Cold Ridge

by Carla Neggers

Carine cleared her throat. "I'm ready. You can turn your head now."

  North didn't feel self-conscious about his own absence of clothing. He supposed he should, but this wasn't the first time he and Carine had made love—the first time was almost a year ago, a few days after the shooting in the woods, less than twenty-four hours after he got rid of Hank and Manny. It was in the loft in her log cabin, with the fire crackling in her woodstove, and it hadn't seemed sudden at all. It had seemed natural, as if they should have been making love for years.

  He pulled on his pants, noting that she didn't turn her head away, but when he grinned at her, she made a face, blushing slightly. "Regrets?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  But that was now, he thought. Give her a couple of hours in his truck and see what she thought.

  She swore under her breath and grabbed her tapestry bag and her cameras, not asking him to carry a thing as she pushed past him into the kitchen.

  He had a feeling it was going to be a long drive back to New Hampshire.

  Nine

  The lead homicide detective had Sterling take him through the entire house after lunch, describe each room and explain its status in terms of renovation. Sterling tried not to let his impatience show, but he could see no relevance in having the detective inspect the fifth-floor maid's quarters. But the man insisted, and Sterling cooperated. Afterward, the detective thanked him, and Sterling returned to his office in a deceptively plain building that his company owned in Copley Square.

  He was exhausted and uneasy, and try as he did, he couldn't summon much sympathy for Louis Sanborn. Why the hell hadn't he taken more care not to get himself killed? Or at least, if it had to happen, why not somewhere else? Why on Rancourt property?

  Sterling stood in front of the tall, spotless windows in his office and looked across Boylston at Trinity Church and the mirrored tower of the Hancock building. He could see a corner of the original wing of the Boston Public Library, the oldest public library in the country. So much history all around him. It was something he loved about Boston. He thought of it as his city. He and Jodie had such great plans for the house on Commonwealth Avenue. They wanted to entertain there, open it up to charitable events, allow for people outside their immediate circle of family and friends to enjoy it.

  Now it was tainted by murder.

  If not Louis, why hadn't Gary Turner done something to prevent this nightmare? Sterling would give anything for yesterday never to have happened. At this point, the best he could hope for was a quick arrest, preferably of someone who had no connection to him. A drug dealer or a drifter who'd followed Louis into the house and shot him in an attempted robbery, or just for the hell of it.

  But that didn't look likely. The detectives had refused to tip their hand, but Sterling knew Manny Carrera was in their sites. A consultant he'd hired. A man he'd trusted.

  He had to be patient and let the investigation play itself out.

  His wife, however, didn't have a drop of patience in her character. She didn't last long at their home on the South Shore and stormed into his office, dropping onto a butter-soft leather couch she'd picked out herself. She was his partner, always at his side. Whenever he felt his energy and drive flag, Jodie would be there, reinvigorating him, urging him on. She was forty-eight, trim, independent—and a little remote. Even after fifteen years of marriage, Sterling couldn't help but feel an important part of her lay beyond his reach. He wondered if it would have been different if they'd had children, but that had never been in their stars.

  She was ash-blond, elegant in every way, yet buying their place in Cold Ridge had been her idea. Venturing ontotheridgelastNovember—again,heridea.Shecontinued to insist they'd have survived, even if they'd had to spend the night on the ridge. Sterling knew better. They'd have been lucky if they'd managed to setup their tent in the high wind, and if they'd succeeded, there was a real possibility they'd have suffocated inside it with the amount of snow that fell by first light. Simply put, they were out of their element. But the situation was made less galling, at least to her, because it was Tyler North, Manny Carrera and Hank Callahan who got to them first. If Jodie had to be rescued, better by a hero-pilot-turned-senate candidate and a pair of air force pararescuemen.

  It came as a surprise to people that she enjoyed their home in Cold Ridge as much as her husband did. Sterling liked that. He liked having people not quite able to figure them out.

  "I can't stand the tension, Sterling." She jumped back to her feet, her restlessness palpable. "I really can't."

  He went around his desk and sat in his tall-backed leather chair, giving her room to pace. "I know. It's getting to all of us. I think today will be the worst day. Once we know what we're dealing with, we can adjust. It'll get better, Jodie. You know that."

  She didn't seem to hear him. "I thought Louis was this smart security type. How did he manage to get himself killed? He should have been able to save himself—" She stopped, waving a hand at him as if to forestall the criticism she knew was coming. "I'm sorry. That's a terrible thing to say."

  Sterling made no comment. Sometimes his wife's lack of compassion, her inability—or her unwillingness—to connect with other people, startled him. But usually it was momentary, and he never gave up hope that there wasn't a window into her soul.

  She seemed slightly calmer. "Gary wants me to go uptoColdRidgeatleastuntilthepolicemakeanarrest. I don't know what I'd do up there all alone. Go crazy, probably. And I don't want to leave you down here—"

  "Gary's already told me he thinks I should go with you. I don't feel I can right now, but perhaps it's a good idea for you—"

  "Why can't you? The police haven't said you can't leave town. If they need anything, they can call you in New Hampshire." She flounced onto the couch once more, stubborn more than upset. "We've done nothing wrong. I can't believe our lives are so turned upside down just because a murder was committed on our property."

  "Jodie," Sterling said quietly, hearing the admonishment in his tone, "a man who worked for us is dead."

  "I know. Oh, God, I know!" She groaned, shaking her head in frustration, fighting tears. "My reactions are all over the place. I can't believe—" She swallowed, looking down at he feet, her voice lowering to almost a whisper. "Who'd have thought something as small as a bullet could kill Louis Sanborn? He was so alive, wasn't he?"

  Sterling felt a sudden sense of loss, although he hadn't known Louis that well. But he was so young, and now he was gone. "I know what you mean."

  "I feel sorry for Carine." Jodie shook her head, displaying one of her rare tugs of real compassion. "Of all the people to find him. I hope she's gone back to Cold Ridge. She should just sit in front of the fire in that little log cabin of hers and relax for a few days."

  "Manny Carrera is a friend."

  "I know he is. There's just nothing good to be found in this situation, is there? I thought we were doing Carine a favor when we hired her. Now look. It's hard to believe Manny could murder someone, but I suppose we have to keep an open mind."

  Sterling shook his head. "I can't do it, can you? Manny's no murderer. I refuse even to consider that he might be guilty."

  "That's because you're fascinated by him," Jodie said. "Speaking of doing people favors—"

  "Don't, Jodie. I won't take responsibility for Manny's situation. I didn't ask him to show up at the house when he did."

  "Why was he there?"

  "I have no idea. He's a good man, and I'm sorry he's under even the slightest cloud of suspicion. That doesn't make it my fault."

  "No, of course not." She smiled abruptly, unfolding her legs and sliding to her feet. "But who are you trying to convince, hmm? Keep in mind that normal people don't jump out of helicopters to rescue people."

  "Manny helped save our lives, Jodie."

  "And how many times have he and Hank Callahan and Tyler North said we don't owe them a thing? They like what they do. They didn't rescue us because it was us—they rescued us because we were in a ti
ght spot and they were in a position to help."

  "Still—"

  "Don't let your gratitude and respect affect your judgment."

  He watched her walk across his office, her impatience less visible as she came behind his desk and kissed him on the top of the head. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently. "We'll get through this," he said.

  "We just need to remember to take care of ourselves."

  In a business situation, Sterling would know what to do to take care of himself. But this was different. He felt a spurt of pain in his temples. "I'm so damn tired. I keep picturing Louis—"

  "Don't," his wife said. "It won't get you anywhere. I know, I've been doing the same thing."

  She eased in front of him, then lowered herself to his lap, sinking against his chest. He could feel her exhaustion. "We'll get through this, my love," she whispered, but it seemed almost as if she was addressing someone else. "I'll make sure we do."

  He leaned back with her, rocking gently, but he was aware that he had no physical response to her. Not that many years ago, he'd have cleared his desk and made love to her then and there. A tense, difficult situation wouldn't have stopped him. He'd have welcomed the distraction, the release. So would she.

  But Jodie was different these days, or he was different, and certainly he'd never dealt with a murder before, the deliberate taking of a human life. A man he knew, a man he'd hired. It changed everything, and he was afraid, terrified to his very core, that his nonreaction to his wife was only the beginning, and ultimately the least of his worries.

  Ten

  The Mount Chester School for Boys occupied three hundred acres on the outskirts of the village of Cold Ridge, its picturesque campus dotted with huge oak trees still hanging onto their burgundy-and-burnt-orange leaves under the darkening November sky. Carine was almost relieved when Ty said he needed to stop at the school to check on Eric Carrera, Manny's son. It gave her a chance to get her bearings now that she was back in her hometown for the first time in months.

  She'd said little during the three-hour trip north. There was no taking back what she'd initiated at her apartment. She'd wanted it to happen. Emotionally, she was over Tyler North. Physically—physically, she thought, he was a hard man to resist.

  "Did you notice my abs?" she'd asked him during the drive.

  He'd almost driven off the road. "What?"

  "My abdominal muscles. I've been running and swimming, doing all sorts of calisthenics." She didn't mention she was trying to pass the PJ preliminary fitness test. "Chin-ups. Flutter kicks."

  "Sure, Carine. That's what I was thinking. Gee, she's been doing flutter kicks."

  "Flutter kicks are the worst, don't you think?"

  He hadn't said a word. Now, apparently as tense as she was, he used more force than was necessary to engage the emergency brake. "I'll be right back."

  She watched him head up the stone walk to the late-nineteenth-century brick administration building, whose design was classic New England prep school, with its tall, black-shuttered windows and ivy vines, that died back in the autumn cold. If she'd lived, Carine thought, her mother could still be here, teaching biology to another generation of boys. Mount Chester was a solid private high school with a good reputation, but it didn't have the prestige of an Andover or Choate. Carine, her sister and her brother—and Ty—had all attended the local public school.

  She knew sending Eric to Mount Chester had to be a financial stretch for the Carreras, but they believed it would be good for him to be on his own, although Carine suspected there was more to it than that.

  She climbed out of the truck, immediately noticing that the air was colder, a nasty bite in the wind, but she could smell the leaves and the damp ground, not yet frozen for the winter. Fallen leaves covered most of the lawn, most already dry and brown, some still soft, in shades of yellow, orange, maroon, even red—although the reds tended to drop first.

  "Eric'll meet us out here," Ty said, returning to the small parking lot.

  Carine nodded, sticking her hands into her pockets, trying to acclimatize herself to being back in New Hampshire.

  Eric Carrera shambled down the blacktop walk from the main campus and waved, grinning as he picked up his pace. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed like his parents, and small for his age, but the way he walked reminded Carine of his father, although he didn't possess Manny's economy of movement.

  "Hey, Uncle Ty, Miss Winter," Eric said cheerfully, "what's up?"

  "Your dad asked me to put eyes on you," Ty said.

  "Because of what happened? Mom told me. She called a little while ago. She said she wasn't sure if Dad would have a chance to call. You know, because of the police and everything. She wanted me to know what was going on in case I heard it on the news."

  "You okay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He wore a hooded Dartmouth zip-up sweatshirt and cargo pants, but he looked cold and too thin. He'd joined Manny and Val Carrera at Antonia and Hank's wedding a month ago. Antonia had told Carine that Eric was doing well, managing his asthma and allergies with medication and experience, knowing what triggered attacks, taking action once he felt one coming on—calming himself, using his inhaler. He wore a Medic Alert bracelet and, in addition to his rescue inhaler, carried an EpiPen—a dose of epinephrine—everywhere he went. He could treat himself in an emergency, save his own life. At least now he knew what his deadly allergy triggers were: bee stings, shellfish, peanuts. His allergies to tree pollen and dust mites, although troublesome, were less likely to produce an anaphylactic reaction that could kill him.

  But it had been a long road to this point, and it had taken its toll, not only on Eric, but on his parents. Carine had seen that at Hank and Antonia's wedding.

  "How's school?" Ty asked.

  "It's okay." Eric shrugged with a fourteen-year-old's nonchalance. "I'm playing soccer. I'm not on the varsity team or anything, I just play for fun."

  "That's great. This thing with your dad—it'll get figured out."

  The boy nodded. "I know. He called you?"

  "No. I was in Boston today and talked to him."

  "Oh. Well, I have to go. I have a French test tomorrow."

  "Sure." Ty cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "You'll call me if you need anything, right? Anytime. I'm in town for a few days at least."

  Eric cheered up, looking more energetic. "Yes, sir. Thanks. I heard about the seniors yesterday. What dopes. They don't think they did anything wrong."

  "They did a million things wrong, but they were very, very lucky."

  "The school warns us. They have a film. It talks about some of the people who died on the ridge. One of them used to teach biology here—"

  "That was my mother," Carine said. "She and my father both died on the ridge when I was three. They weren't lucky."

  Eric gave her a solemn look. "I'm sorry."

  "It was a long time ago, but the ridge is just as dangerous now as it was then. Weather reports are more accurate, and good equipment is readily available, but still."

  "You have to be take proper precautions," Eric said. "I'd like to climb the ridge sometime."

  Ty seemed to like that idea. "Your dad and I can take you up there."

  Eric shook his head. "Dad doesn't think I can do anything."

  "You think so? Then you'll have to educate him."

  "And Mom—Mom worries about me all the time." He sighed heavily, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, most of it in the form of his parents. "She keeps encouraging me to do things, but I know it scares her when I do."

  "Does it scare you?" Ty asked.

  The boy shrugged. "A little. Sometimes. I do it, anyway. The seniors, those guys you rescued—one of them picks on me. He says I'm skinny, and he calls me Wheezer Weasel. Not to my face, behind my back. I think that's worse. His friends laugh. They don't think I hear them, but I do."

  "I guess there'll always be a certain percentage of seniors who pick on underclassmen. They see it as their job
." Ty winked at the high school freshman. "Wait'll they get the bill for their rescue."

  Eric's face lit up. "No kidding, they'll be so pissed! I can't wait!"

  He coughed in his excitement, but there was a spring to his step when he headed back to his dorm. Ty watched him, his jaw tightening in disgust. "Wheezer Weasel. Assholes. I wish I'd known before I rescued them. I could have hung them off a ledge by their heels."

  Except he wouldn't have, Carine knew. "The Carreras haven't had an easy time of it this past year. I hope the police come to their senses soon and realize Manny's not their murderer."

  "He should call his kid."

  Ty tore open his truck door and climbed in. Carine followed, shivering, the temperature falling with the approach of dusk. Once he got the engine started, she turned on the heat, but her shivering had as much to do with fraught nerves as it did with being cold.

  "Manny told me he had a motive to kill Louis," she said. "Or at least what could be considered a motive. Do you know what he meant?"

  "He's not giving anyone the whole story."

  Which didn't answer her question, but Carine didn't push it. If Manny had told Ty more than he'd told her, there wasn't a thing she could do about it except respect their bond of friendship—because she wasn't getting it out of Master Sergeant North.

  "I figure he meant that people could perceive that he had a motive to kill him," she said, "not that he actually had one."

  Ty made no comment, his hands clenched tightly on the wheel.

  Yep, she thought. Manny had told him. She leaned back against the cracked, comfortable seat. How many times had they driven along this road? Countless, even before she'd fallen in love with him. She'd known him all her life, but their romance had been a total whirlwind, catching them both by surprise. She'd tried to chalk it up to the adrenaline of her experience in the woods with the smugglers, the shooters, but that wasn't it. If he hadn't called off their wedding, she'd have married him.

  "Just drop me off at my cabin," she said quietly. "Then you can go back to Boston and figure out what's going on with Manny. You know it's driving you crazy."