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She looked at her notes. “So I see the hotel is closed now.”
“Shut down not all that long after Ritter was shot. Bad publicity and all. Bad for me, ain’t had a steady job like that since.”
“I see they have a fence up.”
Baldwin shrugged. “Folks who want to take a piece of the place, boys doing drugs and dragging their girlfriends in there for you know what.”
“So any plans to reopen it?”
Baldwin snorted loudly. “Knock it down more than likely.”
“Any idea who owns it now?”
“Nope. It’s just some big old empty pile of nothing. Sort of like this town.”
Michelle asked her a few more questions and then thanked her and took her leave, but not before giving Loretta Baldwin some money for helping.
“Let me know when it’s going to air. I’ll watch it on the TV.”
“When and if it does, you’ll be the first to know,” Michelle replied.
Michelle got back in her car and drove off. She now had another stop to make.
As she pulled off, she heard the rattle of a muffler about to fall off and looked up in time to see an ancient, rust-eaten Buick slowly pull down the street past her, the driver barely visible. Her only thought about it was that the car certainly symbolized this town, in that they were both falling apart.
The Buick driver looked over at Michelle without seeming to. As soon as Michelle pulled off, the man glanced over at a smiling Loretta Baldwin counting her money and rocking in her chair. He’d captured their entire conversation using a sound amplifier recorder hidden in the antenna of his car, and he’d also taken pictures of the two women using his long-range camera lens. Their discussion had been very interesting, so very enlightening on a personal level. So Loretta the maid had been in the supply closet on that day. Who would have thought it, after all these years? And yet he had to put that aside for now. He slowly turned the car around and followed Michelle. He felt certain she was going back to the hotel. And after hearing her conversation with Loretta Baldwin, he understood why.
CHAPTER
17
KING WAS AT his office desk going over a file when there were footsteps outside his door. Neither his partner nor his secretary was coming in today, so he rose and, armed with a letter opener, went swiftly over to the door and opened it.
The men staring back at him looked grim. There was Todd Williams, the Wrightsburg chief of police, the same big uniformed U.S. marshal and two gents who flashed FBI credentials. King brought them all into the small conference room adjacent to his office.
The marshal leaned forward in his chair. His name was Jefferson Parks, he said, and he did not go by “Jeff,” he told King firmly, but by “Jefferson,” although he preferred simply “Deputy Marshal Parks.” “U.S. marshals are political appointees. The deputies do the real work,” he said.
He held up a pistol in a plastic evidence bag. “This is the pistol that was taken from your home,” he said in a flat, low voice.
“If you say so.”
“It is your pistol. Chain of custody intact.”
King glanced at Williams, who nodded his head.
“Okay,” said King. “And you want to give it back to me because…?”
“Oh, we’re not giving it back,” said one of the FBI agents.
Parks continued, “We dug the bullet that killed Jennings out of the wall of your partner’s office. It was jacketed, so there was little projectile deformity. We also found the shell casing. The shot that killed Howard Jennings was fired from your gun. Pinprick, land, groove and even shell ejector mark. A perfect match.”
“And I’m telling you that’s impossible!”
“Why?”
“Let me ask you a question. What was the time of Jennings’s death?”
“Medical examiner says between 1:00 and 2:00 A.M. the night before you found him in your office,” replied Parks.
