The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(71)

Jason shot me another strange look. I'm sure he was beginning to have second thoughts about his invitation to eat fast food. But at this point I didn't care what he thought. He obviously hadn't recognized me through my disguise, or maybe he just never even bothered to look at the Web site his client put up. But I knew one thing: I wasn't leaving without a name.

"Um, Kelen Industries, I think," Jason finally surrendered.

The hand that was vainly running through my artificial hair froze in its place and then slowly dropped down to my side. As I let his words sink in, I couldn't for the life of me think of any of my own. Did he just say what I think he said?

"So, do you know him?" Jason practically patronized me.

I nodded slowly, somewhat in a trance.

"Really?" He raised his eyebrows. "Impressive."

Of course, there was no reason why I shouldn't know him. I had read at least twenty news articles about all the wonderful changes his company was making in the world of car engines. I had seen the inside of his suite in a random hotel in Denver. I had stroked his wife's hair as she cried on my shoulder. He even attempted to bribe me into staying quiet. Oh, yes. I certainly knew him.

I marveled at how right on the money John had been from the very beginning. I now realized that if I had to make a mental list of all the men who would attempt something like this, this man would most definitely be at the top.

I took a deep breath as the lost sensation slowly returned to my tongue, and I was finally able to speak. "His name is Raymond Jacobs."





16

Support Line


AFTER THANKING Jason Trotting for the drinks and leaving him with a fake phone number, I disappeared into the night with just the information I had come for.

I don't know why, but I guess I somehow thought that once I knew who was responsible for the Web site, I would suddenly feel better, that all the anxiety would simply melt away. I guess I failed to realize that once I knew the identity of my evil nemesis, I would actually have to come up with a plan to stop him. And unfortunately, I hadn't thought that far ahead.

Of all people. Why'd it have to be him?

Raymond Jacobs. The vodka gimlet drinker who, two weeks ago, had gobbled up my impressive knowledge of car engines without even a single reservation. I had to hand it to him, though; he'd definitely pulled this stunt together fast. My trip to Denver felt like two days ago. And standing in Anne Jacobs's entry hall, hugging her, telling her she'd done the right thing, felt like yesterday. Suddenly I found myself wondering if I'd done the right thing by even taking on the assignment. Raymond Jacobs was clearly not the kind of man to get run over by a truck and then wait in the road to die. Oh, no. He got right back up and ran out to buy an even bigger truck.

As I drove home the feeling of anxiety started to consume me. I wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and never come out.

I wearily dragged myself up the stairs of my building and through my front door. I collapsed onto the bed like a ton of bricks. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. And the only person I really wanted to talk to was still not talking to me.

It was always times like these when I would call Sophie, make up some bogus story about something that upset me at work, and she would calm me down. She would soothe me with her words and her comforting voice. It was the voice of someone who's known me forever and has been there for me through everything...well, almost everything. Because even though the solutions she came up with only applied to a make-believe problem, and the words she used usually had nothing to do with what was really going on in my life, it didn't matter. It was the fact that she was there for me. To listen and to respond.

And I knew that I had to call her.

I knew that I couldn't continue to not have her in my life. She was too important to me.

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone?"

I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed the phone off its charger. I started dialing.

But before I hit the last number I was stopped by the sound of a different phone ringing. It was my business line. I hung up my home phone, picked up my bag from the edge of the bed, and fished out the ringing cell phone. "No Caller ID" was plastered on the screen of my Treo. Nothing new. Most people block this kind of call. Hell, most people block this whole section of their life.

I pressed the green Talk button and held the phone up to my ear. "Hello?"

There was a muffled voice on the other end, and I couldn't make out a single word the person was saying.

"Hello?" I repeated into the phone.

More static.

"Hello? I can't hear you. Can you hear me?" I paused and waited. Still nothing. "Bad connection. I think you should call back."

And just as I was about to hang up, the static cleared, and a soft and very confused voice came through the line. "Jen?"

I sat very still on my white cotton comforter. And then, convinced that I had simply picked up the wrong cell phone, I pulled the phone away from my ear and held it in front of my face, double-checking that this was in fact my business line.

The word Treo was blatantly plastered on the top of the phone. My personal cell phone was the pink Razr. I suppose the simple night and day difference in weight would have been sufficient enough to distinguish the two, but I had to see it for myself. With my own eyes.