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  near a group of folks at a podium. This was the Secret Service part of the story, King instantly sensed. He knew the breed well. The woman looked professional, calm, with a relaxed alertness so familiar to King. And something else was in her expression that he couldn’t quite read. There was belly fire, for all of them had some measure of that. Yet there was something more: subtle defiance perhaps?

  The Service was assisting the FBI in every way, one of the men said, and they were, of course, also conducting their own internal investigation. The Service’s Inspection Division would be handling this investigation, King knew, because they had been all over his butt after the Ritter assassination. Reading the bureaucratic doublespeak, King knew this meant that blame had already been assessed and would be made public as soon as the relevant parties had signed off on the appropriate spin to put on the awful news. Then the press conference was over, and the woman was walking away and getting into a black sedan. She was not speaking to reporters on orders from the Service, the voiceover said, and the narrator also helpfully identified her as Michelle Maxwell, head of the security detail that had lost John Bruno.

  So why parade her in front of the press? wondered King. Why wave red meat in front of a caged beast? He almost immediately answered his own question: to give a face to the coming blame. The Service was often very good about protecting its own, and agents had screwed up before, been given administrative leave and then reassigned. However, there might be some political pressure on this one that was screaming out for a head to fall. “Here she is, folks,” they might have said. “Go get her, although we still have to do our official investigation, but don’t let that stop you.” And now King understood the look of subtle defiance in the woman’s features. She knew exactly what was going on. The lady was attending her own hanging and not liking it.

  King sipped his coffee, munched on a piece of toast and said to her and the TV, “Well, you can be as pissed off as you want, but you can also just kiss your ass good-bye, Michelle.”

  Next a picture of Michelle Maxwell appeared on the screen while some more background information on the woman was given. A high school all-American in basketball and track and a heavyweight academic as well, she’d gone on to graduate from Georgetown in three years. If that wasn’t high-octane enough, during college she’d turned her considerable athletic talents to another sport and had won a silver medal at the Olympics in women’s rowing: a scholar athlete, what could be more inspiring? After a year as a police officer in her native Tennessee she’d joined the Service, ferociously worked her way up the ladder at double-quick time and was currently enjoying the wonderful status of a scapegoat.

  And a handsome scapegoat she was, King thought, and then caught himself. Handsome? And yet there were masculine qualities about her, the forceful, almost swaggering way in which she walked, the impressive spread of shoulders—no doubt all that rowing—the jawline that seemed to promise extreme obstinacy at frequent intervals. And yet the feminine side was certainly there. She was over five-nine and, despite the broad shoulders, slender, but she had nice, subtle curves too. The hair was black, straight and shoulder-length, regulation enough for the Service but still stylish. The cheekbones were high and firm, the eyes green, luminous and intelligent—clearly those eyes missed very little. In the Secret Service such X-ray vision was a necessity.

  The overall look was not that of a classic beauty, but Michelle was probably the girl who was always faster and smarter than all the boys. In high school she likely had every male gunning to be the first to steal her virginity. From the look of the woman, though, he doubted any had succeeded on anything other than Maxwell’s terms.

  Well, he said silently to the TV screen, there is life after the Service. You can start over and re-create yourself. You can be reasonably happy against all the odds. But you never do forget. Sorry, Michelle Maxwell, I speak from experience on that one too.

  He checked his watch. Time to go to his real job drafting wills and leases and charging by the hour. Not nearly as exciting as his old occupation, yet at this stage of his life Sean King was very much into boring routine. He’d had enough excitement to last him several lifetimes.

  CHAPTER

  6

  KING BACKED his Lexus convertible, top down, out of the garage and headed off to work for the second time in eight hours. The drive took him through winding roads, fabulous views, the occasional wildlife sighting and not much traffic, at least until he hit the road into town, where the automobile volume picked up some. His law office was located on the appropriately named Main Street, the only avenue of consequence in the downtown area of Wrightsburg, a small and relatively new township halfway between the far larger municipalities of Charlottesville and Lynchburg.

  He parked in the lot behind the two-story white brick town home that housed King & Baxter, Attorneys and Counselors-at-Law, as the shingle hanging outside proudly proclaimed. He’d gone to law school thirty minutes away at the University of Virginia before dropping out after two years and opting for a career in the Secret Service. At the time, he wanted more adventure than a stack of lawbooks and the Socratic method could provide. Well, he’d had his share of adventure.

  After the dust settled from the Clyde Ritter killing, he’d left the Secret Service, finished his degree and opened a solo practice in Wrightsburg. It had now expanded to a two-lawyer firm, and King’s life was finally clicking on all cylinders. He was a respected counselor and friend to many of the most prominent in the area. He gave back to the community as a volunteer deputy police officer and in other ways as well. One of the most eligible bachelors in the area, he dated when he wanted and didn’t when he didn’t. He had a wide assortment of friends, though few who were intimates. He liked his work, enjoyed his free time and didn’t let much rattle him. His life was marching itself off in carefully constructed and unspectacular measure. He was perfectly fine with that.

  As he got out of the Lexus, he saw the woman and contemplated ducking back inside, but she’d already spotted him and rushed over.

  “Hello, Susan,” he said as he pulled his briefcase out of the passenger seat.

  “You look tired,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Busy lawyer by day, police officer by night.”

  “Volunteer deputy police officer, Susan, and only one night a week. In fact, the most exhilarating thing to happen last night was swerving my truck to miss hitting a possum.”

  “I bet when you were with the Secret Service, you went days without sleep. How exciting, if exhausting.”

  “Not exactly,” he said, and started to head to his office. She followed.

  Susan Whitehead was in her early forties, divorced, attractive, rich and apparently dead set on making him her fourth husband. King had handled her last divorce, knew firsthand the number of impossibly annoying quirks the woman had, how vindictive she could be, and his sympathies lay entirely with poor husband number three. He was a timid, reclusive man so smashed under the iron fist of his wife that he’d finally gone off on a four-day drinking, gambling and sex spree in Las Vegas that had been the beginning of the end. He was now a poorer but no doubt happier soul. King had no interest at all in replacing him.

  “I’m having a small dinner party on Saturday and was hoping you could come.”

  He mentally checked his calendar, found Saturday night free and said, without missing a beat, “I’m sorry, I’ve got plans, thanks anyway. Maybe another time.”

  “You have a lot of plans, Sean,” she said coyly. “I’m really hoping that I fit into them at some point.”

  “Susan, it’s not good for an attorney and client to become personally involved.”

  “But I’m not your client anymore.”

  “Still, a bad idea. Trust me on that one.” He reached the front door and unlocked it before adding, “And you have a great day.” He went inside, hoping she wouldn’t follow. He waited a few seconds in the foyer of the building, breathed a sigh of reli
ef when she didn’t charge in, and headed up the stairs to his office. He was almost always the first in. His partner, Phil Baxter, was the litigation arm of the two-person firm, while King handled all the other areas: wills, trusts, real estate, business deals, the steady moneymakers. There was a lot of wealth secreted in the quiet nooks and crannies around Wrightsburg. Movie stars, business tycoons, writers and other enriched souls called this area home. They loved it for its beauty, solitude, privacy and local amenities in the form of good restaurants, shopping, a thriving cultural community and a world-class university down the road in Charlottesville.

  Phil was not an early riser—court did not open until ten—but he worked very late, the opposite of King. By five o’clock King was usually back home, puttering in his workshop or fishing or boating on the lake that his house backed up to, while Baxter labored on. The two consequently made a nice match.

  He opened the door and went in. The receptionist/secretary wouldn’t be there yet. It was not quite eight.

  The chair lying on its side was the first thing that caught his eye, and after that the items that were supposed to be on the receptionist’s desktop but were now strewn across the floor. His hand went instinctively to his holstered gun, only he had no holster or gun. All he had was a really kick-ass codicil to a will he’d drafted that would intimidate only the future heirs. He picked up a heavy paperweight from the floor and peered around. The next sight froze him.

  There was blood on the floor by the door leading into Baxter’s office. He moved forward, holding the paperweight ready; with his other hand he pulled out his cell phone, dialed 911 and spoke quietly and clearly to the dispatcher. He reached out his hand to the doorknob, thought better of it and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket so no prints would be smeared. He slowly eased the door open, his muscles tensed, ready for an attack, yet his instincts told him that the place was empty. He looked into the darkened space and used his elbow to flick on the light.

  The body was lying on its side directly in front of King; a single gunshot wound to the center of the chest, exiting out the back. It wasn’t Phil Baxter. It was another man—very well known to him, though. And this person’s violent death was about to shatter Sean King’s peaceful existence.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding in, and it all hit him in a blinding instant. “Here we go again,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER

  7

  THE MAN WAS SITTING in his Buick and watched as the police cars pulled up in front of King’s law building and the uniformed officers raced inside. His appearance had changed much since he’d sat playing the role of an old man whittling in front of the funeral home while John Bruno was being carried away. The suit he’d worn that day was two sizes too large, to make him look small and emaciated; the dirty teeth, whiskered face, moonshine flask, whittling and a wad of chew in the mouth were all carefully designed to draw the eye to him. And the observer would come away with an indelible impression of who and what he was. And that conclusion would be absolutely incorrect, which was the whole point really.

  He was younger now, perhaps by more than thirty years. Like King, he had re-created himself. He munched on a buttered bagel, sipped his black coffee and quietly pondered King’s reaction to the discovery of the body in his office. Shocked at first and then perhaps angry, but not surprised—no, not really surprised when one thought about it.

  As he considered this, he turned on the radio, which was always set to the local news channel, and he got the eight o’clock report, which started off with the abduction of John Bruno, the lead story for just about every news service worldwide. It had even chased the Middle East and professional football from the minds of many Americans, at least temporarily.

  The man licked his fingers clean of butter and sesame seeds as he listened. The story had to do with Michelle Maxwell, the Secret Service detail leader. She’d been officially placed on administrative leave, which, he knew, meant she was one foot from the professional grave.

  So the woman was out of the game, at least officially. Yet unofficially? That was why he’d memorized Maxwell’s every feature as she passed by him that day. It wasn’t out of the question that he’d confront her again at some point. He already knew her complete background, but the more information, the more intelligence, the better. She was a woman who might sit home and grow bitter, or one who’d charge forward and take risks. From the little he’d seen of her, he thought the latter more likely.

  He refocused on the scene unfolding in front of him now. Some of the townsfolk, just showing up for work or opening their shops, were wandering toward the lawyer’s office as yet another police car and then a crime scene van pulled into the small parking lot. This was clearly something new for the respectable little metropolis of Wrightsburg. The men in uniform hardly seemed to know what to do. It was all so heartening to the man as he munched on his bagel. He’d waited so long for all of this; he intended to enjoy it. And there was much more to come.

  He noted once again the woman standing outside the office. He’d seen Susan Whitehead when she approached King in the parking lot. A girlfriend? A would-be lover was probably more accurate, the man deduced from the encounter he’d witnessed. He raised his camera and took a couple of shots of her. He waited for King to come out for air, but that was probably not going to happen. King had covered much ground in his rounds as a deputy. So many back roads to traverse, lonely roads they were too. Anything could be out there, in the thick woods, waiting for you. And yet where was one really safe these days?

  Inside a zippered bag in his trunk was a very special item that had to go to a special place. In fact, now was the perfect opportunity to do so.

  After tossing the remains of his breakfast in a garbage can on the sidewalk he put the rusted Buick in gear and drove off, muffler rattling. He pulled down the street, glancing once in the direction of King’s office, and flippantly gave a thumbs-up sign. As he passed by Susan Whitehead, who was staring at King’s office, he thought, Maybe I’ll be seeing you. Sooner rather than later.

  The Buick disappeared down the road, leaving a stricken Wrightsburg in its wake.

  Round one was now officially over. He could hardly wait for round two.

  CHAPTER

  8

  WALTER BISHOP, a man very high up in the Secret Service, paced in front of Michelle Maxwell, who sat at a small table and watched. They were in a small conference room deep inside a government building in Washington filled with people reeling from recent events.

  Over his shoulder he said, “You should feel relieved you’re only being placed on admin leave, Maxwell.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m thrilled you’ve taken my gun and badge. I’m not stupid, Walter. Judgment has already been passed. I’m gone.”

  “The investigation is ongoing—in fact, it’s just beginning.”

  “Right. All those years of my life, down the toilet.”

  He whirled and snapped, “A presidential candidate was kidnapped right under your nose—a first in the agency’s history. Congratulations. You’re lucky you’re not in front of a firing squad. In some other countries you would be.”

  “Walter, don’t you think I feel that too? It’s killing me.”

  “Interesting choice of words. Neal Richards was a fine agent.”

  “I know that too,” she snapped back. “Do you think I knew that this rent-a-cop was in on it? There is no one in the Service who feels worse than I do about Neal.”

  “You never should have allowed Bruno in that room alone. If you’d simply followed standard procedures, this never would have happened. At the very least that door should have been open far enough for you to see your man. You never, ever take your eyeballs off your protectee; you know that. That’s Protection Detail 101.”

  Michelle shook her head. “Sometimes, on the job, in the middle of all the things we have to put up with, you strike compromises, to keep everybody happy.”

  “It’s not our job to keep people happy. It’s our job to kee
p them safe!”

  “Are you telling me this is the first time a judgment call was made in the field to let a protectee in a room without an agent?”

  “No, I’m saying this is the first time that call was made and something like this happened. It’s strict liability, Michelle. No excuses will avail. Bruno’s political party is up in arms. Some nuts are actually saying the Service was paid off to knock Bruno out of the race.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I know it is and you know it is, but you get enough people saying it, well, then the public starts believing it.”

  Michelle had perched on the edge of her seat during this exchange. Now she sat back and looked calmly at the man.

  “Just so we’re clear, I accept full responsibility for what happened, and none of my men should be affected. They were following orders. It was my call and I blew it.”

  “Good of you to say. I’ll see what I can do about that.” He paused and added, “I suppose you wouldn’t consider resigning.”

  “No, Walter, I really wouldn’t. And just so you know, I’m hiring an attorney.”

  “Of course, you are. This is America. Here any screwup can hire a lawyer and actually get money for being incompetent. You must be so proud.”

  Michelle suddenly had to blink back tears at this stinging rebuke, yet part of her thought she deserved it. “I’m just protecting myself, Walter, just like you would if you were in my position.”

  “Right. Of course.” The man put his hands in his pockets and glanced toward the door in a show of dismissing her.

  Michelle rose. “Can I ask one favor?”

  “Certainly you can ask. Although you have unbelievable balls to do so.”

  “You’re not the first person to notice that,” she said coolly. He waited expectantly, without replying. “I want to know how the investigation is going.”

  “The FBI is handling all of that.”

  “I know, but they must be keeping the Service informed.”

  “They are, and that information is for Service personnel only.”

  “Meaning I’m not?”

  “You know, Michelle, I had my doubts when the Service started actively recruiting women. I mean you spend money to train an agent, and