Cold Dawn

by Carla Neggers

“Twenty minutes, longer if traffic’s bad.”

  As far as Grit could see, traffic was always bad. He figured he could handle thirty minutes with Beth biting her nails in back. Let Sean be the one to kick her out. “Drive on.”

  Sean gritted his teeth and steered his expensive sedan out of the driveway.

  Grit turned to Beth in the backseat. “Have you talked to Trooper Thorne?” She just stared out her window. He tried again. “Your brother? Your sister? Rose? Dominique?”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  That could work, Grit decided, and turned back around. Seventeen minutes later, they pulled into a small parking area by a three-story Art Deco building that Cameron & Martini had saved from the wrecking ball, refurbished and still owned.

  There’d been a fire during renovations. Nick Martini’s quick actions had almost certainly saved the building.

  Sean led Grit and Beth into a cool, elegant lobby, no indication that there’d been a fire or that the place had ever needed renovating. Sean said, “The fire was last January, months before Jasper Vanderhorn was killed.”

  “Your sister was just getting involved with Cutshaw then,” Grit said.

  Beth stiffened visibly, but Sean was calm. “I don’t see how the two could be connected.”

  “Me, either.” Grit looked up at the Art Deco ceiling. “Vanderhorn investigated this fire?”

  Sean shook his head. “Not officially. He looked into it on his own after the fact.”

  “He was trying to connect this fire to his serial arsonist?”

  “I suspect so, yes,” Sean said, diplomatically.

  Grit noted the list of businesses with offices in the building but none struck him as being related to Hollywood and their missing actor. Advertising, digital media, financial planning. He turned back to Sean. “How’d the fire start?”

  “Electrical short,” Sean said. “The work crews missed it.”

  “No arrests?”

  “No. There’s no proof it was arson.”

  “But you think it was,” Grit said.

  Sean shrugged without answering.

  Beth wandered over to the elevator but was obviously listening in.

  Grit continued. “The police will be looking into whether Robert Feehan was or could have been in Los Angeles then. Cutshaw, too. Maybe they worked together and just had a falling-out.”

  Sean considered Grit’s comment. “Why target Nick and me? The Whittakers were already in Black Falls, but my father wasn’t suspicious of Lowell yet. No one was.”

  Something Drew Cameron’s four offspring now had to live with, Grit thought. He said matter-of-factly, “Lowell didn’t like you. You’re everything he isn’t. His crazy bitch wife threw you in his face. Why not target you and your smoke jumping buddy?”

  “Nick was only here by accident. I wasn’t here at all. The fire couldn’t have been meant to kill us.” Sean looked around the lobby, as if imagining the flames a year ago. “Most arsonists work alone.”

  “Okay,” Grit said. “So it’s Feehan, and Cutshaw wasn’t involved. Feehan finds out a Cameron is a rich Californian and locates one of your enemies or one of Martini’s enemies to pay to mess things up for you. Was construction delayed?”

  “For a few weeks.”

  “Maybe that was enough. Maybe this fire was about profit. How’d Martini find out about it?”

  “Nick was out that night and got a call from the security guard that there was a fire. He arrived before the fire crews.”

  “Could he be the arsonist himself?”

  Sean cast Grit a cool look. “No.”

  “Is that friendship or your head talking?”

  “Both.”

  Beth stalked over to them. Her turquoise eyes showed the strain she was feeling, but she still glared at Grit. “What happened to your navy business?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  They headed back out, the air warm, the light now a filtered brownish color. This time Grit took the backseat. Beth got in front without a word.

  Sean was pensive as they drove to his house.

  “I have to go home,” Beth said, watching Beverly Hills slide past her.

  Sean nodded. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. We’ll all go.”

  Once at Sean’s, he and Beth went inside to make plans. Grit stayed out in the driveway and took a call from Charlie Neal.

  “Anything new?” Charlie asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. I’d have heard. I’ve been looking into Portia Martinez—all on the internet, so don’t worry. She grew up in Fresno. Her parents are school-teachers. Totally ordinary and normal. She wanted to work in Holly wood from the age of four.”

  “The police must know this, Charlie.”

  “They must, but here’s what I’m thinking. What if Portia somehow got wind of this firebug and his plot to kill my sister?”

  “Jasper Vanderhorn’s the only one who had this theory about a serial arsonist. How would she have found out? And your sister’s fire was months ago, and it was an accident. If Ms. Martinez knew anything about it, she’d have reported what she knew to the police or the Secret Service, don’t you think?”

  “She might have only just found out, and there could be a new plot. It’s unfinished business. Killing Marissa, I mean.”

  Grit sighed. He was getting used to Charlie’s labyrinthine way of thinking. “You think Jasper Vanderhorn was onto the plot and that’s why he was killed?”

  “Maybe Portia was his confidential informant.”

  “There any evidence of that?”

  “How would I know? I’m in high school in northern Virginia.”

  “You’re maddening.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah. You’re a big pain in the ass, Charlie.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “How’s the leg?”

  “Which one? All’s well.” Grit watched a car edge past the house on the quiet street. “Go back to class.”

  “Jo and Elijah are upset about the fire this morning—Agent Harper and Sergeant Cameron, I mean.”

  Grit had wondered if Charlie would get to that part. “You’ve talked to them?”

  “I saw Jo and called Elijah. They didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “You weren’t surprised, were you?”

  “No, but it’s okay. They told me to butt out, which I expected, but I got my point across. What do you think the fire on Jo’s property means? Is the firebug mad at her for foiling his attack on Marissa last fall?”

  “Evidence, Charlie. Speculation just gets you tangled up.”

  “That’s what Elijah said.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Two fires, Grit—Petty Officer Taylor,” Charlie said. “That’s evidence.”

  Beth was in the shade by the front door when Grit disconnected. He’d seen her come out but hadn’t done anything about it. She shook her head at him. “Jo would skewer you.”

  “For what?”

  “For talking to Charlie Neal. That little devil caused Jo big problems and almost got her fired, and now he’s going to get you arrested.”

  “Jo might not have hooked up with Elijah again if Charlie hadn’t shot her in the butt with those Airsoft pellets.”

  “They’d have found a way back to each other.”

  Grit noticed a flicker of what he interpreted as sadness and regret in Beth’s eyes. “You’re a romantic.”

  “Not me.” She almost smiled as she stepped out of the shade. “I’m a hardheaded, repressed New Englander.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not a romantic. It’ll be a while before you get over Trooper Thorne, won’t it?”

  “I’m not talking about my love life with you, Grit. What about yours?”

  “Too busy learning to walk again.”

  “It’s been almost a year.”

  “You’d expect more of me?”

  “A strapping Navy SEAL? It was just your lower leg you lost.”

  Her bluntness was refreshing. “Ma
n, you’re tough.”

  She didn’t seem at all embarrassed or chagrined. “Tell me about Charlie.”

  After Grit went back inside, Beth stifled her guilt at having been surly with him and dialed Scott’s cell number. He’d left her a message to call him. She had no idea what to expect. She only knew that she wanted to talk to him in private, not where Hannah, Sean or Grit could scrutinize her for her reaction.

  She stood in the warm sun and steadied herself when she heard Scott pick up. “It’s me,” she said.

  “Hey, Beth.” He sounded tense but not angry, and not, she thought, unpleased to hear her voice. “You okay?”

  “I am, yes. You?”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “You called me—”

  “I called to find out how you are. I meant that’s how I am—I’m just doing my job.” He sighed. “Don’t complicate everything.”

  Beth smiled in spite of her tension. That was Scott: literal, no-nonsense, a man of clarity and purpose. “I talked to Rose,” she said. “Dominique’s been concealing an ex-husband and a trust fund. How long have you known?”

  “Awhile.”

  But he couldn’t and wouldn’t tell her. She appreciated that about him. He wouldn’t torture himself. He’d just put the information under “secret work stuff” in his mind and not go there when they were together. “Jo knows?”

  “Ask her.”

  Beth took that as a yes. “So how the hell rich is Dom?”

  “She’s from a Midwest manufacturing family. Old money.”

  “And here she is, living in a little fixer-upper in a small Vermont town and baking scones and grilling salmon for a living.”

  “She just does her own thing, which you, she and Hannah all share.”

  “Scott—”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “As soon as I can figure out how to get there.”

  “Plane,” he said.

  For Scott Thorne, that was a major display of humor. Beth felt tears hot in her eyes, the anger draining out of her. She tried to laugh. “I kind of miss winter.”

  “No, you don’t. You miss being in the middle of things.” He paused and sucked in a breath. “I miss having you in the middle of things. Going out to the lake this morning…knowing you wouldn’t be there to help…” His voice was lower, almost tentative. “It wasn’t what I thought it’d be.”

  She knew he’d said all he meant to and if she pushed for more, she’d only make him uncomfortable. If she’d learned anything in the past twenty-four hours, it was to hold her damn tongue once in a while.

  “You law enforcement types don’t think Dom could be your firebug, do you?” she asked him. “Because that’d be nuts—”

  “Go swimming.”

  She could hear the relief in his voice. She smiled into the sun. “I love you, Scott.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and it was enough.

  Beth quickly shut her phone and headed back inside.

  Twenty-One

  Black Falls, Vermont

  Nick was on Rose’s couch, welcoming the quiet and coziness of her little house after the long, tense day. She lay stretched out in front of her woodstove, with Ranger asleep, one ear flopped off the side of his bed. It was dark, the promise of warmer temperatures in the forecast for tomorrow.

  He could see the white on Ranger’s undercoat. “Will you train another search dog after Ranger retires?” he asked.

  “Not right away,” Rose said. “Maybe not ever. Ranger has time. Another year, I think.”

  “You’re both on the road a lot.”

  “Especially this past year.”

  “How much was volunteer and how much was for pay?”

  “My search-and-rescue work is on a volunteer basis. I’m a member of a team that responds to disaster calls around the country, but most of our work’s in New England. I’ve been doing more and more consulting in search management. That pays, but I still need to do projects at the lodge to make ends meet.”

  Nick watched her run her palm over Ranger’s golden coat.

  She added, “I can’t take on the intense commitment to train another dog anytime soon.”

  “You and Ranger are still a team.”

  “We have more work to do together. We could drop back to local wilderness searches. The disaster work’s intense and demanding for both of us.” She glanced up at Nick, the effects of the fire on the lake that morning—the needless death of a man she knew—less evident in her eyes, her mouth. “Enough about me.”

  “You’re driven,” Nick said.

  “This from Nick Martini,” Rose said, amused, and sat up, stretching out her legs in front of her. She’d changed into slim pants and a soft sweater and was barefoot. She seemed aware he was watching her every movement. “Sean’s driven, too, but he’s more subtle about it. Not you. Submarines, smoke jumping, making money—you dive into whatever you’re doing with absolute commitment. What’s your family like?”

  He smiled slightly. “Intense but likable.”

  Rose laughed. “You’re intense. ‘Likable’ remains to be seen. I know your father’s retired. For how long?”

  “Five years. He misses the sea, even if he was under it most of his career. He has a number of different irons in the fire as a military consultant. My mother’s a geologist. She teaches at a local college. I have a sister, too. Diana. She’s career navy.”

  “You enlisted. How’d that go over?”

  He grinned. “It went over.”

  “You were impatient. You still are. It can be a virtue. You didn’t hesitate today. You did well.”

  Again his gaze settled on her. “So did you.”

  “I’m not an adrenaline junkie,” she said, not defensively. “Maybe at first I had visions of drama and heroism and adventure, but canine search and rescue requires teamwork and a tremendous amount of dedication, training and practice, practice, practice. People who go into it for the glory usually don’t last.”

  “It’s similar with smoke jumping.” Her toes almost touched his boots. “Training weeds out most of the people who are there for the wrong reasons. It weeds out those who have the right attitude, too, but just can’t do the job, for whatever reason.”

  “I remember what Sean went through. It’s a grueling process.” Rose glanced at the fire blazing behind the glass doors of the woodstove. “Some firebugs are frustrated glory hogs.”

  Nick didn’t respond. He knew her statement wasn’t a non sequitur.

  She turned back to him. “They set fires out of an inflated sense of vanity. They like watching the fire itself, but they also like to watch the crews charge in to put it out—the feeling of power it gives them.” The fire glowed in her tawny-colored hair. “I don’t know what kind we’re dealing with. A glory hog mixed with a cold-blooded killer?”

  “Not a good mix,” Nick said.

  “No.”

  He shifted the subject. “Ranger loves it here, doesn’t he?”

  She smiled, slipping on her socks and boots. “You can tell, can’t you?”

  “He’ll have a long, good retirement.”

  They left him by the fire and headed out. They’d been invited to dinner at A.J. and Lauren’s house.

  Summoned was more like it, Nick thought, but he understood. A.J. was worried about his sister, and not for no reason.

  Rose didn’t protest when Nick suggested they take his car. He appreciated the short, easy drive to a white clapboard farmhouse on Ridge Road, just past Harper Four Corners. The driveway was crowded with cars. It had been a bad day in Black Falls, and Lauren and A.J. had also invited Dominique Belair, Myrtle Smith, the O’Rourke cousins, Zack Harper and Scott Thorne.

  The little Camerons were already in bed. The house was simply decorated with a lot of bright, cheerful colors. Children’s finger paintings hung on the refrigerator. Guests were helping themselves to a simple buffet of cold meats and cheeses, salads, rolls and cookies.

  The O’Rourkes and Dominique, clearly exhauste
d, didn’t stay long. Zack pulled Nick aside in the dining room and talked fires. The youngest Harper was a heartbreaker, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Black Falls was home. They discussed the emerging timeline of Robert Feehan and Derek Cutshaw’s actions over the past few days in particular. Zack commented that Feehan could have locked Dominique in the cabin and set the other two on fire and still have made it back to his campsite without burning up himself.

  “I don’t think he meant to get killed,” Zack said. “It wasn’t suicide.”

  “What was he doing at the lake?” Rose asked, sitting next to Zack at the pine table. “His tent was cozy, well hidden. Why not stay up there?”

  Zack leaned back in his chair. “He could have been meeting someone, and Dom surprised him.”

  Rose wasn’t satisfied. “Why the ski mask?”

  “Maybe he was cold. Maybe he didn’t want a casual observer to recognize him. He knew the police wanted to talk to him.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Rose said. “Dom was a casual observer, and she got locked in a cabin. Why didn’t Robert just take off for Miami or someplace? Why stay here in town?”

  A.J. and Lauren stood arm in arm in the doorway of the dining room. “He had unfinished business,” A.J. said.

  Rose frowned. “What, lighting Jo’s cabins on fire?”

  “Who knows?” A.J. shrugged, but he was anything but casual or relaxed. “We all want this to end here. It’d be easier if Feehan and Cutshaw were having a personal feud over their drug dealing that had nothing to do with Lowell Whittaker and his killers.”

  “And no one else was involved,” Lauren added.

  Myrtle came in with a plate heaped with salad and nothing else. She sat next to Nick. “Could either one of them have set my house on fire and taught Lowell how to build a pipe bomb and detonate it with a cell phone?”

  Silence descended over the gathering. Nick bit into a slice of cucumber. “From all I’ve heard, Lowell Whittaker hired very competent people.”

  “That’s right,” Myrtle said, “and this guy Feehan just burned himself up in a run-down cabin.”

  “Maybe he knew he was caught and chose how to go out,” Zack said. “Maybe it wasn’t a calculated move and he just acted on impulse.”

  “Let me repeat,” Scott Thorne said from the arched doorway to the living room. “The investigation’s only just started. We should resist speculating when we don’t have all the facts.”