Not that he knew what to do with himself now.
Beth grabbed a second towel off a pile next to her and arranged it over her torso. Grit smiled. “See? I said you had goose bumps.”
She ignored him. “Did you see what you wanted at the canyon today with Sean?”
“That must have been a hell of a wildfire last June. High winds, low humidity, dry brush and canyons. It was a fast-moving fire. Firefighters thought they had it out but there was a hot spot. No one knew. It flared up, and the flames jumped the line, trapping Jasper Vanderhorn.”
“Nick and I didn’t miss anything,” Sean said as he came out of the house. “None of us did. It was arson. Someone set that fire.”
His and Nick Martini’s quick actions had saved other people, but Vanderhorn hadn’t stood a chance. Grit knew that Sean didn’t want or need to hear any platitudes. “It would have taken some skill as an arsonist to target Vanderhorn that way. Why not just wire his teakettle or put a bomb under his car seat?”
“To prove he could do it. The drama.” Sean watched Hannah steadily swimming her laps. He was in jeans and a polo shirt, no swimming for him. “Jasper could have made a mistake and this bastard got lucky.”
“Or he’s that good,” Beth said.
“And you two were on the fire,” Grit said. “You and Martini. A couple of hotshot smoke jumpers. That’d only raise the stakes for a committed arsonist.”
Sean and Beth both gave Grit a dark look, but his observation couldn’t have been anything they hadn’t considered. His cell phone rang. He saw Admiral Jenkins’s number on the screen and decided to answer. “Yes, sir, Taylor here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“Southern California.”
“You found a body this morning.”
Grit didn’t respond because no question had been asked of him.
“The Secret Service has already been in my office,” Jenkins said.
“Jo Harper?”
“Her boss, Mark Francona. I told you to be careful out there.”
“I’m trying not to fall into the pool at the moment. No one’s shooting at me.”
“I’m not worried if someone does.” Jenkins paused, as if debating whether to say the rest of what was on his mind. Finally he added, “I’m worried people who aren’t as straightforward as you are will end up throwing you under the bus.”
In his weeks at the Pentagon, Grit had learned that Jenkins wasn’t big on people who weren’t straightforward. He was professional and did his job well, but he’d rather be thrown into a viper pit than attend a D.C. political cocktail party. He wouldn’t care that the Neals were a regular family except for Preston Neal being vice president. Jenkins would only care that Grit was in position to be the fall guy if there was any political blowback from Porita Martinez’s death.
“Coronado,” Jenkins said. “Tomorrow. Be there, Petty Officer Taylor. Do your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty seconds later, another call came in. A private number. Grit figured it was Charlie Neal and answered.
“I don’t have much time,” Charlie said without preamble. “I’ll go fast. Don’t interrupt. I talked to my sister. Her ex-boyfriend likes to immerse himself in research, whether it’s for a part or a screenplay he’s working on. He’s also good at disguising himself, going into character. I’m looking at all the parts he’s played, and my sister’s trying to remember what his screenplays are about. Maybe there’s something there. She doesn’t remember if they were ever at any events with Sean Cameron or Nick Martini.”
“What about Jasper Vanderhorn?”
“I asked her about him back in November when his name first surfaced in my investigation—the investigation. She’d read about the fire. That’s it. I’m doing all the cross-referencing I can.”
“Just on the internet, right? Nothing top secret.”
“I can’t access top secret sites. Well, I probably could, but—”
“Don’t.”
“Right. I won’t. How’s Beverly Hills?”
“Beverly Hills is fine,” Grit said. “This morning was difficult.”
He watched Hannah pop out of the pool and adjust her swimsuit, her skin still pale after months of winter in Vermont. She smiled at Sean. She wasn’t demonstrative but she wasn’t shy, either, about being totally in love. They both sat at a table by Beth’s lounge chair.
“My sister met Portia once,” Charlie said. “She told the Secret Service. It’s sad, what happened to her. I wish I could have figured this out before she died. I hope I can before anyone else dies.”
“Charlie, it’s not your job to figure out anything. If someone’s killing people, that’s the person responsible for any deaths. No one else.”
“What about you?”
“I went out to where Jasper Vanderhorn died.”
“What’s it like?”
“The land’s being reborn.”
Charlie was silent a moment. “Don’t think because I’m smart that I have no feelings.”
“I don’t think that. I think you want to matter, and I think you’re afraid this firebug is coming after your family.”
“What if he’s a Secret Service agent?”
Grit gripped the phone tighter. “Charlie.”
“I can speculate all I want. It’s not Robert Feehan, unless he’s operating under an alias.”
“How do you know about Feehan?”
Charlie didn’t seem to hear him. “He’s on the run but he’s innocent. He didn’t kill Derek Cutshaw.”
“Charlie.”
“Internet. That’s how I found out.”
“I can’t stop you from theorizing, but don’t do more than that.”
“I’m not. How could I? The Secret Service is all over me. You’d think I was vice president, not my dad. I ran for class president in ninth grade. You know how many votes I got?”
Grit wanted to throw his phone in the pool. “No, Charlie, how many?”
“Two. My cousin Conor and me. Nobody likes me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Two votes, Grit. Two. That’s why.”
“What would happen if you ran now?”
“I doubt even Conor would vote for me.”
“That’s because you’ve gotten him in trouble with the Secret Service.”
“And the school,” Charlie said.
“Charlie, just because your classmates didn’t want you as their president doesn’t mean they don’t like you.”
“Yeah, whatever. Think about it, Grit. Portia Martinez was murdered in Beverly Hills probably the day before Derek Cutshaw was murdered in Vermont.”
“Maybe Robert Feehan is the firebug, using an alias.”
“I can’t find any connection between him and Marissa,” Charlie said, loosening up on using names. “Trent isn’t a bad guy. He’s just a self-absorbed prick.”
“Language.”
“Jackass? Son of a bitch? Lout?”
Grit gave up. “Any idea where Trent could be now?”
“No. On your end?”
“No. Is he immersing himself in Vermont for some screenplay or acting role? Never mind. I’m starting to think like you. If you make any connections using that 180 IQ of yours, call me. Don’t do anything else. Got that?”
“Got it. There’s something here, isn’t there?”
