Split Second (12 page)

L
ORETTA
B
ALDWIN LAY
in the bath and let the hot water take the chill off her bones. The bathroom was dark; she liked it that way, like a mother’s womb, comforting. She chuckled; she had to, every time she thought of it. About that girl that had come by asking all those questions pretending to be making a film about Clyde Ritter, as if anyone would bother. The girl was probably some sort of police officer or private investigator, though why anyone would be digging up the Clyde Ritter mess was beyond her. Yet Loretta would take the money, every cent of it. Just like she had all these years. She’d told the truth, at least to the questions the girl had asked; she just hadn’t asked the right ones. Like what Loretta had seen when she was hiding in the supply closet. What a nervous wreck she’d been getting it out of the hotel, yet no one really noticed her in the chaos. She was just one of the maids, invisible really. And she knew ways out of the hotel that not even the Secret Service had been aware of.

At first she thought to go to the police with what she’d found and seen, but then decided not to. Why get messed up in something like that? And she’d tired of spending her life cleaning up other people’s messes. And what did she care about Clyde Ritter? A man like that was far better off in the grave, where he couldn’t spread his poison.

So she had done it. Sent the note and photo to the person telling what she’d seen and what she now possessed, and arranging for money to come to her. And it had come and she hadn’t broken her silence and the person she was blackmailing never
knew her identity, right up to the end. She’d been real tricky, using a series of P.O. boxes, fake names and one close friend, now dead, to help her cover her tracks. She hadn’t been greedy. It wasn’t a whole lot of money, but with no steady work all these years the cash had come in real handy, let her keep her home, pay her bills, buy some nice things, help her family. Yes, it was all right.

And that girl had never thought to ask; yet how could she have known? And even if she had, Loretta would have lied, just like the girl had lied to her, because if she was a documentary filmmaker, Loretta was Lena Horne. That thought made her laugh so hard she started to choke.

After she settled back down, her thoughts grew more somber. The money was no longer coming, but there was nothing she could do about that now. All things had to end. But she hadn’t been a spendthrift. She’d put some of the money away, knowing that her golden goose would not last forever. She could get by a while longer, and maybe by then another goose would present itself. That girl had given her money. That was a start. Loretta Baldwin was nothing if not optimistic.

The phone rang, startling her. Her bones thoroughly warmed, she opened her eyes and started to climb out of the bathtub. Maybe this was another golden goose calling right now.

She never made it to the phone.

“Remember me, Loretta?”

The man stood over her, a metal pole with a flattened end in his hands.

She would have screamed, but he pushed her under the water with the pole and held her there. For an elderly woman Loretta was fairly strong, but not nearly strong enough. Her eyes kept widening, her body jerking. She grabbed the pole, and water splashed all over the floor. Finally she had to take a breath and her lungs filled with water and it was over quickly after that.

He lifted the pole off and studied her features. Her shriveled body stayed at the bottom of the tub, her dead eyes staring at him. The phone had stopped ringing; the house was silent. He
left the room for a minute, located Loretta’s pocketbook and returned to the bathroom. He pulled out the money Michelle had given the woman, five twenties neatly tucked away in an inside compartment.

He hooked Loretta’s body with the pole and lifted her out of the water. He opened her mouth with his gloved hand and then crammed the money inside. He clamped her jaw shut and let go. She settled back to the bottom, the ends of the twenty-dollar bills sticking out of her mouth. It wasn’t a very attractive look, but it was so very fitting an end for a blackmailer, he thought.

He spent time going through her possessions, searching for the item of his she’d taken all those years ago, but it wasn’t here. To still be denied after all this time? Perhaps Loretta had had the last laugh. And yet she was lying quite dead in the bottom of a tub of water with money stuffed in her mouth. So who was really laughing?

He took his pole and left the way he’d come.

The Buick started up and rattled off. That chapter of his life, that loose end, was finally over. He’d have to drop Michelle Maxwell a thank-you note, perhaps among other things. He would never have known the woman’s identity if the Secret Service agent hadn’t come around asking questions. Loretta Baldwin had not been part of the original plan, only an opportunity that had fallen into his hands and was far too good to pass up.

He was finished with the little province of Bowlington for now. He wished Loretta Baldwin a nice eternity in hell for her crimes. He’d doubtlessly be joining her at some point, and who knew, maybe he’d kill her all over again.

Now, there was a thought!

K
ING LISTLESSLY CAST
his line into the water and slowly reeled it back in. He was standing on his dock, the sun up barely an hour. The fish weren’t biting, yet he didn’t care. The spread of mountains seemed to be watching his uninspired efforts with a brooding focus.

Joan undoubtedly had several complex motives in making her offer. Which ones favored him to any degree other than the financial compensation? Probably none. Joan’s schemes tended to only advance her interests. At least he knew where he stood with the woman.

With Jefferson Parks, King was less certain. The marshal seemed sincere, but that could simply be a facade; it often was with lawmen, King knew. He’d played that game in his investigative career at the Service. King didn’t doubt that whoever had killed Howard Jennings would feel the full wrath of the big man. King just wanted to make certain that he didn’t become that target.

The ripple of water gently touched one of the pilings on his dock, and he looked up to see its source. The scull slid across the lake’s surface, the woman pulling hard on her paddles. She was close enough that King could see the muscled definition of her shoulders and arms revealed by her tank top. As she slowed and coasted toward him, something about her looked very familiar.

She glanced around in surprise, as though unaware she was close to shore.

“Hello,” she said, and waved.

He didn’t wave back, only nodded. He cast his line again, purposely close to her.

“I hope I’m not interfering with your fishing,” she said.

“That depends on how long you’re going to stay.”

She drew her knees up. She was wearing black Lycra shorts, and the thigh muscles were long and looked like cable under skin. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and wiped her face with a towel.

She looked around. “Boy, it’s beautiful here.”

“That’s why people come,” he said warily. “And where exactly did you come from?” He was trying hard to place her.

She pointed south. “I drove over to the state park and put in there.”

“That’s seven miles by water!” he exclaimed. The woman wasn’t even winded.

“I do this a lot.”

Her scull drifted closer. And King finally recognized her. He could barely contain his astonishment.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Agent Maxwell?”

She looked surprised for a moment and then seemed to sense that such a pretense was both unnecessary and even silly under the circumstances.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“One fallen agent to another, no trouble at all.”

He helped her dock the scull. She eyed the covered boat slips and the storage sheds attached to each. King’s jet boat, kayak, Sea-Doo and other vessels were sparkling clean. Tools, ropes, gear and other items were neatly stacked, hung or otherwise arranged.

“A place for everything and everything in its place?” she said.

“I like it that way,” replied King.

“I’m sort of a slob in my personal life.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

They walked up to the house.

Inside he poured the coffee, and they sat at the kitchen table. Michelle had put on a Harvard sweatshirt over her tank top and slipped on a pair of matching sweatpants.

“I thought you went to Georgetown?” said King.

“I got this sweat suit when we did some rowing on the Charles River in Boston while we were training for the Olympics.”

“That’s right. The Olympics. Busy woman.”

“
I
like it that way.”

“Not so busy now, though. I mean you have time for early morning water sports and paying visits to ex–Secret Service agents.”

She smiled. “So you won’t accept my being here as just a coincidence?”

“The real tip-off was the sweat suit. Sort of tells me you hoped to get out of your boat at some point before you got back to your car. On top of that, I doubt you would have rowed seven miles, Olympian or not, unless you knew I was home. I had several phone hang-ups this morning about thirty minutes apart. Let me guess, you have a cell phone in your scull.”

“Once an investigator, always an investigator, I guess.”

“I’m just glad I was home to greet you. I wouldn’t have wanted you to wander around. I’ve had people doing that here lately, and I don’t really care for it.”

She lowered her cup. “I’ve been doing some wandering lately.”

“Really? Good for you.”

“Went down to North Carolina, a little place called Bowlington. I believe you’ve heard of it.” He put down his cup too. “The Fairmount’s still standing but it’s closed up.”

He said, “In my opinion they should just shoot it and put it out of its misery.”

“I’ve always wondered about something. Maybe you can enlighten me?”

“I’ll sure do what I can,” King said sarcastically. “I mean I don’t have much else to occupy my time, so by all means, let me help
you
out.”

She ignored his tone. “The agent configuration with Ritter. You had low manpower, which I guess I understand. But the way you guys were laid out was a disaster. You were the only agent within ten feet of the man.”

King took a sip of coffee and studied his hands.

“I know this is a huge imposition,” Michelle said apologetically. “I just show up and start asking questions. Just tell me to leave and I will.”

Finally King shrugged. “What the hell. You’re getting a taste of what it’s like with the Bruno kidnapping. That sort of makes us blood brothers, in a way.”

“In a way.”

“Meaning what?” he said testily. “That I screwed up more than you and you don’t want to be lumped with me?”

“Actually I think I messed up a lot more than you did. I was detail leader. I let a protectee out of my sight. I didn’t have anyone shooting. I didn’t have to kill anyone while pandemonium was breaking out all around me. You lost your focus for a few seconds. Unforgivable in a Secret Service agent, probably, but I blew it all along the way. I think you shouldn’t want to be lumped with
me
.”

King’s expression softened and his voice grew calmer. “We had barely half the usual complement of agents. That was partly Ritter’s choice and partly the government. He was not well liked, and everyone knew he had no chance to win.”

“But wouldn’t Ritter want as much security as possible?”

“He didn’t trust us,” said King simply. “We were representatives of the administration, insiders. Even though he was a member of Congress, he was an outsider. Way outside with a screwball platform and radical supporters. He even thought we were spying on him, I swear to God. Consequently they kept us in the dark on everything. Changing schedules at the last minute without consulting us, it drove the detail leader, Bob Scott, crazy.”

“I actually can relate. But that wasn’t really reflected in the official record.”

“Why would it be? They had their responsible parties. End of story.”

“But that doesn’t fully explain why the security layout was so poor that day.”

“Ritter seemed to get along with me. Why, I don’t know. Our politics were certainly not the same. But I was respectful, we joked some and I think to the degree he trusted any of us, he trusted me the most. Consequently, when I was on duty, I always covered his back. Other than that, he didn’t like agents around him. He was convinced that the people loved him. That no one would want to hurt him. That false sense of security probably came from his days as a preacher. His campaign manager, guy named Sidney Morse—now, he was supersharp, and he didn’t like that setup very much. He was a lot more realistic about things. He knew that there were people out there who might take a pop at his guy. Morse always wanted at least one agent right next to Ritter. But the rest of the guys were always strewn around the perimeter, way in the background.”

“And pretty much useless when the shot was fired and the crowd panicked.”

“You’ve seen the tape, I take it.”

“Yes. Now, the layout of the agents wasn’t your fault. I would have thought the detail leader would have pushed harder on that.”

“Bob Scott fought in Vietnam, even was a POW. He was a good guy, but for my money he tended to pick the wrong battles to fight. He had a lot going on in his personal life at the time. His wife had filed for divorce a couple months before Ritter was killed. He wanted out of protection to go back into investigation. I think he regretted ever leaving the military. He fit in better in a uniform than a suit. Sometimes he’d even salute people and he always used military time, while as you know, the Service used the standard clock. He just preferred that life.”

“Whatever happened to him?”

“Resigned from the Service. I took most of the heat, but as you found out, the buck stops with the detail leader. He’d pulled his time, so his pension was secure. I lost track of him. It’s not like the guy would be sending me Christmas cards.” He paused and then said, “He was also a bit of a barrel sucker.”

“Gun-happy? Not so unusual for a former soldier. Most law enforcement agencies have their share of those.”

“It was a little unhealthy with Bob. He was a real Second Amendment poster boy.”

“Was he at the hotel when it happened?”

“Yes. Sometimes he’d go ahead with the advance team to the next city, but he decided to stay put in Bowlington. I’m not sure why. It was a real one-horse town.”

“I saw Sidney Morse on the video; he was right by Ritter.”

“Always was. Ritter had a bad habit of losing track of time, and Morse kept him on a tight leash.”

“I heard Morse was quite a force.”

“He was. When the campaign started, a guy named Doug Denby was Ritter’s chief of staff and also his de facto campaign manager. When the campaign started gaining momentum, Ritter needed someone full-time who was really seasoned. Morse fit that bill. The whole campaign was energized when he showed up. He was a fat guy with a motor that never quit, really flamboyant and theatrical. Always munching candy bars with his left hand and talking on a cell phone with his right, barking orders, working the media. I don’t think he ever slept. Denby played second fiddle to Sidney Morse. Hell, I think even Ritter was intimidated by him.”

“How did Morse and Bob Scott get along?”

“They didn’t see eye-to-eye on everything, but that was okay. Like I said, Bob was going through a rough divorce, and Morse had a younger brother—Peter, I think his name was—who was involved in some bad stuff that was really stressing Sidney out too. So he and Scott had some common ground there. They got along pretty well. Now, Morse and Doug Denby didn’t really get along. Doug was the issues guy, sort of an old-school southerner with views that maybe would have been in the mainstream fifty years ago. Morse was the flash, the guy from the West Coast, the showman, getting Ritter in the public eye, on all the talk shows, putting on quite a production. Real quickly
the flash became more important than the issues on the campaign trail. Ritter couldn’t win anyway, but he was a big ham, not so unusual for a TV preacher. So the more his face and name got out, the better he liked it. From what I could tell, the main strategy was to shake up the big boys—and they sure did that, thanks to Morse—and work deals with them later on. It got so that Ritter just did what Morse told him to do.”

“I’m sure Denby didn’t take that very well. What ever happened to him?”

“Who knows? Where do old chiefs of staff go? Anybody’s guess.”

“I take it since you had morning duty, you probably went to bed early the night before?”

King stared at her for a long moment. “After I was off duty, I hit the gym in the hotel with a couple of guys from my shift, had an early supper, and, yeah, I went to bed. Why are you interested in all this, Agent Maxwell?”

“Please, call me Michelle. I saw you on TV after Jennings was killed. I had heard of you at the Service. After what happened to me, I had an impulse to learn more about what happened to you. I felt a connection.”

“Some connection.”

“Who were the other agents assigned to Ritter?”

He looked sharply at her. “Why?”

She looked at him with an innocent expression. “Well, maybe I know some of them. I could go and talk to them. See how they dealt with what happened.”

“I’m sure it’s printed in some report somewhere. Go look it up.”

“It would save me time if you’d just tell me.”

“Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?”

“Okay, was Joan Dillinger one of the members of the protection detail?”

At this King rose and went over to the window, peering out for a few moments. When he looked back, he was scowling. “Are
you wired? Either strip and show me you’re not or you can just jump back in your scull and row your ass right out of my life.”

“I’m not wired. But I will strip if you really think it’s necessary. Or I could go jump in the lake. Electronics and water don’t really go well together,” she added pleasantly.

“What do you want from me?”

“I’d like an answer to my question. Was Joan assigned to the detail?”

“Yes! But on a different shift from mine.”

“Was she at the hotel that day?”

“It seems to me that you already know the answer, so why are you asking?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take it any way you want.”

“Did you two spend the night together?”

“Next question and make it a good one, because it’ll be your last.”

“Okay, right before the shot was fired, who was on the elevator when it opened?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. I heard the
ding
of an elevator right before Ramsey fired his shot. It distracted you. Those elevators were supposed to have been closed off. Whoever or whatever was on that elevator when it opened took your complete attention. That’s why Ramsey could get his shot off and you never saw it. I’ve made some inquiries at the Service about it. People reviewing the video heard a sound too. It wasn’t in the official record but I made some phone calls yesterday. They questioned you about it. You said you heard something but saw nothing. You explained it away as possibly a malfunction with the elevator. And they didn’t push any further because they already had their responsible party. But I’m convinced you were looking at something. Or more to the point, some
one
.”