“You’re not a reporter,” she said with a trace of a Southern accent, not unlike his own. “What are you doing hanging around out here?”

He figured he didn’t have to answer her question. “Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter. Myrtle Smith.”

Grit had never heard of her. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.”

“Myrtle’s fine, but if you make fun of my name or tell me you have an aunt Myrtle-” she smiled “-I’ll cut off your balls.”

She weighed maybe a hundred pounds. But she could have a sharp little knife in that big handbag. Grit realized his foot wasn’t hurting anymore. “I do have an aunt Myrtle. She’s my great-aunt. My grandmother’s older sister.”

“What’s your grandmother’s name?”

“Vasselona.”

“I like that. Your name?”

He debated telling her. “Ryan Taylor.”

“Mind if I call you Ryan?”

“Most people call me Grit.”

She gave him a frank once-over. He was dark and wiry, his hair almost as black as hers, and he had on jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt. “I can see why.” She shoved her lipstick back in her handbag. “Well, Grit, what are you up to?”

He didn’t answer.

“Not a talker, are you? Okay. I’ll talk. The police are looking for eyewitnesses to the hit-and-run this morning. No one’s come forward yet.”

A beefy doorman opened up the back door of a black limo that had pulled up to the hotel. Myrtle watched who got out but didn’t react. Just a businessman, no bodyguards, no Secret Service. Not anyone high up in law enforcement.

Grit figured something about him had sparked Myrtle’s interest.

“It’s those dreamy black eyes of yours,” Moose said.

“Shut up,” Grit said calmly. Moose had always had a sense of humor.

Myrtle frowned. “What did you say?”

Grit ignored her question. Moose wasn’t easy to explain to people. “What else do you have on Ambassador Bruni’s death?”

“Police want to know if he was meeting someone here at the hotel or just was on his way to breakfast by himself. There’s nothing on his calendar. His office is across the street and up a few doors.”

“Lots of talk about where he’d end up next.”

“Yes. Did you know Ambassador Bruni, Grit?”

“No, ma’am.”

She didn’t look offended that he’d called her ma’am. “I hear he could be difficult.” She opened her handbag again, fished out a business card and handed it to him. “That’s how to reach me if you want to talk.”

“About what, Myrtle?”

“Life, death, the virtues of Southern peach cobbler. Whatever you want.”

She eased off down the street. The doormen all watched her. The beefy one came and stood next to Grit. “That accident this morning’s killing business today. Maybe the reporters will come in for a drink when they’re done. Bottom-feeders.”

“Don’t like reporters?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t look as if he liked many people. Grit didn’t mind.

“It’s not as if that bastard died in the service of anyone but himself,” the doorman said.

“Not a popular guy?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but, no, he wasn’t popular, at least not with me. He was in here a few times a week. Most days he was a Class A prick.”

“A mean bastard, huh?”

“Entitled. I’ll take a mean scrapper any day over some trust-fund jackass who thinks he can push people around. They’re not all like that-we get some damn fine trust-fund types in here. Bruni wasn’t one of them.”

“Think someone ran him over on purpose?”

“I suppose someone else could have. But no, that’s not what I think. I think he just stepped in front of a car and got hit.”

“The car took off.”

“I missed the whole thing, myself, but the way I hear it, the driver might not have realized what happened. Just one of those freak things.”

“I run over a mouse, I know it. Anyone else around when Bruni got hit?”

“Lots of people.”

“Anyone stand out?”

“No. Not really.” The doorman nodded down the street. “You know Myrtle Smith?”

“We just met. Who is she?”

“Old warhorse reporter. You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Myrtle’s down on her luck these days. I heard she hasn’t worked in a couple months, but she’s got money in the bank, so no worries.” The doorman squinted at Grit, then said quietly, “And no one’s been shooting at her lately. Thank you for your service.”

Grit didn’t ask how he knew. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“It’s tough, losing a leg in the line of duty.”

Not everyone could tell he wore a prosthesis, even after just seven months. “How do you know I didn’t just get hit by a bus?”

“I know.”

Grit had a feeling the doorman was a bit of a prick himself.

“He does know,” Moose said. “He was in Vietnam. He lost friends in the Central Highlands.”

“Enough, Moose.”

The doorman frowned. “Beg your pardon?”

Grit didn’t answer and headed up to the corner. Old Myrtle was nowhere in sight. He felt the humidity even in the chilly air. He decided he didn’t like November in Washington. It’d be worse in Vermont. He hoped Elijah figured things out before he’d have to get up there to help him.

Moose sighed next to him. “It can snow in Vermont in November.”

Yes, it could.

Grit had never liked snow.

Ten

Elijah dipped onto a narrow, seldom-used spur off the falls trail and picked up his pace, not because he’d caught a glimpse of Jo below him-although he had-but because he’d spotted Devin up by a hemlock, about thirty yards away.

Jo wouldn’t catch up unless Elijah wanted her to or he fell flat on his face on the steep, rocky trail, which was possible given his mood. He didn’t know if she’d seen him, if A.J. had ratted him out or if some Secret Service instinct had kicked in, but she seemed to have a fair idea of where he was.

Maybe she’d spotted Devin, too.

Hiking straight up to the summit of Cameron Mountain and back down again could be done in a day. The main trails were well marked and well maintained. But leave them, either for a less popular trail or to go off-trail altogether, and even experienced hikers could end up lost in the miles of woods, cliffs, hollows, streams and steep, unforgiving terrain. In his first days back home, Elijah had fetched a pair of lost honeymooners from Boston off the mountain. They were in one of the few spots with cell phone service and were able to call the lodge for help.

He’d tried calling Devin’s cell phone but didn’t get an answer.

Elijah adjusted his daypack, which he kept in his truck at all times, and hoofed it up a near-vertical incline of rock. At the top, the trail leveled off for about three feet then switchbacked on up the mountain.

Devin was directly above him, climbing over a spruce tree that wind or an ice storm had dropped across the trail. The densely wooded hillside was littered with fallen trees.

“Hold up, Devin,” Elijah said calmly. “I want to talk to you.”

He stood up, gripping a thick walking stick, breathing hard. “Leave me alone, okay? Just go back and stack some more wood.”

“Wood’s stacked. What are you doing up here?”

Devin ignored him, wiped his brow with his sleeve and continued on his way.

Seeing how the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, Elijah left the trail and pushed uphill through dead leaves, pine needles and rocks, emerging on the other side of the fallen spruce.

Devin faltered for a half beat, looking uncertain, then pivoted and kept going.

“You’re wearing the wrong clothes,” Elijah said. “You’re not carrying a pack. That means you have no water. You’re asking for dehydration and hypothermia.”

Devin glanced back, sullen, his ball cap low over his eyes. “Did my sister sic you on me?”

“I’m here on my own, but if she’d asked me to find you, it’d be because she’s worried.”

“Hannah worries too much.”