground. "I knew a cop a lot of years ago who lost his sight as a result of a shooting. He had a wife, a gal who was crazy in love with him, and she thought what you might be thinking: that she could be what he needed for as long as he needed it."
She took a sip, keeping her expression neutral.
"But the more she tried to be everything for him, the more he needed to be the man he was before. Independent. He ended up feeling smothered, and they split up, and nobody was happy. Now, I know Lassiter. He's spent the last twenty years being the best damn cop he could be and going it alone the whole time. Except for you as his partner and what passed for his marriage, he's never let himself rely on anyone. For a man like that, being forced to rely is a bitter pill, maybe even more bitter than being blind. He may come to resent you, and all those feelings you think you have now really won't amount to much when it all shakes out."
Thing was, she knew Henry could be right about Carlton, if this scenario was legit. Except Carlton wasn't blind, and his fears were mainly that she was with him now because of her failure to be there after Dozier nearly killed him.
It was going to be so hard to rebuild these friendships when the truth came out, and she felt a little sick at the prospect that some of them might not survive.
"Henry," she said slowly. "I know you mean well. I even know you can see Carlton's innate value and decency."
He nodded.
"And you know something about me as well. You know I could have requested a new partner or transferred out a long time ago. If I couldn't handle working with Carlton—if we weren't the best team ever, particularly when Shawn's not around to distract me into sabotaging it—I'd have moved on to something more peaceful by now. I know Carlton, just like you do, but at a deeper level, and it's been that way for years, not just the past week."
"Your feelings for him," he started. "They—"
"My feelings run deep, I'll say that much. But they're also honest, Henry, and they take into account who Carlton is, good and bad, bad-tempered and gold-hearted—and if you ever tell him I outed his secret niceness, I'll kick your ass." She smiled. "I learned a lot from Shawn about what I need in a man. In a relationship. I owe him for that, even if it's not quite the impact he intended. And I appreciate you trying to steer me right, and I know you're thinking I'll come around in a few months and tell you I should have listened, but it's not going to happen."
He gave her a patented Henry Spencer Look of Appraisal, and for a few moments she thought she'd squashed him.
"So… why are you in a bar, drinking?"
Juliet took a deep breath.
"Why were you in a bar the day of the accident?"
Crap.
"Henry, did you follow me here?"
He smiled. "Maybe. Almost lost you when you left the hospital; your cabbie took some creative turns."
Double crap: if Hugo did have someone watching her, then Henry tailing her might have been noticed, too.
"Where is the line, exactly, between friendly concern and outright stalking?"
He was taken aback. "Stalking? Come on, it's not like that. It's just hard to get you alone when you're holed up in Lassiter's bunker 24/7."
"You understand he's not the only one who experienced a traumatic event, right? I'm not quite ready to face the world either. It's kind of a big deal to even come here for a drink, and to answer your question, it's because I don't want to drink around him, not after what I did. I'm not an alcoholic, Henry. You know that. I just screwed up big-time, one time, and I'll pay the price forever, and if Scotch once a day for a while helps soothe a few of my self-ruffled feathers, I don't really see the problem."
"Juliet…" But he trailed off.
Juliet glanced at her watch. "I'm expecting a cab in a few minutes to take me to my next stop. You want me to ask him to drive slowly so you can keep up? Maybe at the library we can talk about Shawn's grasp of what a breakup means."
"Ah, no, I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm sorry, kid. Can't help but be concerned."
"Yeah, I know." She downed her drink and collected her bag, and when she got up, she gave him a smile. "It's just sad that everyone's concerned about my future, but no one seems to give a damn about Carlton."
Protesting, he followed her out into the sunshine, but she'd wanted that: she wanted any potential DiMera spies to see her disagreement with Henry.
"People do care," he said emphatically. "More than you realize. But those of us who know him aren't going to push right now because we're still trying to get our heads around what happened ourselves. We just don't want you to lock yourself into a world you're no more ready for than he is."
"Henry, any place I lock myself with Carlton is a place I choose to be." She patted his arm. "Now come on, if you're still stalking me. I have to check out some Civil War audiobooks."
He put up his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay. Just remember I'm here for you. Both of you. All right?"
She gave him a quick hug, and tipped the cabbie extra for showing up a few minutes early to rescue her.
Next stop, the library—making sure Henry's rattle-trap truck wasn't in sight (honestly, how could she have missed it earlier?).
Maybe because you were thinking about being 'locked up' in the bedroom with Carlton, you hussy.
Yeah, well, the shoe did fit.
Into the restroom, on with the red wig which had been stuffed in her purse, out of the restroom, into another cab at the north side of the lot.
Dropped off three blocks from the beach bar, she sauntered along the sidewalks, window shopping and seeing enough of her reflection to decide dark blonde was a better look for her. She loitered at the florist, inspecting the flowers outside near the alley.
She had a clear view of the bar and its side deck, as well as the pink and blue umbrellas which shaded the afternoon customers from the beach-side sun. Her angle was such that if she were of a homicidal nature, she might have chosen such a spot herself.
It was fifty yards, give or take, from the alley's mouth to where Damski wandered out onto the shady deck.
Juliet checked her watch again.
In an alternate universe, could she really do this? Could she really kill a man to make money to help Carlton?
The answer was the same as the last few times she'd asked herself.
2:03.
She raised the pistol and shot the son of a bitch.
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