Cold Pursuit - Carla Neggers [75]
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?”
“You’re not. I checked out Marissa on the Internet after I saw Special Agent Harper’s video. Think she would go to a movie with a sailor?”
Francona didn’t seem to consider that funny. “Going to tell me who called you just now?”
Grit figured Charlie wouldn’t make it through calculus class if he ratted him out, and he had a test