Split Second skamm-1 Read online

  He settled himself down at a worktable and for the next two hours labored with deep concentration, painting, cutting, erecting and fine-tuning a series of works that would never grace the inside of a museum or, for that matter, any personal collection. Yet they were as important to him as the most distinguished masterpieces of any era. In a very substantial way all this work was his masterpiece, and like many of the old masters’ works, it had been years in the making.

  He continued his labors, counting down to the time when his greatest achievement would finally be complete.

  24

  Michelle was on her laptop, surfing through the Secret Service’s database and finding some interesting items. She was focused and absorbed, and yet when her cell phone rang, she sprang off the bed and grabbed it. The screen flashed “Caller ID Block,” but she answered it anyway, hoping it was King. It was. His initial words were very welcome.

  “Where do you want to meet?” she asked in answer to his query.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At a quaint little B and B about four miles from you off Route 29.”

  “The Winchester?” he asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Nice place. Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I am now.”

  “There’s an inn called the Sage Gentleman about a mile from where you are.”

  “I passed it on the way here. Looks very clubby.”

  “It is. I’ll meet you for lunch. Twelve-thirty?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. And, Sean, I appreciate your calling me.”

  “Don’t thank me until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

  They met on the broad porch that encircled the old Victorian-style home. King was dressed in a sport coat, green turtleneck and beige slacks, Maxwell in a long pleated black skirt and white sweater. The stylish dress boots she was wearing brought her up to within an inch of King’s height. Her dark hair fell across her shoulders, and she had even put on a bit of makeup, something she normally didn’t do. Secret Service work did not lend itself to fashion pleasantries. However, because your protectee often attended formal events with well-dressed, wealthy people, an agent’s wardrobe and grooming habits had to be up to the task, which wasn’t always easy. Thus an old agency adage was: Dress like a million bucks on a blue-collar paycheck.

  King pointed at the dark blue Toyota Land Cruiser with roof racks in the parking lot.

  “Is that yours?”

  She nodded. “I’m into active sports on my time off, and that thing can go anywhere and carry anything I need.”

  “You’re a Secret Service agent. When do you have any time off?”

  They sat at a table in the rear of the restaurant. The place wasn’t too full, and they were enjoying about as much privacy as one could in a public place.

  When the waiter came and asked if they were ready to order, Michelle immediately said, “Yes, sir.”

  King smiled at this but said nothing until the waiter departed.

  “It took me years to get over that.”

  “Over what?” she asked.

  “Calling everyone ‘sir.’ From waiters to presidents.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I never realized I was doing it.”

  “Why would you—it’s ingrained. With a lot of other things.” He looked pensive. “One thing about you has been puzzling me.”

  A tiny smile crept across her features. “Just one? I’m disappointed.”

  “Why did a supersmart superjock like yourself go into law enforcement? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just seems like you’d have other opportunities.”

  “It was a genetic thing, I guess. My father, brothers, uncles, male cousins are all cops. My dad’s the police chief in Nashville. I wanted to be the first girl in my family to do it. I did a year’s stint as a police officer in Tennessee and then decided to break the family mold and applied to the Service. I was accepted and the rest is history.”

  After the waiter brought their food, Michelle dug into hers while King quietly worked on his wine.

  “I take it you’ve been here before,” she said between bites.

  King nodded as he finished off his glass of Bordeaux and started eating. “I bring clients, friends, other lawyers here. This area has quite a few places as good as if not better than this one. They’re well hidden in the nooks and crannies hereabouts.”

  “Are you a trial lawyer?”

  “No. Wills, trusts, business deals.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “It pays the light bill. It’s not the most exciting job in the world, but you can’t beat the views.”

  “It is pretty here. I can understand why you’d relocate to a place like this.”

  “It has its attractions and limitations. Here, sometimes you fall under the delusion that you’re insulated from the stress and tribulations of the rest of the world.”

  “But they tend to follow you, don’t they?”

  “Second, you believe you can actually forget your past and start life anew.”

  “But you have.”

  “Had. Past tense.”

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “So why did you want to see me?”

  He held up his empty glass of wine. “How about joining me? You’re not on duty.”

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  A minute later they had their drinks, and after they finished their meal King suggested they move to the small lounge situated off the dining area. There they sank into old leather chairs and breathed in the aromas of old cigar and pipe smoke augmented by the odors of ancient, leather-bound books on the worm-eaten walnut shelves that stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the walls. They had the room to themselves, and King held the glass up to the light coming in through the window and then sniffed it before taking a sip.

  “Good stuff,” said Michelle after she took a mouthful.

  “Give it ten more years, and you’ll never know you were drinking the same wine.”

  “I know nothing about it other than screw top or cork.”

  “Eight years ago I was the same way. Actually beer was more my specialty. And it fit my wallet better too.”

  “So about the time you left the Service you switched from beer to wine?”

  “Lots of changes took place in my life about then. A friend of mine was a closet sommelier, and he taught me all I know. We took a methodical approach, working through French wines and then Italian and even nudged around California whites, though he was quite the snob about that. For him, reds were where it was at.”

  “Hmmm, I wonder if you’re the only wine connoisseur who’s killed people? I mean they just don’t seem to go together, do they?”

  He lowered his glass and looked at her with an amused expression. “What, does a love of wine seem prissy to you? Do you know how much blood has been spilled over wine?”

  “Do you mean while drinking it or talking about it?”

  “Does it matter? Dead is dead, isn’t it?”

  “You would know that better than I do.”

  “If you think it’s a simple matter of notching your gun after you do the deed, it’s not.”

  “I never thought that. More like notching your soul?”

  He put down his glass. “How about an information exchange?”

  “I’m game, within reason.”

  “Quid pro quo. Relatively equal value.”

  “Judged by whom?”

  “I’ll make it easy. I’ll go first.”

  Michelle sat back. “I’m curious. Why?”

  “I guess we can put it down to the fact that you’re as unwilling a participant in your nightmare as I was eight years ago in mine.”

  “Yes. You called us blood brothers.”

  “Joan Dillinger was at the hotel that night.”

  “In your room?”

  King shook his head. “Your turn.”

  Michelle thought about this for a few moments. “Okay, I talked to one of the maids who was working
at the hotel when Ritter was killed. Her name is Loretta Baldwin.” King looked puzzled when she said this. “Loretta says she cleaned your room that morning. And she found a pair of black lace panties on the ceiling light fixture.” She paused and then added with a perfectly straight face, “I’m assuming they weren’t yours. You don’t seem like the lace type.”

  “No. And black’s not really my color in underwear.”

  “Weren’t you married during that time?”

  “Separated. My wife had an annoying habit of sleeping with other men when I was out of town, which was basically all the time. I think they even started bringing their own pajamas and toothbrushes. I was feeling really out of the loop.”

  “It’s good you can joke about it now.”

  “If you had asked me eight years ago, I wouldn’t have been so glib. Time doesn’t really heal, it just makes you not give a crap.”

  “So you had, what, a fling with Joan Dillinger?”

  “It actually seemed a little more than that back then. Stupid when you think about it. Joan’s not that sort of woman.”

  Michelle leaned forward. “About the elevator—”

  King interrupted. “Your turn again. I’m getting tired of reminding you.”

  Michelle sighed and sat back. “Okay, Dillinger’s not at the Service anymore.”

  “Doesn’t count. I already know that. What else?”

  “Loretta Baldwin told me she hid in the supply closet down the hall from the room where Ritter died.”

  King looked interested. “Why?”

  “She was scared to death and took off running. Everyone else was doing the same thing.”

  “Not everyone,” King said dryly. “I stayed pretty much in the same place.”

  “Now, about the elevator.”

  “Why do you care about that?” he asked sharply.

  “Because it seemed to captivate you! So much so that you didn’t even know there was an assassin standing in front of you until he fired.”

  “I just zoned out.”

  “I don’t think so. I heard the noise on the tape. And it sounded like an elevator car arriving. And I’m thinking that when those doors opened, whatever or whoever you saw grabbed your attention and didn’t let it go until Ramsey fired.” She paused and then added, “And since that elevator bank was locked off by the Secret Service, I’m guessing that it was a Secret Service agent who was on there, because who else could have done it without being stopped? And I’m betting that agent was Joan Dillinger. And I’m also betting that for some reason you’re covering for her. Would you care to tell me that I’m wrong about all that?”

  “Even if what you say is true, it doesn’t matter. It was my screwup and Ritter died because of it. No excuses are good enough. You ought to know that by now.”

  “But if you were purposefully distracted, that’s a different story.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How do you know that? Why else would someone have been on that elevator at the precise moment Ramsey chose to fire?” She answered her own question. “Because he knew that elevator car was going to come down, and he knew the person on it would be able to distract you, giving him the chance to kill Ritter, that’s why. He was waiting for the elevator to come before he fired.”

  She sat back, her look not one so much of triumph, but of defiance, like she’d shown on TV during the press conference King had seen.

  “That isn’t possible. Just trust me. Call it the worst timing in the world, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be too surprised if I don’t take your word for it.”

  He sat there in silence, for so long, in fact, that Michelle finally rose. “Look, thanks for lunch and the wine lesson. But you can’t tell me a smart guy like you doesn’t look in the mirror every morning and wonder, what if?”

  As she started to walk off, her cell phone rang. She answered it. “What? Yes, it is. Who? Uh, that’s right, I did talk to her. How did you get this number? My card? Oh, that’s right. I don’t understand why you’re calling.” She listened for a bit more and then turned pale. “I didn’t know. My God, I’m so sorry. When did it happen? I see. Right, thank you. Do you have a number where I can call you?” She clicked off, pulled a pen and paper from her purse, wrote the number down and slowly sat in the leather chair next to King.

  He eyed her quizzically. “Are you okay? You don’t look okay.”

  “No, I’m not okay.”

  He leaned forward and put a steadying hand on her quivering shoulder. “What happened, Michelle? Who was that?”

  “That woman I talked to who worked at the hotel.”

  “The maid, Loretta Baldwin?”

  “That was her son. He found my name on a card I left there.”

  “Why, did something happen to Loretta?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was murdered. I asked her all these questions about the Ritter killing, and now she’s dead. I can’t believe it’s connected, but then I can’t believe it’s not either.”

  King jumped up so quickly it startled her badly.

  “Is your truck filled with gas?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, looking confused. “Why?”

  King seemed to be talking to himself. “I’ll call my appointments for the rest of the day and let them know.”

  “Let them know? Let them know what?”

  “That I won’t be able to meet them. That I’m going somewhere.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “No, not just me—you and me. We’re going to Bowlington, North Carolina, to find out why Loretta Baldwin isn’t living anymore.”

  He turned and headed to the door. Michelle didn’t follow; she just sat there, bewildered.

  King turned back. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure I want to go back there.”

  King came back and stood in front of her, his expression very stern. “You came to me out of the blue asking a lot of very personal questions. You wanted answers and I gave them to you. Okay, now I’m officially interested too.” He paused and then barked out, “So let’s go, Agent Maxwell. I don’t have all day!”

  She jumped to her feet. “Yes, sir,” Michelle said automatically.

  25

  When he climbed into her truck, King quickly observed the interior of Michelle’s vehicle and could not conceal his disgust. He picked up a power bar food wrapper off the floor by his foot that still had a hunk of stale “power chocolate” inside. The backseats were full of items haphazardly strewn around: water and snow skis, assorted oars and paddles, gym clothes, sneakers, dress shoes and a couple of skirts, jackets and blouses and a pair of pantyhose still in its packaging. There were warm-up suits, books, a northern Virginia yellow pages, empty soda and Gatorade cans and a Remington shotgun and a box of shells. And that was just what King could see. God only knew what else was lurking in here; the smell of rotten bananas was hammering his nostrils.

  He looked over at Michelle. “Make a note to never, ever invite me to your place.”

  She glanced at him and smiled. “I told you I was a slob.”

  “Michelle, this is beyond a slob. This is a mobile garbage dump; this is total and complete anarchy on wheels.”

  “So philosophical. And call me Mick.”

  “You prefer ‘Mick’ to ‘Michelle’? Michelle is an elegant, classy name. Mick sounds like a punch-drunk boxer-turned-doorman in uniform braids and fake medals.”

  “The Secret Service is still a guy’s world. You go along to get along.”

  “Just drive them around in this truck one time, and you’ll never be mistaken for anything but a guy, even if your name was Gwendolyn.”

  “Okay, I get the point. So what do you expect to find down there?”

  “If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be going.”

  “Will you visit the hotel?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been back since it happened.”

  �
�I can understand that. I’m not sure I could ever go back to that funeral home.”

  “Speaking of, anything new on the Bruno disappearance?”

  “Nothing. No ransom request, no demands of any kind. Why would you go to all the trouble to kidnap John Bruno, including the murder of a Secret Service agent, and possibly the man he was going to pay his last respects to, and then do nothing with him?”

  “Right, Bill Martin, the deceased. I thought he must have been killed.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  “They couldn’t very well plan this whole scheme and hope the guy croaked in accordance with their time schedule. And they couldn’t exactly work it the other way. The guy dies, and then they scramble to put it all together in a couple of days, coincidentally right when Bruno is passing by. No, he had to be murdered too.”

  “I’m impressed with your analysis. I heard you were the real deal.”

  “I was in investigation a lot longer than I was a human shield. Every agent works so hard to get to protection and especially the presidential detail, and then once there they can’t wait to get out of it and back to investigation.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Ungodly hours, in control of nothing in your life. Just standing around waiting for a shot to be fired. I pretty much hated it, but it’s not like I had a choice.”

  “Were you assigned to POTUS?”

  “Yes. Took me years of hard work to get there. I spent two years at the White House. It was great for the first year, and then after that, it wasn’t so great. It was just constant travel, having to deal with some of the biggest egos in the world and being treated like you were a couple of notches below the White House gardener. I especially like the staff members who were all of about twelve years old and truly didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground busting our chops over everything they could think of. Ironically enough I was just coming off that assignment when they put me on Ritter’s detail.”

  “Gee, that’s heartening considering I’ve spent years of my life trying to get there too.”

  “I’m not saying don’t go for it. Riding on Air Force One is a thrill. And having the president of the United States tell you you’re doing a good job is damn nice too. I’m just saying don’t believe all the hype. In many ways it’s like any other protection gig. At least with investigation you get to actually arrest bad guys.” He paused and looked out the window. “Speaking of investigation, Joan Dillinger recently came back into my life and made me an offer.”