The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(69)

"Really? So this will be a party of three, then?"

"Oh, I don't do anything without him."

I was just giving Jamie my phone number so he could call me for directions to my house when a female voice summoned me from inside the service department. "Miss Hunter?"

I turned around. "Yes?"

"Your rental car is ready. Would you mind coming inside and signing a few papers for us?"

"Not at all." I turned back to Jamie. "So I'll see you at eight?"

"Ah, the mysterious letter H is finally revealed!"

I laughed. "So now you know. The secret is out."

Not all the secrets, the voice in my head annoyingly reminded me. I chose to ignore it, decisively silencing every persistent premonition that this whole thing was a big mistake.

"Now, does the last name Hunter symbolize any sort of characteristic personality trait in you?" Jamie asked. "Like how the Native Americans used to name their people by what they liked to do? Sitting Bull, Dances with Wolves, Swimming Naked...Man Hunter?"

I laughed again, this time in an attempt to mask my uneasiness. "Well, I guess you'll just have to find out, won't you?"

"I'm rooting for the Swimming Naked one."

"Don't press your luck," I warned. But I couldn't help remarking that he was probably more on target with the Man Hunter suggestion. Although I much preferred the qualified version of Evil Man Hunter.

I waved good-bye to Jamie, wished him luck with his "Jag-wire," and followed after the woman who would be providing me with my rental "Batmobile" for the day.



MY STANDIN, superhero vehicle was not nearly as nice as my usual mode of transportation but, nonetheless, it managed to successfully get me to my destination in one piece.

Although I had to admit: Tonight's superhero-esque activities were not exactly "all in a day's work." Tonight's agenda consisted of a much different kind of endeavor. Yes, it essentially utilized the same skills and costumes. But the end result would be of a much different nature. I rationalized, however, that it fell in the realm of the same quest and, therefore, was allowed.

Besides, I'm sure sometimes Superman has to thwart off evil in a more roundabout way. As much as he'd like to, sometimes he can't just go straight after the bad guy; he has to go after the source that's aiding the bad guy. His bank account. His accomplices. The mad scientist who stays up nights in his laboratory manufacturing whatever magic goo-like substance gives the bad guy his superhuman strength.

Or, in my case, the guy who's hosting the bad guy's Web site.

I had e-mailed Jason Trotting the night before, posing as a very wealthy Armenian Internet entrepreneur who, if he managed to land as a hosting client, would surely secure his financial future for the rest of his life – and the lives of all of his next of kin.

He, of course, agreed to meet me (or "Vartan," as I had introduced myself ) tonight at an upscale hotel bar in Westwood.

Needless to say, Vartan would never show up.

The Internet, unfortunately, was not kind enough to supply me with an identifying photograph of Jason Trotting. So I would have to test my luck and look for, hopefully, the only guy sitting alone in the bar waiting for someone.

And as luck would have it... there were three.

Fuck! I silently cursed as I walked inside and surveyed the sparse crowd. One table of business associates, chatting about marketing plans. Another table with an adoring couple who would surely be booking one of the five-hundred-dollar suites upstairs by the end of the night, if they hadn't already. Two typical Los Angeles twenty-something girls sitting at the bar, dressed to the nines – just in case Jerry Bruckheimer happened to walk in looking for his next Hollywood starlet, or maybe even just some arm candy to take to his next premiere. And three men, each occupying their own table on different sides of the room.

Sporting a surprisingly realistic-looking blond wig and overly dramatic, dark eye makeup, I maneuvered myself over to a partly hidden corner where I could start taking inventory. Knowing that this guy, of all people, had probably seen the pictures of me on the Internet more than once, I had had to take proper precautions. The blond wig had been a very expensive costume accessory that I'd purchased about nine months earlier, when I met with a woman who was convinced that her husband was one of those gentlemen who preferred blondes. The blonde part was true enough...the gentleman part? Debatable.

I subtly adjusted my wig and began my reconnaissance.

Okay, Lonely Man #1: mid-fifties, no wedding ring, drinking Scotch, and not-so-inconspicuously checking out the two wannabe arm candies at the bar.

Ninety-five percent chance that it's not him. Jason would probably be in his late twenties to mid-thirties, given the line of work he's chosen. And he definitely wouldn't risk blowing this multimillion-dollar business opportunity to check out women. He would be watching the door.

Lonely Man #2 and Lonely Man #3 both fit those criteria.

Both were in their early thirties, style-challenged, and intently keeping both eyes glued to the entrance of the bar.

I studied them a little longer. Carefully observing how they reacted to each new customer who walked in. Knowing that the man I was looking for would essentially be waiting for an Armenian man named Vartan, I only hoped that deductive reasoning would kick in when the other one responded to an incoming female.