Split Second skamm-1

by David Baldacci

  “Ramsey hit his target. And Sean killed Ramsey,” said Parks. “So who’s left to take out revenge?” he added suspiciously.

  “Keep in mind the gun in Loretta’s backyard,” said King. “Maybe there were two assassins there that day. I killed one of them, and the other one got away until Loretta started blackmailing him. If I’m reading the tea leaves right, the guy is on the scene now, and Loretta paid the ultimate price for her scheme. As did Mildred Martin when she messed up on the Bruno end of things.”

  Parks shook his head. “So that guy’s coming after you? Why now? And why involve Bruno and the Martins? That’s going to a lot of trouble. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if this psycho wanted to pay you back, he could have killed you the other night when Michelle almost had her neck snapped.”

  “I don’t think they wanted Sean to die that night,” said Joan. She looked at Michelle. “They clearly didn’t feel the same about you.”

  One of Michelle’s hands went to her throat. “That’s comforting.”

  “I’m not in the habit of making people comfortable,” said Joan. “It’s usually such a waste of time.”

  Parks sat back in his chair. “Okay, let’s just suppose that Bruno and Ritter are somehow tied together. That accounts for the Martin murders and Loretta Baldwin too. Susan Whitehead’s murder might have just been a way for the killer to put an exclamation point on the note left with you, Sean. But how does Howard Jennings tie into all this?”

  “He worked for me,” said King, putting aside for now his gut instinct that Parks’s agenda was broader than merely finding Jennings’s killer. “Maybe that’s enough. I think Susan Whitehead was killed merely because the killer spotted her with me, maybe on the morning I discovered Jennings’s body. He wanted to leave me that note, and decided to include a body with it as a sick way of making a point.”

  “I’d buy that if Jennings were just one of your neighbors. But he was a WITSEC.”

  King said, “Okay, how about this? Jennings goes into my office late that night for some reason, to catch up on some work, and he stumbles on this maniac going through my office. And he gets popped for his troubles.”

  Parks rubbed his chin and looked unconvinced while Joan nodded thoughtfully.

  “That’s plausible,” she said. “But let’s get back to the revenge angle. Revenge against Sean for what? Allowing Ritter to die?”

  “Maybe our killer is some nut from Ritter’s political party,” said Michelle.

  “Well, if so, he’s held a long grudge,” said King.

  “Think, Sean, there must be someone,” urged Joan.

  “I didn’t really know many of the Ritter people. Just Sidney Morse, Doug Denby—and maybe a couple of others.”

  “Morse is institutionalized,” said Joan. “We saw that for ourselves. He catches tennis balls. He couldn’t mastermind something like this.”

  “And besides,” said King, “if the person we’re after is the same guy who hid the gun in the supply closet and then was blackmailed by Loretta and then killed her, that person couldn’t be someone backing Ritter’s candidacy.”

  “You mean he would have been killing his own golden goose?” said Parks.

  “Right. That’s why we can rule out Sidney Morse even if he weren’t a vegetable, and Doug Denby too. They’d have no motive.”

  Michelle suddenly looked excited. “What about Bob Scott, the detail leader?”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense either,” said King. “Scott wouldn’t have had to hide his gun. No one would have searched him. And even if they did, it would have been strange finding him not armed.”

  Michelle shook her head. “No, I meant his career, like yours, was ruined when Ritter died. That could be a motive for revenge. Does anybody even know where he is?”

  “We can find out,” said Joan.

  King scowled. “But that doesn’t explain the gun I found and why Loretta was killed. She was killed because she was blackmailing someone. And that someone couldn’t have been Bobby Scott because he’d have no reason to hide a gun.”

  Parks said, “Okay, Scott looks to be a strikeout. But let’s go back to this Denby guy. Who was he?”

  Joan said, “Clyde Ritter’s chief of staff.”

  “Any idea where he is now?” asked Parks.

  “No,” said Joan. She looked at King. “How about you?”

  “I haven’t seen Denby since Ritter died. He pretty much dropped off the planet. It wasn’t like any of the major parties would be picking him up. I imagine he was pretty much a pariah after partnering with Ritter.”

  “I know it seems highly unlikely given their respective ideologies, but could Denby and Arnold Ramsey have known each other?” wondered Michelle.

  “Well, it’s something we should check out,” voiced Parks.

  “Our suspect list is growing exponentially,” commented Joan. “And we’re not even sure if these multiple lines of investigation are even connected.”

  King nodded. “There are a lot of possibilities. If we’re going to crack this thing, we have to work together. I think I can speak for the marshal and Michelle, but are you in?” he asked Joan.

  She smiled demurely. “Of course. So long as everyone clearly understands that my participation is a paid engagement.”

  46

  They laid the wires out in precise lengths and then connected them to the explosives, all of which were located at load-bearing points. They worked slowly and methodically, for at this juncture there was no room for error.

  “Wireless detonators are a lot easier to work with,” said “Officer Simmons” to the other man. “And we wouldn’t have to carry all this damn cable.”

  The Buick Man stopped what he was doing and turned to look at him. They each wore battery-powered lights attached to plastic helmets, since the darkness here was complete. They could have been far underground where no light ever reached.

  “And like cell phones versus hard line, they are unreliable, particularly as the signals would have to penetrate thousands of tons of concrete. Just do what you’re told.”

  “Just voicing an opinion,” said Simmons.

  “I don’t need any more opinions, especially from you. You’ve been more than enough trouble. I thought you were a professional.”

  “I am a professional.”

  “Then start acting like one! I’ve had enough of amateurs running around not following my instructions.”

  “Well, Mildred Martin won’t be doing any more running. You saw to that.”

  “Yes, and let that be a lesson to you.”

  The heavy-duty portable generator was set up in the corner, and Buick Man started going over its controls, lines and fuel tanks.

  Simmons said, “You sure that’ll give us all the power we need? I mean for everything you’ve got planned? That’ll take a lot of juice.”

  Buick Man didn’t even bother to look at him. “More than enough. Unlike you, I know exactly what I’m doing.” He pointed with a wrench to a large coil of electrical wire. “Just make sure the lines are strung properly. To every location I gave you.”

  “And you’ll double-check my work, of course.”

  “Of course,” he replied tersely.

  Simmons looked at the elaborate control board that was set up in the far corner of the room. “This is some nice stuff. The best, in fact.”

  “Just wire it the way I told you,” Buick Man said curtly.

  “What’s a party without lights and sound, right?”

  They started wheeling in the heavy boxes on hand trucks, unpacking these containers and stacking the contents neatly in another corner of the cavernous space.

  The younger man looked at one of the items from the boxes. “You did a good job on these.”

  “They needed to be as accurate as possible. I don’t like imprecision.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know that.”

  While lifting a container Simmons suddenly grimaced and clutched at his side.

  The Buick Man obse
rved this and said, “That’s what you get for trying to strangle Maxwell instead of simply shooting her. Didn’t you ever consider that a Secret Service agent might be armed?”

  “I like my victims to know my presence. It’s just my way.”

  “While working for me you’ll subvert your ways to mine. You’re lucky the bullet just nicked you.”

  “I suppose you would have just left me to die if the bullet had done serious damage?”

  “No. I would have shot you and put you out of your misery.”

  Simmons stared at his companion for a long moment. “I bet you would have.”

  “Yes, I would have.”

  “Well, we got the gun back, that’s the important thing.”

  Buick Man stopped working and looked at him steadily. “Maxwell frightens you, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m not afraid of any man, much less a woman.”

  “She almost killed you. In fact, it’s only by sheer luck that you escaped.”

  “I won’t miss next time.”

  “See that you don’t. Because if you do miss, I certainly won’t miss you.”

  47

  The following morning the group split up. Joan went off to Dobson, Tyler, the Philadelphia law firm where Bruno had worked, and also to interview Bruno’s political staff. Parks set off too, though he didn’t tell the others he was going to report in to the task force back in Washington.

  Before they all parted, Michelle pulled Joan aside.

  “You were part of Ritter’s detail. What do you recall about Scott?”

  “Not much. I was a recent transfer to Ritter’s detail. I didn’t know him all that well. And after the assassination we were all reassigned pretty much immediately.”

  “Recent transfer? Did you ask for it?” She stared pointedly at the other woman.

  “Most things in life worth having are rarely handed to you. You have to go after them.” Michelle involuntarily glanced at King, who was talking to Parks. Joan smiled. “I see you follow my logic precisely. One piece of advice while you’re out sleuthing with Sean: he has a terrific nose for investigative work but can be impetuous at times. Follow his lead but watch over him too.”

  “Not to worry,” said Michelle, and she started to walk away.

  “Oh, and Michelle, I was very serious when I implied these people we’re looking for don’t care whether you live or die. So while you’re covering Sean’s back, don’t forget to watch your own. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I can see that Sean is quite fond of having you around.”

  Michelle turned back around. “Well, some of us are lucky, aren’t we?”

  As Joan was driving off in her car, she placed a call to her office staff.

  “I need all the background on and present whereabouts of Robert C. Scott, former Secret Service agent and detail leader for Clyde Ritter in 1996, and also on a man named Doug Denby, who was Ritter’s chief of staff. And I need it ASAP.”

  King and Maxwell drove to Richmond to see Kate Ramsey, who’d returned to VCU and agreed to meet with them. The Center for Public Policy was on Franklin Street in the heart of Virginia Commonwealth University’s downtown campus. The center was located in a beautifully refurbished brownstone. The street was filled with such houses, which represented the old wealth of a bygone era in Virginia’s capital city.

  Kate Ramsey met them in the reception area and led them back to a private office that was filled with books and papers, posters detailing various protests and other activities as well as music posters and assorted sports equipment befitting a youthful scholar.

  Looking at the clutter, King whispered to Michelle that she must be feeling right at home and caught an elbow in the ribs.

  Kate Ramsey was of medium height and had the build of a runner, with tight, lean muscles. Four different pairs of jogging shoes in the corner of her office confirmed this observation. Her hair was blond and tied back in a ponytail. Her clothes were college standard issue: faded jeans, sneakers and an Abercrombie Fitch short-sleeved shirt. She seemed poised beyond her years and regarded them both with a very frank expression as she sat across from them at her desk.

  “Okay, Thornton already called me, so you can just ditch the story about doing a documentary on political assassins.”

  “We weren’t very good at that anyway,” said Michelle. “And the truth is just a lot easier, isn’t it?” she bluntly shot back.

  Kate’s gaze shifted to King, who looked back at her nervously. He had, after all, killed the woman’s father. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry?

  The young woman said, “You’ve aged pretty well. Looks like the years have been good to you.”

  “Not recently. That’s why we’re here, Kate. I can call you Kate, can’t I?”

  The young woman sat back. “It is my name, Sean.”

  “I know this is incredibly awkward.”

  She cut in. “My father made choices. He killed the man you were guarding. You really had no choice.” She paused and drew a long breath. “It’s been eight years. I won’t lie to you and say I didn’t hate you back then. I was a girl of fourteen, and you’d taken my father away.”

  “But now,” said Michelle.

  Kate’s gaze remained on King. “Now I’m a grown woman and things are a lot clearer. You did what you had to do. And so have I.”

  “I guess you didn’t have much choice in the matter either,” commented King.

  She leaned forward and started moving things around on her desk. King noted that she placed the pieces—a pencil, a ruler and other objects—at ninety-degree angles, then started over again. Her hands just kept moving, even as her gaze remained on King and Michelle.

  “Thornton said there was new evidence indicating my father hadn’t acted alone. What new evidence?”

  “We can’t tell you,” said Michelle.

  “Oh, that’s great. You can’t tell me, but you expect me to talk to you.”

  “If there was someone else involved that day, Kate, it’s important we know who it was,” said King. “I’d think you’d want that too.”

  “Why? It’s not like it’ll change the facts. My father shot Clyde Ritter. There were a hundred eyewitnesses.”

  “That’s true,” said Michelle, “but now we believe there’s more to it.”

  Kate leaned back in her chair. “So what exactly do you want from me?”

  “Anything you can tell us about the events leading up to your father’s assassinating Clyde Ritter,” said Michelle.

  “He didn’t suddenly come in one day and announce he was going to become a killer, if that’s what you’re wondering. I was only a kid at the time, but I still would have called someone about that.”

  “Would you?” said King.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  King shrugged. “He was your father. Dr. Jorst said you loved him. Maybe you wouldn’t have called anybody.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have,” Kate said casually, then started shifting the pencil and ruler around again.

  “Okay, let’s assume he didn’t announce his intentions. How about anything else? Did your father say anything that seemed suspicious or out of the ordinary?”

  “My father had the veneer of a brilliant college professor but underneath was an unreformed radical still living in the sixties.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “That he was prone to saying outrageous things that could be construed as suspicious.”

  “Okay, let’s get down to something more tangible. Any idea where he got the gun he used to shoot Ritter with? That was never traced.”

  “I was asked all that years ago. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now.”

  “All right,” said Michelle. “How about anybody coming around in the weeks leading up to the Ritter shooting? Anybody you didn’t know?”

  “Arnold had few friends.”

  King cocked his head at her. “He’s Arnold now?”

  “I think I have the right to call him whatever I
want.”

  “So he had few friends. Any potential assassins lurking in there?” asked Michelle.

  “That’s hard to say, since I didn’t know Arnold was one. Assassins don’t tend to broadcast their intent, do they?”

  “Sometimes they do,” responded King. “Dr. Jorst said that your father would come in and rant and rave to him about Clyde Ritter and how he was destroying the country. Did he ever do that around you?”

  In response Kate stood and went to the window that looked out on Franklin Street, where cars and bikes drifted by and students sat on the steps of the building.

  “What does it all matter now? One assassin, two, three, a hundred! Who gives a shit?” She turned and stared at them, her arms stubbornly folded over her bosom.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said King. “Then again, it might explain why your father did what he did.”

  “He did what he did because he hated Clyde Ritter and everything he stood for,” she said vehemently. “He never quite lost that drive to rock the establishment.”

  Michelle looked at some of the political posters on her walls. “Professor Jorst told us you’re following in your father’s footsteps as far as ‘rocking the establishment.’”

  “Lots of things my father did were good and worthy. And what reasonable person wouldn’t detest a man like Clyde Ritter?”

  “Unfortunately you’d be surprised,” said King.

  “I read all the reports and stories that came out afterwards. I’m surprised no one did a TV movie about it. I guess it wasn’t important enough.”

  King said, “A man can hate someone and not choose to kill him. By all accounts your father was a passionate man who firmly believed in certain causes, and yet he’d never engaged in any violent act before.” At this Kate Ramsey seemed to twitch slightly. King noticed but continued his line of thought. “Even during the Vietnam War when he was young and angry and might have picked up a gun and shot someone, Arnold Ramsey chose not to. So given that history, your father, a tenured professor in middle age with a daughter he loved, could plausibly have made the choice not to violently act on his hatred of Ritter. But he might have if another factor was involved.”