Split Second (4 page)

K
ING BACKED HIS
Lexus convertible, top down, out of the garage and headed off to work for the second time in eight hours. The drive took him through winding roads, fabulous views, the occasional wildlife sighting and not much traffic, at least until he hit the road into town, where the automobile volume picked up some. His law office was located on the appropriately named Main Street, the only avenue of consequence in the downtown area of Wrightsburg, a small and relatively new township halfway between the far larger municipalities of Charlottesville and Lynchburg.

He parked in the lot behind the two-story white brick town home that housed King & Baxter, Attorneys and Counselors-at-Law, as the shingle hanging outside proudly proclaimed. He’d gone to law school thirty minutes away at the University of Virginia before dropping out after two years and opting for a career in the Secret Service. At the time, he wanted more adventure than a stack of lawbooks and the Socratic method could provide. Well, he’d had his share of adventure.

After the dust settled from the Clyde Ritter killing, he’d left the Secret Service, finished his degree and opened a solo practice in Wrightsburg. It had now expanded to a two-lawyer firm, and King’s life was finally clicking on all cylinders. He was a respected counselor and friend to many of the most prominent in the area. He gave back to the community as a volunteer deputy police officer and in other ways as well. One of the
most eligible bachelors in the area, he dated when he wanted and didn’t when he didn’t. He had a wide assortment of friends, though few who were intimates. He liked his work, enjoyed his free time and didn’t let much rattle him. His life was marching itself off in carefully constructed and unspectacular measure. He was perfectly fine with that.

As he got out of the Lexus, he saw the woman and contemplated ducking back inside, but she’d already spotted him and rushed over.

“Hello, Susan,” he said as he pulled his briefcase out of the passenger seat.

“You look tired,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Busy lawyer by day, police officer by night.”

“Volunteer deputy police officer, Susan, and only one night a week. In fact, the most exhilarating thing to happen last night was swerving my truck to miss hitting a possum.”

“I bet when you were with the Secret Service, you went days without sleep. How exciting, if exhausting.”

“Not exactly,” he said, and started to head to his office. She followed.

Susan Whitehead was in her early forties, divorced, attractive, rich and apparently dead set on making him her fourth husband. King had handled her last divorce, knew firsthand the number of impossibly annoying quirks the woman had, how vindictive she could be, and his sympathies lay entirely with poor husband number three. He was a timid, reclusive man so smashed under the iron fist of his wife that he’d finally gone off on a four-day drinking, gambling and sex spree in Las Vegas that had been the beginning of the end. He was now a poorer but no doubt happier soul. King had no interest at all in replacing him.

“I’m having a small dinner party on Saturday and was hoping you could come.”

He mentally checked his calendar, found Saturday night free and said, without missing a beat, “I’m sorry, I’ve got plans, thanks anyway. Maybe another time.”

“You have a lot of plans, Sean,” she said coyly. “I’m really hoping that I fit into them at some point.”

“Susan, it’s not good for an attorney and client to become personally involved.”

“But I’m not your client anymore.”

“Still, a bad idea. Trust me on that one.” He reached the front door and unlocked it before adding, “And you have a great day.” He went inside, hoping she wouldn’t follow. He waited a few seconds in the foyer of the building, breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t charge in, and headed up the stairs to his office. He was almost always the first in. His partner, Phil Baxter, was the litigation arm of the two-person firm, while King handled all the other areas: wills, trusts, real estate, business deals, the steady moneymakers. There was a lot of wealth secreted in the quiet nooks and crannies around Wrightsburg. Movie stars, business tycoons, writers and other enriched souls called this area home. They loved it for its beauty, solitude, privacy and local amenities in the form of good restaurants, shopping, a thriving cultural community and a world-class university down the road in Charlottesville.

Phil was not an early riser—court did not open until ten—but he worked very late, the opposite of King. By five o’clock King was usually back home, puttering in his workshop or fishing or boating on the lake that his house backed up to, while Baxter labored on. The two consequently made a nice match.

He opened the door and went in. The receptionist/secretary wouldn’t be there yet. It was not quite eight.

The chair lying on its side was the first thing that caught his eye, and after that the items that were supposed to be on the receptionist’s desktop but were now strewn across the floor. His hand went instinctively to his holstered gun, only he had no holster or gun. All he had was a really kick-ass codicil to a will he’d drafted that would intimidate only the future heirs. He picked up a heavy paperweight from the floor and peered around. The next sight froze him.

There was blood on the floor by the door leading into Baxter’s
office. He moved forward, holding the paperweight ready; with his other hand he pulled out his cell phone, dialed 911 and spoke quietly and clearly to the dispatcher. He reached out his hand to the doorknob, thought better of it and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket so no prints would be smeared. He slowly eased the door open, his muscles tensed, ready for an attack, yet his instincts told him that the place was empty. He looked into the darkened space and used his elbow to flick on the light.

The body was lying on its side directly in front of King; a single gunshot wound to the center of the chest, exiting out the back. It wasn’t Phil Baxter. It was another man—very well known to him, though. And this person’s violent death was about to shatter Sean King’s peaceful existence.

He let out the breath he’d been holding in, and it all hit him in a blinding instant. “Here we go again,” he muttered.

T
HE MAN WAS SITTING
in his Buick and watched as the police cars pulled up in front of King’s law building and the uniformed officers raced inside. His appearance had changed much since he’d sat playing the role of an old man whittling in front of the funeral home while John Bruno was being carried away. The suit he’d worn that day was two sizes too large, to make him look small and emaciated; the dirty teeth, whiskered face, moonshine flask, whittling and a wad of chew in the mouth were all carefully designed to draw the eye to him. And the observer would come away with an indelible impression of who and what he was. And that conclusion would be absolutely incorrect, which was the whole point really.

He was younger now, perhaps by more than thirty years. Like King, he had re-created himself. He munched on a buttered bagel, sipped his black coffee and quietly pondered King’s reaction to the discovery of the body in his office. Shocked at first and then perhaps angry, but not surprised—no, not really surprised when one thought about it.

As he considered this, he turned on the radio, which was always set to the local news channel, and he got the eight o’clock report, which started off with the abduction of John Bruno, the lead story for just about every news service worldwide. It had even chased the Middle East and professional football from the minds of many Americans, at least temporarily.

The man licked his fingers clean of butter and sesame seeds
as he listened. The story had to do with Michelle Maxwell, the Secret Service detail leader. She’d been officially placed on administrative leave, which, he knew, meant she was one foot from the professional grave.

So the woman was out of the game, at least officially. Yet unofficially? That was why he’d memorized Maxwell’s every feature as she passed by him that day. It wasn’t out of the question that he’d confront her again at some point. He already knew her complete background, but the more information, the more intelligence, the better. She was a woman who might sit home and grow bitter, or one who’d charge forward and take risks. From the little he’d seen of her, he thought the latter more likely.

He refocused on the scene unfolding in front of him now. Some of the townsfolk, just showing up for work or opening their shops, were wandering toward the lawyer’s office as yet another police car and then a crime scene van pulled into the small parking lot. This was clearly something new for the respectable little metropolis of Wrightsburg. The men in uniform hardly seemed to know what to do. It was all so heartening to the man as he munched on his bagel. He’d waited so long for all of this; he intended to enjoy it. And there was much more to come.

He noted once again the woman standing outside the office. He’d seen Susan Whitehead when she approached King in the parking lot. A girlfriend? A would-be lover was probably more accurate, the man deduced from the encounter he’d witnessed. He raised his camera and took a couple of shots of her. He waited for King to come out for air, but that was probably not going to happen. King had covered much ground in his rounds as a deputy. So many back roads to traverse, lonely roads they were too. Anything could be out there, in the thick woods, waiting for you. And yet where was one really safe these days?

Inside a zippered bag in his trunk was a very special item that had to go to a special place. In fact, now was the perfect opportunity to do so.

After tossing the remains of his breakfast in a garbage can on the sidewalk he put the rusted Buick in gear and drove off, muffler rattling. He pulled down the street, glancing once in the direction of King’s office, and flippantly gave a thumbs-up sign. As he passed by Susan Whitehead, who was staring at King’s office, he thought, Maybe I’ll be seeing you. Sooner rather than later.

The Buick disappeared down the road, leaving a stricken Wrightsburg in its wake.

Round one was now officially over. He could hardly wait for round two.

W
ALTER
B
ISHOP,
a man very high up in the Secret Service, paced in front of Michelle Maxwell, who sat at a small table and watched. They were in a small conference room deep inside a government building in Washington filled with people reeling from recent events.

Over his shoulder he said, “You should feel relieved you’re only being placed on admin leave, Maxwell.”

“Oh, yes, I’m thrilled you’ve taken my gun and badge. I’m not stupid, Walter. Judgment has already been passed. I’m gone.”

“The investigation is ongoing—in fact, it’s just beginning.”

“Right. All those years of my life, down the toilet.”

He whirled and snapped, “A presidential candidate was kidnapped right under your nose—a first in the agency’s history. Congratulations. You’re lucky you’re not in front of a firing squad. In some other countries you would be.”

“Walter, don’t you think I feel that too? It’s killing me.”

“Interesting choice of words. Neal Richards was a fine agent.”

“I know that too,” she snapped back. “Do you think I knew that this rent-a-cop was in on it? There is no one in the Service who feels worse than I do about Neal.”

“You never should have allowed Bruno in that room alone. If you’d simply followed standard procedures, this never would have happened. At the very least that door should have been open far enough for you to see your man. You never, ever take your eyeballs off your protectee; you know that. That’s Protection Detail 101.”

Michelle shook her head. “Sometimes, on the job, in the middle of all the things we have to put up with, you strike compromises, to keep everybody happy.”

“It’s not our job to keep people happy. It’s our job to keep them safe!”

“Are you telling me this is the first time a judgment call was made in the field to let a protectee in a room without an agent?”

“No, I’m saying this is the first time that call was made and something like this happened. It’s strict liability, Michelle. No excuses will avail. Bruno’s political party is up in arms. Some nuts are actually saying the Service was paid off to knock Bruno out of the race.”

“That’s absurd.”

“I know it is and you know it is, but you get enough people saying it, well, then the public starts believing it.”

Michelle had perched on the edge of her seat during this exchange. Now she sat back and looked calmly at the man.

“Just so we’re clear, I accept full responsibility for what happened, and none of my men should be affected. They were following orders. It was my call and I blew it.”

“Good of you to say. I’ll see what I can do about that.” He paused and added, “I suppose you wouldn’t consider resigning.”

“No, Walter, I really wouldn’t. And just so you know, I’m hiring an attorney.”

“Of course, you are. This is America. Here any screwup can hire a lawyer and actually get money for being incompetent. You must be so proud.”

Michelle suddenly had to blink back tears at this stinging rebuke, yet part of her thought she deserved it. “I’m just protecting myself, Walter, just like you would if you were in my position.”

“Right. Of course.” The man put his hands in his pockets and glanced toward the door in a show of dismissing her.

Michelle rose. “Can I ask one favor?”

“Certainly you can ask. Although you have unbelievable balls to do so.”

“You’re not the first person to notice that,” she said coolly.
He waited expectantly, without replying. “I want to know how the investigation is going.”

“The FBI is handling all of that.”

“I know, but they must be keeping the Service informed.”

“They are, and that information is for Service personnel only.”

“Meaning I’m not?”

“You know, Michelle, I had my doubts when the Service started actively recruiting women. I mean you spend money to train an agent, and then, poof, she gets married, has babies and retires. All that training, money, time, down the drain.”

Michelle couldn’t believe she was listening to this, but she remained silent.

“But when you came on board, I thought, now this gal has what it takes. You were the poster woman for the Service. The best and the brightest.”

“And with it came high expectations.”

“Every agent here has high expectations thrust upon them, nothing less than perfection.” He paused and added, “I know that your record was spotless before this. I know that you were moving up rapidly. I know that you’re a good agent, but you messed up, we lost a protectee and an agent lost his life. It’s not necessarily fair but there you are. It wasn’t really fair for them either.” He paused again, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “You may stay with the Service in some capacity. But you’ll never, ever forget what happened. It’ll be with you every minute of every day for the rest of your life. And that will hurt you far worse than anything the Service could do to you. Trust me.”

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I was with Bobby Kennedy at the Ambassador Hotel. I was a rookie cop in L.A. when RFK came through. I just stood there and watched a man who should have gone on to be president bleed to death on the floor. Every day since then I’ve wondered what I could have done differently that would have prevented it from happening. It was one of the major reasons I joined the Service years later. I guess I wanted to make up for it somehow.” His gaze caught hers. “I never did make up for it. And, no, you never forget.”