Cold River - Carla Neggers [105]
“Then his best friend goes and falls for a much younger woman, and his daughter freaks out. Then he’s run over.” Charlie paused. “Sometimes you just have to ask the right questions.”
The kid disconnected.
Jo frowned at Grit. “Do I want to know?”
“Nope.”
A straight-backed, gray-haired man—medium height, medium build—got out of a dark blue sedan and headed up Myrtle’s walk. He was in a khaki naval officer’s uniform. Grit noticed the four silver stars on the collar, designating a high-ranking admiral.
Had to be Jenkins.
“You look fit and able, Petty Officer Taylor,” the admiral said.
“Thanks, sir. Admiral Jenkins, right? That really was you calling?”
“Correct. Think there’s another Admiral Jenkins?”
“Could have been a prank.”
“Wasn’t.” Jenkins nodded to Jo and Myrtle, and Grit introduced them. The admiral was polite but kept his attention on what he’d come there to do. “I have a job at the Pentagon for you. I’m making it happen.”
“I have to find a firebug for the vice president’s son.”
“Vice president of what?”
“U.S.”
A muscle worked in Jenkins’s jaw. “You in trouble, Petty Officer?”
“Not me. No, sir. Never.”
He glared past him at Myrtle. “She’s the one whose Russian friend was poisoned.”
It wasn’t a question, but Grit said, “Yes, sir.”
“He was a reporter. She’s a reporter. I believe in free speech but that doesn’t mean I like reporters.”
“I heard that,” Myrtle said. She smiled at him. “I like admirals.”
Jenkins ignored her. “You have forty-eight hours to clean up whatever mess you’re in the middle of,” he told Grit.
“Sir, I’m not out of PT yet.”
“I know. I checked. Time to decide. Medically retire or come back to work.”
Grit didn’t explain about how he’d been assigned light duty at the hospital while undergoing treatment, until this thing with the killers. Jenkins would know.
The admiral nodded to the two women, about-faced and left.
Jo shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Feels good to be back in D.C. with all the reporters and military brass running around.”
“Secret Service agents, too,” Grit said. “That’s not why you’re back here, though. You’re back because you have to know you didn’t miss anything when Drew Cameron came to D.C. in April.”
“I did miss something, Grit,” Jo said. “That’s why he’s dead.”
“He’s dead because those two killers made sure he froze on Cameron Mountain.”
“We all missed things,” Myrtle said, ever the wet blanket. “Come on. Let’s go for crab cakes and bourbon.”
“We’ll stop by Bruni’s office in the morning,” Jo said.
Neither Grit nor Myrtle argued with her.
Twenty-Seven
January 3—Black Falls, Vermont
Vivian wrapped herself in a cashmere throw and sat cross-legged in front of the fire. She’d been unsettled ever since Sean Cameron’s visit. He’d seemed to look right through her and didn’t give her and Lowell so much as a goodbye glance over his shoulder on his way out. The man was on a tear, and she suspected it involved Hannah Shay.
Lowell busied himself topping off the wood box. He wore thick canvas work gloves that came up to his elbows; Vivian thought they looked ridiculous. “This whole business will bite us in the end,” she said, unable to feel truly warm even this close to the fire.
“What business, Vivian? The killings?” He adjusted several logs on his woodpile, as if their arrangement mattered. “It’s been weeks. The Camerons are just frustrated.”
“My only concern is protecting us. You and me. Our family, our finances, our reputation. They mean nothing to you and everything to me. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“Maybe that’s good, Vivian. Maybe we need to be less trusting.”
“What are you saying?” She barely spoke in a whisper. “No. Never mind. I can’t stand the thought of all of this backfiring and hurting us. Please don’t do anything stupid and land us in the middle of something that could ruin me and our children.”
“What about me?”
“You, too. Of course. That’s what I meant when I said me. I think of us as a unit.”
“Ah.”
“We believed Kyle Rigby was an experienced mountain rescuer. We believed