Cold Ridge. Carla Neggers
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It’s not like you’ve been getting up every day for the seven-to-three shift at the factory and suddenly there’s no factory.”
“That’s true. I appreciate the advice, but please don’t worry about me.”
He paused, folding his hands behind his back as he walked smoothly, steadily. “But people do worry about you, Carine,” he said finally. “I expect they can’t help it, and you might benefit from their attention. Don’t try to control what other people are feeling. Right now, just focus on what you need. The rest of us will manage.”
“Mr. Turner—”
“Gary.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You call Sterling Rancourt by his first name, but me—”
She tried to return his laugh. “I think it’s because you carry a gun.”
“Ah. Well, for you, Carine, I’d take it off, if it would make you feel more at ease.”
“That’s not necessary.” She picked up her pace, feeling a fresh surge of awkwardness. She never knew what to say to him. She changed the subject. “I’ve known Manny Carrera for a long time. Do the police suspect him of being involved in Louis’s death? Because it’s not possible—”
“The police don’t tell me what they think. One step at a time, Carine. Keep your focus on the here and now. Don’t think back, don’t think ahead. It’s the best advice I can give you. Mr. Carrera is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” Turner stood back a moment, then frowned at her in a way she found faintly patronizing. “You aren’t thinking of playing amateur detective, are you?”
“No! It’s just that Manny’s a friend. Do you know where he’s staying?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” There was no hint of condemnation in Turner’s tone. “Take yourself out to lunch, Carine. Treat yourself to dessert. Browse the galleries on Newbury Street. Do you have a friend who can join you?”
“Most of my friends are working, but—”
“Your sister?”
“She’s in Washington. She’d come if I called her.”
He looked at her. “But you won’t. You’re a strong woman, Carine. Stronger, I think, than people often realize at first.”
Hey, Ms. Photographer.
Poor Louis. Dead. She still could see the blood on his fingers.
Louis Sanborn was not a nice man.
Manny, clear-eyed and uncompromising. What did he know about Louis?
Carine swallowed hard, pushing back the memories of yesterday. Turner was right—she needed to stay focused on the present. “To be honest, I don’t worry about whether or not people think I’m strong. Louis stopped me on my way back from lunch and asked if I wanted a ride. If—”
“Don’t. No ifs. They’ll drive you crazy.” Turner squeezed her upper arm. “Take it easy on yourself, okay? Go take some pretty pictures. You didn’t do anything wrong yesterday. Remember that.”
She blinked back sudden tears, feeling light-headed, her stomach not so much nauseated as hurting. “Thanks.” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat, annoyed with herself. “I just need some time, I guess.”
“Newbury Street. Art galleries.” He started across Commonwealth, pausing halfway into the lane of oncoming traffic and shaking his head at her. “You might want to hold off on the dessert. You’re looking a little green.”
She managed a smile. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to get sick on Newbury Street, would it?”
He chuckled. “You’d be banned for life.”
Sterling Rancourt stared into the library, its wood floor still marred by crime-scene chalk and dried blood. The police forensics team had done its work, and a cleaning crew that specialized in ridding all trace of this sort of mess was due in that afternoon. Gary Turner had arranged for it. He’d been incredibly helpful—steady, knowledgeable, even kind.
Gary was in his office in the Rancourt building in Copley Square at the time of the shooting, while Sterling was enduring an interminable business lunch a few blocks over at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Afterward, he’d planned to meet his wife at a designer showroom on Newbury Street, so she could model an evening gown she wanted to wear to a charity ball over the holidays. She liked having his approval. Ten years ago, she’d bought a dress he didn’t like, and he’d been stupid enough to say so—now she insisted on these modeling sessions for anything that cost more than a thousand dollars.
But he’d received the news about Louis at lunch and excused himself, heading straight over to Commonwealth Avenue, calling first Jodie, who was on Newbury Street, then Turner. They all met at the house, where police and reporters were already swarming. Detectives quickly pulled aside Carine Winter, white-faced but functioning, and Manny Carrera, as stalwart as ever. Sterling was unable to speak to either of them alone.
Jodie had remained at their South Shore home this morning. She said she didn’t want to see or speak to anyone unless she had to—as far as she was concerned, if the police wanted to interview her again, they could drive down to Hingham and find her.
She knew nothing, Sterling thought. None of them did. Louis Sanborn had been in their lives for two weeks. That was it.
Manny Carrera couldn’t have killed him. Manny saved lives. He only took a life when he came under enemy fire and had no other choice. Sterling had read up on PJs and their heroic work, although Manny and Tyler North would be the last to call what they did heroic. It wasn’t false humility—Sterling would have recognized it if it were.
He and Jodie owed Manny Carrera their lives. But if the police wanted to waste their time pursuing him, that was their choice. There was nothing Sterling or anyone else could do.
“Mr. Rancourt?”
Gary Turner walked down the hall, his nearly colorless eyes and extremely pale skin disconcerting, off-putting even before anyone had gotten to the point of noticing the missing fingers. But he was quiet and supremely competent, and Sterling knew better than to underestimate him because of his strange appearance. Jodie said she found him fascinating, even sexy in a weird way. He wasn’t ex-military or ex-law enforcement—Sterling suspected he was ex-CIA. Whatever the case, his credentials in private and corporate security had checked out. He hadn’t said a word when Sterling hired Manny Carrera as a consultant. Either he was too self-disciplined to criticize his employer’s decision, or he approved. Sterling hadn’t asked him his opinion.
“Carine’s on her way?”
Turner nodded. “She doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“A shock reaction. She’ll rally. It just might take a little more time than she wants it to. I’ve met her brother and sister—and her uncle—and they’re all strong, resilient people.”
But he could tell concern over Carine Winter wasn’t why Turner was here. The man shifted slightly, lowering his voice although there was no one within earshot. “There’s been a new development. Tyler North is in town. I just saw his truck on Comm. Ave.”
“Tyler? Interesting.” Sterling didn’t share Turner’s sense of drama over this news. Of course Tyler would be here if was able to. He’d known Carine since childhood and had almost married her in February, and Manny was a friend. They’d gone on missions together. “He must be on leave—he’ll have heard about Manny’s predicament. Word like that travels like wildfire.”
“I don’t think he’s here because of Mr. Carrera. Not directly.”
Sterling nodded, sighing. “Of course. Carine.” He pictured Tyler North, a compact, rugged man, incredibly loyal despite being something of a loner himself. “Well, she won’t like it, but I suppose having him here will be a distraction for her.”
“What