“Exactly.” She handed the light to King and positioned herself where King had stood and looked over at the elevators. “Okay, with the rope there and you here, you’d be the only one in the room who could see the elevators. That seems prearranged. And, by the way, the elevator was certainly holding your attention again.”
“Forget the elevator,” he snapped. “Why the hell am I even here? Ritter was a jerk. Hell, I’m glad he’s dead.”
“He was still a presidential candidate, Sean. I didn’t like John Bruno, but I guarded the man like he was the president of the United States.”
He said curtly, “You don’t need to lecture me on agency standards. I was guarding presidents while you were spending all your time rowing a boat for a hunk of metal.”
Michelle said slowly, “Is staying up all night screwing another agent when you’re posting the next day part of Secret Service protection standards? If it is, I must have missed that one in the manual.”
“Yeah, it’s right next to the rule about never leaving a protectee alone in a room. I guess you missed that one too,” he shot back.
“I hope Joan was worth it.”
“Loretta Baldwin told you about the panties on the ceiling light, so draw your own conclusion.”
“That was a bad judgment call. I wouldn’t have slept with you before a shift no matter how tempted I might have been. Not that I would have been.”
“Thanks. That’s good to know… Mick.”
“In fact,” Michelle continued boring in, “your being distracted I can accept a lot more than your sleeping around before going on duty.”
“This is all really interesting. Now, do you want to check this place out, or do you want to continue dissecting my life decisions?”
“I tell you what, why don’t we just leave?” she said abruptly. “I’m suddenly sick of the atmosphere here.”
She strode off, and King, shaking his head wearily, slowly followed.
Outside the room, she was already out of sight. King called after her and shone the light and finally picked her out of the shadows. “Michelle, wait up. You’ll kill yourself getting out of here without a light.”
She stopped, her arms crossed over her chest, and scowled back at him. Then she stiffened, and her head snapped in the other direction. King saw a blur come from out of the darkness, and Michelle cried out. He rushed forward as the two men came into the beam of his flashlight and descended on Michelle.
“Watch out!” yelled King as he raced forward. Before he could get to them, a gun one of the men was brandishing went flying away, the result of a precise kick executed by Michelle. Next her left foot crunched the face of the other guy, and he flew against a wall and slumped down. Like a dancer practicing a carefully choreographed routine, she spun and dropped the other guy with a wicked snap kick to the kidney. Both men tried to get back up, but she laid one of them out with an elbow smash to the back of his neck, while King knocked the other one out with his flashlight.
Breathing hard, he looked over as Michelle searched in her bag. She produced two pairs of Tie-Tights and ingeniously bound the unconscious men together. The woman hadn’t even broken a sweat. She looked up at King and his inquiring look.
“Black belt. Fourth-degree,” she said.
“Of course,” King said. He shone his light on the pair still dressed in their blue inmate jumpsuits. “Looks like our friends the escaped prisoners. Guess they couldn’t find any new duds.”
“I’ll call it in, do the locals a favor. Anonymously, of course.” She pulled out her phone.
“Hey, Michelle?”
“Yeah?”
“I just want you to know that I feel very safe with a big, strong woman around to protect me.”
After she called the police, Michelle and King hustled to her Land Cruiser, getting to it about the time the chopper came soaring over on its way to the hotel. Michelle followed the path of the aircraft and then the swath its light cut through the woods. When she saw him, she gasped.
Revealed off on a side road was a truck, and sitting in the truck was a man, sharply exposed now by the light. And then in an instant the light was gone and so was the man. Michelle could hear the truck being started, and then it sped off.
Michelle jumped into her truck, screaming for King to follow.
“What is it?” he yelled, closing the door after him as she fumbled with her keys.
“There was a man in a truck. Didn’t you see him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t you hear his truck take off?”
“With that chopper going over? Who was it?”
“He looked different, because he must have been wearing a disguise when I saw him the first time—and maybe he’s wearing one now—but I could see his eyes clearly. The eyes don’t lie. It was him, I could swear to it.”
“Who!”
“Officer Simmons, the rent-a-cop at the funeral home, the man who kidnapped Bruno and killed Neal Richards.”
King looked at her, bewildered. “Are you really sure?”
She put the truck in gear. “Sure enough.” She turned the truck around and was about to head down the side road after the other vehicle when a number of police cars appeared and blocked their way.
Michelle slammed her fists against the steering wheel. “Damn it, what a time for the local cops to show.”
As one of the car doors opened and the man got out, King shook his head and said, “It’s not the locals, Michelle.”
The man came over to the driver’s side and motioned Michelle to put her window down. She did so, and he leaned in and looked first at her and then at King.
“You two mind stepping out of the vehicle?” said Jefferson Parks.
28
The interrogation went on for most of the night. The police refused to listen to Michelle’s pleas to allow her to leave to try and find the man she had seen in the truck. They clearly had other priorities, and when she tried to explain about the man being the person who’d kidnapped John Bruno, their expressions grew very skeptical. “That’ll keep,” the sheriff said firmly.
She then spent a very unpleasant hour having her pride wounded by Walter Bishop of the Secret Service. After being told of her detainment by the North Carolina police, he’d flown down to read Michelle the riot act.
Bishop thundered, “I thought when I reminded you of how fortunate you were to still be with the Service that it would have made an impression on you. Now I find you’re involved in things that don’t concern you. I don’t see how you could have messed up any more than you have.” He looked at King. “Oh, but I’m wrong about that, because now you’re keeping company with one of the Service’s legendary losers. You can start a club, the screwup club. You have the king of them right here. Isn’t that right, Sean?”
King had loathed Bishop when he was at the Service, and Bishop had been one of the loudest voices in crucifying King. The intervening years hadn’t mellowed the ex-agent’s feelings one jot.
“Careful, Walt,” said King. “I won a libel case and I can win a slander case, and the pleasure it would give me to pickle your teeny-weeny dick in a jar, I can’t begin to tell you.”
“I’ll have your soul!” Bishop roared.
“I’m not with the Service anymore, so save the histrionics for somebody who actually cares, if you can find one.”
“You can’t talk to me that way!”
“I’d rather talk to a pile of horseshit than waste one minute of my life with a lightweight peckerhead like you!” King snapped back.
“I never let a presidential candidate die because my head was up my ass!”
“Your head’s always been in your ass! At least I came up for air.”
And the conversation pretty much went downhill from there. To such an extent, in fact, that just about everyone in the building, prisoners included, strained to listen.
Michelle had never heard anyone talk to Walter Bishop that way, and it was all she could do not to burst out laughing at s
ome of the things coming out of King’s mouth. It was as though he’d been saving up verbal ammo for the last eight years.
After Bishop stormed back to Washington, Jefferson Parks and the local sheriff joined Sean and Michelle as they sipped bad coffee from the vending machine.
“So what are you doing down here?” King said to Parks.
The deputy marshal was visibly upset. “I told you not to leave the jurisdiction. And then my men tell me you’re not only in another state, but you’re nosing around the town where Clyde Ritter bought it. And on top of that, I get a message that your partner over there”—he inclined his head at Michelle—“is mixed up in some murder involving a local woman. Now, one more time: you left the jurisdiction after I asked you not to because…”
King snapped, “I wasn’t under arrest. And it’s not like I jumped on a plane to Fiji with my retirement plan in cash. I went to North Carolina in a truck filled with sporting equipment and half-eaten power bars. Big deal!”
“And we were fortunate enough to be able to capture those convicts,” said Michelle. “We did help you out there.”
“I do appreciate that,” said the sheriff, “but I’d also like to understand better your connection to Ms. Baldwin. We haven’t had a murder down here, well, since Clyde Ritter, and I don’t like it one bit.”
Michelle explained once more her conversation with Loretta.
The sheriff rubbed his jaw and hitched at his pants. “Well, I just don’t figure it. Loretta didn’t seem to say anything to you that implicated anybody.”
“Right.” Michelle had fibbed a bit and left out the part about the black lace panties and the activity the night before in King’s room, for which King gave her a grateful look. “So I’m not sure there is a connection to my meeting her. It might just be an enormous coincidence.”
“And the money in her mouth, you said that was your cash?”
Michelle nodded. “At least I think so. I gave her a hundred dollars in twenties because she’d helped me.” She paused and added, “I had nothing to do with her death.”
The sheriff nodded. “We’ve already checked your alibi. People remembered seeing you up in Virginia at the time Loretta was killed.”
“So what was the motive?” asked Parks. He held up his hands when they looked at him. “What you’ve just described is a motiveless crime. Unless the lady had some enemies you don’t know about. Or maybe it’s a random killer, but my gut tells me it isn’t. Money in the mouth: this was personal.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Loretta Baldwin was the last person who would have any enemies. I mean, okay, she had a sharp tongue, and the gossip that came out her mouth, it was eye-opening, though usually right on the money. But it was little stuff. Nothing anybody would murder her over.”
“Well, you never know,” said King. “What may seem little to you might be really important to someone else.”
The sheriff nodded but looked unconvinced. “Maybe.” He stood. “Okay, I’ve got your statements. You’re free to go.”
As they started to leave, Michelle went over to the sheriff.
“The Fairmount, do you know who owns it now?”
“Last I heard it was some Japanese company bought it, wanted to turn it into a country club with a golf course.” He chuckled. “I guess they didn’t do their homework. The hotel has a lot of land, but most of it is wetlands. And there’s not more than a handful of folks around here who know what a golf club even looks like.”
“Do you know the name of the security service that guards the hotel?”
He looked puzzled. “What security service?”
Michelle hid her surprise and rejoined King and Parks.
“So how’d you get down here so fast?” King asked him.
“My men were following you.”
“Take my advice, that’s a waste of resources.”
“Yeah, it’s been pretty damn boring so far.”
Michelle said, “Marshal, there’s something that happened tonight. It has nothing to do with the murder of Loretta Baldwin, but I believe it has something to do with John Bruno’s disappearance.”
“Bruno?” Parks looked puzzled. “How the hell does Bruno figure into this?”
Michelle told him about the man she’d seen.
He shook his head. “How can you be sure it was him? You barely caught a glimpse of a man in poor light.”
“I’m a Secret Service agent. Reading and remembering faces is what I do.”
Parks still looked skeptical. “Well, okay, then tell the FBI. It’s their case. I’m just trying to find out who killed one of my witnesses.” He glanced over at King. “And also trying to keep tabs on this fellow, and he’s not making it easy,” he growled.
“You want me to wait around until you collect enough evidence to hang me?”
“I have enough to arrest you right now if I wanted to. So don’t tempt me.” He glowered at them both. “So you two heading back to good old Virginia?”
King said, “Well, I’ve pretty much had my fill of good old Bowlington.”
29
“So I guess you don’t believe me either.” It was early in the morning, and Michelle and King were driving back to Wrightsburg.
“About what?” King asked.
“Simmons! The man I saw in the truck.”
“I believe you. You saw what you saw.”
She looked at him, surprised. “Well, Parks clearly didn’t, why do you?”
“Because a Secret Service agent never forgets a face.”
She smiled. “I knew I liked having you around. And look, there’s something else. There apparently isn’t a security firm guarding the Fairmount. So the guy who stopped me was a fake.”
King looked very concerned. “Michelle, it could have been the same guy who killed Loretta.”
“I know. I dodged a bullet there.”
“What did he look like?” Michelle described him. “Sounds like a couple billion guys walking around. Nothing distinctive.”
“That was probably intentional. So another dead end? That seems to be a recurring theme in this case.”
Later that morning, they pulled onto the drive heading up to King’s house. When they reached the top, King’s face darkened.
“Oh, hell,” he exclaimed as he looked up ahead. An annoyed-looking Joan Dillinger was pacing in front of his house.
Michelle had seen her too. “The esteemed Ms. Dillinger doesn’t look very happy.”
“I know you’re suspicious of her, but play it cool. She’s one sharp lady.”
Michelle nodded.
King got out of the truck and walked up to Joan.
“I’ve been calling you,” she said.
“I’ve been out of town,” explained King.
She started when Michelle climbed out of the Land Cruiser.
Glancing suspiciously at King and then back at Michelle, she said, “You’re Agent Maxwell?”
“Yes. We actually met a few years ago when you were still with the Service.”
“Of course. And you’ve certainly made a splash in the papers recently.”
“That’s right,” Michelle said. “Coverage I could do without.”
“I’m sure. What a surprise to see you here,” Joan said as she looked at King intently. “I didn’t know you and Sean even knew each other.”
“It’s a recent thing,” said King.
“Uh-huh.” Joan touched Michelle on the elbow. “Michelle, would you excuse us? I have something to talk about with Sean that’s very important.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m pretty beat anyway.”
“Sean has that effect on lots of women. In fact, he could even be considered hazardous to some people’s health.”
The two women engaged in a stare-down. “Thanks for the tip, but I can take care of myself,” said Michelle.
“I’m sure. But given the right opponent, you could find yourself out of your league.”
“Actually that’s never happened to me.”
&nbs
p; “Me either. They say the first time is truly memorable.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe you should too.”
“Good-bye, Michelle,” said Joan. “And thanks so much for letting me take Sean off your hands,” she added icily.
“Yeah, thanks, Mick,” muttered King under his breath.
Michelle drove off, and King walked up the steps, with Joan marching right behind him. He could feel the white heat of her anger on the back of his neck. The condemned man going the last mile was the closest analogy he could come up with, and right now it seemed far too close.
Inside, Joan sat down at the kitchen table, while King put on some water for hot tea. Joan’s expression brimmed with fury. “So would you care to tell me about you and Michelle Maxwell?”
“I already did. She’s a recent phenomenon in my life.”
“I don’t believe in phenomena like that. She loses Bruno and then shows up on your doorstep?”
“What do you care?”
“What do I care? Are you insane? I’m investigating Bruno’s disappearance, and you pop up with the detail leader who’s on suspension for losing him.”
“She looked me up because we both lost presidential candidates, and she wanted to compare notes. That’s it. Bruno really doesn’t enter the equation.”
“Excuse me for saying, but my bullshit meter is clanging so hard it’s popping some springs.”
“That’s the truth, accept it or not.” He held up an empty cup. “Tea?” he asked pleasantly. “You look like you could use some. I’ve got Earl Grey, peppermint or the old standby, Lipton.”
“Screw the tea! Where were you and she coming from?” she demanded.
King kept his voice calm. “Oh, from about eight years ago.”
“What!”
“Just taking a walk down memory lane.”
“Eight years ago?” She looked at him incredulously. “Did you go to Bowlington?”
“Bingo. Sugar and cream?”
“What the hell did you go there for?”
“Sorry, I don’t think you’re cleared for it.”
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