weight. He said to Wayne, “Mr. Grey is a good man. Here on John’s Island, we take care of our own. You hear what I’m saying, Mister Accountant?”
“Loud and clear.”
He had watery blue eyes that floated in a web of red. “You tell Mr. Grey he needs anything, he’s got my number.”
FOURTEEN
A s far as Wayne was concerned, John’s Island was seriously misnamed. The place should have been called Castle-by-the-Sea.
Two lanes ran side by side, one for cars and the other for golf carts. Wayne spotted a couple in matching togs and tans seated inside an electric surrey, right down to the fringed top. They were followed by a metallic silver cart with a fake Rolls Royce hood. Palms marched down both sides of both lanes in well-behaved rows. The orderliness defied anyone to speak an improper word or break rules that had no need of being posted. Even Tatyana lost her taste for speed.
“I hate this place already,” Wayne declared.
Tatyana was too busy being tense to respond. She turned into a drive of pearl-white paving stones and rumbled up to a palace only slightly smaller than Disney’s. Two peaked turrets sprouted from opposite ends, both sheathed in plates of polarized glass. The effect was like being inspected by a pair of frog eyes wearing Wayfarers.
She cut the motor but made no move to open her door. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”
“How did the cop know about the problem here?”
“He doesn’t exactly …” She waved that aside. “I need to tell you something. I fear I may have misspoken. The angel did not say my associate must find a warrior.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in angels.”
The hand waved a second time. “What he said was, my associate’s challenge was to find himself a hero.”
“Mr. Grusza, did I say that right? Easton Grey.”
The man had a gaze to match his name, clear as winter smoke, biting and deep. There was nothing easy about this man—no wasted motion, no spare flesh. He was not small so much as economical. Wayne decided he would hate to sit across the poker table from this guy.
That is, if a guy who believed in angels played cards.
Mr. Grey might have been dressed for at-home casual. He might offer Wayne a buddy handshake and lead them through the living room into a small parlor by the kitchen. He might even pour coffee for them himself. But there was no question in Wayne’s mind. Right from the get-go, he knew.
This guy was the real deal.
While on duty, he had met a couple of generals. Not on parade. In the field. Out where it counted. And both of those guys, they could take their medals off and pack away all the stars, and they would still be who they were. Leaders.
Just like this guy.
“How do you take your coffee, Mr. Grusza?”
“Black is fine.”
“Take a seat anywhere. Tatyana, would you like anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
Wayne noted that. How even the frost queen was toned down in front of this guy. And no hint of lovey-dovey between them. Just a superior and his subordinate. Two pros.
Here to discuss a divine visitation.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Grusza? I know your father was a pastor.”
“And his sister,” Tatyana added.
“Of course. But I still need to know. Are you a man of abiding faith?”
Wayne set his coffee on the table between them. “Probably not.”
Wayne took his time and scanned the place. The floors were patterned marble throughout all the rooms he had seen, including the kitchen. The coved ceilings were too high to measure, sixteen or maybe even eighteen feet. The kitchen had an open layout, with domed little false halls separating it from the living room on one side and the dining room on the other. The room where they now sat was an alcove that fronted onto the pool area and a long sloping lawn. A brown-haired girl in awkward adolescence tossed a Frisbee to a barking Lab. Beyond a border of blooming trees sparkled the blue-blue Indian River. And beyond that, over
“Loud and clear.”
He had watery blue eyes that floated in a web of red. “You tell Mr. Grey he needs anything, he’s got my number.”
FOURTEEN
A s far as Wayne was concerned, John’s Island was seriously misnamed. The place should have been called Castle-by-the-Sea.
Two lanes ran side by side, one for cars and the other for golf carts. Wayne spotted a couple in matching togs and tans seated inside an electric surrey, right down to the fringed top. They were followed by a metallic silver cart with a fake Rolls Royce hood. Palms marched down both sides of both lanes in well-behaved rows. The orderliness defied anyone to speak an improper word or break rules that had no need of being posted. Even Tatyana lost her taste for speed.
“I hate this place already,” Wayne declared.
Tatyana was too busy being tense to respond. She turned into a drive of pearl-white paving stones and rumbled up to a palace only slightly smaller than Disney’s. Two peaked turrets sprouted from opposite ends, both sheathed in plates of polarized glass. The effect was like being inspected by a pair of frog eyes wearing Wayfarers.
She cut the motor but made no move to open her door. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”
“How did the cop know about the problem here?”
“He doesn’t exactly …” She waved that aside. “I need to tell you something. I fear I may have misspoken. The angel did not say my associate must find a warrior.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in angels.”
The hand waved a second time. “What he said was, my associate’s challenge was to find himself a hero.”
“Mr. Grusza, did I say that right? Easton Grey.”
The man had a gaze to match his name, clear as winter smoke, biting and deep. There was nothing easy about this man—no wasted motion, no spare flesh. He was not small so much as economical. Wayne decided he would hate to sit across the poker table from this guy.
That is, if a guy who believed in angels played cards.
Mr. Grey might have been dressed for at-home casual. He might offer Wayne a buddy handshake and lead them through the living room into a small parlor by the kitchen. He might even pour coffee for them himself. But there was no question in Wayne’s mind. Right from the get-go, he knew.
This guy was the real deal.
While on duty, he had met a couple of generals. Not on parade. In the field. Out where it counted. And both of those guys, they could take their medals off and pack away all the stars, and they would still be who they were. Leaders.
Just like this guy.
“How do you take your coffee, Mr. Grusza?”
“Black is fine.”
“Take a seat anywhere. Tatyana, would you like anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
Wayne noted that. How even the frost queen was toned down in front of this guy. And no hint of lovey-dovey between them. Just a superior and his subordinate. Two pros.
Here to discuss a divine visitation.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Grusza? I know your father was a pastor.”
“And his sister,” Tatyana added.
“Of course. But I still need to know. Are you a man of abiding faith?”
Wayne set his coffee on the table between them. “Probably not.”
Wayne took his time and scanned the place. The floors were patterned marble throughout all the rooms he had seen, including the kitchen. The coved ceilings were too high to measure, sixteen or maybe even eighteen feet. The kitchen had an open layout, with domed little false halls separating it from the living room on one side and the dining room on the other. The room where they now sat was an alcove that fronted onto the pool area and a long sloping lawn. A brown-haired girl in awkward adolescence tossed a Frisbee to a barking Lab. Beyond a border of blooming trees sparkled the blue-blue Indian River. And beyond that, over
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