that’s that?” Hank said, hunching his shoulders against the rain. If he had a rain slicker, it was in the Suburban—which was in for repairs, acquiring just enough in the way of fixes to make it roadworthy again. It had actually held up pretty well, right up until the propane explosion had put a piece of shrapnel through the radiator. “No charges being filed?”
“Not yet, aside from the fine for discharging a weapon in a public area. It could still happen.” Kimmer pulled the bill of her cap down closer to her eyes. She’d dressed no-nonsense today—good jeans, a gauzy fitted vest over a stretchy black turtleneck, black post earrings. Rio wore a dark slate sweater, a fine silk knit that fit just right under a tailored collarless jacket that would have looked as good over dress slacks as it did his jeans, though it hadn’t been made for this weather. She admired the view a moment, unwilling to let any conversation with Hank deprive her of such indulgence. “But you know, I’d stick to the speed limit on the way out. The chief seemed to understand pretty well how the action ended up on the docks, and I don’t think his people will cut you any breaks.”
“It’s not my fault I don’t know the area,” Hank said, sullen rebellion in his voice and resentment on his face.
“I’m still not sure why you came to me for help at all.” Kimmer headed for the little group that had split off from them—Rio, Owen Hunter and the lawyer who’d flown in from Albany the night before. Owen hadn’t been taking any chances. “You sure didn’t trust me to handle the trouble you brought along.”
“I didn’t know—” Hank started, but stopped as they reached the group and the other three men looked over at him.
Kimmer couldn’t read Rio—nothing new about that—but she could instantly see that Owen and the lawyer didn’t welcome Hank’s presence. Whatever conversation they’d been having stopped, and Owen started a new one. “Kimmer, I’d like you to come into the office this afternoon. I think it’d be a good idea if we got you on an assignment as soon as possible.”
Kimmer narrowed her eyes at him, flicking a glance at the lawyer to see from his face that it had been his suggestion. “I’m on leave,” she said, though she knew he knew it. A couple of well-earned weeks, for though Rio had moved down a month and a half earlier, she’d almost immediately gone out of the country for several weeks. This was their time to settle in together, and it hadn’t been long enough.
“Things change,” Owen said, and though his rugged face held understanding, his voice was firm. Most of the Hunters were lean of body and aesthetic of feature, the same basic mold for each sibling. Owen had turned out craggy and rugged with a heavyweight boxer’s physique; he had only the Hunter nose, and even that was broader than the aquiline nose of his siblings. Kimmer sometimes wondered if he understood what it was to be the black sheep—except that Owen had otherwise followed in his family footsteps, leaving his younger brother Dave to break the mold.
“What he means,” Hank said, a smirk in place, “is that you screwed up, and now you’ve gotta get out of town so you don’t rub off on the agency.”
Kimmer sent a cool look his way. Then she told Rio, “I’m going to go grab a couple of subs. You want that horrible pastrami thing again?”
“With mustard,” Rio answered promptly. And he waited until Kimmer had moved almost out of earshot—but not quite—to say, “What Owen meant, Hank, is that you screwed up, and you rubbed off on Kimmer.”
Hank snorted. “She can take care of herself.”
And Rio didn’t bother to hide his pride. “Yeah. She can. But that won’t stop me from stepping in if I think I need to.”
Men. All posturing and saber-rattling. But Kimmer found herself smiling all the same.
When she returned with the subs, Owen and the lawyer had left, and the drizzle had stopped. Hank sat on the bumper of Rio’s midsize SUV, and Rio waved, standing by the half-open car door as he fished his cell phone from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and picked up the call. “Hey, Caro. What’s—”
When Carolyne Carlsen cut Rio off, Kimmer instantly wondered if she’d gotten herself into another situation. As far as Kimmer knew, Carolyne still handled security issues on some of the federal government’s most sensitive systems—the same job that had gotten her into trouble the previous fall.
But Rio glanced over, saw Kimmer’s attentiveness, and gave the slightest shake of his head. He could still read her like the proverbial book, dammit. And it still shook her sometimes; she still wasn’t used to it. No doubt he could tell just how she felt about Hank, even if Hank himself wouldn’t ever pick up the depth of her true feelings, not even if they came attached to a clue-by-four. “Caro, slow down. Is she…” he stopped, didn’t seem to be able to use the words he’d had in mind, and finally finished, “…still in the hospital?”
Kimmer knew, then. It had to be Rio’s grandmother. His beloved Sobo. Had it been anyone in his nuclear family, his cousin wouldn’t be passing the news along. Though for Rio, of course, “nuclear family” encompassed as many layers as the average extended family.
Kimmer thought of her nuclear family in terms of single digits. One. Herself.
“Who’s she staying with? Mom and Dad? Good. Mom won’t let her do anything more strenuous than flower arrangement. Do they need—”
Quiet Carolyne was overwrought indeed, to keep cutting Rio off in midsentence. “Okay. Okay. I hear you. I promise. I won’t go. Not without checking first. And I’ll give them a day or two before I call. Yes, I promise. I won’t even send an e-mail.”
That, Kimmer knew, was calculated to get at least a small laugh out of Carolyne. For as much as Carolyne was connected and interconnected to the online community—wireless satellite connections for every machine she owned and then some—Rio was disconnected. He hadn’t yet gotten his hand-me-down laptop to work with Kimmer’s slow rural dialup. Now the worry on his brow smoothed a little, and she knew the tactic had been at least partially successful. But his voice, when he spoke again, was as intense as Rio got. “Listen, Caro, you call me if anything changes. I mean it. Okay. Look, we’ll talk later. Soon. Thanks for letting me know.” And he listened another moment or two, nodding before a final goodbye.
“Did you ever notice,” Hank said into the silence that followed, into the connection Kimmer and Rio had established, a silent communication during which she let him know she’d followed and understood the development, “that people on TV sitcoms never say goodbye? They just hang up.”
“Here.” Kimmer thrust the sub sandwich bag at him, and he pushed himself off the bumper to reach for it. “I got you turkey and onions with mustard.” An old favorite. Ick. “There’s a soda in there, too. I thought you might be hungry enough to eat on the way home.” I thought I might be hungry enough to eat on the way home, but if it keeps your mouth busy, first dibs are all yours.
And then she cranked the window down to let fresh air dilute the stinging odor of onions.
Once home, Kimmer didn’t linger. Owen expected her at Hunter, and she wanted to get it over with. She also wanted to escape Hank. And mostly, she needed time to consider Rio’s situation.
The blunt truth was that she had no idea how to respond to his grandmother’s illness, a conjecture he confirmed in a few murmured words before she threw her tough black Eagle Creek bag in the Miata and headed the twenty minutes to the Full Cry vineyards and winery. Sobo had been diagnosed with mild congestive heart failure, briefly
