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“Any ideas about this?”
King looked at the note and shrugged. “Only that it’s from someone who was at the Ritter assassination or knows a lot about it. I’d give it to the FBI, if I were you.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
As Williams walked off, King rubbed his temples and contemplated taking a bath in pure bourbon and drinking half of it. The phone rang. It was his law partner, Phil Baxter.
“Yeah, it’s true, Phil. She’s dead, right here in my house. I know, it shocked the hell out of me. Look, I might need you to cover some things at the office for me. I… What’s that?” King’s expression darkened. “What are you talking about, Phil? You want to go solo? Can I ask why? I see. Sure, if that’s what you want. You do what you have to do.” He hung up.
Almost immediately his phone rang again. It was his secretary, Mona Hall, calling with her resignation. She was too scared to work for him anymore, she whined. Dead bodies kept turning up. And people were suggesting that King was somehow in on it, not that she ever believed that, but, well, where there’s smoke…
After he hung up with Mona, a hand touched his shoulder. It was Joan.
“More trouble?”
“My law partner is hightailing it as fast as he can, and my secretary just joined him in the full retreat. Other than that, everything’s fine.”
“I’m sorry, Sean.”
“Look, what can I expect? I’ve got dead bodies falling all around me. Hell, I’d be running too.”
“I’m not running anywhere. In fact, I need your help more than ever.”
“Well, it’s nice to be wanted.”
“I’m staying in the area for a couple of days while I set up interviews and do some background digging. Give me a call but make it soon. If you’re not going to work with me, I have to move on. I have a private plane available. I want to help you through this, and I think work is the best way to do that.”
“Why, Joan? Why do you want to help me?”
“Call it repayment of a debt long overdue.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you more than you think. I see that quite clearly now.”
She gave him a peck on the cheek, turned and left.
The phone rang again and King snatched it up. “Yeah?” he said testily.
It was Michelle. “I heard. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He remained silent. “Sean, are you okay?”
He looked out the window as Joan drove off. “I’m fine.”
King grabbed a quick shower in the guest bathroom and then took a seat at the desk in his study. His brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote down, from memory, the words from the note that had been found on Whitehead’s body.
Déjà vu, Sir Kingman. Try to remember if you can where you were on the most important day of your life. I know you’re a smart guy but a little rusty, so you probably want a hint. Here it is: 1032AM09261996. Talk about pushing a post. Talk about giving good feet. Look forward to seeing
you soon.
Ten-thirty-two A.M. on September 26, 1996, was the exact time that Clyde Ritter had been killed. What could this mean? So intense was his concentration that he never even heard her come in.
“Sean, are you okay?”
He jumped up and yelled out. Michelle screamed and fell back.
“God, you startled me,” she said.
“Startled you? Damn, woman, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
