“I’m sorry,” Myrtle said simply.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Grit appreciated how succinct she was.
She leaned forward, her eyes darkening to purple in the dim bar light. “Life sucks. So, want to get on with it?”
“Okay. What do you know about Ambassador Bruni’s enemies?”
“Nothing no one else doesn’t know. He was tough, smart and arrogant. Ambitious. Important. He divorced his first wife to marry the wife of his best friend. According to my sources, he had enemies but no active threats against him.”
“Then there’s no reason to think the hit-and-run was a professional job,” Grit said.
Myrtle leaned back, eyed him. “Are you suggesting there is?”
“How would I know? Anything on where he was headed when he was hit?”
“Most likely a breakfast meeting that wasn’t on his calendar. No reservation in his name. No one left waiting in the restaurant, checking his watch for him-at least no one who stuck around after he got run over.”
“Maybe whoever it was didn’t hear the commotion outside and thought Bruni blew off their meeting.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but the news is out now.”
“Would you come forward, or would you fade quietly into the woodwork?”
“I’m not the fading-into-the-woodwork type.”
“If you were,” Grit said.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter what I’d do. The FBI and Washington PD are conducting a joint investigation.” Myrtle sat back, her eyes catching more of the light and turning back to lavender. “But it’s not like the hotel has a sign-up sheet for people who walk in off the street. A hotel guest would get asked his room number, but that’s a dead end so far. Interesting, isn’t it? My take-whoever was meeting Bruni doesn’t want to come forward.”
“Could be for political, personal or professional reasons-someone who wants to keep a low profile.” Grit sipped some of his scotch. He was careful about booze. It’d be too easy to dive into a bottle, even with Moose right there. Maybe especially with Moose right there. “There are endless possibilities. What if it wasn’t a breakfast meeting? What if the breakfast was a setup? There was no one waiting-it was just to get him here at a particular time so the car could be there and bounce him into oblivion.”
“You’ve got a twisted mind, Petty Officer Taylor.”
Grit shrugged. “I’m not a pro. The cops will have a dozen other possibilities by now.” He swirled the ice and booze in his glass. “What if he was going to someone’s hotel room?”
Myrtle slanted a sharp look at him. “A woman?”
Grit shrugged, noncommittal. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“But a long shot, even if his wife was out of the country. They seemed happy together.”
“What about the ex-wife?”
“She moved to Seattle. They have two grown sons out there.”
“The new wife’s ex-husband?” Grit asked, just to see how Myrtle would respond.
“They’ve stayed friends-they’re ‘evolved.’ It’s easier on the daughter.”
“How’s she taking the news, do you know?”
Myrtle gave him an openly suspicious look. “No. Why? Is there something I should know?” She leaned forward again, her eyes like purple-tinted onyx now. “There is, isn’t there?”
“It’s a good thing you’re on our side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just want to know what’s going on. I’ve kept quiet in the interest of national security from time to time. Depends. For instance, if I’d had a tip about what you special-ops types were doing when you got your leg blown off, I wouldn’t have told the world. If I found out it was illegal or nefarious, then I’d have had to make a judgment call.”
“Nefarious?” Grit couldn’t hold back a grin. “Come on. Nefarious?”
“Now you’re making me sound like one of those pompous reporters.”
“You are one of those pompous reporters. And I don’t know anything.”
“You’re a good liar, but I’m good at seeing through liars. What’s on your mind, soldier?”
“Not soldier. Technically-”
“I know. Sailor. Don’t start with me on the SEAL thing. Sea, land, air. Navy. I know. I was just trying to be nice.”
“No, you weren’t, but whatever. Is there a chance Bruni’s death is connected to any other hits?”
Myrtle tapped her fingers on the table. “Ah. You do have your ways, Petty Officer Taylor.”
“You know, just because you found out I’m a SEAL doesn’t mean you have to get formal. Grit’s fine.”
“All right, Grit. What do you know? Some of your old SEAL pals are HRT, counterterrorism, spooks, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“How come you’re not?”
He shrugged and didn’t answer.
“The leg?”
Moose gave another low whistle next to him. “She doesn’t let up. If she were thirty years younger, you’d be in love.”
Grit sighed. “Just shut up, will you?” But Myrtle’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled at her. “Not you.”
Her expression softened. “Human frailty can be hard to take, but we all bump up against it at some point. I’m dying with my boots on. I have friends on Captiva Island, friends in Puerto Vallarta, one very good friend in Nova Scotia. Not me. I’m staying right here in Washington until I say the big good-night.”
“You’ve a flare for drama.”
“Not when it comes to my work. Then I give it straight. Always have, Grit. I don’t play games, and I don’t let my politics infect my reporting. I’m not introspective and don’t overthink these things, but that much I do get.” She gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “In my world, everyone’s fair game.”
“Ms. Smith,” Grit said, lifting his scotch and eyeing her over the rim of his glass, “who are you working for?”
A kind of pain crossed her face. “No one,” she said. “Bastard.”
“Did you have a thing for Bruni?”
“Not my type. Stick to what you’re doing and never mind me.”
“Know anything about assassins on the loose, Ms. Smith?”
“Myrtle. Okay? Just Myrtle. As for assassins-” She grabbed the check, but Grit could tell he’d struck a nerve. “I’m going to take a chance and say something I know I shouldn’t. It’s not a gray thing-I’m clear I should keep my mouth shut because you’re a SEAL and you probably can put me away.”
“Let me help you. Bruni isn’t the first hit you’ve looked into recently.”
“I’ve done some research. I don’t know if I’m on to anything or not. I’ve got a list of suspicious deaths over the past year. Prominent people-not necessarily headline grabbers, though. The methods of death are all different. Sniper shot. Fire. Hit-and-run. Poison. They all involve a noticeable lack of passion-there’s no crazy lover, no deranged psychotic hearing voices. They’ve all been in the news. No one’s hushed them up. But to make any connection among them…” Myrtle shrugged. “That’d be a stretch for authorities.”
“Anyone investigating?”
“Me.” She clutched the bill in her small hand. “So, who’re you working for, Grit?”
“Just passing the time between PT appointments.” He reached across the table, took the check by his fingertips and pried it away from her. “I’ll pay for our drinks.”
“I’m rich, Grit. Allow me.”
He didn’t.
She looked at him as he got up. “I have a niece in her twenties.”
“She look like you?”
“Same eyes. That’s it.”
Moose chuckled in that knowing way he had, but Grit said, “Your eyes aren’t bad, Myrtle. Maybe I’ll give your niece a call someday.”
He thought she might have blushed. She must have been something in her day. Hell, she was something now.
“I think I’ll stay for another drink,” she said. “You okay getting home?”
He realized she was serious and grinned. “Yeah. I can get home.” He glanced down at her. “And the leg. It didn’t get blown off. It had to be amputated.”