Carla Neggers - Cold Pursuit

“Drew wasn’t the one who hurt me,” she said.

“He embarrassed you. I’d have handled things differently, but it might have been worse. I don’t know. I remember I couldn’t think straight. I had you and Elijah on your way to Las Vegas. Not Drew-he knew you were sticking close to Black Falls.”

“Elijah and I just weren’t meant to be.”

“That’s for you two to decide. It always was, even back then.” He set his knife on top of a stack of apple peels and lowered the heat under the pot. “Elijah’s disciplined, and in my book, he’s a hero. But I don’t know if he’ll find a place for himself back here the way he always thought he would. Sometimes it’s hard to come back home. His experiences might have changed Black Falls forever for him.”

Jo nodded, dropping her apples into the pot. “Maybe so.”

“But don’t be fooled,” her father said. “There’s a lot of the old Elijah left.”

Good, she thought, remembering how much she’d loved the old Elijah-his energy, his stubbornness, his sense of loyalty and justice. His courage. Drew and her father had focused on his youth and inability to make a living-and her oft-stated desire to get out of Black Falls.

But it was never just that they were afraid of him ruining her life. They were also afraid of her ruining his.

“Even before the military, Elijah was mission oriented,” her father said. “He set his sights on something, and he got it. He has questions about his father’s death, Jo. He’ll find the answers.”

On her way out, Jo thanked her father and extracted a promise that he’d save her a jar of applesauce. She stopped in the doorway. “Do you trust Elijah, Dad?” she asked.

“With my life.” He reached for a pot holder. “With your life.”

Unspoken was her father’s worry-an old worry-that he didn’t know how far Elijah would go, how many rules he would break, to get his answers.

“You’re playing with fire,” Moose said in that way he had-direct, sardonic, insightful. He stood next to Grit on a narrow, curving Georgetown side street. It was another warm, gloomy November afternoon inside the Beltway of the nation’s capital.

Grit nodded. “I know. My left shoe feels like it’s on too tight. The right one-the one with a real foot in it-feels fine. I fell in the shower this morning. I have 877 PT appointments coming up. Myrtle’s right. Life sucks.”

“One day at a time, my friend.”

“Scares me when you’re nice. It must mean I’m even more pathetic than I think I am.”

“Long day.”

“Yeah. And it’s only half over.”

Grit had been talking to people who didn’t necessarily like to be talked to. He’d gotten kicked out of a few offices and buildings, but he didn’t really care.

When he glanced to his left again, a compact, buff man with classic good looks had taken Moose’s place on the Georgetown street. Early forties, Grit decided. Fed of some kind. Just a question of which kind. Probably Secret Service, since one of the places Grit had been that morning was Jo Harper’s office. He’d been politely kicked out.

His cell phone trilled.

The fed gave a slight incline of his head. “Go ahead. Answer it.”

Grit did, and a kid’s voice said, “Ask Myrtle Smith about the Russian diplomat killed in London in August. He was poisoned.”

It had to be Charlie Neal. “How did-”

“I can’t talk. I have to take a calculus test in a few minutes. I know you and Ms. Smith are investigating Ambassador Bruni’s murder.”

“And you know this how?”

“Sergeant Cameron told me.”

“Bet he didn’t. And my cell-phone number? How did you get it?”

“My sister Marissa was almost killed two months ago,” Charlie said in a near whisper. “Jo saved her life. Special Agent Harper, I mean.”

Grit was very aware of the armed, ass-kicking federal agent standing next to him. “I haven’t heard about-”

“You wouldn’t,” Charlie said knowledgeably, then added, “Supposedly it was an accident. I don’t think so.”

“You’re not a detective, are you?”

“The Russian, though. That was flat-out murder.”

“Hang up. Go take your test and relax. Let people do their jobs. Got it?”

“Sure, sure. You’ll ask Myrtle?”

Charlie Neal hung up before Grit could answer. He flipped his cell phone shut and smiled innocently at the fed next to him. “All done.”

“I’m Deputy Special Agent in Charge Mark Francona,” the fed said. “Jo Harper’s boss. This is the building where she lives. Who are you?”

Grit could tell Francona already knew. “Her boyfriend.”

“Wrong.”

“I’m too cute for her?”

Francona waited.

“Ryan Taylor, sir.”

“You talked to some of my people earlier, Petty Officer Taylor.”

“I’ve been given an impossible mission.”

“You SEALs thrive on impossible missions.” Francona nodded to the ivy-covered brick building. “She has the ground-level apartment. She objects if anyone says it’s the basement. I guess there’s a difference. An old guy from her hometown stopped by to see her in the spring. They went and looked at the cherry blossoms together.”

“Must be something. The cherry blossoms.”

“You’ve never seen them?”

“No, sir. I arrived here after they’d bloomed.”

Francona’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry about your leg, Petty Officer Taylor. And I’m sorry about Petty Officer Ferrerra.” He spoke crisply, with sincerity but no pity. “I want to thank you for your service.”

“A privilege to serve, sir.” Grit had to work at keeping any sorrow and self-pity out of his voice. It’d be easier if his leg didn’t hurt. If Moose would quit bugging him. If Charlie Neal hadn’t called and Alexander Bruni hadn’t been killed and Myrtle was being straight with him. And if it wasn’t November in Washington. “Drew Cameron was the name of the old guy. But you know that, right?”

“He died two weeks later on a mountain in Vermont.”

“Ever been to Vermont?”

Irritation flickered across Francona’s face. “No.”

“Me, neither. I’m a Southern boy. My family makes the best tupelo honey-”

“Drew Cameron’s son Elijah is a decorated Green Beret. Master sergeant. He was almost killed in April.” A half beat’s pause for the fed’s eyes to narrow. “So were you.”

“He’s army. I’m navy.” Grit kept his voice even. “We did some stuff together. Went through a bad night together. That’s it. It’s got nothing to do with why you and I are standing here.”

“You, Elijah Cameron and Special Agent Harper want to know if there’s a connection between the death of Elijah’s father in April and the hit-and-run that killed Alexander Bruni yesterday.”

“Is there?”

Francona didn’t answer, instead nodded to Harper’s apartment. “You’d think a Vermonter would have greenery in her window, wouldn’t you?” He glanced at Grit. “What’s Jo to Elijah Cameron?”

Jo this time. Not Special Agent Harper. “The girl who got away. He has amends to make to her. He knows it, and so does she.”

“Does she have amends to make to anyone?”

“Herself.”

“For not following him into the army,” Francona said.

“That’s in her file, or are you guessing?”

“I don’t guess. I also don’t believe anything happens because it’s meant to. I believe in cause and effect.”

“You wouldn’t want to tell me what went on with Marissa Neal two months ago, would you?” Grit knew it was the sort of statement that could get him thrown behind bars somewhere, but he didn’t care.

Francona regarded him through half-closed eyes. “People tell you things, don’t they, Petty Officer Taylor?”