“A privilege to serve, sir.” Grit had to work at keeping any sorrow and self-pity out of his voice. It’d be easier if his leg didn’t hurt. If Moose would quit bugging him. If Charlie Neal hadn’t called and Alexander Bruni hadn’t been killed and Myrtle was being straight with him. And if it wasn’t November in Washington. “Drew Cameron was the name of the old guy. But you know that, right?”
“He died two weeks later on a mountain in Vermont.”
“Ever been to Vermont?”
Irritation flickered across Francona’s face. “No.”
“Me, neither. I’m a Southern boy. My family makes the best tupelo honey-”
“Drew Cameron’s son Elijah is a decorated Green Beret. Master sergeant. He was almost killed in April.” A half beat’s pause for the fed’s eyes to narrow. “So were you.”
“He’s army. I’m navy.” Grit kept his voice even. “We did some stuff together. Went through a bad night together. That’s it. It’s got nothing to do with why you and I are standing here.”
“You, Elijah Cameron and Special Agent Harper want to know if there’s a connection between the death of Elijah’s father in April and the hit-and-run that killed Alexander Bruni yesterday.”
“Is there?”
Francona didn’t answer, instead nodded to Harper’s apartment. “You’d think a Vermonter would have greenery in her window, wouldn’t you?” He glanced at Grit. “What’s Jo to Elijah Cameron?”
Jo this time. Not Special Agent Harper. “The girl who got away. He has amends to make to her. He knows it, and so does she.”
“Does she have amends to make to anyone?”
“Herself.”
“For not following him into the army,” Francona said.
“That’s in her file, or are you guessing?”
“I don’t guess. I also don’t believe anything happens because it’s meant to. I believe in cause and effect.”
“You wouldn’t want to tell me what went on with Marissa Neal two months ago, would you?” Grit knew it was the sort of statement that could get him thrown behind bars somewhere, but he didn’t care.
Francona regarded him through half-closed eyes. “People tell you things, don’t they, Petty Officer Taylor?”
“You’re not. I checked out Marissa on the Internet after I saw Special Agent Harper’s video. Think she would go to a movie with a sailor?”
Francona didn’t seem to consider that funny. “Going to tell me who called you just now?”
Grit figured Charlie wouldn’t make it through calculus class if he ratted him out, and he had a test to take. “No.”
“Stay in touch,” Francona said, and walked away.
Thirty minutes later, Grit met Myrtle at a popular restaurant near the White House. He sat across from her in a dark wood booth with comfortable red-cushioned seats. She’d called right after Francona had left saying she had a hankering for crab cakes. She already had a glass of iced tea in front of her and had put in her order, but she clearly wasn’t in a good mood. “I’ve been turning over rocks all over town. You didn’t tell me Bruni’s stepdaughter is in the same town where Jo Harper is from,” she said. “Harper’s there now. Did you see her video?”
“Kid’s lucky she didn’t shoot him for real.”
“Is she in Vermont because of Bruni’s murder?”
“He was killed after she arrived.”
“If she’s undercover-”
“She’d have found an easier way to get sent home besides getting shot in the ass by a hundred airsoft pellets, never mind what she said about the veep’s kid.” He wasn’t getting into his or Elijah’s conversations with Charlie Neal. Myrtle was still a reporter, and Grit figured she was on a need-to-know basis.
She picked up her tea. It didn’t look as if it had alcohol in it, but Grit couldn’t know for sure. “Fair point,” she said, “but if there’s anything going on in Black Falls, Harper will run into it. She’s the type. She’s the one who got you involved in this?”
“I’ve never met her.”
There was a moment’s silence as Myrtle drank some of her tea and set the glass down as a waiter appeared. “What do you want to eat?” she asked Grit.
“Nothing.”
She looked at the waiter. “Bring him some crab cakes.” He retreated, obviously wanting to please Myrtle more than Grit, and she tapped two fingers on the table. “I can waste time scratching the itch, Grit, or you can just tell me. Who has you looking into the death of a prominent ambassador?”
He thought of about twenty things he could to do shut her up, then said, “A friend of mine. You’re going to want a name, aren’t you?”
“Not ‘going to.’ Do.”
Grit debated. He didn’t need Myrtle spinning her wheels figuring out Elijah’s name. “Elijah Cameron. This is off the record.”
“What’ll he do if I print his name, hunt me down?”
It was Grit’s turn to be silent.
Myrtle sighed. “You guys. Harper and Cameron?”
“Love-hate thing since preschool.”
“Yin-yang. Okay. Anything going on up there?”
“Alex Bruni’s stepdaughter took off into the mountains after she learned about her stepfather’s death.”
“I don’t like that,” Myrtle said.
“You got kids?”
“Why are you asking, Grit?”
“I just wondered if you and the dead Russian in London got it on-”
“You bastard.” She didn’t raise her voice. “I’m a split second from throwing my drink in your face.”
“Question asked and answered. Want to tell me about him?”
“No.”
“He had enemies?”
Her crab cakes arrived. Grit’s would be a minute. Myrtle dug in, ignoring him.
He settled back against the comfortable booth. “We all have enemies, Myrtle, but not all of us have enemies willing to hire assassins to poison our soup.”
“It was his toothpaste,” she said. “The poison was in his toothpaste.”
“He didn’t notice?”
“He didn’t have a chance. It was a fast death.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. I don’t know what kind of poison. Getting anything out of the Brits is next to impossible.”
Grit considered a half-dozen options for a fast death by poisoned toothpaste. Most were ones Myrtle probably had considered herself by now. “So your interest in Bruni’s murder isn’t professional.”
“No, Grit. It’s not. I don’t give a flying rip if I ever write this story or get paid for uncovering whoever these assassins are. I’m freelancing these days. I don’t answer to anyone but myself. If there are paid killers out there, I want them found. That’s it. Then I’m done.”
The waiter brought Grit’s crab cakes. He wasn’t hungry, but Myrtle stuck her fork out at him and told him to eat up.
He saw that she’d cleaned her plate. “Like those crab cakes, do you?”
“I didn’t even taste them.”
“You can have mine.”
She shook her head. “No. Eat. Your pants hang on your ass. You need to put on some weight.”
Grit knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive if he didn’t eat. He picked up his fork and had a bite. “Ever have tupelo honey, Myrtle?”
“Honey’s honey.”
“No, it isn’t. True tupelo honey is the only honey that doesn’t crystallize. It’s produced from the tupelo gum tree that grows in the river swamps of northwest Florida.” He set down his fork. Half a crab cake would have to satisfy her. “Come on. Walk with me to the White House. Tell me what it was like when it was being built. You remember, right?”
“You’re a jerk, Grit.”
Moose materialized next to him and laughed. “Old Myrtle’s got your number.”
Grit ignored him and walked out into the late-autumn gloom of Washington. He wanted to take off his fake leg and climb into bed with a fifth of scotch, but Myrtle paid their tab and joined him.