Cold Pursuit - Carla Neggers [113]
“Where exactly were you?”
“In the lobby outside the restaurant. I didn’t see Ambassador Bruni get hit.”
“Asher?”
“No. Impossible.” Charlie shook his head, adamant. “He ran out into the lobby to see what all the commotion was about. Then he left.”
“How’d he look?”
“Shocked. Upset. Terrified—but under control. He was in self-protection mode.”
“Witnesses?”
Charlie adjusted his cap, a hunk of blond hair falling down on his forehead. “That’s why I came here today. I hoped it would help me remember.”
“Did it?”
“There was a messenger on a bicycle. A woman. I saw her. I heard about the tip the police received. I didn’t realize she’d witnessed what happened.”
Grit waited, then said, “And?”
The kid obviously didn’t want to go on. Finally he answered. “Mr. Asher spoke to her.”
“Can you describe her? The tip didn’t have details. If Thomas phoned it in, he might have been too upset to remember specifics and—”
“Fleet of Pedal is the name of the messenger service.”
Grit waited again. “Charlie. You have to tell the police.”
“It doesn’t have to be me.” Charlie turned to him. “You could tell them.”
“I wasn’t here,” Grit said. But he could tell the FBI or even Myrtle, let her work her wonders and get Charlie’s tidbit to the police without putting him into the middle of a media firestorm.
In the meantime, Grit wasn’t about to leave the only son and youngest child of the vice president of the United States—a smart, troubled, sixteen-year-old kid with assassins on the mind—out on the streets.
He jerked a thumb at Charlie. “Let’s go.”
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“I’m taking you back to school.”
Except he didn’t have a car. Where the hell was Myrtle?
Ten seconds later, as if he’d conjured her up, she pulled next to the curb in a fancy little car, her window rolled down. “Sorry I’m late.” She frowned at Charlie. “Who are you?” She swallowed, obviously recognizing him. “Oh. You do have some interesting friends, Petty Officer.”
They got in her car, Grit in back with Charlie, and Myrtle drove them out to the rolling northern Virginia campus of a very private school. Grit’s high school in the Florida panhandle had been a series of trailers. Charles Preston Neal was good-looking, smart, athletic—and surprisingly invisible. It was tough to stand out when you were good at everything and were handed everything. He wanted to matter.
Not your problem, Grit reminded himself. “How does your cousin explain where he’s been when you’re off following people and hunting bad guys?”
“We’re careful. Except for that one time during calculus, we switch during play practice. It’s intensive, total immersion into the play. We’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Conor and I work production. We switch off, so it’s easy—he can be himself and me. Neither of us is missing that way. No one notices when one of us isn’t there.”
“You’ve pushed it. He took a test for you. Ever take one for him?”
“He was going to fail trig. He has this awful, obtuse teacher—”
“Conor sounds like he’s as big a pain in the ass as you.”
“I have four sisters,” Charlie said quickly. “They’re all pretty. If you don’t rat me out, I can arrange a date with one of them. Come on. Cut me some slack.”
The kid wasn’t exactly begging, but Grit said, “I’ve got enough problems without dating one of your sisters. Go on. Get to class. Myrtle and I will keep your secret.” He glanced up front. “Won’t we, Myrtle?”
“Sure.” She smiled into her rearview mirror. “You’ve got that look, Grit. I’ll agree to anything you say. I don’t want you killing me in my sleep.”
Drama. He reached across Charlie and opened his door, then sat back again. “You and your cousin are not to pull this stunt again. Understood?”
Charlie nodded, then hesitated, his skin losing some of its color. “I don’t care what happens to me,” he said quietly. “These assassins. They’re not done. There’s a network of them out there. They’re ruthless, Petty Officer Taylor. I don’t know if it’s all about money or what. There has