“No,” he said.
“Okay. I wanted to talk to you before Shee came back. She can’t help being suspicious of everyone.”
He reached out and grabbed Angelina’s hand, staring deep into her eyes as if trying to telegraph a thousand emotions.
None felt like betrayal.
She patted his top hand.
“It’s okay. I believe you. Shee doesn’t want you near Mick for a bit though, okay?”
He straightened, looking like a sentry, his lips working to find the word. “Door?”
“You can still work the door.”
He nodded.
“Banana pie.”
She laughed and pointed at him. “But I’m not falling for that nonsense anymore.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty
Tyler watched the man and the woman leave the Viking’s house, get in their car and drive away.
Did they not see the dead man?
He’d seen them enter the back door from his vantage point a block away. Then one of the neighbors appeared to shovel his walk, or build a snowman, or do whatever insane Snowpeople did on negative ninety-two days, and he started moving.
By the time he came around the block, the woman and the man were getting back in their car and driving away.
They had to have seen the body, but they left. Didn’t wait. He heard no approaching sirens.
What are they up to?
Tyler looked down at the framed newspaper clipping in his hand. The guy in the photo was definitely his missed target, younger, but him. The other dude next to the President was the man he’d just snuffed.
That guy...
The giant had nearly clipped him before he got off his own shot. Tyler had eased open the bathroom door after the woman left, feeling confident he had the drop on the old guy, and the next thing he knew a bullet was screaming past his skull.
The near miss left him a bit shaken. He hadn’t screwed up so many times in a row since...he didn’t know when.
He glanced down at the picture.
SEALs.
All the guns on the Viking’s table made sense now. Tyler had been gawking at them, cursing that he’d had to kill Viggo before he could get the name of his buddy out of him, when the conversation between the man and the visiting woman returned to his memory. They’d been talking about the framed newspaper clipping on the wall. It felt important, so he’d snatched it from the wall on his way out.
Staring at the photo now, even with his brain half-numb from the ridiculous cold, everything fell into place.
Shea McQueen and Viggo Nilsson.
The woman had to have been talking about his target. She’d mentioned someone named Mick, but his real name had to be Shea. Mick for McQueen.
Tyler felt like a genius for putting together the pieces. He grinned as best he could with his frozen cheeks.
I guess I still got it.
He twisted the cheap plastic frame until the back popped off. No need to carry around the whole frame.
How many Shea McQueens could there be? He knew the dude was a SEAL, probably retired now, he knew—
Tyler was about to toss the frame to the curb and head back to the airport when something behind the newspaper article caught his eye.
He slid out a handwritten letter on light green stationary. The top sported a sea turtle logo for The Loggerhead Inn and a date from two years earlier.
Dear Viggo,
Consider this your official invite to come join us. I’m starting something. I think you’ll like it. Swing by and let me tell you about it. If you’ve got your own shit going on I understand, but if you don’t, I’m here. If you’re looking for something, like so many of us, come see me. Anytime, buddy.
Mick
Tyler’s attention dropped to the bottom of the letterhead to read one small additional line of text.
An address, phone number and email.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Tyler dropped the frame, pulled out his phone and dialed the number on the letterhead.
“Loggerhead Inn, this is Croix. How can I help you?”
He clicked the phone dead.
The place still exists.
If Mick McQueen was still alive, The Loggerhead Inn in Jupiter Beach, Florida, would be the place to start looking for him.
Florida.
Tyler smiled and got into his rental.
Thank God.
&&&
Chapter Thirty-One
Shee and Mason circled Viggo’s block looking for the shooter, but Shee’s mind kept returning to the man beside her. She questioned his motives until she couldn’t stay silent any longer.
“You knew I’d be here,” she said as he rolled down a new street.
“Hm?” Mason seemed to pull his thoughts back from somewhere far away. “What?”
“You said Viggo’s death was a coincidence. I don’t like coincidences.”
He looked at her and then did a double take when he saw her glaring at him.
“Wait—you think I set this up?” he asked.
“Who else knew I was here?”
“Why would I let you talk to him and then have someone kill him?”
“Maybe your man got here late?”
Mason hit the brakes so suddenly they slid another two feet. Shee slapped her hand to the side of the car and stomped her feet, pumping imaginary brakes. When the car’s tires finally found purchase on exposed asphalt, Mason left them idling in the middle of the snowy neighborhood street.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. I thought maybe you’d want to get out of the car. You know, rather than drive around with a traitor.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on. You don’t see how I could find this odd? You showing up now?”
“I showed up because I heard your father was dead.”
“What about Viggo’s? How did someone know we’d
