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

‘Hello, Margaret? It’s Ren Bryce here. You left a message for me.’

‘Yes, I did. I didn’t want to call your cellphone. I thought that might be too personal.’

‘Oh, you can call that any time,’ said Ren. ‘How’s your dog?’

‘He’s getting there. I’m just not quite sure where “there” is …’

Ren laughed. She pulled a Post-It pad toward her and grabbed a pen. ‘Now, what can I do you for?’

‘I feel dirty,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m an old hippy. And here I am helping the Feds.’ She paused. ‘I took down someone’s car registration last night. For you. Can you imagine? It was the lady I told you about, the one who visited Jean.’

‘Really? That’s great, Margaret. Shoot.’

Margaret called it out. ‘Now, I only saw her leave. I was nervous enough about my carpets with the dog. The spying nearly killed me.’

‘Well, the FBI – your favorite – thanks you very much.’

‘I would say it was a pleasure, but it was really terrible,’ said Margaret. ‘I couldn’t do what you do.’

Colin Grabien sat at his borrowed desk, scrolling rapidly through a screen of numbers. On the wall beside him, the regular owner of the desk had created a beautiful world of kittens hanging out of buckets, tugging on balls of wool, hanging off tables, licking ice-creams.

Ren walked up to him. ‘Hey, P. asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk Magnet.’

Colin looked up at her. ‘What?’

‘I can’t use bad language in front of Robbie.’

Colin paused, then laughed. Cliff joined in. Robbie was not so sure.

‘How can people look at that shit all day?’ said Ren. ‘Sorry, Robbie.’

‘Same way I can sit opposite you in Safe Streets,’ said Colin.

Gary Dettling walked into the room. ‘Listen up. I just got a call from Denver PD. There was a robbery at Washington Mutual on Colfax one hour ago. Same freaks with the celebrity mug shots…’

‘Who was it this time?’ said Colin.

‘Paris Hilton,’ said Gary.

Yesss. ‘Were they violent?’ said Ren.

‘Along with their guns, they had some nice big sharp knives,’ said Gary.

‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘What happened?’

‘Two of the tellers are seriously ill from knife wounds, massive blood loss, etc., but at least it looks like they’re going to pull through.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘They know enough that they’re not going so far as to kill.’

‘I’m heading back to Denver,’ said Gary, ‘to hook up with Denver PD. Is everyone OK here?’

They nodded. Gary left the room.

‘I’m very OK,’ said Ren, pulling out her notebook. ‘Right – Colin, you said Robert Downey Jr.; Cliff, you had Larry King – hello? showing your age. Robbie, you had Lindsay Lohan. And I, gentlemen, had Paris Hilton. Five dollars from each of you, thank you very much.’

‘Paris Hilton was way too obvious,’ said Colin.

‘Exactly,’ said Ren. ‘Double bluff … or jeopardy … or whatever. Are you guys sticking with the same choices?’

‘I’m going to change mine,’ said Cliff.

‘Hallelujah,’ said Ren. ‘Larry King …’

‘To Dudley Moore,’ said Cliff.

‘Who?’ said Robbie.

‘Are you for real?’ said Ren.

‘I am,’ said Cliff.

‘You’re like the anti-better,’ said Ren. ‘It’s not even, like, you go for the underdog. It’s like you go for a completely different animal from a different galaxy where betting doesn’t exist.’

She sat down at her computer and ran the license plate that Margaret Shaw had given her. Caroline Quaintance, twenty-seven years old, a radiologist with an address in Silt. Ren grabbed her bag and her jacket and left. Outside, Ollie Haggart, the ADA, stood in the porch, smoking, kicking at a wedge of ice.

Shit. ‘Hi, Oliver.’

‘Oh, hi.’ He had an expectant look in his eyes.

Deflect. Ren glanced at the steps. ‘You can relax. I’m not planning on slipping today.’

‘So, no bodily fluids on your boots this morning.’

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry – I haven’t had a chance to take a look at that for you. You can understand, with the investigation …’

He nodded. ‘I know. I just … you know the way you can’t help thinking about something…’

Silt was a two-hour drive west of Breckenridge. Working in Colorado meant driving … a lot. ‘Go check a map,’ Ren would say to East Coast agents asking her to follow up on a lead in Colorado that they thought she could take care of in an hour.

Ren pulled up outside a pale green stuccoed house on a quiet avenue in a nice neighborhood. She rang the doorbell, but by the time Caroline Quaintance came to the door, Ren was already halfway down the path to the Jeep.

‘Oh,’ she said, turning around when she heard the porch door open.

The woman standing there was tall and thin, with light-brown shoulder-length hair. She was dressed in tan pants, brown hiking boots and a navy blue zip-up fleece.

‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Caroline Quaintance?’

‘Yes.’