Cold Dawn Part 20

No one was in the living room. Grit ducked down a short hall and checked the one bedroom and bathroom, then returned to the living room and checked the door there, which led to a hall and the building's front entrance.

There were no other victims and no obvious signs of an intruder.

The apartment wasn't neat. It was decorated with white s.h.a.g carpets and bright, cheap artwork, with a state-of-the-art media setup.

The dead woman hadn't gotten far with her cleaning. Grit considered that she might not be an outside housekeeper. Maybe she was bunking in with Trent and it had just been her turn with the mop.

So where was he?

A corkboard above the dining table was covered with photos of a very good-looking, fair-haired man in his earlier thirties. Grit helped himself to one and tucked it in his back pocket as he dialed Jo Harper on his cell phone.

She didn't bother with a h.e.l.lo. "How's California?" she asked him.

"Well, it's like this, Jo. I'm in a small, stuffy apartment in Beverly Hills. The tenant's not here but a dead woman is."

He heard her breathe in through clenched teeth. "d.a.m.n, Grit. You weren't supposed to go out there and find a body."

He decided to get it over with: "Beth's with me."

"My sister? Beth? Why? Is she okay? Where is she?"

"She's in the kitchen calling 911. She's a pro. She's my driver."

"Grit, what the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

"She was bored. I can drive okay with the leg, but I don't have a car." He returned to the kitchen. Beth was still speaking with the dispatcher. Grit glanced again at the dead woman. Were her family and friends looking for her? Did they have any idea she was here?

"Grit," Jo said.

"Your people are going to get involved, aren't they?"

"Describe the woman."

"Long, straight black hair. Pretty. Light brown skin. Probably about thirty."

"I don't recognize the description."

"So she wasn't in Trent Stevens's life when Marissa Neal came under the care of the Secret Service?"

No response from Agent Harper.

"The woman was mopping the kitchen floor when she was electrocuted," Grit said. "A lot of aspiring actors do odd jobs to make ends meet while auditioning. House-cleaning, for instance."

"Not your problem, Grit," Jo said sharply. "Don't touch anything. You and Beth are observing crime scene protocols, aren't you?"

Grit could feel the photo in his pocket. "Sure. As best we can."

"Did you break in?"

"Door was unlocked."

"That's not good enough."

"There was a plant that needed water and the distinct smell of death. We felt compelled to see if anyone was in distress and needed our a.s.sistance."

"Dead people aren't in distress. They're dead."

"Could have been someone else alive in here." Grit scratched the side of his mouth. "I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do."

"I'm about to. d.a.m.n it, Grit." Jo sighed, but she seemed less irritated. "My boss was just starting to like you. How was this woman electrocuted?"

"Someone rigged the electric kettle. Once she grabbed it to make herself a cup of tea, she was done. She probably never knew what happened. She's here in the kitchen, mop and bucket right beside her."

"Any guess how long she's been dead? Ask Beth."

Grit didn't need to. "At least two days. Maybe longer. We're in the right place, Jo. There are photos of the actor everywhere."

"Everywhere? Grit, what the h.e.l.l? Did you search the place?"

"As I said, I was concerned there might be someone in distress. Your sister's a paramedic. If someone was injured on the bathroom floor, she could help."

"Trying out that line on me before the homicide detectives get there? Grit, a killer could have been hiding in the closet."

"Even better," he said.

"My sister isn't a SEAL."

"She was never in danger. I'm right here with her. I'd have protected her, but I didn't have to."

"Did she see you help yourself to a photo of the tenant?"

"What makes you think I did that?"

"Elijah would. You would, and did."

"He's good-looking. The tenant. We're not saying his name in case your boss or any bad guys have tapped this place or your phone, right?"

"Describe him."

Grit eased the three-by-three photo out of his pocket and held it in his palm. "It bothers me that I'm predictable."

"You couldn't care less, Grit, and you know it. What does he look like? I want to be sure it's the same guy."

"Blond hair, green eyes-hazel, maybe. Slight cleft chin. Straight nose. He's wearing a suit. Tie and everything. Your guy?"

"Probably, yes," Jo said. "Do you recognize him? Have you run into him in the past few months? In Black Falls, here in D.C. Anywhere?"

"No. He's good-looking but he's sort of an everyman." But Grit knew what Jo was asking. "If I'd seen him in D.C. or Vermont, or anywhere near my genius teenage protege, I'd remember."

"Beth?"

He glanced at Beth, who was off the phone now. She had the back door open and was pale but composed as she stared out at the wilted flowers. "I don't think so," Grit said. "She's more out there than you, Jo. She's not used to keeping secrets. She didn't recognize the dead woman or this guy. This guy's got his own pictures are all over the refrigerator, too."

"Actors," Jo said, as if that explained Trent Stevens's apparent self-absorption. "Your young friend in D.C. is going to run with this."

"Maybe you should let him."

"If he finds a way to be in touch, you let me know. Understood?"

"You or the Secret Service?"

"We're one and the same."

"I'll let you know." Grit slipped the photo back in his pocket. "Jo, whatever's going on, you need to find this guy. He could be dangerous, or in danger himself."

"We'll take care of what we need to on our end."

Meaning he should b.u.t.t out and let the Secret Service do their job. They'd keep the vice president's family safe. "Do you want me to put your sister on?"

"I want you to get her out of there and sit her by Sean's pool with a mojito. Tell her to have one for me. And you," Jo said. "No more bodies."

"Aye-aye, Special Agent Harper."

She ignored him and disconnected. He heard a buzz in his ear, and for a split second thought she'd found a way to zap him from D.C., then realized it was another call coming in.

He checked the screen. Elijah. Great.

Grit took the call. "You didn't find a body on Myrtle's patio, did you?"

"No. What are you talking about?"

His friend didn't know yet about the dead woman.

"Never mind," Grit said. "What's up?"

A half beat's pause. "Something's happened, hasn't it? That explains it. Charlie just called. He said to tell you he's checking for aliases. That you'd know what he meant."

"What did you tell him?"

"Study his calculus."

"That's the problem. He doesn't need to study. He knows the answer before the question's asked." Grit watched Beth stiffen by the door and then heard sirens. "I have to go. Talk to your fiancee."

"Jo? What's she got to do with-"

Grit pretended not to hear and clicked off his phone and slid it back in his pocket. He felt a sharp arrow of pain in his left foot, but not even for a split second did he think he still had a left foot.

By then, the police were descending.

Ninety minutes after Beth had walked into the small apartment, she and Grit were standing in the parking lot in the Southern California sun. She had a tight grip on her emotions. Either Grit did, too, or he wasn't all that bothered by the scene they'd come upon, which she didn't believe. He just had the ability to take one thing at a time.

She could see the muscles in her wrists and forearms tighten as she crossed her arms over her chest and eyed the array of law enforcement vehicles that had gathered at the scene.

The police she'd expected. The FBI and Secret Service agents had unnerved her.

The victim was identified as Portia Martinez. She'd worked part-time as a sound technician and cleaned houses for actor friends for extra cash. She didn't live in the apartment. She and the tenant, Trent Stevens, apparently were friends. Stevens didn't look as if he had the money for a housekeeper, but, on the other hand, he didn't look as if he were someone who'd clean his own house. He'd get someone else to do it and exchange favors or run up his credit cards.

Beth glanced back at a stern FBI agent standing under the wilted flower basket. "We're cleared to go, you know."

Grit put a hand out to her. "I'll drive."

She started to protest but dropped the keys into his palm. She wasn't in the mood to argue.

An unmarked black SUV backed out of the way so they could leave. Grit got behind the wheel. Beth, feeling surly, slid into the pa.s.senger seat. "Have you even driven a car since you got your leg blown off?"

Grit seemed to take no offense at her rudeness. "I drove around Vermont, seeing the mountain vistas."

"Vermont isn't Los Angeles."

"No, it's not."

He remembered the way back to Sean's house, which was good because Beth didn't. She sat looking out her window as Beverly Hills slid past her.

When they pulled into Sean's driveway, she turned to Grit. "I'm sorry about the crack about your leg."

"What crack? It was blown off. No one came and stole it while I was sleeping."

She scowled at him. "Are you ever serious?"

"I was serious just now."

He parked, and Beth flung herself out of the car. Hannah and Sean came out to the driveway. They'd already heard the difficult news and were expecting them.

Grit got out of the car and tossed Beth the keys but was focused on Sean. "I want to see where Jasper Vanderhorn was killed. I want you to tell me about that day."

Sean nodded. "Now?"

"Yeah. Now."

"All right. Let's go."

Beth headed inside, slamming the door behind her. She went straight out to the pool and stared at the clear, turquoise water. She'd reached for her cell phone a dozen times to call Scott. He'd want to know about the dead woman, if only from a professional point of view. From a personal one, Portia Martinez's murder would just be another sign to Scott that he'd fallen for the wrong woman.

Beth was too close to the violence of the past year.

"You served the Whittakers m.u.f.fins," he'd yelled at her, utterly irrational.

m.u.f.fins? As if she'd had any choice. As if she'd known Lowell Whittaker was a killer and his wife an abusive lunatic who'd leave Bowie O'Rourke, an innocent man, to burn up in a fire so that she could avoid the embarra.s.sment of having her husband's murderous activities come to light.