Two uniformed cops came in and took stools at the counter.
Ham wondered if he looked suspicious. Hell, he wondered about so many things these days, he couldn’t keep his head straight. He wondered if Mia O’Farrell hadn’t liked him taking off on his own after his rescue. He’d told her he couldn’t talk and needed time to recuperate from his ordeal. She would cut him off at the knees if she felt national security was at stake.
If the cops found cause to search him, Ham knew he was doomed. No way could he explain the emeralds he’d hidden in his hip-pack. One emerald he could pass off as a present for a girlfriend. But fifteen? After Colombia, he’d transferred them to a soft suede drawstring pouch.
A big man in work clothes, his bulk oozing over the edges of a stool down the counter from the cops, asked if they thought the escaped ex-con would head their way. “That’s the same guy who broke into Juliet’s place in New York on Friday, isn’t it? You worried about her?”
One of the cops—fair, tall, blue-eyed, in no mood—shrugged. “My sister can take care of herself.”
“I heard she’s in town. Did she pitch her tent on the lake like she usually does?”
The blond cop—Juliet’s brother—bristled, obviously preferring this guy didn’t broadcast details about his sister. “You see Tatro, give us a call.”
“Damn right.”
The other cop said, “Consider him armed and dangerous. Don’t approach him.”
“Hell, I’ll just call Juliet.” The big guy had gone a little pale but wasn’t letting it get to him. “She used to sit in front of me in algebra. Even then she could beat the hell out of the rest of us. Must be having five older brothers.”
The Longstreet cop didn’t seem to think that was funny, but the other cop hid his smile in his coffee. Ham could only see some of what was going on from his vantage point, but it was easy to fill in the blanks. During his two years in South America, he’d enjoyed sitting in cafés and bars, watching people. He’d grown up isolated and alone, but he thought he had a decent eye for reading people.
The waitress brought him his pancakes on one plate and his home fries on a second plate. “Anything else?”
“No, ma’am. This’ll be fine. Thank you.”
The two cops swiveled on their stools and looked him over.
The Texas accent.
Ham had left his cowboy hat and boots at home, but he never thought about his accent drawing attention. At least Tatro wasn’t a Texan.
Ignoring the cops, Ham emptied his little syrup pitcher onto his pancakes. They were practically floating.
The cops finished their coffees, paid up and left.
A lake.
Ham decided it couldn’t be too hard to figure out what lake. Then he could find Juliet Longstreet and talk to her alone. He wasn’t sure what all to tell her, but thought he’d start with the emeralds and how he didn’t want anything else rotten to happen to anyone on his account.
Juliet sat on a wicker chair on the front porch of her childhood home with her coffee, the ends of her hair damp from a sixty-second shower that had settled her mood if not cleared her head. “Tell me about the Carhills first,” she said. “Then we’ll get to vigilantes, smuggling and ransom.”
Ethan was leaning against a post and the porch rail, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. “You’ve been busy.”
“My partner did some digging for me. The Carhills are your Texas neighbors—”
“I don’t know that I’d call us neighbors. By Vermont’s distance standards, they’d live in Maine.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
Her serious tone didn’t seem to affect him. He shrugged. “Of course it is. I’m a Texan.” But when she didn’t budge, he went on, “Johnson Carhill and my father went to grade school together. The Carhills are very private people. They don’t court publicity—they value the opposite, in fact.”
“Their son?”
“Ham’s a bright kid. He’s twenty-five but already has his Ph.D. in physics. He took off for South America and adventures. Mountain-climbing—”
“Is he into precious gems? Colombia is known for its emeralds.”
“If it’s a rock, Ham’s interested in it.”
Juliet noticed the distant look that had come into Ethan’s dark eyes, and tried not to think of them in the night, locked with hers. “How did he become a national security asset? Because of his science background or his ‘adventures’?”
“I don’t know. I’ve told you.” His gaze settled on her, just long enough to make her realize that whoever Hamilton Carhill was, Ethan’s loyalty to him had driven his actions, at least in part, over the past month. “I’m just a soldier.”