White Mountain. Dinah McCall

cried, and staggered backward onto a chair.

      John Michaels and Rufus Toombs, two of the men she called uncles, were just coming off the elevator from their third-floor apartments when they heard her cry. Without hesitation, they rushed forward.

      “Isabella…darling, what’s wrong?”

      She recognized the voices but couldn’t focus on the faces. Everything around her was fast going black. Before she could answer, she slid out of the chair onto the floor in a faint.

      Rufus quickly knelt at her side, while John went for the phone dangling from her hand.

      “Hello? Hello? Who’s there, please?”

      Butoli knew the woman had not received the news well.

      “This is Detective Butoli with the Brighton Beach P.D.”

      “What did you say to Isabella? What has happened?” John cried.

      “Are you her family?” Butoli asked.

      “Yes, yes,” John muttered. “What has happened?”

      “We just identified a murder victim as Franklin Walton, of Braden, Montana. The address on his credit card listed Abbott House as his home. Is this correct?”

      John Michaels’s heart sank. Now it made sense. Now they knew why Frank had never called home.

      “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, that is correct.”

      “I’m sorry to ask, but someone must come and identify the body. Just to make sure. You understand.”

      John’s fingers were trembling and he wanted to cry, but he made himself focus as he picked up a pen.

      “Yes, I understand. Just tell me where we must go.”

      As he wrote, Rufus was running for the house phone. Within seconds, he had David Schultz on the phone.

      “Get down here,” he cried. “Isabella has fainted.”

      John hung up the phone as Rufus made his way back around the desk.

      “David is on his way,” Rufus said.

      “He can’t help,” John said, and covered his face in his hands.

      “What are you talking about?” Rufus muttered, as he dropped to Isabella’s side again. “She’s just fainted. She’s going to be okay. Isn’t she?”

      “It isn’t Isabella. It’s Frank.”

      Rufus’s eyes widened, rearranging the pond of wrinkles that age had settled on his face.

      “What about Frank?”

      “He’s dead. Murdered.”

      Rufus blanched and sat down hard on the floor beside Isabella. Unconsciously, he grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly in his own.

      “Dear Lord,” Rufus mumbled. “Do you think—”

      “Don’t say it,” John muttered. “Don’t even think it.”

      “What are we going to do?”

      “Go get him and bring him home to bury.”

      “But—”

      Isabella moaned.

      “Hush,” John said sternly.

      Rufus swallowed what he’d been about to say. Seconds later, David and Jasper came flying down the stairs, their speed belying their ages.

      “What happened?” David asked, as he set his medical bag at Isabella’s side and pulled out a stethoscope.

      “You won’t need that,” John said. “She fainted. Just pop some smelling salts and get her to her room. We’ve got bigger trouble.”

      David rocked back on his heels. “What?”

      “Frank’s dead. Murdered.”

      David blanched.

      “My God…where did it happen?”

      “Brighton Beach.”

      David frowned. “I’ve heard of it, but I can’t place the—”

      “It’s part of Brooklyn, I think. Due to the large population of Russian immigrants, some call it Little Russia.”

      Jasper Arnold’s gasp was the only vocal sign of the four men’s shock. Then Isabella began struggling to get up.

      “What happened? Why did I—”

      Suddenly she remembered, and her face crumpled as she was helped to her feet.

      “Uncle Frank is dead,” she said, and began to sob.

      The four aging men encircled her.

      “We know,” they said. “Come with us, darling. You need to lie down.”

      “The desk,” she mumbled.

      “I’ll call Delia from the office. She can take care of it for the rest of the day.”

      “What are we going to do?” Isabella asked, then covered her face in her hands.

      The men looked at each other silently, but it was David who answered her.

      “We’re going to get him and bring him home. That’s what we’re going to do.”

      The sun was setting as Jack Dolan came out of his house and headed toward the deck surrounding his hot tub. Except for a bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist, he was completely nude. His house was on the outskirts of a Virginia suburb, only an hour or so’s drive from Washington, D.C. The eight-foot-high privacy fence surrounding his backyard provided coveted privacy. Besides, his nearest neighbor was over a quarter of a mile away and traveled more than he did.

      Exhaustion was evident in his stride as he reached the tub of bubbling water. Modesty was last on his list of social graces as he dropped the towel from around his waist and stepped down into the water. A few steps farther, he sank down onto a built-in seat and leaned back with a sigh as the jets sent a rush of warm, bubbling water against his skin.

      He had two knife scars on his back, an old gunshot scar on his upper thigh, and ribs that were still healing from the last case he’d been on. His personal life was nonexistent, and his career as a Federal agent had been ongoing since his graduation from Boston University. He was thirty-eight years old and had nothing to show for it but a house he rarely slept in and some investments he might not live long enough to spend.

      The water roiled around his limbs, easing the aches from old wounds and relaxing the tension in his muscles. He leaned his head against the back of the tub and closed his eyes. Something inside him was starting to give. He’d known it for almost six months. There was a restlessness to his behavior that had never been there before, and a longing for something he couldn’t name. Although he couldn’t name his frustration, one thing was blatantly clear. Something needed to give. Whether it would be him or his lifestyle was yet to be determined.

      He swiped a wet hand across his face and rolled his head. The beginnings of a headache he’d had since noon were starting to ease. A small squirrel scolded from the pine tree at the corner of his yard, angry at the invasion into its territory.

      “Back off, Chester. It’s my yard, too,” Jack said, and then smiled at himself.

      Now he was talking to squirrels. He really needed a change.

      He had not taken a vacation in over four years. Maybe what he was feeling was a simple case of burnout. But whatever the diagnosis, the cure would be the same—a much-needed change of pace.

      He sat in the hot tub until his legs felt like gelatin and watched the moon come up. It wasn’t until his phone began to ring that he dragged himself up and out of the tub. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he jogged into the house and picked up the phone.

      “Dolan.”