Split Second skamm-1 Read online

  His career as a Secret Service agent really came crashing down when a video of the assassination, taken by a local TV news crew covering the Ritter event, was released to the public. It clearly showed him looking away from Ritter far longer than he should have. It showed the assassin drawing his gun, pointing it, firing, killing Ritter, and all the while King had been staring off, as though in a trance. The clip even showed children in the crowd reacting to the gun before King realized what was going on.

  The media had chosen to excoriate King, no doubt fueled by the outcry of Ritter’s people and not wanting to appear biased against an unpopular candidate.

  He could recall most of the headlines: “Agent Lets Eyes Wander While Candidate Dies”; “Veteran Agent Blows It”; “Asleep at His Post.” Or the one that read, “So That’s Why They Wear the Shades,” which under different circumstances might have actually made him chuckle. Worst of all, though, he’d been largely shunned by his fellow agents.

  His marriage had fallen apart under the strain. Actually it had started to fall apart long before that. King had been gone far more than he was home, sometimes leaving on an hour’s notice, with no fixed return date. Under those pressing circumstances he’d forgiven his wife’s first affair and even the second. The third time, however, they separated. And when she quickly agreed to a divorce after his world fell in, well, he couldn’t say he’d spent a lot of time crying about it.

  And yet he’d survived it all and rebuilt his life. And now?

  He slowly climbed back on board the jet boat, wrapped a towel he kept in the boat around his middle and drove back. Instead of going to his dock, he cut the engine and running lights and pulled into a small cove a few hundred yards down from his place. King quietly dropped the small mushroom anchor in the water to keep his boat from drifting into the muddy bank. Up near the rear of his house a beam of light was arcing back and forth. He had visitors. Perhaps it was the media sniffing around. Or perhaps, he thought, Howard Jennings’s killer had come looking for another score.

  11

  King quietly waded to shore, put his clothes back on and was now squatting in the darkness behind some bushes. The light still swung back and forth as someone moved through the area that ringed the eastern perimeter of his property. King made his way toward the front of his house shielded by a wall of trees. There was a blue BMW convertible parked in the driveway that he didn’t recognize. He was about to go over to it when he decided the best course of action was to get some hardware. With a nice big pistol in hand, he’d feel a lot better about things.

  He slipped inside the dark house, got the gun and went back out a side door. The arc of light had disappeared now, and that had him worried. He knelt down and listened. The sharp crack of a fallen branch reached his ears. It had come from his right, barely ten feet away; then came a footstep and then another. He braced himself, his pistol ready, safety off.

  He launched himself, hitting the person low and hard and landing on top of him, King’s pistol right in his face.

  Only it wasn’t a him. It was a her! And she had a pistol out too. It was pointed at him, the barrels of the two guns almost touching.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” he said angrily when he saw who it was.

  “If you’d get off me, I might have the breath to tell you,” she snapped.

  He took his time climbing off, and when she reached a hand out for him to assist her, he ignored it.

  She was wearing a skirt, blouse and short jacket. The skirt had slid up to nearly her crotch during the collision. As she struggled to regain her feet, she tugged it back down.

  “Are you in the habit of mugging all your visitors?” she said testily as she put her gun back in the waist clip and brushed herself off.

  “Most of my visitors don’t go sneaking around my property.”

  “Nobody answered the front door.”

  “Then you go away and call another time. Or didn’t your mother teach you?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s been a long time, Sean.”

  “Has it? I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been kind of busy with my new life.”

  She looked around. “I can see that. Nice place.”

  “What are you doing here, Joan?”

  “Came to see an old friend who’s in trouble.”

  “Really? Who’s that?”

  She smiled demurely. “Murder in your office. That’s trouble, isn’t it?”

  “Sure it is. I was talking about the ‘old friend’ part.”

  She nodded toward the house. “I’ve driven a long way. I’ve heard about the southern hospitality around here. Care to show me some?”

  Instead, he contemplated firing a round over her head. Yet the only way he would find out what Joan Dillinger was up to was to play along. “What sort of hospitality?”

  “Well, it’s almost nine o’clock and I haven’t had dinner. Let’s start with that and then go from there,” she said.

  “You show up unannounced after all these years and expect me to cook you dinner? You’ve got some guts.”

  “That shouldn’t surprise you by now, should it?”

  As he fixed the meal, Joan explored the main level of his home, carrying the gin and tonic he’d given her. She perched on the counter in the kitchen while he worked away. “How’s the finger?” she asked.

  “It only hurts when I’m seriously ticked off. Sort of like a mood ring. And just so you know, it’s throbbing like hell right now.”

  She ignored the barb. “This place is spectacular. I heard that you built it yourself.”

  “Gave me something to do.”

  “I didn’t know you were a carpenter.”

  “I worked my way through school building things for people who could afford it. Then I decided what the hell, I’d do it for myself.”

  They ate at the table off the kitchen that had a commanding view of the lake. With the meal they drank a bottle of merlot he’d fetched from his wine cellar. Under different circumstances it would have been a very romantic setting.

  After dinner they carried their wineglasses into the family room, with its cathedral ceiling and walls of window. When he saw she was shivering some, King turned on the gas fireplace and tossed her a throw blanket. They sat across from each other on leather couches. Joan kicked off her heels and curled her legs up under her and then placed the blanket over them. She raised her glass to him. “Dinner was fabulous.” She breathed in the wine’s bouquet. “And I see you’ve added sommelier to your list of credentials.”

  “Okay, your belly’s full, you’re suitably buzzed. Why are you here?”

  “When something extraordinary entailing a major criminal investigation happens to a former agent, everybody’s interested.”

  “And they sent you to see me?”

  “I’m at a level where I can send myself.”

  “So this is unofficial on your part? Or are you just here to spy for the Service?”

  “I’d characterize it as unofficial. I’d like to hear your side of things.”

  King cradled his glass, fighting an urge to throw it at her. “I don’t have a side of things. The man worked for me for a short time. He was killed. Today I found out he was in witness protection. I don’t know who killed him. End of story.”

  She didn’t respond but just stared into the fire. She finally rose, padded over to the fireplace and knelt in front of it, running her hand along the stone facade.

  “Carpenter and stonemason?”

  “I subbed that out. I know my limitations.”

  “That’s refreshing. Most men I know won’t admit to having any.”

  “Thanks. But I still want to know why you’re here.”

  “It has nothing to do with the Service and everything to do with you and me.”

  “There is no ‘you and me.’”

  “Well, there was. We worked together at the Service for years. We slept together. Given different circumstances we might have moved on to a more permanent arrang
ement. And I would like to think that if you heard that a man who happened to be in witness protection had been murdered at a place where I worked and my past was being dredged up again, you might come and see how I was coping.”

  “I think you’d be wrong about that.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m glad my miserable situation afforded you this wonderful opportunity to exhibit your compassionate nature.”

  “Sarcasm really doesn’t suit you, Sean.”

  “It’s late, and it’s a long drive back to D.C.”

  “You’re right. It’s too long a drive actually.” She added, “Looks like you have lots of room.” She rose and sat down next to him, uncomfortably close.

  “You look fit enough to qualify for the FBI’s Hostage Rescue,” she said, running an admiring eye over his trim six-foot-one-inch frame.

  He shook his head. “I’m an old man for that stuff. Bad knees, bum shoulder and all.”

  She sighed and looked away, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “I just turned forty.”

  “Consider the alternative. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Not for a man. Forty and unmarried for a woman, it’s not so pleasant.”

  “You look great. Great for thirty, great for forty. And you’ve got your career.”

  “Didn’t think I’d last that long.”

  “You lasted longer than me.”

  She put her wineglass down and turned to him. “But I shouldn’t have.” There followed an uncomfortable silence.

  “It was years ago,” he finally said. “Water under the bridge.”

  “Obviously not. I see the way you’re looking at me.”

  “What did you expect?”

  She picked up her wine again and finished it in one long sip. “You actually have no idea how hard this was for me to come here. I changed my mind about ten times. Took an hour to decide what to wear. It was more nerve-racking than securing a presidential inauguration.”

  He had never known her to talk this way. She was always the ultraconfident one. Bantering with the boys like she was not only one of them but the ringleader to boot.

  “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m not sure I ever said that I was sorry.”

  “Bottom line, it was my fault. Case closed.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “I just don’t have the time or energy to hold a grudge. It’s not that important to me.”

  Slipping into her heels, she rose and put on her jacket. “You’re right, it is late and I should be going. I’m sorry if I interrupted your wonderful life. And I apologize for being so concerned about you that I came here to see how you were doing.”

  King started to speak, hesitated, and then as she headed toward the door, he let out a sigh and said, “You’ve had too much to drink to drive these back roads at night. The guest room’s at the top of the stairs, on the right. There are pajamas in the bureau, and your own bath, and whoever gets up first makes the coffee.”

  She turned back. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”

  “Trust me, I know that. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She looked at him with an expression that said, “Are you absolutely sure you won’t come see me before the morning?”

  He turned and headed away. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I’ve got some work to do. Sleep tight.”

  Joan went outside and got her overnight bag out of the car. When she came back in, he was nowhere around. The master bedroom looked to be at the far end of the hall. She slipped across and peeked inside. It was dark. And empty. She slowly went to her room and closed the door.

  12

  Michelle Maxwell’s arms and legs moved with maximum efficiency, at least as she judged herself by the far lower standards of these post-Olympic days. Her scull cut through the waters of the Potomac as the sun rose and the already heavy air held the promise of a less chilly day. It was here at Georgetown that she’d begun her rowing career. Her muscular thighs and shoulders were burning with the effort she was expending. She’d passed every other scull, kayak, canoe and comparable vessel on the water, including one that had a five-horsepower engine.

  She pulled her scull up to one of the boathouses that sat on the banks in Georgetown, bent over and took deep, long breaths, the endorphins coursing through her blood providing a pleasant high. A half hour later she was in her Land Cruiser heading back to the hotel she’d moved to near Tysons Corner, Virginia. It was still early and traffic was light—relatively light, that is, for a region that routinely saw clogged highways as early as 5:00 A.M. She showered and put on a T-shirt and boxers. With no uncomfortable shoes or stockings, and no holster chafing her, it felt great. She stretched, rubbed her tired limbs down and then ordered room service and threw on a robe before her breakfast was delivered. While having pancakes, orange juice and coffee, she channel-surfed the TV, looking for more news on the Bruno disappearance. Ironic that she was the lead agent in the field that day and was now getting her news on the investigation from CNN. She stopped surfing when she saw a man on TV who looked familiar. He was in Wrightsburg, Virginia, surrounded by news crews and obviously not enjoying it.

  It took her a few moments to place him, and then she got it. The man was Sean King. She’d joined the Service a year or so before the Ritter assassination. Michelle had never known what became of Sean King, and had no reason to want to know. But now, as she listened to the details of Howard Jennings’s murder, she began to want to know more. Part of it was purely physical. King was a very good-looking man: tall and well built with close-cropped black hair now heavily graying at the temples. He must be in his mid-forties now, she calculated. He had the sort of face that looked better with lines; it gave him an attraction that he probably never had in his twenties or thirties, when he was probably too pretty-boy-looking. Yet it wasn’t his handsome features that intrigued her the most. As she listened to the sketchy details leading to Jennings’s death, there was something about the murder, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She opened the copy of the Washington Post that had been delivered to her room and, scanning the pages, found a short but informative article about the slaying. The account also contained facts about King’s past, the Ritter fiasco and its aftermath. As she read the account and then looked at the man on the screen, she felt a sudden, visceral connection to him. They’d both made mistakes on the job, and it had cost them greatly. It appeared King had rebuilt his life pretty dramatically. Michelle wondered if she’d be anywhere near as triumphant in reconstructing her world.

  She had a sudden inspiration and phoned a confidant of hers at the Service. The young man wasn’t an agent. He was in administrative support. Every field agent needed to cultivate strong ties to the admin staff, for those were the folks who really knew how to cut through the red tape that plagued most government agencies. He was a huge admirer of Michelle’s and would have somersaulted down the hall if she had condescended to have coffee with him. Well, she did so condescend. The price was, he had to bring her copies of certain records and other materials. He waffled at first—he didn’t want to get in trouble, he said—but she soon persuaded him otherwise. She also got him to agree to slow-walk her admin leave papers such that she would have access to the Secret Service database using her name and password for at least another week or so.

  They met at a small café downtown where she got the records from him. She gave the young man a hug that she let linger just long enough for her to be quite certain that he would continue to do her bidding. When she joined the Service, she had not handed in her membership in the female ranks. At one level it was just another tool. In fact, used judiciously, it was far more powerful even than her .357.

  As she was getting back into her truck, a voice called out. She turned to see an agent she had leapfrogged over in climbing the career ladder. The look on his face was clear. He wa
s here to gloat.

  “Who would have thought?” he began innocently. “Your star was shooting straight up. I still can’t understand how you let it happen, Mick. I mean, leaving the guy alone in a room you hadn’t really swept. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking, Steve.”

  He slapped her on the arm, a little harder than he needed to. “Hey, don’t worry, they’re not going to let their superstar woman fall. You’ll get reassigned, maybe guarding Lady Bird down in Texas. Or maybe the Fords. That way you get six months in Palm Springs and six in Vail and a sweet per diem. Of course, if it were one of us poor slobs, they’d cut our heads off and forget about us. But who said life was fair?”

  “You might be surprised. I might not be with the Service when this is all over.”

  He smiled broadly. “Well, maybe life is fair after all. Hey, you take care.” He turned to leave.

  “Oh, Steve?” He turned back. “I trust you got the memo that they’re doing a computer sweep on everybody’s laptop next week. You might want to get that porno stuff off—you know, from that site you keep checking from the office? That might blow your clearances. And who knows, maybe even your wife might find out. And while we’re on the subject, are big boobs and a tight ass really worth the risk? I mean isn’t that, like, so sixteen-year-old?”

  Steve’s smile disappeared; he extended his middle finger to her and stalked off.

  Michelle couldn’t stop smiling all the way back to the hotel.

  13

  Michelle spread out the documents on her bed, going over them meticulously and making notes along the way. It became apparent that King had had a spotless record and a long list of commendations in his career at the Service—at least until that fateful day when his attention wandered and Clyde Ritter paid the ultimate price.

  During his stint working counterfeiting early on in his career, King had even been wounded when a bust went down badly. He killed two men after taking a round in his shoulder. And years later he killed Ritter’s assassin, albeit a few seconds too late. That made a total of three men he’d gunned down in the line of duty. Michelle had fired thousands of rounds in training, but even in her brief stint as a police officer in Tennessee she’d never shot anyone for real. She often wondered what that would feel like, whether it would change you, making you either too reckless or too careful to do your job properly.