Thirty-Two

Grit stood outside the revolving doors of the hotel where Ambassador Bruni had been killed and watched the passersby. It was almost noon and cloudy, but other people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Last night, Myrtle had said to meet her there. She’d added a little something to her coffee and was in a maudlin mood when they’d parted, the kind that indicated she had layers and secrets and dark corners that she didn’t like to look in.

He had a bad feeling about Myrtle.

Just down the street a fair, buff teenage boy in a navy Georgetown University cap, hooded sweatshirt and tan chinos was staring at the spot where Bruni was hit.

The pants were neatly pressed.

Well, well, Grit thought, and eased in next to the kid. “Hello, Charlie.”

He looked startled. “That’s not my name.”

“Sure it is. You know a friend of a friend of mine. Jo Harper.”

“The Secret Service agent in the video?”

All innocent. Grit narrowed his eyes. “What’re you doing here, Charlie?”

“What makes you-”

“Prep-school pants. And the hat and the sweatshirt both Georgetown? Come on.”

He reddened some, but not much. “I have a trombone lesson around the corner.”

“You don’t play trombone.”

The kid stared at the asphalt and said calmly, “A doctor’s appointment would have worked better?”

“No,” Grit said.

“Who I am is none of your business.”

“I’m a caring citizen.” But Grit figured Charlie Neal, being a genius as well as sixteen, already knew who he was. “There are no Secret Service agents strong-arming me right now, so that means you gave them the slip somehow. What did you do, hide yourself in a suitcase?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. You obviously have me confused with someone else. I’m just a kid.”

Grit studied him thoughtfully and considered his research into the life and times of Charles Preston Neal, the only son and youngest child of the current vice president of the United States. “Your cousin,” he said finally, “Conor Neal. You two are the same age. You both look like Prince Harry did at sixteen.”

“Prince Harry?”

“You and the cousin switched places. Create a little bedlam, and next thing, he’s you and you’re him. Conor doesn’t have a Secret Service detail. You do.” Grit thought it through and figured that was it. “It’s sort of like The Prince and the Pauper. Ever read that book?”

Charlie didn’t answer, but his ears got red under the lower edge of his Georgetown cap.

“Must be refreshing,” Grit said with some sympathy, “just to be normal.”

Big roll of the eyes. “That’s not the point.” Charlie turned his head and glared at Grit. “You’re Petty Officer Taylor, right? You and Petty Officer Michael Ferrerra, also a Navy SEAL, were each awarded a Silver Star last year. It’s for gallantry in action-”

“I know what it’s for.”

“I keep track of Silver Star recipients. I figure it’s the least I can do.” Charlie stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his oversize sweatshirt and kept his blue Prince Harry eyes on Grit. “Petty Officer Ferrerra died in April. He saved your life.”

“Photographic memory?”

“I just pay attention, Petty Officer Taylor.”

“Just Grit is fine. And not because you’re the vice president’s son.” He nodded to the spot where Bruni was hit. “Was Ambassador Bruni meeting you the other morning?”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head but didn’t speak.

“Why are you here, Charlie?” Grit asked.

“I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

“You want to keep yourself out of trouble, too, don’t you?”

That gave him his spine back. “I don’t care about that. What’re they going to do? Just watch me even closer than they do now. The people who are supposed to keep an eye on me will get in trouble, though. And that’s not fair.”

“It’s also not your problem.”

Charlie glanced behind them at the revolving doors, then shifted back to the street. “I followed him here,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him about Agent Harper. My sister Marissa told me they’re friends. Agent Harper has lots of friends in various federal law enforcement agencies, but I didn’t want to go to them. You know. Risk getting them in trouble.”

“Risk having them recognize you and haul your ass back to school. Who’s ‘him’? Who’d you follow?”

“It doesn’t matter. Marissa misinterpreted their friendship. It’s not as close as I thought.”

Grit realized Charlie wasn’t talking about Bruni, but he said, “Is Marissa like you, smart and doesn’t mind her own business?”

“She’s not as smart as me. I’m not bragging. I’m just…”

“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.