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sign of Roger Canney despite Chip Bailey and Chief Williams having put in place an area lockdown.
“It’s like he popped into a damn hole somewhere,” complained the frustrated FBI agent at one meeting of the investigative team.
With eight murders in total now and the attempted killings of King and Michelle, Wrightsburg was overflowing with law enforcement folks fighting over turf, evidence and the proper way to satiate the horde of media that had invaded the town. Hardly a citizen had not been interviewed by a reporter from some organization. One could not watch the national news or read the Washington Post, New York Times, or USA Today without seeing a story about the Wrightsburg slayings. Pundit after pundit proposed one solution after another, most having nothing to do with the actual facts of the case. People were putting their homes on the market at an alarming clip, business was down across the board; it didn’t seem too far-fetched to think the town might cease to exist if the killer or killers weren’t soon found. Business and political leaders were, not surprisingly, calling for Chief Williams’s head, along with his top—if recently appointed—deputies, King and Maxwell. Bailey too was feeling the heat from his superiors, but he went about his business, methodically running down any lead that looked promising, though most petered out.
Eddie was released from the hospital about the time Sylvia completed the autopsy on Sally; not that the cause of her death had ever been in doubt. No new leads had materialized, but at least no one else had died either.
In the midst of all this chaos and scrutiny, when it seemed like the entire town would implode any second, Sean King pulled out two bottles from his portable wine cooler and went to dinner with Michelle at Harry Carrick’s home.
As she exited her cottage and climbed into the Lexus convertible, King’s eyes had widened at the sight of her. “You look beautiful, Michelle,” he said, scrutinizing the clingy dress that stopped about midthigh and showed off a healthy dose of her Olympian legs. She also sported a stylish blue wrap around her shoulders; she was no longer wearing the sling. She wore makeup, and it appeared she’d even washed her hair, and hardly any of it was dangling in her face. It was a stunning contrast to her usual jeans, windbreakers, sneakers and running suits and flyaway tresses.
For his part King was dressed in a suit and tie and even had a handkerchief in his coat’s breast pocket.
“I wanted to make a nice impression on Harry,” she said hastily. “But my, I didn’t expect such accolades from you.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I found the breakfast and lunch I made you in the trash can again. If you don’t like my cooking, just say so. It’s not like it would hurt my feelings.”
In his best Bogart imitation King said, “Aw, angel, you shouldn’t waste time in the kitchen. Not your style, angel.”
She smiled and said, “Thank God for small favors.”
“But with that said, the tuna dish you made the other night was really good.”
“High praise coming from you.”
“I tell you what: the next meal we’ll make together. I’ve got a few tricks I can show you.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.”
“How’s the arm?”
“Like I said, just a scratch.”
As they drove with the top down along the winding country roads on a warm, fine evening covered by a vast sky of stars, Michelle glanced at him admiringly and observed, “You look pretty spiffy yourself.”
“Like Eddie Battle, I can clean up well on occasion.” He smiled to show he was joking.
“Are we the only guests?”
“Yes, since I was the one who suggested we get together.”
“You? Why?”
“It’s time we sat down and talked this case through, and I do my best thinking over a good bottle of wine or two.”
“Are you sure you just didn’t want to escape another meal at my house?”
“Thought never occurred to me.”
Harry’s house was large and old and its interior beautifully decorated.
He met them at the door and led them into the library, where, despite the warmth of the evening, a cozy fire was burning. The old lawyer was wearing a snappy three-piece suit with stylishly muted checks. A carnation was pinned to his jacket lapel. He poured them drinks, and they sat on a soft, cracked leather sofa in front of the fire. The couch looked as though it had carried the posteriors of at least five generations.
He raised his glass. “A toast to my two good friends.” They drank to that, and then Harry added after eyeing Michelle, “And really, I believe another toast is in order.” He lifted his glass once more. “To one of the most lovely women I’ve ever encountered. Michelle, you look extraordinarily beautiful tonight.”
Michelle smiled and glanced at King. “Now, if I could only cook.”
