Cold River - Carla Neggers [113]
“The crypt’s a good choice to assemble a bomb,” Grit said. “Last place I’d look.”
“If you were caught—”
“You’d want to be someone who could explain being in a Vermont cemetery on a cold winter day.” He glanced at her. “Please tell me that’s not everyone in Black Falls.”
She ignored him. “There was nothing in the crypt after Bowie and Hannah were hurt,” she said. “I should have thought to test for gunpowder and black powder traces.”
“Elijah has a point. Maybe our bomber tucked supplies in different spots all over your cute Vermont town. He might not have had explosives in the crypt until now, or he might not have assembled the bomb in there.”
“So, what happened with Bowie and Hannah out there last week? The voice, the falling rock—”
“O’Rourke didn’t start work on the culvert until after Rigby and Kendall were killed. Our guy could have left something behind at the crypt and went back to get it. Maybe it was the first real chance he had. O’Rourke turns up, then Hannah. Our guy knocks over the rock and escapes.”
“Why call Hannah’s name?”
Grit raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you? Cemetery. Dusk. Cold. Relentless woman about to discover you. You whisper her name and figure she’ll beat a path out of there.”
“Not Hannah,” Jo said.
“Then later, when our guy figures he’s got to take action again, he thinks what the hell, I’ve got to blow something else up, might as well go back up to the crypt, assemble the bomb and implicate Bowie O’Rourke while I’m at it.”
“That’s devious thinking. Most criminals aren’t that complicated.”
Grit shrugged. “We’re not talking about most criminals.”
She tensed visibly. “Blow ‘something’ up means blow ‘someone’ up, Grit.” She sighed. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Anymore? Who says any of us ever know anything to begin with?”
She gave him a curt smile. “True.” She sighed again. “This is one damn slow elevator. What’d you do last night?”
“De-roached my apartment. Leave and they take over. You?”
“Cleaned.”
“Sleep?”
Her tight shake of the head was her only answer.
“Myrtle’s meeting with carpenters this morning,” Grit said cheerfully. “She’s thinking about selling her place after people forget it was set on fire. I think it’s safe to say she won’t be moving to Vermont.”
“She likes her independence.” The elevator dinged when it came to the fourth floor, and in that split second before the doors opened, Jo said, “So does Elijah. All the Camerons are that way. They do their own thing and you can follow or not.”
“Aren’t you doing your own thing?”
“Elijah isn’t law enforcement, Grit.”
“You barely are.”
She held the elevator door open with one hand and turned her turquoise eyes to him. “Are you going to keep rubbing salt into my wounds?”
“What?” He was mystified.
“I’m breaking the rules coming here alone—having you here—”
“Did you tell Deputy Special Agent in Charge Mark Francona?”
She stepped out of the elevator into a carpeted hall. “No.”
“Relax, Agent Harper. Ambassador Bruni’s secretary likes me.”
“You’ve met?”
“No, we haven’t met. Not yet.”
Jo didn’t say anything as they entered the elegant office. The secretary did like him, but she was also married. Young and pretty, she was packing boxes to close up the office now that the police had finished with it. “The ambassador’s wife and stepdaughter are stopping by later this week,” she said, all professional. “I told the police everything I know.” She was obviously still shaken even after more than a month. “I’m just closing up his office now. My last day is in two weeks. Then I’m taking a vacation and trying to forget.”
“Did you listen at keyholes when the ambassador was alive?” Grit asked.
Jo’s eyebrows went up, but she kept quiet. The secretary got huffy. “Of course not.”
“He was a prickly guy,” Grit said. “I wouldn’t have been able to resist. Did he unload on you? You know, did you sit here after hours with a bottle of wine—”
“Ambassador