Before she could say more, she heard the key Terry had given Jason turn in the lock. Terry latched on to her hand with a tight grip.
“Not a word,” he demanded. “Promise me. Neil will freak if he hears about this. He’ll insist I quit the show and go into hiding in some isolated house in Vermont, for God’s sake.”
“What does he think now? How did you explain the call?”
“I told him it was just a wrong number.”
Callie wrenched her hand away. “I won’t tell Neil if you’ll agree to let me talk to one of the cops I’ve been consulting for my work on the show. You’ve met Hank. He’s terrific.”
Terry looked dubious. “You’ll talk to him off the record? No names?”
She sighed. “For now,” she agreed.
She just prayed she wasn’t misjudging the seriousness or the immediacy of the danger.
16
Detective Hank Parker of the NYPD had a crumpled face that looked as if it had been through one too many boxing matches, which it had. He’d told Callie that by twenty his nose had been practically flattened. By twenty-two his left cheek had an oddly irregular shape, the result of inexpert plastic surgery following his final bout. His right eyebrow was split in two by a thin, jagged white line, a scar from an early round in the same fight.
Despite all of those flaws, at the age of twenty-nine he had a certain gruff charisma that made women flock to him. Ever since he’d made his first appearance on the set as a consultant to Callie, the actresses had hovered around him, drawn by his unmistakable aura of raw masculinity.
He also had very impressive biceps and triceps and abs. Callie knew about the latter firsthand because he’d invited her to punch him in the abdomen during one of their training sessions. She’d bruised all her knuckles. He hadn’t even winced. In fact, he’d smirked with satisfaction.
He visited the set only rarely now, usually because he was called by one of the writers to check out some twist or other in the script. On Monday he came in response to Callie’s call and just in time to share the leftover Chinese food she’d promised him.
“This is fantastic,” he said, wolfing down his second plateful of the moo shu pork Jason had prepared the night before. Either his appetite was naturally huge or he hadn’t eaten in days. “Where’d you order from?”
“Actually, it’s homemade.”
His eyes widened, which sent that jagged scar skyward. “Oh, baby, marry me.”
“Actually, I’m not the one you want if you’re after more moo shu pork.”
“Who, then?” he asked eagerly. “Is she married? Is she as beautiful as you?”
“Actually, the cook is a man.”
He sighed with such genuine disappointment that Callie couldn’t help grinning at him.
“Hank Parker, you are by no means desperate for companionship,” she chided.
“For companionship, no,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I’d kill for a woman who could cook like this. Now that I’m fed, tell me why I’m here. You gotta take out a bad guy today? You want some advice on aiming for the heart?”
“I’m worried about you, detective. You seem a little too eager to put a gun in my hand.”
“Turns me on to see a woman handle a weapon.”
“Anything in a skirt turns you on,” she corrected.
He grinned unrepentantly. “True. In fact, if you could set me up with that Lisa Calvert, I’d name our first six children after you.”
Callie considered the sexy ingenue. “Six children? Lisa? I don’t see it.”
“Okay, five, but that’s my bottom line. I was an only child. I want a big family.”
“I’ll see if she’s interested,” Callie promised. “In the meantime, could you answer a question for me?”
“That’s what I get paid for.”
“Actually, this question is personal. I need a favor. Actually, what I need is your professional opinion on something.”
His expression sobered at once. “You in trouble?”
“Not me. A friend.”
He regarded her skeptically but nodded for her to continue.
“There have been some threatening notes—at least, I guess you could say they were threatening. Maybe it was more like blackmail, except there was no demand for money or anything.”
A grin slid across Hank’s face as she inexpertly tried to explain without revealing anything.
“Maybe you could just tell me what the notes said and let me decide,” he suggested.
Callie debated a way to phrase it without giving away anything that might link the notes to Terry. “Just that this person should tell all.”
“Tell all?” he repeated. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this person has a secret and the writer of the notes knows about it and wants this person to go public.”
“Like in the tabloids or something?”
“Maybe with a banner across Broadway,” Callie snapped, suddenly losing patience with Hank and the whole incredible set of circumstances that had put her smack in the middle of some devious plot. She was equally put out with Terry for tying her hands this way. It would be a lot simpler if she could just tell Hank the whole story.
She glanced over and caught Hank’s hurt expression. “Sorry, but how would I know what would satisfy the writer? The important thing here is whether the recipient should take the threats seriously.”
“I suppose it depends on how badly this person wants the secret kept. How damaging would it be to go public?”
“Damaging enough,” Callie assessed, thinking of the hue and cry that would arise if all those female fans discovered the object of their affections was gay.
Hank studied her intently. “You have a kid no one knows about?”
“It’s not me. It’s a friend.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. It’s just that this ‘friend’ ploy gets worked a lot. Nobody ever believes it.”
“Well, believe it. This isn’t my problem beyond the fact that I’m worried about my friend. Does something like this ever turn dangerous?”
“Ever? That’s a long time and a lot of possibilities. Sure, it could turn dangerous, but it could also be benign, nothing more than a power
