Demarco eyed Jack, curious as to where he was going with this. He was not ready for another confrontation about his career choice. "Oh, Reed will be fine," he said, dismissing. "He'll find a way to manipulate it to his advantage. Trust me."
Jack nodded. "Good," he said.
"Are they ever going to let me out of here?"
"You were scheduled for discharge at ten." Jack looked at his watch. "It's almost noon, so they're pretty much on time... hospital time, that is."
"I see you brought me a bag."
"Yes. I hope you don't mind. I went to your place and packed some essentials. We're going to a hotel, for now—The Dupont."
"Really? That's a little bold, don't you think?"
"No. After all the attention it's probably the safest place on the planet. We found a gun in the laundry chute there. It's the same kind the DC sniper used in 2002—a Bushmaster XM-15 rifle. It could be a copycat. The press doesn't know about that part yet... otherwise, this story would be wildfire."
"Does any of that mean they're close to solving it?"
"No. But they're running background checks on everyone who stayed there between certain dates... and cancellations. It's standard procedure."
Demarco nodded, not knowing what to say. His sense of humor was waning, deflated from worry, and being stuck in the same room for the better part of twenty-four hours. He was ready to be released from medical confines, out in the warm sun and crisp fresh air—but he was also concerned about his safety, and rightfully so. He looked at the window and sighed.
Jack picked up on Demarco's apprehension like an emotional barometer. He tried to distract him in the best way he knew how—at least the best way inpubliccircumstances—by discussing other aspects of the case. "It's too simple," he said. "It doesn't make sense. If Abir is wanting to orchestrate a big gay defection for money and fame-induced asylum, who would be trying to kill him?"
"I thought I was the target."
"It's possible... but not concrete. And how would they know so quickly? Even if the show was already being shot, it hasn't aired. Who would know? How would they know?"
This awakened Demarco's inner Jessica Fletcher. "Unless it'spartof the show," he said. "Maybe I wasn't supposed to be hit. Maybe it was an accident."
"Maybe. But we can't depend on that. It's too dangerous."
Demarco shrugged. "So, now what?"
"We get you out of here and into the hotel. Let the FBI do the detective work, while you and I do a little investigating ourselves." There was a slight, sly tone to Jack's last statement, his eyes giving the tiniest of twinkles. Demarco picked up on it immediately.
"So, tell me, Jack... when you were packing my bag, how deep did you dig in my drawers? Ten, twenty, or fifty shades?"
Jack's grin broadened.
"Never mind," said Demarco. "I'm sure what you brought is just fine."
They were interrupted by a tap at the door as a bespectacled doctor in scrubs entered. He was looking down distracted by the chart in his hands. "Hello there... Alfred." He said. "How are we feeling? Ready to get out of here?"
10
Their room was on the fourth floor overlooking the circle. Jack was lying on the bed—shoes, blazer, and tie off, eating an apple. Demarco was unpacking the duffel.
"Not bad, Mr. Keegan. You have good taste." He held up a pair of faded jeans in one hand, and a black polo shirt in the other. "Or should I say, I do."
Jack rolled to his side, giving Demarco the once-over. He said nothing and took a large, loud bite from the apple. Demarco was struck by how sexy he was, lying there on the bed, in his now rumpled formal wear, sans accessories... and those crazy blue eyes, alluring and secretive. What was he thinking?
Demarco placed his toiletry bag on the bathroom counter without bothering to unpack it. He removed his shoes and joined Jack on the bed.
"So," he said with a grin. "What do we do now?"
Jack tossed the apple core into a wastebasket near the desk.
"Score!" said Demarco, followed by an audible breath mimicking the sound of applause.
