Carla Neggers - Cold Pursuit

“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.”