Cold Pursuit - Carla Neggers [60]
“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.
Sixteen
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.