She barely got a chance to say hello when she heard a deep, familiar male voice with a west Texas accent. “Hey, Marshal. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Brooker—Ethan.” Had she conjured him up by talking about him, thinking about him twice that day? She shook off the thought. If he was calling her, it wasn’t because anything good had happened. “Where are you?”
“On the same island as you.”
He was in New York. She sat on the edge of her bed. “At least you sprang for your own room this time.” In August, he’d spent two nights on her futon. She’d slept badly both nights.
“I need to see you. Tomorrow morning. Federal Hall at 9:00 a.m. Wait for me at the George Washington statue.”
“I’m not waiting for you, period—”
“Don’t tell your fellow marshals.”
“Marshals are political appointees. One to a district. Technically, my colleagues and me are deputy U.S. marshals.” She sighed. “Damn it, Brooker. Why can’t we just meet for coffee? What’s going on?”
“I’ll find you in the morning.”
He disconnected.
Juliet threw her phone down on the bed. The bed, the bureau, the refinished ladder-back chair—all Freda’s. Juliet had tacked up drawings her nieces and nephews had sent her, photographs of family gatherings she’d missed, a Vermont calendar. Except for her plants and fish, nothing else was hers. When she found a new place, she wasn’t relishing having to furnish it. Subletting had seemed like a good idea at the time. Six months on the Upper West Side—why not? Now, her time was up, and she had to find a new place. At best, a pain in the neck. At worst—it made her realize what a tumbleweed she’d become.
She tried not to let Brooker’s call get to her. He was dramatic, accustomed to the blackest of black ops and not one, by nature, to reveal too much—especially over the phone.
Would she meet him at Federal Hall?
Of course. There’d never been any doubt. Ethan knew it, and so did she.
Two
Juliet arrived at Federal Hall on Wall Street at nine on the dot and stood next to the impressive statue of George Washington, who’d been sworn in as president there in 1789.
She’d decided not to be early for her clandestine meeting—or late. She was up at her usual time of 5:30 a.m., did her three-mile run, lifted a few free weights in her apartment, stretched, showered and dressed in jeans, running shoes, a stretchy button-down shirt and her black leather jacket—a recent splurge.
She started three hours of firearms training at ten. She meant to have Ethan sent on his way and be back at her desk by then.
The raspberry lip gloss she’d dabbed on before leaving the U.S. Marshals Service Southeastern New York District Office wasn’t for his sake. It was a cool, dreary morning, and she didn’t want to get chapped lips.
Juliet recognized one of the heavily armed NYPD officers guarding the New York Stock Exchange, a huge American flag draping its familiar colonnade exterior. New York remained at Orange Alert. Cars had been barred from narrow Wall Street since 9/11. Security was as tight there as anywhere on the planet.
She wondered what old George would think if he suddenly came to life. It wasn’t even the same building behind him. The original Federal Hall, where the Bill of Rights had been written and the First Congress had met, was torn down; the current one, with its beautiful Greek Revival architecture, was erected in its place in 1842. It was now a National Park Service site.
Brooker turned the corner of Nassau Street, and as she watched him approach the statue, Juliet didn’t notice anything different about him since she’d last seen him in late August. Except maybe his concussion from his fall in Ravenkill Creek had healed. The assassin he’d followed to Ravenkill, a picturesque village on the Hudson River an hour north of New York, had beaned him on the head with a rock, nearly killing him.
But that ordeal was over now, and Juliet had hoped Ethan had gone home to Texas finally, to mourn his wife and come to grips with his guilt and regrets—the unalterable fact that he was still alive and she wasn’t.
He walked between two planters—car bomb deterrents—and walked up the two steps to where she stood. He was a few inches taller than she was and broad-shouldered, his dark hair cropped shorter than a month ago. Whether he was on the periphery of the action or right in the middle of it, Ethan Brooker was a catalyst, was the sort of man who made things happen.
“I like the leather,” he said.
“Keeps me warm.” Juliet noticed that his dark eyes were as superalert as ever. “You’re right on time.”
The sprinkle of rain had turned into a steady drizzle. Pedestrians by the dozen unfurled black umbrellas. Juliet didn’t have one on her. Neither did Ethan. He had on dark charcoal pants, an expensive denim jacket and cowboy boots. His silver belt buckle was right out of the Old West.
She shoved her fists into her jacket pockets. “No Stetson?”
“I didn’t want anyone to mistake me for a stockbroker.”
As if there were a chance.