“You’re just stating the facts,” Grit finished for him.
Charlie hunched his shoulders and said quietly, “I wanted to figure out how I could make amends.”
“Ah.” Grit got it now. “You’re talking about Thomas Asher.”
The kid was silent.
Grit figured it was pretty much like holding a live grenade, having the veep’s kid right next to him with no Secret Service protection. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?” Charlie straightened, his cockiness back in full force. “I have to get to school. I have another calculus test today. I can’t miss it. I’m down to a B-plus average as it is. My cousin took this one test for me, and he isn’t great at math-”
“Too bad.”
“You can’t just kidnap me.”
Grit scratched the side of his mouth. Now what? He’d tried calling Elijah first thing that morning but got no answer. It was lousy weather up north. Snow, ice, wind. He could always try to reach Agent Harper, but Grit had a feeling she was onto Charlie herself. And she was up north in the same storm as Elijah and probably in his back pocket wherever he was.
“The Secret Service will have egg on its collective face,” Charlie said, “if it gets out that my cousin and I switched identities.”
There was that. “Tell me about Thomas Asher.”
Charlie debated a moment, his lips compressed in a manner that suggested he was accustomed to being called onto the carpet. He nodded back toward the hotel entrance. “He went in through the revolving doors and entered the restaurant and waited at his table for a while. I hung around. I figured I’d talk to him after he finished breakfast. I assumed he was meeting someone, but I kept checking and no one ever came. Then there was this big commotion out here.”
“Where exactly were you?”
“In the lobby outside the restaurant. I didn’t see Ambassador Bruni get hit.”
“Asher?”
“No. Impossible.” Charlie shook his head, adamant. “He ran out into the lobby to see what all the commotion was about. Then he left.”
“How’d he look?”
“Shocked. Upset. Terrified-but under control. He was in self-protection mode.”
“Witnesses?”
Charlie adjusted his cap, a hunk of blond hair falling down on his forehead. “That’s why I came here today. I hoped it would help me remember.”
“Did it?”
“There was a messenger on a bicycle. A woman. I saw her. I heard about the tip the police received. I didn’t realize she’d witnessed what happened.”
Grit waited, then said, “And?”
The kid obviously didn’t want to go on. Finally he answered. “Mr. Asher spoke to her.”
“Can you describe her? The tip didn’t have details. If Thomas phoned it in, he might have been too upset to remember specifics and-”
“Fleet of Pedal is the name of the messenger service.”
Grit waited again. “Charlie. You have to tell the police.”
“It doesn’t have to be me.” Charlie turned to him. “You could tell them.”
“I wasn’t here,” Grit said. But he could tell the FBI or even Myrtle, let her work her wonders and get Charlie’s tidbit to the police without putting him into the middle of a media firestorm.
In the meantime, Grit wasn’t about to leave the only son and youngest child of the vice president of the United States -a smart, troubled, sixteen-year-old kid with assassins on the mind-out on the streets.
He jerked a thumb at Charlie. “Let’s go.”
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“I’m taking you back to school.”
Except he didn’t have a car. Where the hell was Myrtle?
Ten seconds later, as if he’d conjured her up, she pulled next to the curb in a fancy little car, her window rolled down. “Sorry I’m late.” She frowned at Charlie. “Who are you?” She swallowed, obviously recognizing him. “Oh. You do have some interesting friends, Petty Officer.”
They got in her car, Grit in back with Charlie, and Myrtle drove them out to the rolling northern Virginia campus of a very private school. Grit’s high school in the Florida panhandle had been a series of trailers. Charles Preston Neal was good-looking, smart, athletic-and surprisingly invisible. It was tough to stand out when you were good at everything and were handed everything. He wanted to matter.
Not your problem, Grit reminded himself. “How does your cousin explain where he’s been when you’re off following people and hunting bad guys?”
“We’re careful. Except for that one time during calculus, we switch during play practice. It’s intensive, total immersion into the play. We’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Conor and I work production. We switch off, so it’s easy-he can be himself and me. Neither of us is missing that way. No one notices when one of us isn’t there.”
“You’ve pushed it. He took a test for you. Ever take one for him?”
“He was going to fail trig. He has this awful, obtuse teacher-”
“Conor sounds like he’s as big a pain in the ass as you.”
“I have four sisters,” Charlie said quickly. “They’re all pretty. If you don’t rat me out, I can arrange a date with one of them. Come on. Cut me some slack.”
The kid wasn’t exactly begging, but Grit said, “I’ve got enough problems without dating one of your sisters. Go on. Get to class. Myrtle and I will keep your secret.” He glanced up front. “Won’t we, Myrtle?”
“Sure.” She smiled into her rearview mirror. “You’ve got that look, Grit. I’ll agree to anything you say. I don’t want you killing me in my sleep.”
Drama. He reached across Charlie and opened his door, then sat back again. “You and your cousin are not to pull this stunt again. Understood?”
Charlie nodded, then hesitated, his skin losing some of its color. “I don’t care what happens to me,” he said quietly. “These assassins. They’re not done. There’s a network of them out there. They’re ruthless, Petty Officer Taylor. I don’t know if it’s all about money or what. There has to be a middleman who hires killers on behalf of different clients. It’s so clear to me.”
“Fair enough. Any theories about who ordered Alex Bruni killed?”
The kid hesitated, then said, “What if he knew Drew Cameron’s death in April wasn’t an accident? What if he was killed by these assassins? Alex Bruni was a prominent ambassador. He probably had enemies who’d be willing to pay someone to kill him-who’d be able to figure out how to get in touch with such people. But he also knew Drew Cameron, and…” Charlie didn’t go on.
Grit finished for him. “Cameron was just a guy from the mountains. He doesn’t fit with the other victims. Bruni does, but since Cameron and Bruni both have connections to Black Falls, it’s a problem.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It’s a problem.”
“That’s why we have cops. Anything you haven’t told me? Your father-”
“He’s not in danger that I know of. Absolutely not.” Charlie blinked back sudden tears, his breathing rapid and shallow now.
Up front, Myrtle didn’t say a word. Grit stayed very still. “Charlie?”
“I told you. Marissa was almost killed in September. Agent Harper saved her life. Jo could have died. Marissa could have died.”
“According to my sources, that fire was an accident.”
“What if it wasn’t? I don’t want anyone dying for me. The airsoft prank…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“On some level, that prank made the risks Jo and her colleagues take feel less real to you.”
“Yeah.”
“And it was funny,” Grit said.
“Jo got sent to Vermont. I didn’t realize that’s where Nora Asher moved after she dropped out of Dartmouth. If her father’s mixed up in this network…if Drew Cameron and Alex Bruni were among its latest victims…if it’s connected to Black Falls somehow-”
“Whoa. Slow down. How do you know about Nora Asher?”
He rolled his eyes. “Facebook. Come on. That was so easy.”