Kitabı oku: «Murder on the Mountain»
“Nobody’s watching,” she said.
“Then no one will see if I do this.”
He spun her around in his arms and pulled her against him. Her arms stretched to wrap around his huge torso. She loved the way she fit against him; the way he held her close felt so good. So right.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured. “I’m in charge of the safe house. I should be setting an example.”
His lips silenced her. With his kiss, he exploded the apprehension that had been building inside her. Her defensive wall of propriety crumbled to dust. With a soft moan, she gave herself completely to this fierce, demanding passion.
When he separated from her, she gasped. Her heartbeat throbbed like a big bass drum. It took a big man to sweep her off her feet. Paul was that man.
Murder on the Mountain
Cassie Miles
To Kayla and Landon.
And, as always, to Rick.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favorite season is fall when the aspens turn gold.
The rest of the time, Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye-rolling objections from her adult children.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Julia Last—The FBI Special Agent in charge of the safe house is torn between protecting her secrecy and solving a murder.
Paul Hemmings—The Eagle County deputy sheriff knows something is wrong at the safe house and fears for Julia.
Jennifer and Lily Hemmings—Paul’s daughters, aged seven and nine, want to be ice skating princesses though their father prefers hockey.
John Maser—Also known as Johnny Maserati, he dies in a car wreck.
Harrison Naylor—The four-star marine general dies in uniform in his locked bedroom, an apparent suicide.
Marcus Ashbrook—The senator from Wyoming hopes to use the Homeland Security exercise at the safe house to further his career.
Gil Bradley—The mysterious and muscular CIA agent might have a history as an assassin.
RJ Katz—The FBI Special Agent is an expert in accounting scams.
David Dillard—The FBI computer specialist arranges the simulation exercise for Homeland Security.
Garret Dillard—David’s brother is a hero in the marines.
Roger Flannery—The rookie FBI Special Agent working at th safe house has developed a talent for cooking.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Deputy Paul Hemmings stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. Far below, a midsized sedan was wedged upside down against a tall pine. Morning sunlight reflected dully on the muddy undercarriage and tires. A bad accident. Not uncommon on these mountain roads. Especially at this time of year, early December.
Yet there were no skid marks. The pavement was dry. Ice wasn’t a hazard. Why, Paul wondered, had this vehicle gone off the road?
The woman who had flagged him down asked, “Can I leave now?”
“I’ve put through a call for assistance, ma’am. The rescue team should be here soon.”
“But I’m supposed to meet my husband at Vail Village in fifteen minutes.”
“Sorry. You have to stay so you can give a report to the investigating officers.”
“There’s really nothing to tell,” she said. “I pulled onto the shoulder to take a picture of that frozen waterfall. I’m an amateur photographer, and it’s a beautiful morning and—”
“Stop.” Paul held up a hand. “I can’t take your statement. I’m off duty.”
He glanced at his Ford Explorer SUV. The faces of his two young daughters, Jennifer and Lily, pressed up against the windows. They’d been on their way to the ice-skating rink for their lesson when this witness signaled him to stop. His girls were going to be plenty ticked off about arriving late to Saturday practice.
And so was this witness who stabbed at the buttons on her cell phone. “I can’t even call my husband. I’ve got no signal.”
“Accidents are inconvenient,” he said. “Especially for the person driving.”
Had that person survived?
Highly unlikely. However, if the driver had survived, it was Paul’s duty to offer assistance until the rescue team arrived. He stepped over the ridge of dirty snow that marked the shoulder of the two-lane mountain road.
The descent was rocky and steep, but this was the sunny side of the valley and much of the snow had melted. So far, this had been a mild winter. Too mild. The workers at the ski resorts were praying for a blizzard.
He sidestepped down the slope. Though he was a big man—over six feet four and weighing more than was good for his cholesterol—Paul moved with sure-footed balance. He’d been born and raised in these mountains; climbing was in his DNA.
As he approached the overturned car, he noted that the earth was torn up from the car’s plummet, but there were no footprints. None leading away from the wreck. None leading toward it.
At the driver’s side, he hunkered down. Though the car rested on the roof, the interior hadn’t been crushed too badly. The driver’s-side window was broken out. There was a man inside. And blood. A lot of blood.
“Sir?” Paul reached inside the car to touch the shoulder of this man. Half of his forehead was a bloody pulp. His complexion had the waxen sheen of a death mask. His lips were blue. He couldn’t still be alive. If his injuries from the accident hadn’t killed him, exposure to the night cold would have finished him off.
Yet, he moved. His eyelids twitched. He whispered one word. “Murder.”
I’M GOING TO MURDER this guy. FBI SpecialAgent Julia Last glared daggers into the broad shoulders of the distinguished, silver-haired man who had started making demands the minute he walked through the door.
After eleven years with the FBI, she didn’t appreciate being treated like a housemaid. Julia was the agent in charge here. The operation of this two-story, nine-bedroom FBI safehouse in Eagle County, Colorado was her responsibility, and she’d managed it well enough to receive several commendations. Dozens of protected witnesses had come under her care. She’d also provided a haven for agents and officers who had been injured in the line of duty and needed recuperation time. Never once, during her two-year tenure at the safehouse, had security been breached.
Her latest guest—the silver-haired jerk—regarded his second-floor bedroom with blatant disdain, then turned to face her. “I’ll take my first cup of coffee at six in the morning. Low-fat milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Not a sugar substitute. Delivered to my room along with The Wall Street Journal.”
“We don’t provide room service,” Julia said through gritted teeth. “All meals are family-style in the dining room.”
“My coffee at six,” he repeated. “And the Journal.”
“You might have noticed that this is a rather remote location.” The safehouse was four miles down a graded gravel road through a heavily forested wilderness area. “Newspaper deliveries are much later than six.”
He glanced around the clean but relatively plain bedroom. “Where’s the television?”
“We have a TV downstairs.”
“Unacceptable. How am I supposed to keep up on the news if I can’t watch CNN?” He tapped his chest. “I need to stay abreast of developments. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.” Senator Marcus Ashbrook from Wyoming had been mentioned as a possible candidate for president. Needless to say, if Julia had resided in that state, he wouldn’t get her vote.
“I’ll need a television in my room.” He flashed his photogenic smile and held out a five-dollar bill. “That will be all.”
He was offering her a tip? This was too much. Julia snatched the bill from his hand and slammed it down on the knotty pine dresser. “I’m not a concierge, sir. And this is not a hotel.”
“You’re supposed to make me comfortable.”
“It’s my job to keep you safe,” she corrected him. “This FBI safehouse might look like a rustic mountain lodge, but we’re equipped with state-of-the-art security. While you’re here, I will expect you to abide by our rules and to accept our restrictions.”
“Will you now?” He looked surprised; the senator wasn’t accustomed to having underlings tell him what to do.
“If it’s necessary for you to leave the premises, I must be notified. No guests permitted. Three meals a day are served in the dining room. And, of course, tell no one that this is a safehouse.”
“Why not?”
Could he really be that stupid? She didn’t think so. Senator Marcus Ashbrook hadn’t risen through the ranks of national politics by being a moron. “The whole purpose of a safehouse is to provide a covert location to keep the ‘guests’ safe. Security depends on keeping our mission secret from the bad guys.”
“Good answer.” Again, the photogenic smile.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Were you testing me, Senator?”
“I was indeed. I’ve heard that you’re good at your job, Agent Last.”
She dredged up an insincere smile of her own. “Thank you, sir. I prefer to be called Julia.”
“Of course you do.”
She turned on her heel and left his bedroom. This was going to be a long, strenuous, annoying week. The only “guests” at the safehouse were five high-ranking individuals who were involved with a Home-land Security project. In addition to the senator, there was a four-star Marine general, a former Navy SEAL who was now CIA and two senior FBI agents.
Though Julia didn’t know the precise agenda for this group, she was certain that she and her live-in staff of two agents were going to have their hands full. Managing all these egos wouldn’t be easy.
“Excuse me, Julia.”
Now what? She turned and saw Gil Bradley, the CIA agent, standing in the center of the hallway. She could have sworn that the door to his room was closed, and she hadn’t heard it open. Nor did she register the sound of his footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. He’d just appeared. Like the spook that he was.
Gil Bradley was obviously the muscle in this group. His massive shoulders and well-developed arms suggested that he was capable of bench-pressing a giant redwood. But he was still able to move silently. Spooky, indeed. “What can I do for you, Gil?”
“I’m allergic to shellfish.” His rasping voice made it sound like he was imparting a state secret.
“Thanks for telling me. I don’t think we have shrimp on the menu for this week.” Apparently, he was not allergic to dirt. His jeans were streaked with mud. “Have you been out hiking?”
“I run five miles every day. Rain, shine or snow.”
“Admirable.”
His gaze rested on her full hips. “You should come with me. Lean and mean, Julia. Lean and mean.”
He zipped back into his room. The door closed with an audible click before she had a chance to tell him that she might not look like the Barbie version of GI Jane but would gladly match her physical conditioning and stamina against anyone. Even him.
At the foot of the staircase, she stalked through the great room, past the long oak dining table and into the kitchen. Roger Flannery, a young agent who had been at the safehouse for three months and discovered a talent for cooking, stood at the counter, chopping with the speed and aplomb of a sushi chef.
She should have been pleased with Roger’s dedication to providing a semigourmet dinner every night, but Julia was still cranky after her encounters with Senator Ashbrook and Gil Bradley. When she was in this kind of mood, it was better not to stop and chitchat. She made a beeline through the kitchen toward the back door.
“Hey, Julia,” Roger said.
She growled a response and kept walking. If Roger had any self-preservation instinct at all, he wouldn’t say another word.
“Wait a sec,” he said. “I could use some help with dinner.”
She muttered a negative, but that wasn’t sufficient for peppy Roger-Dodger. “What’s eating you?” he asked. “You look like a grizzly that swallowed a wasp nest.”
Slowly, she turned. “A grizzly?”
Roger chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Is that a reference to my hair?” Her long brown hair was notoriously curly and wild even when pulled back in a ponytail.
“N-n-no.”
“Or maybe you were thinking of my size when you said I look like a grizzly.” Nearly six feet tall in her hiking boots, she had a broad-shouldered, muscular frame that made comparisons to a bear somewhat plausible. “Gil thinks I should step up my exercise program.”
“You look g-great,” Roger said, frantically back-pedaling as his gaze darted, taking in the details of her jeans, white turtleneck and plaid wool shirt. “Nice outfit.”
“Can’t say the same for you.” He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt revealing his shoulder holster. Hadn’t she just lectured the senator about keeping the true purpose of the safehouse a secret? “Put a shirt on. Cover that weapon.”
“But it’s hot in here.”
“Do it.” She shoved open the door that led onto a spacious cedar deck at the rear of the safehouse.
The December air cooled her face as she walked across the deck to the railing. The sight of clear blue skies above a wide valley bordered by forest gave her a momentary surge of pleasure. She loved the rugged majesty of the Colorado mountains, especially at this time of year when swathes of drifted snow gleamed pearly white in the afternoon sunlight. Though the ski areas were open and had a solid snow base, much of the snowfall near the safehouse had already melted into the thirsty earth.
In the midst of all this grandeur, did she still feel annoyance at the way she’d been treated by the senator? Or at the thinly veiled criticism from Gil? Was she still mad? Yes, most definitely. And she needed to lose this attitude before confronting the Homeland Security hotshots over dinner.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to run down to the barn, saddle up one of the horses and ride. The next best thing for blowing off steam was chopping wood.
She tromped heavily down the stairs and along a path to a storage shed where several cords of logs were neatly stacked and waiting along with work gloves and a well-honed ax. After pulling on her stiff leather gloves, she carried a couple of fat logs to the outdoor chopping block where she would split them into an appropriate size for the fireplace in the great room.
With the log positioned on the block, she drew back and swung with all her strength. The ax head made contact and the wood split. A satisfying jolt went through her body. Again and again, she attacked the logs. This was a better workout than a heavy punching bag. She imagined the senator’s face before the ax descended in a fierce and graceful arc. Take that, you jerk.
Julia caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision and turned. There was a man watching her with his arms folded across his chest. He wore the brown uniform jacket for the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department.
“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He came closer and held out his hand. “I’m Deputy Paul Hemmings.”
“Julia Last.”
Their gloved hands met. His grip was strong, and she appreciated that he didn’t hold back because she was a woman. Though she’d seen the deputy in town when she shopped for supplies, Julia hadn’t appreciated those broad shoulders and barrel chest until this moment. Paul Hemmings was a very tall, very impressive man.
Despite his extra-large dimensions, he wasn’t hulking or threatening. He had an easygoing smile. His strong white teeth contrasted his tanned complexion. Sunlight glistened in his thick black hair. She wished he’d take off his sunglasses so she could see the color of his eyes. “What brings you here, Deputy?”
“I’ve been wanting to pay a visit,” he said. “A friend of mine, Mac Granger, stayed here a couple of months ago. He liked the place.”
“I remember Mac.” He’d been involved in a sting operation that turned ugly. “Got himself into a bit of trouble.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” He bent and picked up the chunks of wood she’d split. “I’ll help you carry this load inside.”
Which was a subtly clever way of getting an inside peek at the safehouse. She didn’t for one minute believe that Deputy Paul Hemmings had popped in for a casual howdy.
Julia rested her hand on the ax handle. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you stopped by?”
“You like to get right to the point.”
“I do,” she said. “So?”
“There was a car accident last night. The driver went off the road, flipped his rental car. He was DOA at the hospital.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“He had a note in his wallet with the phone number for your lodge written on it.”
Her protective instincts were immediately aroused. Though the safehouse had a regular phone listing, the message was always the same: Sorry, we’re booked. There were never outside guests. Feigning disinterest, she said, “Maybe he was looking for a place to stay.”
“Or he might have wanted to contact one of your guests. The man who died was from Washington, D.C.”
As were all the people involved in the Homeland Security project. Julia didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “I hate to have you bothering my guests.”
“I promise to be quick, Julia. Is it okay if I call you Julia?”
“If I can call you Paul.”
“You bet.” He glanced down at the logs in his arms. “Where do you want these?”
“We have enough wood inside. Just bring them into the storage shed.”
Inside the dimly lit shed, she watched as Paul methodically placed the logs in a neat stack. Though he seemed like someone who could be trusted with a secret, she didn’t want anybody to know the true purpose of the safehouse. Not even the local law enforcement. If one person knew, then another would and another. Then word would leak. Security would be compromised.
As Paul finished with the woodpile, he took off his sunglasses and turned to her. His eyes were a beautiful chocolate-brown. When she gazed into their depths, Julia felt something inside her begin to melt. For one fleeting second, she imagined what it would be like to be held by those big, strong arms. The broad expanse of his chest would provide ample room for her to snuggle. His flesh would be warm. His lips would be gentle.
She blinked, erasing these inappropriate thoughts. Where did that little burst of wild-eyed lust come from? It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, mostly because her responsibilities at the safehouse made dating difficult. But that was her choice. Her career. And the lack of a meaningful relationship didn’t bother her.
But maybe it did. Maybe that was the real reason why her emotions were all over the place. Maybe she needed more than chopping wood to control her anger. Maybe she needed to get laid.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“I should talk to your guests now.”
When he gave her a broad smile, his cheeks dimpled. He was just too sexy for words. Her repressed imagination again caught fire. She wanted to kiss those dimples, to taste his mouth.
He took a step toward her.
Julia’s breath quickened.
She heard, very clearly, a gunshot.
Chapter Two
Paul charged through the door of the shed with his gun drawn. “Julia, stay back.”
“No way.”
Another gunshot. Paul looked up.
Standing on the cedar deck behind the lodge was an older man, bald with a neatly trimmed fringe of graying hair around his ears. His posture was ramrod straight. He stood with legs apart and one hand behind his back. With the other hand, he aimed a chrome automatic handgun into a nearby stand of trees. What the hell did he think he was doing?
“Freeze.” Paul sighted down the barrel of his gun. “Police.”
The bald man looked down his nose. “Nothing to worry about, young man.”
Paul thought otherwise. Without lowering his gun, he climbed the staircase to the deck. “Drop your weapon.”
“You’re overreacting.” He squatted and carefully placed his gun on the deck floor. “I was just taking target practice, shooting at a rabbit.”
“Hunting season is over.” Paul scooped up the weapon. A Colt Double Eagle. A nice piece. And well cared for.
Julia stepped onto the deck behind him. “Deputy Paul Hemmings, I’d like to introduce General Harrison Naylor.”
The general’s squint and his square jaw seemed familiar. His formal bearing gave Paul the feeling that he was supposed to snap to attention and salute. But he had guns in both hands, so he merely nodded. “Army?”
“Marines,” the general said.
Which still didn’t give him the right to take potshots off the deck. “I’m sure you don’t need a lecture on gun safety, General. In future, if you want to take target practice, choose a less populated location.”
“Away from the barn,” Julia added. “We have several horses, and they’re not accustomed to gunfire.”
Reluctantly, Paul returned the Colt Double Eagle. The general took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from the gleaming silver gun. Though dressed in a casual cardigan, the man was impeccable. His trousers held a razor crease, and his shirt was buttoned all the way up to the collar.
Paul cleared his throat. “I’m here because of a car accident. The driver was from Washington, D.C., and I have reason to believe he was looking for someone staying here.”
“I’m stationed in D.C.,” the general said.
“The driver’s name was John Maser.”
The general paused for a moment. His lips moved as he silently repeated the name several times. “That’s Maser as in Maserati?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s hard to remember all of the men I’ve had under my command. You said there was a car accident. What happened to Maserati?”
“He was killed.”
“A shame.” The general shook his head. “Can’t say that I know the gentleman.”
Paul was dead certain that he’d seen the general before. “Do you come to this area often? Maybe for skiing?”
“This is my first time. I usually ski in Utah.”
“General Naylor, have we met?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“You might have seen the general on television,” Julia said. “He does a lot of expert commentary.”
“You can’t believe everything you see on TV,” the general said. “Nothing they’ve said about me is the truth. Not one damned thing.”
He executed a sharp turn and marched through the door into the lodge.
Paul exchanged glances with Julia, who seemed as puzzled by the general’s statement as he was. “Interesting guest.”
“Very,” she said.
“How many other people are staying here?”
“Four. And I have two full-time guys who help me run the place.”
Since it was obvious that she didn’t want to invite him inside, Paul took the initiative. He held open the storm door. “After you.”
As she sauntered past him, her curly ponytail came so close that he could smell the fresh scent of her shampoo. There was no other perfume on Julia. She didn’t seem like the type to fuss with girlie things. And yet, she was all woman.
When he’d seen her chopping wood behind the resort, Paul’s heart had pounded harder than thunder across the valley. He’d been stunned, unable to do anything more than stand and stare as this Amazon raised the ax over her head and swung down with force. She’d been breathing hard from her exertions. Inside her white turtleneck, her full breasts heaved. Damn, but she had a fine figure. An hourglass shape.
She reminded him of the early settlers in these mountains—women who were strong, resourceful and brave. And beautiful. Her complexion flushed with abundant health. Her eyes were blue—the color of a winter sky after a snowfall had washed the heavens clean.
Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t particularly want him around. Not that she was rude. Just standoffish. He wondered if one of the men who helped her run the lodge was her boyfriend.
In the kitchen, she introduced him to a young man who was doing the cooking for dinner. Though Paul was pleased to see that their relationship fell into the category of boss and employee, there was something disturbing about this guy. Young Roger Flannery had the bulge of a shoulder holster under his flannel shirt. Not illegal. But worrying.
A small, sleek woman entered the kitchen, and Julia introduced her. “Another of our guests. This is RJ Katz.”
She looked like a cat with a button nose, a tiny mouth and wide, suspicious eyes. As Paul shook her thin hand, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“I travel a lot.”
That was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “Business or pleasure?”
“Both.”
Just like a cat. Snooty, cool and independent. When RJ Katz sidled toward the fridge, he half expected to see her take out a bowl of cream and lap it up with her tongue.
If the car crash of John Maser turned out to be something more than an accident, Paul would put RJ at the head of his suspect list. “I need to see your driver’s license, Ms. Katz.”
“It’s in my purse. In my room.” She popped the tab on a cola and took a sip. “What’s this about?”
Paul explained about the car accident and the victim from Washington, D.C. He watched for her reaction when he mentioned the name John Maser.
She was unruffled. “Don’t know him.”
“I’d still like to see your license.”
“I suppose you’re wondering if I live near D.C. Well, I do. My address is Alexandria, Virginia. But I assure you, Deputy, I don’t know your victim.”
There was a lot more he wanted to ask, but Paul had promised Julia that he wouldn’t harass her guests. “Enjoy your stay.”
Before they left the kitchen, Julia directed a question toward RJ Katz. “Do you know if David is in his room?”
“He’s in the basement,” she said, “playing with his precious computer.”
“I’d appreciate if you asked him to come up here and speak with the deputy. So we don’t have to go downstairs.”
An unspoken communication passed between the two women, but Paul couldn’t guess why. He was beginning to think that something strange was going on at this rustic little resort. There was the cook with a shoulder holster. And the feline Ms. Katz who seemed determined to hide her identity. And, of course, a general who gunned down jackrabbits from the porch.
When Paul first arrived, he had noticed three satellite dishes that might be for extra-fine television reception or for some other kind of communication. Clearly, he needed more information about Julia and the lodge.
She led him through the dining room to the front area where a cheery fire burned in the moss rock fireplace. Comfortable was the first word that popped into his head. The sturdy leather sofas and chairs looked big enough to sink into and relax. “Nice,” he said. “I could see myself sitting in that big chair on a Sunday afternoon watching the football game.”
“How about those Broncos?”
“Are you a fan?”
“Actually, I prefer hockey.”
“Me, too.”
Damn, he liked this woman. He really hoped there was nothing sinister going on here.
She stepped in front of him and looked him directly in the eye. “I want to level with you, Paul.”
“Go ahead.”
“All five of my guests are from the Washington, D.C., area. They’re here for a retreat and meetings.”
The presence of the high-profile general who appeared on talk shows suggested a topic for those meetings. “Something political.”
“I really shouldn’t say.”
“What you’re telling me is that any one of your guests might be acquainted with the man who was killed.”
“Yes,” she said.
Paul was sure that if they knew anything about the death of John Maser, these people wouldn’t be forthcoming with information. More in-depth questioning and investigation was necessary. He needed to verify their alibis and arrival times.
On the other hand, he might be bothering these people for no reason at all. John Maser might have died as a result of careless driving. Nothing more.
After the autopsy, Paul would have a better indi-cation of foul play. Right now, his only evidence was the whispered word of the dying man who might have been out of his head. Murder.
“I have a thought,” Julia said. “It’s almost time for dinner, and everybody will be gathered in one place. You can talk to all of them at the same time.”
Not a great idea from the aspect of police procedure. One-on-one questioning was a more effective tool. But this wasn’t really an investigation. Not yet anyway. “Fine with me.”
This time Julia held the front door open for him. “After you.”
He stepped onto the covered porch that stretched all the way across the front of the lodge. From this vantage point, there was a clear view of the gravel drive leading up to the lodge and the vehicles that were parked in the front, including a Hummer that probably belonged to the general.
He sat in one of the rocking chairs, and Julia climbed onto the porch swing. She didn’t speak right away, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He liked her self-assurance—a maturity that didn’t require the constant chatter that filled his house when his girls got revved. “How do you feel about kids, Julia?”
“Love them.” Her face lit up. “My one regret about living here is that I don’t get to spend more time with my niece and nephew back in Wisconsin. They’re practically teenagers now.”
“I have two daughters. Seven and nine.”
“They must keep your wife busy.”
“Not so you’d notice. My ex-wife left a long time ago. I guess we didn’t have much in common.” Not like you and me, he wanted to add.
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