told.
One day that might change, he told himself. It would just not be today.
Robert Puller was the only man in U.S. history to receive a commendation from his country after being convicted of treason, for his part in helping to avoid a nuclear nightmare. However, there was never any talk of his sentence being commuted. And the commendation was given under the strictest secrecy.
Puller did not attend Roger Trent’s funeral. He assumed it would be an elaborate affair, no expense spared by his widow, Jean. And he also wondered if anyone from Drake had bothered to show up. The man had been innocent of any complicity in attempting to create a nuclear holocaust. But that didn’t take away from the fact that he was still a mean son of a bitch whose business had raped a region and ruined many a life. And Puller didn’t give a damn about any of it.
But there was one funeral in Drake that he did attend.
Puller stepped out of the Malibu dressed in his brand-new dress blues. He cut quite a figure as he helped lift the coffin out of the hearse and carry it to the gravesite.
This was Sam Cole’s funeral, and nothing would have kept the man away.
The Cole family was there, including Randy, who had on a brand-new suit that Jean no doubt had bought him for the burial of his other sister. He looked more like a lost boy than a grieving man.
Jean was dressed all in high-dollar black. She looked entirely crushed. As Puller watched her he had to assume it was more for the lost sibling than the dead husband. She was now a very rich widow. But she no longer had a sister.
Samantha Cole was buried in her street uniform—not her dress uniform, but the one she wore every day. They had found a last will and testament that had asked that this be done. It seemed very fitting for the sort of cop she had been. Also buried with her was the Cobra. That was also in her will, and Puller had to respect the lady’s foresight and attention to detail. Her cottage she left to her brother.
Puller had earlier gone to her home and put a notice up on the front door declaring that anyone attempting to scavenge anything from the premises would be hunted down by the United States Army and dealt with appropriately and with extreme force if required.
As he walked up to the coffin, Puller felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten. It was hot as hell and the sun blazed overhead. The humidity and heat combination must have been in the triple digits. And all Puller felt was the icy cold of nearby death. He lightly touched the polished mahogany, mumbled a few words that felt wholly inadequate. An inferior Romeo for the fallen Juliet.
Finally, he gathered himself and said, “You were a good cop, Cole. This place didn’t deserve you.” He stopped talking, trying mightily to keep his emotions from running totally away with him.
He ended by saying. “It was an honor to serve with you.”
As they were walking back to the cars after the service, Jean Trent drew next to Puller.
“What really happened?” she asked. “No one will tell me anything.”
“Do you really need to know?”
She bristled. “Do I really need to know why my husband and sister were killed? Wouldn’t you want to know if you were in my shoes?”
“The truth won’t bring them back.”
“Well, you’re a big help,” she snapped.
“I’m just giving you the best advice I can,” he replied.
She stopped and so did he.
“You weren’t at Roger’s funeral,” she said.
“That’s right, I wasn’t.”
“But you came back for this, in your fancy duds, with all your medals. Why?”
He said, “Because I owed it to your sister. It’s about respect.”
“You cared for her, didn’t you?”
Puller said nothing.
“Will you catch whoever killed her?”
“Yes, I will,” said Puller.
She looked away and her mouth assumed a hard line.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re rich and single. You can do whatever you want.”
“I’m not sure about the rich part. Most of Roger’s assets have disappeared.”
“You have the B-and-B, and a smart lady like yourself, you probably have some cash stashed away.”
“Assuming I do, if you were me, what would you do?”
“You’re really asking me?”
“Sam thought a lot of you. And she was not easily impressed. If she thought you were okay, then so do I. And I’d like your advice.”
“Move to Italy. Open a restaurant there. Enjoy the rest of your life.”
“Really? You think I should?”
“Nothing keeping you here.”
“My brother is here.”
“Take him with you.”
“Randy? To Italy?”
Puller glanced over at Randy Cole. He was sitting by himself on a bench looking like he didn’t even know where he was.
“He finally went to a doctor, right?”
She nodded. “He has a brain tumor. It’s not one of the ones that’s always fatal. The doctors think they can treat it, or at least slow its progression, but we don’t know how much time he may have left.”
“Then I think you both could use a fresh start. Good luck.”
He started to walk away.
She called after him. “Puller, I’m having a reception at the house. I was hoping you could come.”
Puller kept walking. He didn’t have time for receptions.
He had a case to finish. And he was going to finish it. For himself.
But mostly for Sam Cole.
CHAPTER
92
THE MAN LIT HIS CIGARETTE, waved the match until it stopped burning, and tossed it down on the damp cobblestone street. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket and white linen pants with a hat pulled low over his forehead. His shirt was not monogrammed. It was stained with coffee and a small hole had been burned into the cuff by a cigarette.
It had rained most of the day and the clouds were still puffy with moisture. The air was humid but edged with a chill that made him shiver slightly.
He looked right and then left and crossed the street.
The bar had a neon sign that sputtered with each ebb and flow of the unreliable electrical supply. The door to the bar was battered and pocked with what looked to be an arc of bullet holes. That sight didn’t bother him. This was not the first time he’d been here.
He edged through the crowd to the bar. He spoke the language passably, certainly enough to order a drink. Some in the crowd here knew him, at least by face if not by name. The passport he carried was a fake, but looked real enough to allow him to travel here. He had no idea how long he would stay. He hoped it wouldn’t be all that long.
He took his drink, gave over his coins to pay for it, turned in his seat, and surveyed the crowd. Most were locals, some were tourists, and still others were probably here on business. He never looked directly at anyone. But he had become adept at noting anyone paying him unusual attention. There was none of that tonight. He turned back to the bar, but he listened for the door to open. When it did, he would turn back around to gaze at the newcomers. It happened twice. Locals and a tourist.
The woman approached him. She was young, pretty, her hair dark, her accent strong but lyrical. He had seen her here before. She liked to mingle. She had never mingled with him before. She usually chose someone closer to her own age.
Did he want to dance? she asked.
No, he told her.
Would he buy her a drink?
No, he told her.
Could she buy him a drink?
He turned to her, dipping his chin low so she could not see him clearly.
“Why?” he asked.