“Makes you wonder why he bothered to call a press conference, doesn’t it?” Will said.
“Makes me wonder why he’s still director,” said Tim Coleman, the press secretary.
“Don’t start, Tim,” Will said. “You know that’s on my list of things to do.”
“Do you want us to start developing a list of possible replacements?” Kitty asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Will said, “and I’m inclined to go a different route than in the past.”
“How do you mean?”
“The past few directors have been federal judges or U.S. Attorneys, like Heller, and frankly, I don’t think those jobs particularly qualify a person to be director of the FBI. I’d rather have somebody like a police chief who’s done a good job in a big city, somebody who’s run a large law enforcement agency and who has a background as an officer himself. Or herself.”
“You think the FBI is ready for a female director?” Tim asked.
“I don’t think the FBI will ever be ready for a female director, but I’m willing to give them one, if the right woman comes along.”
“What about promoting from within?” Kitty asked.
“I tend to think that we need somebody who can shake up the FBI culture, make it more responsive to other agencies, and, for that matter, to me, and that would most likely be an outsider. But if you can find a superbly qualified senior man in the Bureau who hasn’t been tainted by Waco or Ruby Ridge or the Richard Jewel mess or some other debacle, then I’ll consider him.” The president stood up. “I think that’s the day,” he said.
The group broke up, and Will, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, made for the elevator to the family quarters of the White House. “
BOB KINNEY, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a blue blazer with an open-necked shirt, left his room and wandered through the public rooms of the apparently deserted inn. It was handsomely decorated, he thought, and he hoped Nancy Kimble would find enough guests to make a go of it. He walked into a nicely paneled library, spotted a carved mahogany bar in a corner, and made for it.
“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked from the doorway.
“Let me buy you one,” he said, slipping behind the bar.
She walked across the room toward him, tall, leggy, dressed in well-cut black trousers and a white silk blouse. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have a Laphroaig.”
“A what?”
“Single-malt Scotch,” she said, pointing. “On the rocks.”
“I think I’ll try one, too,” he said. He found a pair of glasses, filled them with ice, and poured the amber liquid.
They touched glasses and sipped.
“Mmm,” he said. “That’s remarkable.”
“I always think I can taste the peat from the Scottish soil,” she replied.
“So you’re new to the innkeeping business?” he asked.
“Yes. My husband dropped dead of a heart attack at his desk seven months ago. He was with a brokerage firm in Charlotte, and we had just finished decorating this house.”
“How old was he?”
“He was fifty-two. How old are you?”
“Fifty-four and a half,” he replied.
“I’m forty-four,” she said.
“You don’t look it.”
She smiled for the first time. “That’s just what you were supposed to say. I’ve never met an FBI agent before. Are you typical of the breed?”
“No, I’m larger, smarter, and more ornery. I’ve never met an innkeeper before, except across a check-in desk.”
“Are you married?”
“Separated, pending divorce,” he replied. “It’ll be final next month.”
“Kids?”
“Two, both girls, both all grown up and married. One of them is going to present me with a grandson in a couple of months. How about you?”
“Childless. We tried, it didn’t work. It’s probably just as well. I’m not sure what kind of a mother I would have been. Do you like veal?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because we’re having blanquette de veau, whether you like it or not.”
“A blanket of veal?”
“It’s a stew, and it covers the rice, like a blanket.”
“Sounds great.”
“I thought you might like something other than southern cooking, so I sent the cook home.”
“I like southern cooking, too.”
“Stick around a couple of days, and you’ll get plenty.”
“I’m going to do everything I can to stick around for at least a couple of days,” he said.
“Good. Who shot the senator?”
“We’ve narrowed the list of people with a motive to about ten thousand.”
She laughed aloud. “Add me to the list,” she said. “I hated the bastard and his politics.”
“What kind of shot are you?” he asked.
“I’ve never fired a gun of any kind.”
“Where were you at dawn this morning?”
“Showing the cook how to scramble eggs slowly.”
“Well, you have a motive, but no means or opportunity,” he said. “You’re officially cleared.”
“Aw shucks. I was hoping to be more thoroughly investigated.”
He peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t say you weren’t going to be investigated,” he said.
She smiled a little. “Oh, good.”
9
KINNEY WOKE UP AT EIGHT and reached for her; she was gone, and the covers were cool. He sighed. It had been a memorable night, the kind he had not had since the first year of his marriage. He had to get moving.
He showered, dressed, and went looking for Nancy Kimble. He found a table set for one in the dining room, settled there and waited, sipping the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice that had been left for him.
Nancy soon came through the kitchen door with a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage and set it before him. “Good morning,” she said. She sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.
“I appear to have taken advantage of you last night,” Kinney said.
“On the contrary, it was I who took advantage of you. Here I was, alone in this house for the first time with a big, handsome man, and an FBI agent on top of that. I just couldn’t help myself.”
“I guess I’m pretty much an opportunist myself,” he said. “It was the nicest night I’ve spent in living memory.”
“You’re sweet,” she said, smiling. “What are you doing today?”
“I have some work to do out at the senator’s lake cabin, and it will take me all day.”
“You’ll be back for dinner?”
“I will, but unless I get lucky and there’s another serious federal crime in the area, I’m going to have to go back to Washington tomorrow.”
“Well, there’s always tonight,” she said.
KINNEY WAS SITTING in a rocker on the front porch when the sheriff’s patrol car pulled up to the curb, followed by a deputy in an unmarked car.
Tom Stribling got out and handed Kinney the keys. “All yours,” he said. “Need any help?”
“Nah, this is going to be mostly repetition,” Kinney replied. “What shall I do with the car when I’m done?”
“Leave it at the airport when you go,” Stribling replied.
“Tom, I’ve made it clear to my people that you’re in charge of the local investigation. We’re just there to offer support-prints, lab work-anything you need.”
“I 'preciate that,“ Stribling said. ”I’m afraid I don’t have anything new for you.“
“That doesn’t surprise me. This is going to be a tough one. Thanks for your help.” The two men shook hands.
Stribling got into his patrol car with his deputy, waved, and drove away.
Kinney started the car, drove to Main Street, and found a hardware store. He purchased some tools, then drove out to the senator’s cabin. A deputy waved him through a gate, and then he was alone in the house.
He started with a thorough room-by-room search of every drawer and closet, every nook and cranny. That done, without success, he started on the floorboards, looking for loose ones or boards that were too short or out of place. When he found an interesting one, he used a prybar to lift it, then hammered it back into place when he was done.