“Trying out that line on me before the homicide detectives get there? Grit, a killer could have been hiding in the closet.”
“Even better,” he said.
“My sister isn’t a SEAL.”
“She was never in danger. I’m right here with her. I’d have protected her, but I didn’t have to.”
“Did she see you help yourself to a photo of the tenant?”
“What makes you think I did that?”
“Elijah would. You would, and did.”
“He’s good-looking. The tenant. We’re not saying his name in case your boss or any bad guys have tapped this place or your phone, right?”
“Describe him.”
Grit eased the three-by-three photo out of his pocket and held it in his palm. “It bothers me that I’m predictable.”
“You couldn’t care less, Grit, and you know it. What does he look like? I want to be sure it’s the same guy.”
“Blond hair, green eyes—hazel, maybe. Slight cleft chin. Straight nose. He’s wearing a suit. Tie and everything. Your guy?”
“Probably, yes,” Jo said. “Do you recognize him? Have you run into him in the past few months? In Black Falls, here in D.C. Anywhere?”
“No. He’s good-looking but he’s sort of an everyman.” But Grit knew what Jo was asking. “If I’d seen him in D.C. or Vermont, or anywhere near my genius teenage protégé, I’d remember.”
“Beth?”
He glanced at Beth, who was off the phone now. She had the back door open and was pale but composed as she stared out at the wilted flowers. “I don’t think so,” Grit said. “She’s more out there than you, Jo. She’s not used to keeping secrets. She didn’t recognize the dead woman or this guy. This guy’s got his own pictures are all over the refrigerator, too.”
“Actors,” Jo said, as if that explained Trent Stevens’s apparent self-absorption. “Your young friend in D.C. is going to run with this.”
“Maybe you should let him.”
“If he finds a way to be in touch, you let me know. Understood?”
“You or the Secret Service?”
“We’re one and the same.”
“I’ll let you know.” Grit slipped the photo back in his pocket. “Jo, whatever’s going on, you need to find this guy. He could be dangerous, or in danger himself.”
“We’ll take care of what we need to on our end.”
Meaning he should butt out and let the Secret Service do their job. They’d keep the vice president’s family safe. “Do you want me to put your sister on?”
“I want you to get her out of there and sit her by Sean’s pool with a mojito. Tell her to have one for me. And you,” Jo said. “No more bodies.”
“Aye-aye, Special Agent Harper.”
She ignored him and disconnected. He heard a buzz in his ear, and for a split second thought she’d found a way to zap him from D.C., then realized it was another call coming in.
He checked the screen. Elijah. Great.
Grit took the call. “You didn’t find a body on Myrtle’s patio, did you?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
His friend didn’t know yet about the dead woman.
“Never mind,” Grit said. “What’s up?”
A half beat’s pause. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? That explains it. Charlie just called. He said to tell you he’s checking for aliases. That you’d know what he meant.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Study his calculus.”
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t need to study. He knows the answer before the question’s asked.” Grit watched Beth stiffen by the door and then heard sirens. “I have to go. Talk to your fiancée.”
“Jo? What’s she got to do with—”
Grit pretended not to hear and clicked off his phone and slid it back in his pocket. He felt a sharp arrow of pain in his left foot, but not even for a split second did he think he still had a left foot.
By then, the police were descending.
Ninety minutes after Beth had walked into the small apartment, she and Grit were standing in the parking lot in the Southern California sun. She had a tight grip on her emotions. Either Grit did, too, or he wasn’t all that bothered by the scene they’d come upon, which she didn’t believe. He just had the ability to take one thing at a time.
She could see the muscles in her wrists and forearms tighten as she crossed her arms over her chest and eyed the array of law enforcement vehicles that had gathered at the scene.
The police she’d expected. The FBI and Secret Service agents had unnerved her.
The victim was identified as Portia Martinez. She’d worked part-time as a sound technician and cleaned houses for actor friends for extra cash. She didn’t live in the apartment. She and the tenant, Trent Stevens, apparently were friends. Stevens didn’t look as if he had the money for a housekeeper, but, on the other hand, he didn’t look as if he were someone who’d clean his own house. He’d get someone else to do it and exchange favors or run up his credit cards.
Beth glanced back at a stern FBI agent standing under the wilted flower basket. “We’re cleared to go, you know.”
Grit put a hand out to her. “I’ll drive.”
She started to protest but dropped the keys into his palm. She wasn’t in the mood to argue.
An unmarked black SUV backed out of the way so they could leave. Grit got behind the wheel. Beth, feeling surly, slid into the passenger seat. “Have you even driven a car since you got your leg blown off?”
Grit seemed to take no offense at her rudeness. “I drove around Vermont, seeing the mountain vistas.”
“Vermont isn’t Los Angeles.”
“No, it’s not.”
He remembered the way back to Sean’s house, which was good because Beth didn’t. She sat looking out her window as Beverly Hills slid past her.
When they pulled into Sean’s driveway, she turned to Grit. “I’m sorry about the crack about your leg.”
“What crack? It was blown off. No one came and stole it while I was sleeping.”
She scowled at him. “Are you ever serious?”
“I was serious just now.”
He parked, and Beth flung herself out of the car. Hannah and Sean came out to the driveway. They’d already heard the difficult news and were expecting them.
Grit got out of the car and tossed Beth the keys but was focused on Sean. “I want to see where Jasper Vanderhorn was killed. I want you to tell me about that day.”
Sean nodded. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
Beth headed inside, slamming the door behind her. She went straight out to the pool and stared at the clear, turquoise water. She’d reached for her cell phone a dozen times to call Scott. He’d want to know about the dead woman, if only from a professional point of view. From a personal one, Portia Martinez’s murder would just be another sign to Scott that he’d fallen for the wrong woman.
Beth was too close to the violence of the past year.
“You served the Whittakers muffins,” he’d yelled at her, utterly irrational.
Muffins? As if she’d had any choice. As if she’d known Lowell Whittaker was a killer and his wife an abusive lunatic who’d leave Bowie O’Rourke, an innocent man, to burn up in a fire so that she could avoid the embarrassment of having her husband’s murderous activities come to light.
Beth had irritably countered that Three Sisters Café had also served the two paid assassins who’d left Drew Cameron to die in a snowstorm, run down an ambassador, poisoned a Russian diplomat and nearly killed two teenagers.
That was when Scott had packed up and gone back to Vermont.
Hannah opened a French door and came out onto the patio. “Beth?”
“I’m good. Please don’t worry.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. She felt terrible, and alone. “I’m ruining your time with Sean. Grit never should have come. He said so himself.”