Cold Pursuit (28 page)

G
rit stood outside the revolving doors of the hotel where Ambassador Bruni had been killed and watched the passersby. It was almost noon and cloudy, but other people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Last night, Myrtle had said to meet her there. She'd added a little something to her coffee and was in a maudlin mood when they'd parted, the kind that indicated she had layers and secrets and dark corners that she didn't like to look in.

He had a bad feeling about Myrtle.

Just down the street a fair, buff teenage boy in a navy Georgetown University cap, hooded sweatshirt and tan chinos was staring at the spot where Bruni was hit.

The pants were neatly pressed.

Well, well, Grit thought, and eased in next to the kid. “Hello, Charlie.”

He looked startled. “That's not my name.”

“Sure it is. You know a friend of a friend of mine. Jo Harper.”

“The Secret Service agent in the video?”

All innocent. Grit narrowed his eyes. “What're you doing here, Charlie?”

“What makes you—”

“Prep-school pants. And the hat and the sweatshirt both Georgetown? Come on.”

He reddened some, but not much. “I have a trombone lesson around the corner.”

“You don't play trombone.”

The kid stared at the asphalt and said calmly, “A doctor's appointment would have worked better?”

“No,” Grit said.

“Who I am is none of your business.”

“I'm a caring citizen.” But Grit figured Charlie Neal, being a genius as well as sixteen, already knew who he was. “There are no Secret Service agents strong-arming me right now, so that means you gave them the slip somehow. What did you do, hide yourself in a suitcase?”

He shrugged. “I didn't do anything. You obviously have me confused with someone else. I'm just a kid.”

Grit studied him thoughtfully and considered his research into the life and times of Charles Preston Neal, the only son and youngest child of the current vice president of the United States. “Your cousin,” he said finally, “Conor Neal. You two are the same age. You both look like Prince Harry did at sixteen.”

“Prince Harry?”

“You and the cousin switched places. Create a little bedlam, and next thing, he's you and you're him. Conor doesn't have a Secret Service detail. You do.” Grit thought it through and figured that was it. “It's sort of like
The Prince and the Pauper.
Ever read that book?”

Charlie didn't answer, but his ears got red under the lower edge of his Georgetown cap.

“Must be refreshing,” Grit said with some sympathy, “just to be normal.”

Big roll of the eyes. “That's not the point.” Charlie turned his head and glared at Grit. “You're Petty Officer Taylor, right? You and Petty Officer Michael Ferrerra, also a Navy SEAL, were each awarded a Silver Star last year. It's for gallantry in action—”

“I know what it's for.”

“I keep track of Silver Star recipients. I figure it's the least I can do.” Charlie stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his oversize sweatshirt and kept his blue Prince Harry eyes on Grit. “Petty Officer Ferrerra died in April. He saved your life.”

“Photographic memory?”

“I just pay attention, Petty Officer Taylor.”

“Just Grit is fine. And not because you're the vice president's son.” He nodded to the spot where Bruni was hit. “Was Ambassador Bruni meeting you the other morning?”

Charlie's shoulders slumped, and he shook his head but didn't speak.

“Why are you here, Charlie?” Grit asked.

“I don't want to get anyone into trouble.”

“You want to keep yourself out of trouble, too, don't you?”

That gave him his spine back. “I don't care about that. What're they going to do? Just watch me even closer than they do now. The people who are supposed to keep an eye on me will get in trouble, though. And that's not fair.”

“It's also not your problem.”

Charlie glanced behind them at the revolving doors, then shifted back to the street. “I followed him here,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him about Agent Harper. My sister Marissa told me they're friends. Agent Harper has lots of friends in various federal law enforcement agencies, but I didn't want to go to them. You know. Risk getting them in trouble.”

“Risk having them recognize you and haul your ass back to school. Who's ‘him'? Who'd you follow?”

“It doesn't matter. Marissa misinterpreted their friendship. It's not as close as I thought.”

Grit realized Charlie wasn't talking about Bruni, but he said, “Is Marissa like you, smart and doesn't mind her own business?”

“She's not as smart as me. I'm not bragging. I'm just…”

“You're just stating the facts,” Grit finished for him.

Charlie hunched his shoulders and said quietly, “I wanted to figure out how I could make amends.”

“Ah.” Grit got it now. “You're talking about Thomas Asher.”

The kid was silent.

Grit figured it was pretty much like holding a live grenade, having the veep's kid right next to him with no Secret Service protection. “All right,” he said. “Let's go.”

“Go? Go where?” Charlie straightened, his cockiness back in full force. “I have to get to school. I have another calculus test today. I can't miss it. I'm down to a B-plus average as it is. My cousin took this one test for me, and he isn't great at math—”

“Too bad.”

“You can't just kidnap me.”

Grit scratched the side of his mouth. Now what? He'd tried calling Elijah first thing that morning but got no answer. It was lousy weather up north. Snow, ice, wind. He could always try to reach Agent Harper, but Grit had a feeling she was onto Charlie herself. And she was up north in the same storm as Elijah and probably in his back pocket wherever he was.

“The Secret Service will have egg on its collective face,” Charlie said, “if it gets out that my cousin and I switched identities.”

There was that. “Tell me about Thomas Asher.”

Charlie debated a moment, his lips compressed in a manner that suggested he was accustomed to being called onto the carpet. He nodded back toward the hotel entrance. “He went in through the revolving doors and entered the restaurant and waited at his table for a while. I hung around. I figured I'd talk to him after he finished breakfast. I assumed he was meeting someone, but I kept checking and no one ever came. Then there was this big commotion out here.”

“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 to be a middleman who hires killers on behalf of different clients. It's so clear to me.”

“Fair enough. Any theories about who ordered Alex Bruni killed?”

The kid hesitated, then said, “What if he knew Drew Cameron's death in April wasn't an accident? What if he was killed by these assassins? Alex Bruni was a prominent ambassador. He probably had enemies who'd be willing to pay someone to kill him—who'd be able to figure out how to get in touch with such people. But he also knew Drew Cameron, and…” Charlie didn't go on.

Grit finished for him. “Cameron was just a guy from the mountains. He doesn't fit with the other victims. Bruni does, but since Cameron and Bruni both have connections to Black Falls, it's a problem.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It's a problem.”

“That's why we have cops. Anything you haven't told me? Your father—”

“He's not in danger that I know of. Absolutely not.” Charlie blinked back sudden tears, his breathing rapid and shallow now.

Up front, Myrtle didn't say a word. Grit stayed very still. “Charlie?”

“I told you. Marissa was almost killed in September. Agent Harper saved her life. Jo could have died. Marissa could have died.”

“According to my sources, that fire was an accident.”

“What if it wasn't? I don't want anyone dying for me. The airsoft prank…I don't know what I was thinking.”

“On some level, that prank made the risks Jo and her colleagues take feel less real to you.”

“Yeah.”

“And it was funny,” Grit said.

“Jo got sent to Vermont. I didn't realize that's where Nora Asher moved after she dropped out of Dartmouth. If her father's mixed up in this network…if Drew Cameron and Alex Bruni were among its latest victims…if it's connected to Black Falls somehow—”