“What is?”

  “When I married Curt, he was already a war hero. This big strong marine that no enemy could defeat. And he was gone all the time, too. Not to make money, but to serve his country, like Jenny did. He survived that. And then he got into politics. Worked his way up and eventually ran for the Senate and won. And he was gone all the time, again, not for the money but to serve. And here’s the funny thing.” She paused and seemed to collect herself, running her fingers delicately along her expensive pearls. “The funny thing is, for the people left behind, the motivation doesn’t matter. The result is the same: one is alone.”

  “I can see that.”

  She looked around at the tastefully decorated room in the luxurious mansion in the pricey, sought-after neighborhood with beautiful views. “And in case you’re wondering, as so many have, no, the grass is not always greener.”

  “I understand that Jenny was not in full agreement with the divorce?” he said quietly.

  “She hated me for it, plain and simple.” Robards dropped her hand to her lap. “She and apparently everyone else thought I left Curt because of his illness. The fact was we had agreed to divorce a year before. But these things take time and he had an election coming up, so we made the mutual decision to wait. He won the race and we went our separate ways. Then he was diagnosed shortly thereafter and I became the thoughtless ex-wife.”

  “I suppose you could have halted the divorce proceedings,” noted Devine.

  “I’d already met Vernon and was engaged to him. We were waiting for the final decree to announce our impending wedding. And the truth was I had given Curt four decades of my life and three children. He had his twin careers. And me? I hadn’t even started to live my life yet. So I decided to move forward and do just that before it was too late. Curt was going to receive the best care regardless.” She glanced up. “I suppose you think me heartless, too?”

  “While it may be tempting for many, judging others has never been a fascination of mine.”

  She nodded. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “When was the last time you saw or spoke to your daughter?”

  “I saw her at an event at the Senate to honor Curt’s legacy about six months ago.”

  “Was that also the last time you spoke to her?”

  Her gaze fell to her lap. “No. She actually called me recently. She said she was heading to Putnam. She grew up there, along with our other two children. An ancestor of Curt’s, Hiram Silkwell, built the family home there. It’s quite Gothic, and I think extraordinarily ugly. Curt kept paying the taxes on it until he became ill. He couldn’t part with it, apparently. He was always a very nostalgic person, very much tied to the past in certain respects.”

  “Did she say why she was going there?”

  “She said she had some unfinished business.”

  “What sort of business?” asked Devine sharply.

  “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  Devine looked skeptically at her.

  She caught this look and explained, “Our relationship had changed, Agent Devine. She was a grown woman who no longer needed or wanted my advice or counseling.”

  “But she called you, even though you two were estranged. Must have been a reason.”

  “If there was it eluded me.”

  “Okay, any guess as to what she was referring to about the ‘unfinished business’?”

  “None.”

  “And your other children?”

  “Dak and Alex. They still live in the family home.”

  “Any idea why they want to live in an ugly, old Gothic house?”

  “They apparently like it there. I lived there with the kids while Curt was in Congress. Neither one of us wanted the children to be here, in the limelight.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Alex is the youngest, and an artist. And an incredibly talented one who could make a fine living if she would ever get an agent. I’ve been told by old friends up there that she also teaches art in the public school on a part-time basis.” She paused and smiled, but it was accompanied by a sad, bittersweet expression.

  She said, “Jenny was the golden child. Brilliant, enormously driven, lovely, she had it all. But Alex was no slouch, either. She was more beautiful than Jenny, and smart, too. Because of her late birthday she was always the youngest in her class. Then, because of her ability, she skipped an entire grade in elementary school. Not even Jenny managed to do that,” she added.

  “And your son?”

  “Dak has a tattoo parlor and some other business interests up there. He’s very entrepreneurial. I think he wants to make a zillion dollars to show he doesn’t need any of us. He was in the Army but got discharged.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Dak can tell you, if he wants.”

  “Could Jenny have been going to see them?”

  “It’s possible. I’ve tried to call both of them but they haven’t gotten back to me.”

  “Were your kids close with one another?”

  “They used to be. But life changes people, you know?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I guess Dak and Alex get along, if they live together.”

  “It’s a big house,” she said simply. “Big enough to feel like one is living alone.”

  “Where and when will the funeral take place?”

  “There won’t be one. In her will Jenny stipulated that she wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered over the ocean. No ceremony, no fuss.”

  “I guess she was the sort to plan ahead?”

  “I just wish she had managed to stay alive until long after I was dead and buried!”

  “Well, she had no choice in the matter,” he pointed out.

  Sniffling, Clare said, “Curt doesn’t even know she’s gone.”

  Devine noted, “Maybe that’s for the best. When was the last time you saw Alex or Dak?”

  “It’s been several years, actually. I suppose that qualifies as ‘estranged,’” she added, closing her eyes, her features laden with misery.

  “Ever since your divorce?”

  “I suppose the two are intertwined,” she said dully, opening her eyes and gazing off.

  He rose. “Well, thank you for seeing me. If you think of anything else, please contact me.” He handed her his card, on which the fresh ink seemed to glow.

  She reached across, took the card, and then gripped his hand with surprising strength. “Please find out who took her away from me, Mr. Devine. Please.”

  He looked down at her. “I’ll do my best, ma’am. I can promise you that.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  THE NEXT MORNING DEVINE WALKED into a private care facility in northern Virginia with Emerson Campbell to visit Curtis Silkwell.

  “Clare still visits him every week here,” said Campbell as he held the door for Devine.

  “Not so heartless then,” replied Devine, drawing a tortured scowl from the other man.

  “Heartless enough,” Campbell shot back.

  A nurse led them to a room in a secure “memory care” unit. The space was small and sparsely furnished and held, at least for Devine, a sense of marching in slow motion, a wait for the inevitability of death.

  After the nurse left them, both men turned their attention to the frail figure in the bed. There were no tubes hooked up to him, though there was a machine monitoring his vitals.

  “He’s comfortable, in no pain, so they tell me. They’re going to have to put a feeding tube in soon,” said Campbell grimly. His voice carried a level of distress Devine had never heard before. “He’s not eating. He doesn’t think to when he’s awake. Just stares at the offered food and then goes back to sleep. And when they do get some food in him, things get clogged and he has to be aspirated. He has a DNR in place and pretty soon they will wind things down.”

  They looked down at the shrunken, sleeping patient.

  “I remember a six-two, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound wall of a man,” added a hollow-voiced Campbell. “Leading his men into one hell after another and coming out victorious on the other side. Won every medal and commendation the Marines offered. He should have had a shoulder full of stars but he refused to play the necessary games.”

  “Same as you,” noted Devine.

  “He was more deserving,” replied Campbell.

  “To my mind, every person who puts on the uniform and picks up a weapon in defense of their country is deserving.”

  Silkwell stirred under the sheet and his eyes opened. He looked at neither of them, his unfocused gaze playing across the ceiling for a few moments before the eyes closed once more.

  “He stopped recognizing me months ago,” said Campbell. “The doctors say the progression is accelerating. No chance of recovery. Fucking disease.”

  Campbell led Devine out and quietly closed the door behind them before facing off with the younger man.

  “I brought you here, Devine, because I wanted you to see a true American hero. And he deserves to have his daughter’s murderer brought to justice.”

  “You have no confidence in the police up there?”

  “Since it’s a two-person department with few resources, no, my confidence level is not high. And if Jenny’s death is connected to her work at CIA it comes under the feds’ umbrella, not the locals’. But you have to snoop around first and find out something we can hang our jurisdictional hat on.”

  “So I’m to find the killer and ascertain if any secrets have been stolen?”

  “If you find the killer we have lots of experts who can help us determine the secrets issue, or whether her death was retribution for something having to do with national security.”

  “The sister and brother who live up there in the old homestead, I suppose they’re suspects? I told you Clare informed me Jenny was going up there to finish some old business.”

  “Yes, family, friends, strangers, foreigners—everyone is a suspect right now.”

  “And what if the killer is long gone by now?”

  “We’ll attack that bridge if we come to it.”

  Outside the facility, Campbell shook the younger man’s hand. “I have no higher priority right now. Good luck. Many things tell me you’re going to need it.”

  Campbell was driven off in a government SUV.

  Devine stood in the parking lot for a few moments glancing back at the building where a doomed man didn’t even know his eldest daughter had not survived him.

  He knew this was personal to Campbell. And while Devine had to maintain a professional objectivity, he knew a certain element of this mission was now personal to him as well.

  In his book a dying warrior deserved no less.

  CHAPTER

  5

  AFTER A SHORT, PINBALLING FLIGHT in high winds, the plane thudded onto the tarmac in Bangor, Maine. After deplaning, Devine grabbed his rental Tahoe and commenced the two-and-a-half-hour drive east to Putnam. The tiny hamlet was located on the rocky Atlantic coast and had fewer souls than the passengers on the United Airlines jumbo jet flight Devine had taken back from Italy.

  The leaves had long since turned color and abandoned their respective trees and bushes. Devine’s memories of a scorching summer in New York City and a mild fall in Europe had all been extinguished by the bitter cold here. His cable-knit sweater was underwhelming in its warmth factor.

  He reached Machias, turned onto Route 1, and kept going north for a while until he turned off onto another road that took him east toward the world’s second biggest ocean. He could already smell the briny air and feel the bite of the punishing wind that kept rocking the Tahoe. He looked at a long inlet the ocean had cut into the rocky shore and, despite the mission he was on, the serene view lent Devine some calm.

  Before the storm?

  Devine glanced at his gear pack. Inside, among other things, was his Glock nine-millimeter, a backup pistol, and extra ammo for both.

  As Devine drove he went over in his mind the briefing details.

  Jenny Silkwell had been an operations officer at CIA. Her focus for the past few years had been on the Middle East. Before that her area of involvement was the Russian Federation, and before that, South America. A gifted, natural linguist, she spoke fluent Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, and Polish, and through immersion classes she had learned Arabic and Farsi before moving on to the Middle East region. Her job had led her to travel all over the world to meet with the human intel on the ground that she had recruited to work with America.

  And maybe that had placed a wicked bullseye on the back of Jenny Silkwell, because the Russians, as well as factions in the Middle East, were not shy about striking back against perceived enemies. The answer to her murder might well lie in Moscow, Tehran, or Damascus rather than Putnam, Maine.

  He had read both the national and local accounts of the murder. The national news had sent crews up here and broadcast stories for a few days until they moved on to newer stories that would capture more eyeballs. He supposed if the killer were tracked down and arrested, the big guns would be back up here to report on it.

  In contrast, the local news, such that it was, had continued to go full bore with the story. Devine could imagine that the unsolved murder of a CIA officer and daughter of a war hero and former U.S. senator, who was himself a scion of a prominent and formerly wealthy Maine family, would be the most newsworthy thing that had ever happened in Putnam.

  Along the way he had passed signs that said he was on the Bold Coast Scenic Byway. And it fit the bill. As his journey brought him closer to the Gulf of Maine’s shoreline, Devine, at intervals, saw narrow strips of sandy and pebble beaches as well as towering granite bluffs standing sentry along craggy coves filled with rock-strewn headlands and stout, robust greenery holding purchase on the saltwater-slicked rock wherever it could. There were also vast forests that reached to the horizon, and old orchards of fruitless trees leading right up to rocky cliffs standing firmly next to the water like silent sentries.

  Finally, a weathered board on a rotting post announced the legal boundary of Putnam and stated its official population to be a few shy of 250. They must be hardy souls, thought Devine. The rugged topography and raw weather did not look like it was designed for the fainthearted.

  He passed a young man in a New England Patriots ski cap riding a rusted bicycle that had no seat. That was followed by two young women astride mud-splattered ATVs puttering along. A battered 1980s-era station wagon slowly passed him going the other way. The driver had heavily wrinkled features and the hanging jowls of a Great Dane, and a head topped by fine snowy hair. He gave Devine a grim-faced once-over before he headed on down the road.

  The Putnam Inn was located on the town’s narrow main street, the asphalt barely two cars wide. Devine angled into a parking space and tugged out his bags.

  He looked across the street to where a small harbor nearly encircled by chiseled granite bluffs was situated, with a slender outlet to the Gulf of Maine’s slice of the ocean. There was also what looked to be a man-made breakwater to give added protection from storms. A number of boats were docked in slips weathered by the unforgiving elements, while others were moored out on the smooth, glassy water of the harbor. Men in heavy work clothing and calf-high waterproof boots were laboring on the docks and also on the boats, tying up ropes, lifting heavy boxes and metal cages, and scrubbing the grime and barnacles off raised hulls. It was a bustle of activity that was probably replicated up and down the coast here.

  The smiling woman behind the front desk told Devine she was Patricia Kingman, the inn’s owner.

  “Welcome to Putnam. I’ll apologize in advance if our service is not up to snuff. We’re understaffed, it’s why I’m manning the front desk. Nobody wants to work anymore. They blame it on COVID. I say it’s just being lazy. The X, Y, and Z generations, or whatever they call themselves? No work ethic.”

  Devine, who was a member in good standing of the millennials, stayed silent as he signed in and produced his driver’s license and credit card. He received his room key, one of the old-fashioned kind with a one-pound slug of lead attached.

  “You can leave that weapon here when you go out,” she quipped, eyeing the key with amusement. “Unless you want to do arm curls.”

  “I think I’ll keep it with me, thanks,” replied Devine, who would never leave such an open and easy invitation into his private space lying around.

  Kingman’s amused expression vanished as she first looked startled and then suspicious.

  “What are you in town for, Mr. Devine? Can’t be pleasure unless you like the inside of a freezer.”

  “A little business.” He eyed her steadily. “I understand you had some trouble recently?”

  “I guess you can call the murder of a poor young woman trouble, yes.”

  “What was her name again?”

  “Jenny Silkwell.”

  “Wait, wasn’t there a senator by that name from up here?”

  “Curtis Silkwell. Jenny was his daughter. He got sick and had to resign. I knew Jenny since she was in pigtails and knee socks. Smart as a whip, pretty and nice as can be. She worked in Washington, DC.” She glanced carefully around, as though there might be someone listening. “Some folks say she was a spy or some such for us.”

  “Do these ‘folks’ believe she was killed because of that?”

  A stony expression slid down over the woman’s features. “Well, I can’t see anyone from around here hurting one hair on Jenny’s head. Everyone loved her.”

  Well, at least one person didn’t, thought Devine. “So she grew up here?”

  She nodded. “At the Silkwells’ ancestral home, Jocelyn Point. Named after Hiram Silkwell’s wife. He made money hand over fist well over a century ago, and built that place.”

  “Any Silkwells left here?”