Cold Pursuit (18 page)

A branch snapped down toward the trail, and Nora bolted upright and stifled a scream.

Dead leaves crunched nearby—she couldn’t tell how close.

She could feel her heart thumping as she took small, shallow breaths.

The owl had stopped hooting, but she could hear the rush of the falls down the mountain. She sat as still and as quiet as possible.

But she didn’t hear anything more.

A bear, maybe.

Making as little noise as possible, she eased deep into her sleeping bag. It was funny, she thought sarcastically—right now she’d rather have a bear find her tent than anyone she knew in Black Falls. Even Beth, Dominique and Hannah. Even Elijah. What did she know, really, about any of them? And why should they care about her?

Nora stared wide-eyed into the darkness and told herself over and over again not to think.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.

As if it was a mantra that could block out any intrusive thoughts and fears, and keep her safe.

Grit decided Myrtle Smith could drink him under the table without even putting her mind to it. It’d come automatically, effortlessly. She was a hard-nosed warhorse Washington reporter. He was a SEAL.

He didn’t stand a chance.

It was late at the bar in the hotel where Alexander Bruni had been run over by a black car, now in the hands of law enforcement.

“You know the natural result of banning smoking in bars?” Myrtle asked out of the blue. She was like that, Grit had figured out; her mind pinged around like a pinball machine.

He set down his scotch. “Less cancer?”

“More drunks. You wait, someone will do a study and discover those of us who smoke aren’t quitting—we’re just having an extra scotch or two when we’re trapped in a bar without our cigarettes.”

“You should quit.”

“Some politician will kill me in my sleep long before I die of lung cancer. But I did quit, you little snot. Two years, seventy-seven days, ten hours ago. The ‘us’ was in solidarity with smokers. I hate seeing smokers treated like criminals.”

“I don’t think I’ve been called a ‘little snot’ since I was four.”

“‘Little’ as in you’re younger than I am. ‘Snot’ as in—well, you know. You’re a SEAL. All that humility and professionalism is just your way of saying you’re better than the rest of us without being obnoxious.”

“How’d you know I’m in the military?”

“I’d like to say I have a nose for Navy SEALs, but I don’t. I checked you out with a source. Silver Star. Badly wounded in Afghanistan in April. Lost a friend.”

Moose gave a low whistle next to Grit.
“She cuts to the chase, doesn’t she?”
Grit ignored his comment.

“I’m sorry,” Myrtle said simply.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Grit appreciated how succinct she was.

She leaned forward, her eyes darkening to purple in the dim bar light. “Life sucks. So, want to get on with it?”

“Okay. What do you know about Ambassador Bruni’s enemies?”

“Nothing no one else doesn’t know. He was tough, smart and arrogant. Ambitious. Important. He divorced his first wife to marry the wife of his best friend. According to my sources, he had enemies but no active threats against him.”

“Then there’s no reason to think the hit-and-run was a professional job,” Grit said.

Myrtle leaned back, eyed him. “Are you suggesting there is?”

“How would I know? Anything on where he was headed when he was hit?”

“Most likely a breakfast meeting that wasn’t on his calendar. No reservation in his name. No one left waiting in the restaurant, checking his watch for him—at least no one who stuck around after he got run over.”

“Maybe whoever it was didn’t hear the commotion outside and thought Bruni blew off their meeting.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but the news is out now.”

“Would you come forward, or would you fade quietly into the woodwork?”

“I’m not the fading-into-the-woodwork type.”

“If you were,” Grit said.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter what I’d do. The FBI and Washington PD are conducting a joint investigation.” Myrtle sat back, her eyes catching more of the light and turning back to lavender. “But it’s not like the hotel has a sign-up sheet for people who walk in off the street. A hotel guest would get asked his room number, but that’s a dead end so far. Interesting, isn’t it? My take—whoever was meeting Bruni doesn’t want to come forward.”

“Could be for political, personal or professional reasons—someone who wants to keep a low profile.” Grit sipped some of his scotch. He was careful about booze. It’d be too easy to dive into a bottle, even with Moose right there. Maybe especially with Moose right there. “There are endless possibilities. What if it wasn’t a breakfast meeting? What if the breakfast was a setup? There was no one waiting—it was just to get him here at a particular time so the car could be there and bounce him into oblivion.”

“You’ve got a twisted mind, Petty Officer Taylor.”

Grit shrugged. “I’m not a pro. The cops will have a dozen other possibilities by now.” He swirled the ice and booze in his glass. “What if he was going to someone’s hotel room?”

Myrtle slanted a sharp look at him. “A woman?”

Grit shrugged, noncommittal. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“But a long shot, even if his wife was out of the country. They seemed happy together.”

“What about the ex-wife?”

“She moved to Seattle. They have two grown sons out there.”

“The new wife’s ex-husband?” Grit asked, just to see how Myrtle would respond.

“They’ve stayed friends—they’re ‘evolved.’ It’s easier on the daughter.”

“How’s she taking the news, do you know?”

Myrtle gave him an openly suspicious look. “No. Why? Is there something I should know?” She leaned forward again, her eyes like purple-tinted onyx now. “There is, isn’t there?”

“It’s a good thing you’re on our side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just want to know what’s going on. I’ve kept quiet in the interest of national security from time to time. Depends. For instance, if I’d had a tip about what you special-ops types were doing when you got your leg blown off, I wouldn’t have told the world. If I found out it was illegal or nefarious, then I’d have had to make a judgment call.”

“Nefarious?” Grit couldn’t hold back a grin. “Come on. Nefarious?”

“Now you’re making me sound like one of those pompous reporters.”

“You
are
one of those pompous reporters. And I don’t know anything.”

“You’re a good liar, but I’m good at seeing through liars. What’s on your mind, soldier?”

“Not soldier. Technically—”

“I know. Sailor. Don’t start with me on the SEAL thing. Sea, land, air. Navy. I know. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No, you weren’t, but whatever. Is there a chance Bruni’s death is connected to any other hits?”

Myrtle tapped her fingers on the table. “Ah. You do have your ways, Petty Officer Taylor.”

“You know, just because you found out I’m a SEAL doesn’t mean you have to get formal. Grit’s fine.”

“All right, Grit. What do you know? Some of your old SEAL pals are HRT, counterterrorism, spooks, right?”

He didn’t answer.

“How come you’re not?”

He shrugged and didn’t answer.

“The leg?”

Moose gave another low whistle next to him.
“She doesn’t let up. If she were thirty years younger, you’d be in love.”

Grit sighed. “Just shut up, will you?” But Myrtle’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled at her. “Not you.”

Her expression softened. “Human frailty can be hard to take, but we all bump up against it at some point. I’m dying with my boots on. I have friends on Captiva Island, friends in Puerto Vallarta, one very good friend in Nova Scotia. Not me. I’m staying right here in Washington until I say the big good-night.”

“You’ve a flare for drama.”

“Not when it comes to my work. Then I give it straight. Always have, Grit. I don’t play games, and I don’t let my politics infect my reporting. I’m not introspective and don’t overthink these things, but that much I do get.” She gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “In my world, everyone’s fair game.”

“Ms. Smith,” Grit said, lifting his scotch and eyeing her over the rim of his glass, “who are you working for?”

A kind of pain crossed her face. “No one,” she said. “Bastard.”

“Did you have a thing for Bruni?”

“Not my type. Stick to what you’re doing and never mind me.”

“Know anything about assassins on the loose, Ms. Smith?”

“Myrtle. Okay? Just Myrtle. As for assassins—” She grabbed the check, but Grit could tell he’d struck a nerve. “I’m going to take a chance and say something I know I shouldn’t. It’s not a gray thing—I’m clear I should keep my mouth shut because you’re a SEAL and you probably can put me away.”

“Let me help you. Bruni isn’t the first hit you’ve looked into recently.”

“I’ve done some research. I don’t know if I’m on to anything or not. I’ve got a list of suspicious deaths over the past year. Prominent people—not necessarily headline grabbers, though. The methods of death are all different. Sniper shot. Fire. Hit-and-run. Poison. They all involve a noticeable lack of passion—there’s no crazy lover, no deranged psychotic hearing voices. They’ve all been in the news. No one’s hushed them up. But to make any connection among them…” Myrtle shrugged. “That’d be a stretch for authorities.”

“Anyone investigating?”

“Me.” She clutched the bill in her small hand. “So, who’re you working for, Grit?”

“Just passing the time between PT appointments.” He reached across the table, took the check by his fingertips and pried it away from her. “I’ll pay for our drinks.”

“I’m rich, Grit. Allow me.”

He didn’t.

She looked at him as he got up. “I have a niece in her twenties.”

“She look like you?”

“Same eyes. That’s it.”

Moose chuckled in that knowing way he had, but Grit said, “Your eyes aren’t bad, Myrtle. Maybe I’ll give your niece a call someday.”

He thought she might have blushed. She must have been something in her day. Hell, she was something now.

“I think I’ll stay for another drink,” she said. “You okay getting home?”

He realized she was serious and grinned. “Yeah. I can get home.” He glanced down at her. “And the leg. It didn’t get blown off. It had to be amputated.”

“In the field?”

He nodded.

“It was that or die?”

He could hear Moose that night. “Live, Grit. Come on,
live.
”

He left Myrtle to order another scotch. On his way out, he thought about what she’d said. He did have friends in positions that could put them in the know when it came to assassins on the loose.

He splurged and took a cab back to his apartment in a bad part of town. It was in a square brown-brick building with four other apartments. His was on the ground floor overlooking the street.

He shared the sidewalk in front of the entrance with a fat rat.

“That fella’s so ugly, he’s almost cute,”
Moose said.

Grit ignored him and unlocked his apartment door. When he flipped on the light in the entry, a half-dozen roaches scurried across the cheap wooden floor.

“Nothing cute about a cockroach.”
Moose wasn’t letting up, obviously.
“Man, Grit. Why don’t you find a better place to live?”

Grit didn’t care about rats and roaches so long as he didn’t find one in bed with him. And there was no point paying for a better place when he didn’t give a damn where he lived.

It wasn’t something he needed to explain to Moose—Moose knew.

But he was gone. He’d never cared for cockroaches.

Her cabin got so cold overnight, Jo wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d had to chip ice off herself when she crawled out of bed. She pulled on her new wool socks and headed to the shower. The ancient propane heater was trying, but the place wasn’t even remotely warm. At least no one had slipped in overnight and stolen food out of her refrigerator or attacked her in the dark.

“Always a positive when waking up,” she muttered, turning on the water in the shower. She waited until it was steaming before she stripped and got in.

She was toweling off when she heard a knock on the door, which just helped her hurry into her clothes that much faster. She figured she’d be up on the mountain today and put her new wool socks back on, the one pair of wool pants she’d brought up to Vermont with her and, for layering, a moisture-wicking exercise shirt and a wool pullover sweater.

When she yanked open the door, she expected to see Elijah, but instead, a short-haired, broad-shouldered man in expensive cold-weather hiking attire greeted her politely. “Special Agent Harper? My name’s Kyle Rigby. Thomas Asher asked me to stop by and let you know I’ll be checking on his daughter and getting her back to Washington.”

“You’re…what? A friend?”

He gave a small smile. “Mr. Asher and I have never met. He hired me.” The smile disappeared. “Feel free to check with him yourself. He appreciates your efforts, but he doesn’t want to impose on your friendship or put you in an awkward position—he didn’t expect Nora to take off this way.”

“No one did.” Jo stepped out onto the front step in her stocking feet, letting the door swing shut behind her; she didn’t want any heat to escape. She eyed the big man in front of her. His parka was unzipped, and he wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves. She didn’t see a backpack but suspected he would have everything he needed for a November hike. She asked, “Are you familiar with the area, Mr. Rigby?”

“Kyle,” he said. “And you’re Jo, right?” When she didn’t answer, he continued in the same clipped, professional tone. “Mr. Asher doesn’t like the idea of Nora being out on the mountains by herself, especially given the shock she’s had. He prefers to keep the situation private. Involving you, given your job…” Rigby didn’t shift his gaze from her. “It’s simpler to hire me.”

“Do you have search-and-rescue experience?”