Cold Ridge

“Antonia—”

Tears welled in her sister’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not being very sensitive or helpful. Oh, Carine, I’m so sorry about what happened. I’m supposed to take the shuttle down to Washington tonight. There’s some function tomorrow for freshman senators—Hank left this afternoon, before he heard about the murder.”

Carine nodded without comment.

“He’s tried several times to reach Manny. No luck.” Antonia tore open the refrigerator with more force than was required. “Do you have any ginger ale? Carine, what on earth is that? It’s blue!”

“Oh, that’s my Gatorade. I’ve been trying to do more exercise. It’s good for restoring electrolytes, isn’t it?”

“I wonder how they get it that shade of blue. Well, drink it if you can keep it down. It’ll help with any dehydration. Is there someone who can spend the night here with you? I hate the idea of leaving you alone—”

“I’ll be fine.” Carine manufactured a weak smile. “Go on and catch your plane, Antonia. I just want to crawl into bed. It wasn’t a great day for me, but I’m not the one who was killed. Poor Louis.”

“Did you know him well?”

She shook her head. “Just to say hi to.”

“What a nightmare. What is it about you and the month of November? Well, at least last year no one was killed. Look, if you need me to stay—”

“No! Go be the smart doctor wife to your handsome senator-elect husband. Wow Washington. Thanks for stopping by.”

Antonia smiled, but she didn’t look reassured. “You really won’t eat any crackers off the floor, right?”

“Promise.”

“Call my cell phone anytime, day or night. Okay? I can be on the next shuttle back here. Just say the word.”

Five minutes after Antonia left, Nate called from New York. He didn’t want to hear about crackers and blue Gatorade—he wanted to make sure Carine had told the police absolutely everything and wasn’t going to get involved any more than she had to be. She assured him she was being the good soldier.

“Good,” he said. “Keep it that way.”

Her brother, too wanted her to go back to Cold Ridge. He’d left their hometown, and Antonia had left, but they both still considered it home, their refuge. Carine, who’d never left, wasn’t as nostalgic about it, and she didn’t like the idea that she might run into Tyler North.

She promised Nate she’d take care of herself and hung up, pouring herself a glass of Gatorade. She hoped she kept it down, because damned if she wanted to throw up anything blue.

Ty made the three-hour trip to Boston in under two-and-a-half hours, but lost time in Inman Square and the tangle of five million streets that radiated out from it. He went past a fancy bakery, a hardware store, a lesbian bookstore, several churches, a mosque, service stations, a Portuguese restaurant, a Mexican restaurant, a Moroccan restaurant, a Jewish deli, a Tibetan rug shop and an Irish bar with a shamrock on its sign. He went down the same one-way street twice. Maybe three times. Where the hell was his GPS when he needed it? Never mind satellite navigation—he could have used a damn map.

Finally, he found his way to a crowded street of multifamily homes with pumpkins and mums on their front steps and foldout paper turkeys and Pilgrim hats in their windows. There were a few fake cobwebs strung to fences, left over from Halloween. A couple of strings of orange lights in the shape of little plastic pumpkins. Hank Callahan and Manny Carrera, who’d both been inside Carine’s apartment, reported that it was a solid, working-class neighborhood, but her building needed a little work.

Her building was a dump. The porch roof sagged. The steps had holes in them. The whole place needed paint. Outdoor lighting was nonexistent. Tall, frostbitten hollyhocks bent over the walkway—Carine’s doing, no doubt. She’d always loved hollyhocks. The neighborhood dogs probably loved them, too.

A pack of boys careered down the dark street on scooters and skateboards. One kid, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. It was just shy of ten o’clock on a school night. North mentally picked out which ones he’d liked to see go through PJ indoc. Pass or fail, they’d get in shape, learn a little something about themselves.

“Live free or die,” the boy with the cigarette yelled as he sailed past North’s truck with its New Hampshire plates and their Live Free or Die logo. “Yeah, go for it, woodchuck.”

That one, he thought. That one he’d liked to see tossed in a pool with his hands and feet tied.

On the other hand, maybe the kid would make a good pararescueman. Stick with it, don’t give up, don’t drown—it wasn’t always easy to tell who’d make it and who’d wash out.

Antonia Winter Callahan, wife of senator-elect Hank Callahan, lifted a swooning hollyhock out of her path, stood on the main sidewalk a moment, then frowned and marched up to Ty’s truck. He kept a truck in Florida, too. This was his at-home truck. Rusted, nicely broken in. Recognizable to someone who’d known him most of his life.

He rolled down his window. “Nice night. Warmer down here in the big city.”

“I don’t believe you, Ty. Gus didn’t send you, did he? No, of course he didn’t. What was I thinking?” She groaned, her hands clenched at her sides. “God, Ty, you’re not what Carine needs right now. She’s been sick to her stomach.”

“She’s never come upon a murder before.”

Antonia nodded reluctantly, calmer. “It’s awful. She knew the victim, Louis Sanborn. He worked for the Rancourts. Did you know him?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You heard Manny Carrera was on the scene? He’s had a rough year. He—” She broke off, giving a little hiss between clenched teeth. “Ty, don’t tell me—did Manny send you? Is that why you’re here?”

“Sorry, Dr. Callahan, I’m in the dark as much as you are.” He thought that was a diplomatic way to stonewall her. “You looked like you were in a hurry a minute ago.”

“I am. I have a plane to catch—damn, I hate this. She says she’s fine. You know Carine. She’s resilient, but she’s also proud and stubborn, sensitive about being sensitive. Ty, I swear to you, if you do anything, and I mean anything, to make matters worse for her, I will find you and inject you with something that’ll sting parts that you don’t want stinging. Do I make myself clear?”

He leaned back in his seat. “You bet, Doc.”

She hissed again, disgusted with him. “The jackass fairy must have visited you every night when you were a kid,” she snapped. “Some days I don’t know how you stand yourself.”

“I’m a disciplined military man.”

She straightened, glancing back at her sister’s apartment. No foldout turkeys. No Pilgrim hats. Carine’s life here seemed temporary, something she was trying on for size. An escape. When Antonia turned back to him, Ty thought she looked strained and worried. “Promise me,” she said seriously, in an exhausted near whisper. “You’ll be good?”

“Relax, Antonia.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be very good.”

“You’re not going in there tonight, are you?”

He shook his head. “I’ll give her some time. Besides, I hate barf.”

“Yeah, right, with all you’ve seen in your career?” She started to say something, then just heaved a long sigh. “I’m trusting you.”

It was progress, Ty thought. A Winter hadn’t trusted him in months.

Antonia climbed into a taxi that had been idling farther down the street, and Ty watched it negotiate the crooked street, the oversize cars parked in too-small spaces, the potholes, the kids on skateboards.

He’d never had a thing for Antonia. It was always Carine.

Always and forever.

Four

Val Carrera learned about Louis Sanborn’s murder when she flipped through the Washington Post over her morning coffee, and it pissed her off. A man was dead, and her husband hadn’t bothered to tell her he was involved. He was in Boston. It wasn’t like he was on a secret military mission. He could have called her.

But here she was, once again, on a need-to-know basis, with Manny Carrera deciding what she needed to know and her having to live with it.

Bastard.