“This is completely on the down low. You’ve got to promise.”
“Yeah. Sure. You know me.”
I do. He’s tight. “Sophie Larsen.”
“No shit! She’s fucking gorgeous.”
Tell me about it. “She’s also scared as hell right now. Whoever busted up that parade was shooting at her.”
“Shit. The news speculated it was the work of an anti-government terrorist.”
I roll my eyes. “You know better than to believe a cover story.”
“That’s why I called you. The police didn’t catch him, by the way.”
I didn’t think they had. The shooter was too good. Sure, his first shot went wide, probably because Sophie was dancing, but if I hadn’t hustled her from the platform and out of the area, he probably would have offed her. “And I know he’s not giving up, because he’s either got a purpose or a mental illness.”
“Either can be fatal.”
“Yep.” And I’ve got to figure out how to keep Sophie safe. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Fine. Shit’s starting to happen here. I think my cover assignment is coming to an end.”
Rush would know. “Life of a spy, huh?”
“Don’t say that shit over the phone.”
Rush is convinced the NSA records everything. Hell, he’s probably right.
“Sorry, man.” He doesn’t offer more details about his job, and I don’t ask. Given his line of work, I know there’s only so much he can say. “I gotta go.”
“Sure. Check in, would you?”
“Will do. Hey, do you know if Ridge is around?”
“I talked to him last night. He’s home.”
“Great. Thanks.” He’ll help me if I need cash or a hand.
“Love you, bro.”
Rush never has trouble expressing his feelings. Maybe because he’s learned the hard way that any day could be his last.
“Love you, too.”
We hang up, and I yank my shirt down my torso, then emerge from the bathroom. At the end of the hall, Sophie is on the sofa in some cross-legged pose that would make me feel like a pretzel, curled up with a book about Texas gardening.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Learning anything?”
She looks up at me with a tired grin. “Yes. Why I have a brown thumb. Apparently, you have to be home to water your plants more than occasionally.”
“That would help.”
“Is your thumb greener than mine?”
“I’d be lying if I said it was.” I cross the room and sit in the big navy-blue chair opposite her, then set my weapon on the table beside her. “Sophie, I need to ask you some questions.”
She sets the book aside with a sigh. “I know. But I really don’t know who would want me dead.”
“You’re sure it’s not a disgruntled family member?”
“No. Like I said, my dad has written me off, my mom has moved on, and my half siblings are all too young.”
“Crazed fan?”
“I guess it’s always possible, but I can’t think of one. Usually, there are hallmarks—at least according to other celebs I’ve talked to. You know, they contact you, try to get your attention, make it personal, develop a relationship with you…”
“And resort to violence when they feel spurned, yeah. None of that?”
She shakes her head. “I got good advice early on to make fans feel important but to keep them at arm’s length. I do backstage meet-and-greets but rarely invite the same person twice. I almost never respond to people on social media except with a vague ‘thanks’ or ‘glad you enjoyed it.’ I never engage the haters or the crazies. And until today, I’ve never had a serious problem.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a good job. I didn’t think this shooter functioned like someone acting out of emotion. He was too organized. I guarantee he had a plan and an exit strategy, which is the hallmark of someone experienced, maybe even professional.”
Sophie sucks in a breath. “A professional? Who would pay to have me killed?”
“Someone who feels you’ve done them wrong, who can’t afford to get their hands dirty, and who has the cash to throw at an assassin. That should narrow your list. Anyone who feels you’ve stabbed them financially?”
“Other than a change of agents a few years ago, I’ve been doing business with essentially the same people since I started. Same label, same producers…”
“How’s your relationship with David?”
“It’s great.”
“And your former agent? How did he or she take the split?”
“She was pissed, but after an initial outburst, she reined it in because she’s going to continue getting residuals from my older material, which still racks up airplay and downloads.”
Sophie has a point, but I’m not writing off either agent yet. “Former lovers?”
“There aren’t that many, and I still speak to all of them.” She wrinkles her nose. “In some ways, the music industry is like living in a small town.”
“Everyone knows everyone?”
“Mostly.”
I think back to the list of men who have been associated with Sophie in gossip rags, but their public personas come off like the sensitive coffeehouse sorts, not anyone who seems dangerous. But I’m not judging a book by its cover. “Ever felt unsafe with any of them?”