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“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.
