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“Sean King? We understand that you have a pistol registered to you.”
King nodded. “I’m a volunteer deputy. The public likes to see us armed in case we have to shoot any bad guys. So?”
“So we’d like to see it. In fact, we’d like to take it.”
King glanced sharply at Williams, who looked at him and shrugged and then took a huge, symbolic step backward.
“You have a warrant?” King asked.
“You’re a former federal agent. We hoped you’d cooperate.”
“I’m also a lawyer, and we’re not a real cooperative breed.”
“It’s up to you. I’ve got the paper right here.”
King had pulled that same trick before as a fed. His “search warrant” was often a photocopy of a New York Times crossword puzzle neatly folded. “Show it to me,” he demanded.
The warrant was produced and it was for real. They wanted his service revolver.
“Can I ask why?”
“You can ask,” said the agent.
Now the deputy U.S. marshal stepped forward. He was about fifty, stood about six-five and was built like a professional boxer, with broad shoulders, long arms and huge hands.
“Let’s just cut the cute shit, okay?” he said to the agent before looking at King. “They want to match it against the slug taken out of Jennings. I’m assuming you don’t have a problem with that.”
“You think I shot Howard Jennings in my office and used my own service revolver to do it? What, as a matter of convenience, or because I’m too cheap to spring for another gun?”
“Just eliminating possibilities,” said the man pleasantly. “You know the drill. Being a Secret Service agent and all.”
“Was. Was a Secret Service agent.” He turned. “I’ll get the gun.”
The big man put a hand on King’s shoulder. “No. Just show them where it is.”
“So let them in my house and they can go merrily along picking up evidence to build a case against me?”
“An innocent man has nothing to hide,” the deputy marshal shot back. “Besides, they won’t peek, Scout’s honor.”
An FBI agent followed King inside. As they walked down the hall, the agent looked in surprise at the mess in the kitchen.
“My dog is kind of wild,” explained King.
The man nodded. “I got a black Lab named Trigger. What’s yours?”
“Pit bull bitch named Joan.”
They went to his den, where King opened the lockbox and then motioned the agent to inspect the contents. The man bagged the pistol, handed him a receipt for the weapon and followed King back outside.
“Sorry about this, Sean,” said Todd. “I know it’s all a crock.” The good police chief didn’t sound like he meant it, King noted.
As the men pulled off in their vehicles, Joan came down the stairs, fully dressed.
“What did they want?”
“Collecting for the policemen’s ball.”
“Uh-huh. Are you a suspect or what?”
