Split Second (25 page)

J
OAN AND
K
ING
were staying at a hotel in Washington when Joan received the news about Mildred Martin’s murder. She called King’s room and told him.

“Damn it,” he exclaimed. “There goes another potential witness.”

“And you know what this means, Sean.”

“Yes, whoever killed Loretta Baldwin killed Mildred Martin.” He added sarcastically, “Unless you buy that two different killers would murder their victims in the exact same way.”

“So it’s confirmed. She
was
lying. She made the call to Bruno. She poisoned her husband, and the Lizzie Borden stuff was made up. So why kill her?”

Neither one of them had the answer to that.

It was late morning when they drove back to Wrightsburg. By prearrangement they met Parks and Michelle at King’s house for lunch.

Michelle and Parks had brought carryout Chinese, and they all gathered on the rear deck to eat and discuss the case.

“Figured you two would be really hungry from all your detective work,” said Parks as he pushed sweet-and-sour chicken into his mouth. “Heard from the FBI that you been burning up the frequent flier mileage on this Bruno thing.”

“A lot of miles and not a lot of results,” answered King.

Joan took a few minutes to bring them up to date on their investigations and interviews with Mildred Martin and Catherine Bruno as well as their noninterview with Sidney Morse.

“Sounds like Peter Morse hit the jackpot,” said Michelle. “I wonder where he is?”

“My bet wouldn’t be Ohio,” said King. “I’m thinking a tiny island in the sun.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Joan. “I’d love to try it.”

Parks looked at some notes and then said, “Okay, Michelle filled me in on your talks with Ramsey’s buddy at Atticus College, Horst?”

“Jorst,” corrected Michelle.

“Right. And it didn’t look like he could shed much light on anything.”

“Ramsey obviously had a problem with Clyde Ritter,” said King.

“Just political,” asked Parks, “or something more?”

King shrugged. “Ramsey was a Vietnam War protester, a Berkeley-educated turbocharged radical, at least in his youth. Ritter was a former TV preacher and as conservative as Ramsey was liberal. Hell, if Ritter had had a gun, he probably would have shot Ramsey first!”

“I believe Thornton Jorst is worth another look,” said Michelle. “Everything he told us made sense—too much sense, as though he were filling in the numbers for us, telling us exactly what he thought we came to hear. And there was something about his demeanor that wasn’t quite right.”

“Interesting,” said Joan as she sipped her tea.

“And we’re going to follow up with Kate Ramsey as soon as she gets back to Richmond,” Michelle added.

“What happened to your reassignment?” asked King.

“They turned it into vacation instead.”

Joan said, “My, I don’t remember the Service being that accommodating.”

“I think the good marshal here had something to do with it.”

They all stared at a very uncomfortable-looking Parks.

He put down his chopsticks and took a swig of wine. “Good stuff.”

“It should be,” said King.

“Expensive?”

“Price often has little to do with how good a wine is. That bottle is maybe twenty-five dollars, and you’d be hard put to find a better Bordeaux at three times the price.”

“You really have to educate me on this, Sean. It’s so impressive,” said Joan before her gaze fell fully upon Parks. “So, Jefferson, this rescue of Agent Maxwell you orchestrated. To what do we owe this magnanimous gesture?”

Parks cleared his throat. “Okay, I’ll just lay it out for you. How’s that? I’m not much into covert shit.”

“Sounds yummy,” she said. “I’m all ears.”

“Joan, give it a rest,” said King. “Go ahead,” he told Parks.

“There’s been a task force formed among the FBI, Secret Service and the Marshals. Its purpose is to figure out what the hell is going on with the Bruno disappearance, the murder of Howard Jennings, Susan Whitehead, Loretta Baldwin and most recently Mildred Martin. From the deaths of Baldwin and Martin we know they were killed by the same person or persons.”

Michelle said, “Right, this is Logic 101. Baldwin goes with Ritter, and Martin goes with Bruno. Therefore, if Baldwin and the Martins’ deaths are connected somehow, Ritter and Bruno must be connected too.”

“Maybe,” said Parks warily. “I’m not running to any conclusions right now.”

King left for a minute. When he returned, he handed Parks a piece of paper. It was the copy of the message he’d found pinned to Susan Whitehead’s body. King glanced over at Joan, who flinched and then immediately rose and proceeded to read the note over Parks’s shoulder.

Parks finished and looked up. “I heard about this note from the fibbies. So what’s your take?”

“That maybe I’m at the center of all this somehow,” King said.

“Pushing a post and giving feet?” said Parks.

“Secret Service parlance,” said Michelle.

“It sounds like a revenge note to me,” concluded Parks.

“And it concerns the Ritter assassination,” said Joan.

“Ramsey hit his target. And Sean killed Ramsey,” said Parks. “So who’s left to take out revenge?” he added suspiciously.

“Keep in mind the gun in Loretta’s backyard,” said King. “Maybe there were two assassins there that day. I killed one of them, and the other one got away until Loretta started blackmailing him. If I’m reading the tea leaves right, the guy is on the scene now, and Loretta paid the ultimate price for her scheme. As did Mildred Martin when she messed up on the Bruno end of things.”

Parks shook his head. “So that guy’s coming after you? Why now? And why involve Bruno and the Martins? That’s going to a lot of trouble. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if this psycho wanted to pay you back, he could have killed you the other night when Michelle almost had her neck snapped.”

“I don’t think they wanted Sean to die that night,” said Joan. She looked at Michelle. “They clearly didn’t feel the same about you.”

One of Michelle’s hands went to her throat. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m not in the habit of making people comfortable,” said Joan. “It’s usually such a waste of time.”

Parks sat back in his chair. “Okay, let’s just suppose that Bruno and Ritter are somehow tied together. That accounts for the Martin murders and Loretta Baldwin too. Susan Whitehead’s murder might have just been a way for the killer to put an exclamation point on the note left with you, Sean. But how does Howard Jennings tie into all this?”

“He worked for me,” said King, putting aside for now his gut instinct that Parks’s agenda was broader than merely finding Jennings’s killer. “Maybe that’s enough. I think Susan Whitehead was killed merely because the killer spotted her with me, maybe on the morning I discovered Jennings’s body. He wanted to leave me that note, and decided to include a body with it as a sick way of making a point.”

“I’d buy that if Jennings were just one of your neighbors. But he was a WITSEC.”

King said, “Okay, how about this? Jennings goes into my office late that night for some reason, to catch up on some work, and he stumbles on this maniac going through my office. And he gets popped for his troubles.”

Parks rubbed his chin and looked unconvinced while Joan nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s plausible,” she said. “But let’s get back to the revenge angle. Revenge against Sean for what? Allowing Ritter to die?”

“Maybe our killer is some nut from Ritter’s political party,” said Michelle.

“Well, if so, he’s held a long grudge,” said King.

“Think, Sean, there must be someone,” urged Joan.

“I didn’t really know many of the Ritter people. Just Sidney Morse, Doug Denby—and maybe a couple of others.”

“Morse is institutionalized,” said Joan. “We saw that for ourselves. He catches tennis balls. He couldn’t mastermind something like this.”

“And besides,” said King, “if the person we’re after is the same guy who hid the gun in the supply closet and then was blackmailed by Loretta and then killed her, that person couldn’t be someone backing Ritter’s candidacy.”

“You mean he would have been killing his own golden goose?” said Parks.

“Right. That’s why we can rule out Sidney Morse even if he weren’t a vegetable, and Doug Denby too. They’d have no motive.”

Michelle suddenly looked excited. “What about Bob Scott, the detail leader?”

“But that doesn’t make any sense either,” said King. “Scott wouldn’t have had to hide his gun. No one would have searched him. And even if they did, it would have been strange finding him not armed.”

Michelle shook her head. “No, I meant his career, like yours,
was ruined when Ritter died. That could be a motive for revenge. Does anybody even know where he is?”

“We can find out,” said Joan.

King scowled. “But that doesn’t explain the gun I found and why Loretta was killed. She was killed because she was blackmailing someone. And that someone couldn’t have been Bobby Scott because he’d have no reason to hide a gun.”

Parks said, “Okay, Scott looks to be a strikeout. But let’s go back to this Denby guy. Who was he?”

Joan said, “Clyde Ritter’s chief of staff.”

“Any idea where he is now?” asked Parks.

“No,” said Joan. She looked at King. “How about you?”

“I haven’t seen Denby since Ritter died. He pretty much dropped off the planet. It wasn’t like any of the major parties would be picking him up. I imagine he was pretty much a pariah after partnering with Ritter.”

“I know it seems highly unlikely given their respective ideologies, but could Denby and Arnold Ramsey have known each other?” wondered Michelle.

“Well, it’s something we should check out,” voiced Parks.

“Our suspect list is growing exponentially,” commented Joan. “And we’re not even sure if these multiple lines of investigation are even connected.”

King nodded. “There are a lot of possibilities. If we’re going to crack this thing, we have to work together. I think I can speak for the marshal and Michelle, but are you in?” he asked Joan.

She smiled demurely. “Of course. So long as everyone clearly understands that my participation is a paid engagement.”

T
HEY LAID THE
wires out in precise lengths and then connected them to the explosives, all of which were located at load-bearing points. They worked slowly and methodically, for at this juncture there was no room for error.

“Wireless detonators are a lot easier to work with,” said “Officer Simmons” to the other man. “And we wouldn’t have to carry all this damn cable.”

The Buick Man stopped what he was doing and turned to look at him. They each wore battery-powered lights attached to plastic helmets, since the darkness here was complete. They could have been far underground where no light ever reached.

“And like cell phones versus hard line, they are unreliable, particularly as the signals would have to penetrate thousands of tons of concrete. Just do what you’re told.”

“Just voicing an opinion,” said Simmons.

“I don’t need any more opinions, especially from you. You’ve been more than enough trouble. I thought you were a professional.”

“I
am
a professional.”

“Then start acting like one! I’ve had enough of amateurs running around not following my instructions.”

“Well, Mildred Martin won’t be doing any more running. You saw to that.”

“Yes, and let that be a lesson to you.”

The heavy-duty portable generator was set up in the corner,
and Buick Man started going over its controls, lines and fuel tanks.

Simmons said, “You sure that’ll give us all the power we need? I mean for everything you’ve got planned? That’ll take a lot of juice.”

Buick Man didn’t even bother to look at him. “More than enough. Unlike you, I know exactly what I’m doing.” He pointed with a wrench to a large coil of electrical wire. “Just make sure the lines are strung properly. To every location I gave you.”

“And you’ll double-check my work, of course.”

“Of course,” he replied tersely.

Simmons looked at the elaborate control board that was set up in the far corner of the room. “This is some nice stuff. The best, in fact.”

“Just wire it the way I told you,” Buick Man said curtly.

“What’s a party without lights and sound, right?”

They started wheeling in the heavy boxes on hand trucks, unpacking these containers and stacking the contents neatly in another corner of the cavernous space.

The younger man looked at one of the items from the boxes. “You did a good job on these.”

“They needed to be as accurate as possible. I don’t like imprecision.”

“Yeah, don’t I know that.”

While lifting a container Simmons suddenly grimaced and clutched at his side.

The Buick Man observed this and said, “That’s what you get for trying to strangle Maxwell instead of simply shooting her. Didn’t you ever consider that a Secret Service agent might be armed?”

“I like my victims to know my presence. It’s just
my
way.”

“While working for me you’ll subvert your ways to mine. You’re lucky the bullet just nicked you.”

“I suppose you would have just left me to die if the bullet had done serious damage?”

“No. I would have shot you and put you out of your misery.”

Simmons stared at his companion for a long moment. “I bet you would have.”

“Yes, I would have.”

“Well, we got the gun back, that’s the important thing.”

Buick Man stopped working and looked at him steadily. “Maxwell frightens you, doesn’t she?”

“I’m not afraid of any man, much less a woman.”

“She almost killed you. In fact, it’s only by sheer luck that you escaped.”

“I won’t miss next time.”

“See that you don’t. Because if you do miss, I certainly won’t miss you.”