Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

‘Right here,’ he said, moving his finger along it. ‘You want, I can mark it in.’

‘Yes. Please.’

She studied it. ‘OK. That’s great. Thank you, Salem.’

‘Thanks, Salem,’ said Bob.

He turned his pale eyes toward Ren. ‘You gonna come up and see me some time?’

‘I would really like that,’ said Ren. ‘Do you need a ride home?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Why don’t I take you and Misty back to the cabin?’

‘Thank you,’ said Salem. ‘It was a pleasure, ma’am, all of you.’

‘You too,’ said Bob.

Mike walked Salem down the hallway.

Ren turned to Bob. ‘Bless him,’ she said, her hand held to her heart.

Bob smiled. ‘Yeah? Well, whatever you do, don’t look at his file. Whoa. That’s some sick shit.’

Ren’s eyes widened. ‘What?!’

‘I’m kidding. Little lamby.’

Chapter 23 (#u8bb60e53-87b4-54e1-a600-62c12d8c99b9)

Ren pressed the cellphone to her ear with an icy hand as she walked down Main Street.

‘Putrescine and perverts combined with shoe-shopping,’ she said. ‘What a start to my day. Never have business and pleasure collided so well.’

‘I’m laughing, and I’m not sure why,’ said Paul Louderback.

‘OK – my nice boots got ruined with chest-cavity juice yesterday. And I’m going to buy a new pair in a store Jean Transom visited a few weeks back, owned by a man who was arrested for child porn thirty years ago.’

‘Well, you never know,’ said Paul.

‘Exactly.’

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

‘Let me see – weird paw prints in the snow that probably mean absolutely nothing. Spoke to the guy who served Jean supper on Monday, January fifteenth – not a lot there… I’ve gone through Jean’s case files and nothing jumped out at me. Jean’s neighbor saw a lady visitor at the house a few times – no ID on her yet. I’m about to check out the pervert I mentioned. And I’m going to go talk to Jean’s one-three-seven tonight.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Gotta go.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Yup. Next week on Clues and Shoes …’

Wardwell’s was a basement store with dummies in the window that were meant to be life-like but weren’t quite hitting the mark. Inside, every inch of floor space was taken up with rails of tops and tables of folded jeans and sweatshirts. A young, handsome guy was standing impressively still beside a messed-up pile of T-shirts. Ren got him straightaway: I’m tall, thin, beautiful, my jeans are too big, they’re belted below the band of my boxers, I rock.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said. He had come alive.

Like Mannequin. ‘I’m doing good,’ said Ren. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Well, I’m good too, as a matter of fact.’ He beamed a genuine smile.

Ren gave him a break. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘That cold out there is something else.’

‘It sure is.’

‘But we’re in here all over-cheery and polite.’

He laughed. ‘Well, we’ve got to fight it some way. Is there anything I can help you with today?’

‘I’ve shopped before,’ said Ren.

He paused, then smiled. ‘Well, I’m here if you need me.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘You bet.’

She wandered up a few steps to the back of the store, where she spotted the man who had to be Malcolm Wardwell. She knew he was seventy-one years old. Any years he could have dropped with his muscular frame were added back by rheumy eyes and slack skin.

‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Malcolm Wardwell?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Ren Bryce with the FBI. We’re investigating the death of Special Agent Jean Transom.’

‘Oh, yes. Hello.’

‘If I showed you a photo of her, would you be able to tell me if she came into your store?’

‘If it was a day I was here, I hope so.’

Ren handed him the photograph.

He nodded. ‘Yes, she was in here. I remember her. She was with her daughter – a little blonde girl.’

Niece, probably. ‘And when was that?’ said Ren.

‘It was a couple of weeks back. And I know it was a Wednesday and it was before lunchtime, because we were clearing floor space for a delivery, so we were all trying not to get in the way.’

‘OK.’