Tony Cipriani, her partner, ambled over to her desk. In his late thirties with a wife in the NYPD and two small boys, he was a wiry, mostly bald, ultrafit guy and one of the more likable federal agents Juliet had encountered. They’d been working together for a few weeks, and so far, so good. As a favor, she’d asked him to do some basic research into vigilante mercenaries.
“There were these guys who showed up in Afghanistan,” Cipriani said in a low voice. “Americans. One of them was an insurance salesman, for the love of God. They decided the U.S. military was being too namby-pamby with interrogations and flew to Kabul to set up their own jailhouse. The military shut them down.”
“I remember reading something about it in the papers.”
“Press was all over the story. The military turned two of these wingnuts over to Afghan authorities but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold them. The rest disappeared.”
“Do we have any names?” Juliet asked.
“No. I’m still working on it.”
“Any hint they put up shop in South America?”
Tony shook his head. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Juliet wondered if Ethan, as an army officer, had been deployed to Afghanistan at the time, but warned herself not to go off on a tangent. Follow the facts. She sighed. “Thanks, Cip.”
“Anytime. When you want to tell me what this is all about, you know where to find me.”
Juliet understood the subtext. If she wanted him to go further, they’d have to have a talk—he’d want to know exactly why she was interested in vigilantes. With six days and counting since Ethan had turned up asking about Bobby Tatro—and almost a month since Tatro was released from prison—and no sign of him, she doubted that a heart-to-heart with Cipriani would be necessary. In two days, it’d be October. A whole new month. Maybe she’d heard the last of Tatro, vigilantes and Ethan’s secret mission.
After a morning picking pumpkins and chasing a few stray chickens back into their pen in the barn—a humane pen—Wendy Longstreet treated herself to a glass of fresh-pressed apple cider on the steps of the side porch. Spaceshot was flopped on his back in the grass. No one was around. Her grandparents, her uncle Jeff and her uncle Will were all off at job sites. Even her uncle Sam, who was usually around working on the machinery and tending to the barn and greenhouses, had driven to town for parts. Wendy was to deal with any passersby who stopped to buy a pumpkin or who wanted to pick apples. It was the end of September, and the leaf-peepers were out in full force.
A truck pulling a small camping trailer turned into the driveway. The truck had an Arizona plate, which Wendy noticed right away because it was unusual to see one in Vermont. She got up, leaving her cider glass on the steps.
The driver got out, a tall, rangy man with a shaved head. He had on a denim jacket, jeans and running shoes, and he waved to her. “Afternoon.”
Spaceshot stirred but didn’t get up. With all the coming and going at Longstreet Landscaping, he didn’t trouble himself to investigate every arrival. Wendy smiled at the man. “Can I help you?”
“I’m new in town. Name’s Matt Kelleher. I heard that you all were looking for temporary hires. Anyone around I can talk to?”
Wendy didn’t want to tell him no. That was one of the rules her father had drilled into her—never tell a stranger she was alone. “Everyone’s busy right now, Mr. Kelleher.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.” He smiled, as if he knew she was nervous and wanted to help her to relax. “I’ll just sit in my truck.” He nodded at Spaceshot. “That’s some lazy dog, huh?”
“He’s old,” Wendy said, smiling tentatively back at him. With his shaved head, she found his age hard to guess—forty, maybe? She had no idea. He had lines at the corners of his eyes but none of the puffy bags older men often had, and while he wasn’t handsome, he wasn’t horrible-looking, either. His nose was kind of big, and his chin was pointy. He looked okay when he smiled.
“You work here?” he asked her.
She nodded. “But I’m family—Wendy Longstreet.”
He squinted at her against the bright autumn sun. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I graduated in June.”
“Not going to college?”
“No, I am. I’m applying early decision to several schools.” She didn’t want to get into the homeschooling and finishing her requirements for graduation a year early details. “I was going to work on my essays this afternoon.”
“Don’t let me keep you. What do you want to major in?”
She lowered her eyes, as if he might not see her hesitation that way. “I’m applying as a premed student.”
“No kidding? You want to be a doctor?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“That’s a tough row to hoe. I didn’t go to college. I got married right out of high school—” He stopped himself, looking out at the hills, the autumn leaves turning fast now. “My wife died in June. Cancer. Hell of a way to go.”