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“I think the guy’s in medical distress.”
She nodded and moved forward; her boots made clicks on the asphalt.
Sean eased around to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. In the darkness all he could see was the man’s outline. The red light from the flashers lit the interior of the car, casting the surroundings into a bright crimson before going dark again, like the car was heating up one second and going cool the next. But it didn’t help Sean see inside the car. It only made it more difficult. He tapped on the glass once more.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. The man slumped sideways, held in the car only by his seat harness. Sean grabbed the man’s shoulder and righted him as Michelle rushed forward.
“Heart attack?” she said.
Sean looked at the man’s face. “No,” he said firmly.
“How do you know?”
He used the light from his cell phone to illuminate the single gunshot wound between the man’s pupils. There was blood and grayish brain matter all over the car’s interior.
Michelle drew closer and said, “Contact wound. You can see the gun’s muzzle and sight mark burned onto his skin. Don’t think a moose did that.”
Sean said nothing.
“Check his wallet for some ID.”
“Don’t have to.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because I know him,” replied Sean.
“What? Who is he?”
“Ted Bergin. My old professor and Edgar Roy’s lawyer.”
CHAPTER
3
THE LOCAL POLICE SHOWED up first. A single Washington County deputy in a dented and dusty but serviceable American-made V8 with an array of communication antennas drilled into the trunk. He came out of the cruiser with one hand on his service weapon and his gaze fastened on Sean and Michelle. He warily approached. They explained what had happened and he checked the body, muttered the word “Damn,” and then hastily called in backup.
Fifteen minutes later two Maine State Police cruisers from Field Troop J slid to stops behind them. The troopers, young, tall, and lean, came out of their aquamarine cars; their crisp blue uniforms seemed to glow like colored ice even in the weak, hazy light. The crime scene was secured and a perimeter guard established. Sean and Michelle were interviewed by the troopers. One of the officers pecked the responses into the portable laptop he’d yanked from his cruiser.
When Sean told them who they were and why they were here, and, more important, who Ted Bergin was and that he represented Edgar Roy, one of the troopers walked away and used his handheld mic to presumably call in more assets. As they waited for reinforcements, Sean said, “You guys know about Edgar Roy?”
One of them replied, “Everybody around here knows about Edgar Roy.”
Michelle said, “Why’s that?”
The other trooper said, “FBI will be here quick as they can.”
“FBI?” exclaimed Sean.
The trooper nodded. “Roy’s a federal prisoner. We got clear instructions from Washington. Anything happens with him, they get called in. That’s what I just did. Well, I told the lieutenant and he’s calling it in.”
“Where’s the closest FBI Field Office?” asked Michelle.
“Boston.”
“Boston? But we’re in Maine.”
