Split Second (10 page)

M
ICHELLE SLIPPED BACK
inside the Fairmount and went directly to the hotel office again. King had occupied room 304. Loretta Baldwin had hinted that she should not look too far from there, so she checked the occupant for room 302. Michelle remembered there was a connecting door.

“Damn,” she said when she saw the name on the registration card. J. Dillinger had been in room 302. Could that be Joan Dillinger? She’d met Dillinger briefly a couple of times. The woman had moved higher in the agency than almost any of her gender had previously and then abruptly quit. Michelle remembered being intimidated by the lady, something she was definitely not used to. Joan Dillinger had a reputation for being more cool under pressure, more tenacious, more ballsy than anyone else, man or woman. Ambitious as hell, she’d left the Service to grab the brass ring of private-sector consulting. But while she was at the Service she was someone Michelle had looked up to.

And yet was Joan Dillinger the other half of the wild animal act Loretta Baldwin had described? Was the iron lady whom Michelle admired the same woman whose black lace panties ended up on the overhead light? Was King’s mental lapse in guarding Clyde Ritter due to sheer physical exhaustion from a night of sex with Joan that was so explosive it had sent her flimsy underwear skyward? She felt certain it was Joan because on the index card used for registration, her address, like King’s, was the Secret Service headquarters in Washington.

Michelle put both index cards in her bag and went to the Stonewall Jackson Room. There she looked at the doorway from where Loretta Baldwin witnessed the first assassination of a politician campaigning for the U.S. presidency in almost thirty years. She stood where Loretta had and closed the door. It was again so quiet in here that she could hear her own pounding heartbeat.

As soon as she left the room and went back into the lobby, this sensation stopped. Normal sounds returned, and she could no longer hear the jarring thumps of her heart. She was beginning to wonder if the Stonewall Jackson Room was haunted, perhaps by a very upset Clyde Ritter. She went down the hallway and found the supply closet where Loretta said she’d hidden. It was fairly large and had shelves lining three of the walls.

Michelle went up the stairs to the third floor, shining her light around in wide arcs. She reached room 302 and went in. She tried to envision Joan Dillinger knocking softly on the door to King’s room and being admitted. Maybe after a few drinks and some Secret Service gossip, Joan’s panties had hit the overhead light, and they’d created their own personal highlight reel.

She went out into the hall and walked back toward the stairwell. She stopped and looked at the large garbage chute that was set up at one window. Obviously somebody had started doing some work here and then just as obviously stopped. She leaned out the window, her eyes adjusting to the daylight. Down below, the chute ended in a Dumpster. It was filled with debris, mostly old mattresses, curtains and carpeting, all of which looked thoroughly rotted.

She walked back to the lobby level and then paused. The stairs kept going down to the basement level. There couldn’t be anything down there of interest, and as those low-budget horror films teach, you never, ever venture into the basement. Well, unless you were an armed Secret Service agent. She took out her pistol and made her way down. Here the hallway carpet was torn up and the air filled with mildew and rot. She passed a spot and came back. She pushed open the small door and shone
her light in. It was a dumbwaiter, a large one. She couldn’t tell if it connected to all eight floors or not. The Fairmount, she’d learned, was a very old hotel, and this might have been the way laundry or other bulky items were moved up and down. There were buttons on the wall next to the dumbwaiter to turn it on and off, so it had been powered by electricity, and a rope on pulleys inside the shaft was doubtless used as a backup in case the power supply was interrupted.

She kept going down the hall until it stopped at a wall of debris that had collapsed from the floor above. The place was literally falling apart. They better hurry up with the wrecking ball, or else they wouldn’t need it.

Michelle needed fresh air and sunlight. She jogged up the stairs. The light hit her right in the eyes. The voice barked in her ear.

“Freeze. Hotel security. I’m armed and prepared to use my weapon.”

Michelle held up her gun and flashlight. “I’m a Secret Service agent.” She said this so automatically that she forgot she didn’t have the badge or creds anymore.

“Secret Service? Right, and I’m Marshal Matt Dillon.”

“Can you take the flashlight out of my eyes?” she asked.

“Put your gun on the floor,” said the voice. “Nice and easy.”

“I’m doing it,” said Michelle. “Just don’t accidentally pull the trigger and shoot me in the process.”

As she straightened back up, the light moved away from her eyes.

“What are you doing here? This is private property.”

“It is?” she said innocently.

“There’s a fence and signs up, lady.”

“Well, I guess I came in another way.”

“What’s the Secret Service doing down here? You got something to show that to be true, by the way?”

“Can we go outside in the light? I feel like I’ve been spelunking on dry land for about six hours.”

“Okay, but don’t pick up your gun. I’ll get it.”

They walked outside, where Michelle got a better look at
the man. He was middle-aged with short grayish hair, medium height and trim, and wearing a rent-a-cop uniform.

He stared at her while he held his pistol in his left hand and slid her pistol into his waistband with his other. “Okay, you were going to show me your badge. But even if you are Secret Service, you still got no business here.”

“Do you remember about eight years ago a politician named Clyde Ritter was killed at this hotel?”

“Remember? Lady, I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s the only exciting thing that’s ever happened in this damn place.”

“Well, I came down to check it out. I’m relatively new to the Service, and this is one of the scenarios we study at the training center—things to avoid, of course. I guess I was just curious, wanted to see for myself. I came all the way from Washington, and I saw that it was closed up, but I didn’t think a quick peek would hurt.”

“I guess I can see that. Now, your badge?”

Michelle thought for a moment. As her hand reached up to touch her chin, it nudged a tiny bit of metal on the way. She took off her lapel pin with the Secret Service insignia and held it out. The lapel pins were worn to allow agents to be identifiable to each other. The colors were constantly changed to prevent successful forging. It was such a routine for her that even on suspension she rose each morning and put one on.

The guard took the lapel pin and studied it before handing it back.

“I left my badge and creds back at the motel where I’m staying,” she explained.

“Okay, I suppose it’s all right. You sure don’t look like the riffraff who break into boarded-up hotels.” He started to hand back her gun and then stopped. “But first, how’s about you open your bag?”

“Why?”

“So I can see what’s in it, that’s why.”

She very reluctantly handed her bag over. As he looked through it, Michelle said, “So who owns the place?”

“They don’t tell folks like me that. I just walk the walk and keep people out.”

“Is there somebody here twenty-four seven?”

“Hell if I know, I just pull my shift.”

“So what are they going to do with this place, knock it down?”

“Beats me. They wait much longer, it’ll fall down.” He pulled the hotel index cards out of her bag and looked at them. “You mind telling me what you’re doing with these?”

She tried to look as innocent as possible. “Oh, those? Well, I happen to know both of those people. They were here when the shooting happened. I… I just thought they might like to have them, sort of as souvenirs,” she added lamely.

He just stared at her and then said, “Souvenirs? Damn, you federal people are weird.” He dropped the cards back into the bag and handed it and her gun back.

As Michelle returned to her car, the security guard watched her go. He waited a few more minutes and then went into the hotel. When he came out ten minutes later, his appearance had drastically changed. Michelle Maxwell was very quick on her feet, he judged. She might very well make his list if she kept up this sort of activity. That’s why he’d come here and dressed as a security guard, to see what she’d found. Certainly those names on the cards had been interesting but hardly surprising: Sean King and J. Dillinger. What a delightful pair. Buick Man climbed into his car and drove off.

D
EPUTY
M
ARSHAL
P
ARKS,
what can I do for you today? How about I cop to a couple of misdemeanors, do community service, and let’s call it a day?” King was sitting on his front porch watching the lawman climb out of his car and then head up the steps. The big man was dressed in jeans and a blue windbreaker that, ironically, read “FBI” and a baseball cap with the initials “DEA.”

In response to King’s look, Parks said, “I started doing this when I was a D.C. cop way back in the seventies. I get this stuff from every agency there is. One of the few perks we in law enforcement have. For my money, DEA has the nicest stuff.” He sat down in a rocking chair next to King and rubbed his knees.

“When I was young, it was pretty cool being so big, a star football and basketball player in high school with the pleasant duty of nailing all the cheerleaders. I even carried the pigskin to pay for college.”

“Where was that?”

“Notre Dame. I never started, but I played in pretty much every game. Tight end. Better blocker than receiver. Only had one career touchdown but it was sweet.”

“That’s impressive.”

Parks shrugged. “Now that I’m not so young, it’s not so cool anymore. It’s just a big pain in the ass. Or the knees or the hips or the shoulders—take your anatomical pick.”

“So how’d you like being a cop in our nation’s capital?”

“I like being a marshal a lot better. Those were weird times. Lots of shit going on.”

King held up his bottle of beer. “You off duty enough to have one?”

“No, but I’ll enjoy a smoke. Got to combat this fresh, bracing mountain air somehow. Nasty stuff. Don’t know how you folks stand it.”

Parks pulled a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and coaxed it to life with a mother-of-pearl lighter, then snapped the lid shut. “You got a nice place here.”

“Thanks.” King watched him carefully. If Parks was heading up the investigation of Howard Jennings’s death along with his other duties, he was a busy person, and his being here had to have a purpose.

“Nice law practice, nice home, nice little town. Nice guy who works hard and gives back to his community.”

“Please, I’ll start blushing.”

Parks nodded. “Of course, nice successful people kill other people all the time in this country, so that doesn’t mean shit to me. Personally I don’t like nice guys all that much. Mark ’em as pantywaists.”

“I wasn’t always so nice. And it wouldn’t take too much of an effort for me to revert to my old asshole ways. In fact, I feel an explosion coming on.”

“That’s encouraging, but don’t try and get on my good side.”

“And how nice can I really be? My gun was the murder weapon.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Would you care to hear my theory on that?”

Parks eyed his watch. “Sure, if you can spare a second and fetch me one of those brews. Funny thing, I just went off duty.”

King did and handed the bottle to him. The marshal sat back in his chair and propped his size fourteens up on the railing and took a swig in between cigar puffs.

“Your theory on the gun?” he prompted as he watched the sun setting.

“I had it with me at the time Jennings was killed. According to you, that same gun killed Jennings.”

“Seems pretty straightforward so far,” Parks said. “In fact, I can handcuff you right now if you want.”

“Well, since I didn’t kill Jennings, it seems pretty clear that I didn’t really have my gun with me.”

Parks shot him a glance. “You changing your story?”

“No. On the six days I don’t use it I keep my gun in a lockbox. I live alone, so I don’t always lock the box up.”

“Pretty stupid.”

“Trust me, after this it goes in an underground vault.”

“Go on.”

“Theory number one, someone takes my gun and leaves a substitute in its place, which I take with me that night. This same person uses my gun to kill Jennings, then puts it back in my box, retrieving the substitute. Theory number two, a substitute gun is used to kill Jennings, and that substitute is placed in my lockbox and becomes the one the ballistics test was run on.”

“The serial numbers on the gun we ran matched the one registered to you.”

“Then it’s my first scenario.”

“So you’re saying somebody took your gun way back when, because they would have had to do that to make an exact replica, and then did this substitution to make it look like your gun killed Jennings?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Are you telling me a former lawman doesn’t know his own weapon?”

“It’s a mass-produced nine-millimeter, Marshal. It’s not some fancy-ass museum piece with diamond studs. I got the gun when I became a deputy. I wear it once a week, never take it out of its holster and then forget about it. Whoever copied it knew what they were doing, though, because it seemed just like mine, weight distribution and feel of the grip.”

“And why go to all this trouble to pin it on you?”

“Well, murderers often try to pin it on someone else, don’t
they? I mean that’s sort of the point. Jennings worked for me. Maybe they thought folks would think what you said earlier, that I killed Jennings because I caught him stealing or he caught me stealing. Motive, gun match, no alibi. Lethal injection here I come.”

Parks put his feet on the floor and sat forward. “Very interesting. Now, let me give you a theory in return. Jennings had lots of guys looking to kill him. That’s why he was in the program. So maybe you knew he was WITSEC and ratted him out for a chunk of cash. Then whoever hired you paid you back by using your gun and stiffing you in the form of a frame. How’s that?” Parks eyed him steadily.

“Actually that one works too,” conceded King.

“Uh-huh.” Parks drained his beer, stubbed out his cigarillo and stood. “How are the media hounds?”

“Not as bad as I would have thought. Most haven’t discovered my house yet. When they do, I’ll just chain off the road at the bottom of the hill, post signs and start shooting trespassers.”

“Now, there’s my kind of asshole.”

“I told you I had it in me.”

Parks headed down the stairs to his car.

King called to him. “So how come I’m not under arrest?”

Parks opened the car door. “Well, primarily because I think your theory number one has some validity. Maybe you
were
carrying a substitution weapon while your gun was used to kill Jennings.”

“I actually didn’t think you’d accept my theory that easily.”

“Oh, I’m not saying you didn’t have Jennings killed and did the gun substitution yourself. Although my favorite scenario still has you ratting him out and the actual triggerman framing you for it.” He looked down at the ground for a second. “No witness in the history of WITSEC who stayed in the program and followed the rules has ever been killed. That was a great sales point to potential witnesses. Now we can’t claim that anymore. And it happened on my watch. I placed Jennings here, and I feel responsible for his death. So just so you know, if you did
set him up, I’ll personally select the prison you’ll be going to, and it’ll be one where you’ll scream for the death penalty about three hours after you check in, asshole or not.” Parks opened his car door and touched the brim of his DEA baseball cap. “Now, you have a real nice evening.”