Cold Ridge. Carla Neggers
building was a dump. The porch roof sagged. The steps had holes in them. The whole place needed paint. Outdoor lighting was nonexistent. Tall, frostbitten hollyhocks bent over the walkway—Carine’s doing, no doubt. She’d always loved hollyhocks. The neighborhood dogs probably loved them, too.
A pack of boys careered down the dark street on scooters and skateboards. One kid, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. It was just shy of ten o’clock on a school night. North mentally picked out which ones he’d liked to see go through PJ indoc. Pass or fail, they’d get in shape, learn a little something about themselves.
“Live free or die,” the boy with the cigarette yelled as he sailed past North’s truck with its New Hampshire plates and their Live Free or Die logo. “Yeah, go for it, woodchuck.”
That one, he thought. That one he’d liked to see tossed in a pool with his hands and feet tied.
On the other hand, maybe the kid would make a good pararescueman. Stick with it, don’t give up, don’t drown—it wasn’t always easy to tell who’d make it and who’d wash out.
Antonia Winter Callahan, wife of senator-elect Hank Callahan, lifted a swooning hollyhock out of her path, stood on the main sidewalk a moment, then frowned and marched up to Ty’s truck. He kept a truck in Florida, too. This was his at-home truck. Rusted, nicely broken in. Recognizable to someone who’d known him most of his life.
He rolled down his window. “Nice night. Warmer down here in the big city.”
“I don’t believe you, Ty. Gus didn’t send you, did he? No, of course he didn’t. What was I thinking?” She groaned, her hands clenched at her sides. “God, Ty, you’re not what Carine needs right now. She’s been sick to her stomach.”
“She’s never come upon a murder before.”
Antonia nodded reluctantly, calmer. “It’s awful. She knew the victim, Louis Sanborn. He worked for the Rancourts. Did you know him?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You heard Manny Carrera was on the scene? He’s had a rough year. He—” She broke off, giving a little hiss between clenched teeth. “Ty, don’t tell me—did Manny send you? Is that why you’re here?”
“Sorry, Dr. Callahan, I’m in the dark as much as you are.” He thought that was a diplomatic way to stonewall her. “You looked like you were in a hurry a minute ago.”
“I am. I have a plane to catch—damn, I hate this. She says she’s fine. You know Carine. She’s resilient, but she’s also proud and stubborn, sensitive about being sensitive. Ty, I swear to you, if you do anything, and I mean anything, to make matters worse for her, I will find you and inject you with something that’ll sting parts that you don’t want stinging. Do I make myself clear?”
He leaned back in his seat. “You bet, Doc.”
She hissed again, disgusted with him. “The jackass fairy must have visited you every night when you were a kid,” she snapped. “Some days I don’t know how you stand yourself.”
“I’m a disciplined military man.”
She straightened, glancing back at her sister’s apartment. No foldout turkeys. No Pilgrim hats. Carine’s life here seemed temporary, something she was trying on for size. An escape. When Antonia turned back to him, Ty thought she looked strained and worried. “Promise me,” she said seriously, in an exhausted near whisper. “You’ll be good?”
“Relax, Antonia.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be very good.”
“You’re not going in there tonight, are you?”
He shook his head. “I’ll give her some time. Besides, I hate barf.”
“Yeah, right, with all you’ve seen in your career?” She started to say something, then just heaved a long sigh. “I’m trusting you.”
It was progress, Ty thought. A Winter hadn’t trusted him in months.
Antonia climbed into a taxi that had been idling farther down the street, and Ty watched it negotiate the crooked street, the oversize cars parked in too-small spaces, the potholes, the kids on skateboards.
He’d never had a thing for Antonia. It was always Carine.
Always and forever.
Four
Val Carrera learned about Louis Sanborn’s murder when she flipped through the Washington Post over her morning coffee, and it pissed her off. A man was dead, and her husband hadn’t bothered to tell her he was involved. He was in Boston. It wasn’t like he was on a secret military mission. He could have called her.
But here she was, once again, on a need-to-know basis, with Manny Carrera deciding what she needed to know and her having to live with it.
Bastard.
The details in the article were sketchy. It said photographer Carine Winter found the body when she got back from her lunch break. It said the Rancourts had hired Manny to analyze their personal security needs and make recommendations, and, most important, to train them and their employees—of which Louis Sanborn was one—in the basics of emergency medicine and survival in various types of environments and conditions. After their scare in the White Mountains last fall, the Rancourts said, they wanted to be more self-reliant.
“What a crock,” Val muttered over her paper. “Damn phonies.”
She hadn’t liked the Rancourts since Manny had pulled them off Cold Ridge on a weekend he was supposed to be resting, having a good time. Sterling—who’d name a kid Sterling?—and Jodie Rancourt had donned expensive parkas and boots and trekked up the ridge, never mind that they didn’t know what in hell they were doing. They got a dose of high winds, cold temperatures and slippery rocks and damn near died up there.
“They should be Popsicles,” Val grumbled.
Instead it was Hank Callahan and the PJs to the rescue, although Val was of the opinion that someone else could have done the job. But that wasn’t the way it was with Manny, North or Callahan, not when they were right there and could do something.
Now the Rancourts were returning the favor, helping Manny establish his credentials in their world. And the big dope fell for it. He didn’t see that they were ingratiating themselves—he didn’t see that he should have stayed in the air force, teaching a new generation of young men how to be pararescuemen.
But Manny hadn’t listened to her in months, and, depending on her mood, Val didn’t blame him.
She sank back in her chair at her small, round table in what passed for an eating area. The kitchen wasn’t much bigger than a closet, and the bedroom was just big enough for a double bed and a bureau. She hadn’t slept that close to Manny in years. Fortunately, she was a petite woman herself—black-haired, brown-eyed and, at thirty-eight, still with a good future ahead of her. If she stopped screwing up her life.
The living room was kind of cute—it had a large paned window shaded by a gorgeous oak tree, its leaves a rich burgundy color now that it was November. A one-bedroom apartment on a noisy street in Arlington was the best she and Manny could find—and afford—on short notice. At least it was clean and bug-free. If he made a go of his business and they decided to stay in the Washington area, they’d start looking for a house.
Their son was doing well, and she was off antidepressants.
Remember your priorities, she told herself.
She folded up the paper and called Manny on his cell phone, getting his voice mail. “Hi, it’s me. I heard about what happened. Sounds hideous. Call me when you can and let me know you’re all right.”
There. That was nice. She hadn’t yelled anything about being his wife and having a goddamned right to know. For all she knew, he could be in jail.
She