Ice Shear by M. P. Cooley Page A

will have a strong and effective working relationship.”
    â€œYeah, about that . . . ,” and I explained my suspicion that Hale was holding back some of the story about Marty’s father the enforcer and Danielle’s adventures in Los Angeles.
    That got Dave’s attention. “So you think it is related to the trouble she got into in L.A.?”
    â€œMaybe, although the Abominations shouldn’t be discounted—they are nothing but trouble. Marty’s patches were stripped—”
    â€œMarty could be faking leaving the gang.”
    â€œHe could, but bikers take their patches very seriously. To have them stripped, well, bikers have very clear rules that require that a brother be beaten hard; if he survives, he can leave. Marty suffered to get those off, but the gang, and his family, are a dangerous connection.”
    We turned onto Saint Agnes Cemetery Highway. We passed hundreds of grave sites on the left, many of the stones sunk low, the letters rubbed away. Every relative of mine for generations was buried there. My eye went to where I knew Kevin’s grave was, out of sight but not out of mind, and I felt a pull: I never drove past without stopping.
    We turned right, and the land opened up, the houses elevated with great views of Vermont. Ahead, I saw a bunch of parked news vans, reporters clustered on the lawn. Dave pulled up to an ungated driveway guarded by two FBI agents who waved us through, cameras pressed to our windows. We drove up to a Tudor-style home, its high painted roof beams rising three stories. Hale paced the length of its long white porch, talking on his phone. He hung up when he saw us, and knocked on the door when we were still three steps down, leaving time for hellos and little else.
    The congresswoman’s assistant, a young woman with a navy blue suit, fake pearls, and the faintest hint of a Bronx accent, answered the door. She was all brisk solicitousness, introducing herself as Gloria before demanding our coats and then hanging them neatly in the hall closet. Behind an oak door on our right Amanda Brouillette’s voice could be heard, rising and falling like the ripples on a pond. Gloria stopped us before we could enter.
    â€œPresident,” she said, as though no further explanation was needed. She was right. Amanda Brouillette was often spoken of as the next candidate for vice president of the United States, so of course the president would extend his condolences.
    The young woman paced back and forth in front of the door, forcing us to keep a respectful distance. This gave me quality gawking time, at least of the foyer and what I could glimpse of the living room on my left. The walls of the hallway were creamy white, on the edge of gold, and rose up three stories. I felt child-sized. Not that the house was kid friendly. The living room had furniture upholstered in almost the same goldish white as the walls, the couch sharp-lined and unblemished. In my house it would stay clean for forty minutes before Lucy did something kiddish on it: cutting orange paper into tigers or pulling the cushions onto the floor to make a fort. Above a marble fireplace was a huge painting, nineteenth century, from the Hudson River School, which contrasted rather than clashed with the furniture. I couldn’t have said who the painter was but I knew the view: a bend in the river north of Rhinebeck. A designer, rather than the occupant, had chosen the tchotchkes on the side table.
    I didn’t fantasize about living here.
    Overall, this house had a certain substance, with moldings, hardwood floors, and thick doors that separated it from the McMansions that were popping up. And were the floors heated? I wanted to take off my shoes to check, but decided that might lessen my impact as a law enforcement professional.
    The study door swung open.
    â€œHello, hello,” Amanda Brouillette said vigorously as the assistant led me and Dave to a leather couch next to the