Cold Pursuit

Nine

Ryan “Grit” Taylor stood in front of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had met his end six hours ago. Cabs, limos, delivery trucks and regular cars packed the street now, but Grit knew the cops hadn’t all disappeared once they’d released the scene. He didn’t see them, but there was no question they were there. The D.C. police, the FBI, maybe even a Diplomatic Security Service or Secret Service agent or two.

An ambassador getting run down on a Washington street was a big deal.

Television reporters had set up a little ways past the revolving doors for live shots and were on the lookout for anyone who’d been there that morning.

Bruni had been run over on a bad spot on a bad street. Grit had been out there for ten minutes, and with the traffic, the distracted tourists, he decided it was not out of the realm of possibility for Bruni to have been hit by accident. A busy man with a lot on his mind crosses the street without looking, and-that’s it. He’s done.

Leaving the scene was another matter. That didn’t look good.

Moose Ferrerra, a fellow Navy SEAL, materialized next to Grit. “The Grim Reaper comes for you fast or slow. Either way, he always wins.”

“I know, Moose,” Grit said. “I know.”

Moose didn’t respond. He looked the same as he had thirteen years ago on his first day of SEAL training. Fresh, young, eager, cocky. Nothing like he had in April when the Grim Reaper had swooped down on their position in eastern Afghanistan.

A hellish mountain pass, newly opened after the harsh winter. A helicopter with mechanical trouble. Heavily armed, pissed-off bad guys.

Not a great combo.

Grit and Moose and the rest of their SEAL team had joined up with a Special Forces unit to take out a series of enemy weapons caches. Everything went fine until the SEAL exfiltration. The Green Berets stayed behind to protect friendly local villagers, who’d helped pinpoint the caches, from retaliation and continue their work.

The helicopter ran into problems almost immediately and was forced to make a hard landing in an enemy hot spot.

Moose was shot first. Then Grit. Then Elijah Cameron and his guys came to their aid.

Elijah was shot.

It had been a long night.

Grit was convinced that the Grim Reaper had come for him, not Moose, and he still didn’t know why things hadn’t worked out the way they’d been meant to. He only knew that he should have died that night. It wasn’t superstition or pessimism or depression-it was dead-on certainty.

He knew he should be dead.

And he wasn’t grateful he’d survived. Most days, he wished he hadn’t.

Which annoyed the hell out of Moose. “My friend, you need to get an attitude of gratitude.”

Moose’s voice. Clear as a bell. He was right, too. As always.

Grit watched Washington types go through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby. It was too early for happy hour, but he had learned, since Elijah’s call, that the hotel was a favorite for meetings, from multi-day conventions to an afternoon workshop on how to sell mortgages.

Bruni had likely been on his way to some sort of power breakfast in the hotel dining room. Or maybe breakfast by himself. Never mind that he was an ambassador, he had to eat.

Grit stepped out of the way for a brisk woman pushing a baby in a stroller the size of a VW Bug. She didn’t make eye contact with him. Neither did her cute, slobbering, baldheaded bambino.

They disappeared around the corner, and Grit sighed. His left foot hurt.

“You don’t have a left foot,” Moose said.

“I know I don’t.”

After seven months, Grit hadn’t forgotten that he’d lost his lower left leg, but his left foot did, in fact, hurt. Phantom pain, he’d learned, was a common and very real phenomenon. It had to do with how nerves in the residual limb communicated to the brain. His doctors and physical therapists at Bethesda had explained how it all worked in careful detail. Grit had learned more about the nerves, muscles and workings of legs than he’d ever imagined knowing. He’d made good progress; he wasn’t back to his preinjury mobility, but he had confidence, which he hadn’t had in the beginning, that he’d get there.

He was on his second prosthesis. He’d probably need another one or two in the coming months as his leg adapted and toughened and adjusted to the mechanics of prosthetic use.

Since he hadn’t died in that mountain pass, he figured he might as well get on with living. Not that he was grateful.

Moose was the one who’d urged the Special Forces medic to cut off Grit’s leg. “Don’t listen to Grit. Don’t let him die. Just do your duty.”

That transtibial-below-the-knee-field amputation had probably saved Grit’s life.

A short woman with ultrablack dyed hair emerged from a knot of reporters and walked up to Grit. She had bloodred nails and wore a denim jacket over a black dress and flat gold shoes that he figured cost more than he earned in a week. Maybe a month.

She took a lipstick out of a gigantic black handbag and looked sideways at him as she opened it up. She had big, lavender eyes. Grit put her at somewhere between fifty and a hundred. Whatever her age, she was still a knockout.

She dabbed her mouth with the lipstick. As far as he could see, it was the same color as her lips. What was the point?

“You’re not a reporter,” she said with a trace of a Southern accent, not unlike his own. “What are you doing hanging around out here?”

He figured he didn’t have to answer her question. “Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter. Myrtle Smith.”

Grit had never heard of her. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.”

“Myrtle’s fine, but if you make fun of my name or tell me you have an aunt Myrtle-” she smiled “-I’ll cut off your balls.”

She weighed maybe a hundred pounds. But she could have a sharp little knife in that big handbag. Grit realized his foot wasn’t hurting anymore. “I do have an aunt Myrtle. She’s my great-aunt. My grandmother’s older sister.”

“What’s your grandmother’s name?”

“Vasselona.”

“I like that. Your name?”

He debated telling her. “Ryan Taylor.”

“Mind if I call you Ryan?”

“Most people call me Grit.”

She gave him a frank once-over. He was dark and wiry, his hair almost as black as hers, and he had on jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt. “I can see why.” She shoved her lipstick back in her handbag. “Well, Grit, what are you up to?”

He didn’t answer.

“Not a talker, are you? Okay. I’ll talk. The police are looking for eyewitnesses to the hit-and-run this morning. No one’s come forward yet.”

A beefy doorman opened up the back door of a black limo that had pulled up to the hotel. Myrtle watched who got out but didn’t react. Just a businessman, no bodyguards, no Secret Service. Not anyone high up in law enforcement.

Grit figured something about him had sparked Myrtle’s interest.

“It’s those dreamy black eyes of yours,” Moose said.

“Shut up,” Grit said calmly. Moose had always had a sense of humor.

Myrtle frowned. “What did you say?”

Grit ignored her question. Moose wasn’t easy to explain to people. “What else do you have on Ambassador Bruni’s death?”

“Police want to know if he was meeting someone here at the hotel or just was on his way to breakfast by himself. There’s nothing on his calendar. His office is across the street and up a few doors.”

“Lots of talk about where he’d end up next.”

“Yes. Did you know Ambassador Bruni, Grit?”

“No, ma’am.”

She didn’t look offended that he’d called her ma’am. “I hear he could be difficult.” She opened her handbag again, fished out a business card and handed it to him. “That’s how to reach me if you want to talk.”

“About what, Myrtle?”

“Life, death, the virtues of Southern peach cobbler. Whatever you want.”

She eased off down the street. The doormen all watched her. The beefy one came and stood next to Grit. “That accident this morning’s killing business today. Maybe the reporters will come in for a drink when they’re done. Bottom-feeders.”

“Don’t like reporters?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t look as if he liked many people. Grit didn’t mind.

“It’s not as if that bastard died in the service of anyone but himself,” the doorman said.

“Not a popular guy?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but, no, he wasn’t popular, at least not with me. He was in here a few times a week. Most days he was a Class A prick.”

“A mean bastard, huh?”

“Entitled. I’ll take a mean scrapper any day over some trust-fund jackass who thinks he can push people around. They’re not all like that-we get some damn fine trust-fund types in here. Bruni wasn’t one of them.”

“Think someone ran him over on purpose?”

“I suppose someone else could have. But no, that’s not what I think. I think he just stepped in front of a car and got hit.”

“The car took off.”

“I missed the whole thing, myself, but the way I hear it, the driver might not have realized what happened. Just one of those freak things.”

“I run over a mouse, I know it. Anyone else around when Bruni got hit?”

“Lots of people.”

“Anyone stand out?”

“No. Not really.” The doorman nodded down the street. “You know Myrtle Smith?”

“We just met. Who is she?”

“Old warhorse reporter. You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Myrtle’s down on her luck these days. I heard she hasn’t worked in a couple months, but she’s got money in the bank, so no worries.” The doorman squinted at Grit, then said quietly, “And no one’s been shooting at her lately. Thank you for your service.”

Grit didn’t ask how he knew. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“It’s tough, losing a leg in the line of duty.”

Not everyone could tell he wore a prosthesis, even after just seven months. “How do you know I didn’t just get hit by a bus?”

“I know.”

Grit had a feeling the doorman was a bit of a prick himself.

“He does know,” Moose said. “He was in Vietnam. He lost friends in the Central Highlands.”

“Enough, Moose.”

The doorman frowned. “Beg your pardon?”

Grit didn’t answer and headed up to the corner. Old Myrtle was nowhere in sight. He felt the humidity even in the chilly air. He decided he didn’t like November in Washington. It’d be worse in Vermont. He hoped Elijah figured things out before he’d have to get up there to help him.

Moose sighed next to him. “It can snow in Vermont in November.”

Yes, it could.

Grit had never liked snow.