“Okay, your belly’s full, you’re suitably buzzed. Why are you here?”
“When something extraordinary entailing a major criminal investigation happens to a former agent, everybody’s interested.”
“And they sent you to see me?”
“I’m at a level where I can send myself.”
“So this is unofficial on your part? Or are you just here to spy for the Service?”
“I’d characterize it as unofficial. I’d like to hear your side of things.”
King cradled his glass, fighting an urge to throw it at her. “I don’t have a side of things. The man worked for me for a short time. He was killed. Today I found out he was in witness protection. I don’t know who killed him. End of story.”
She didn’t respond but just stared into the fire. She finally rose, padded over to the fireplace and knelt in front of it, running her hand along the stone facade.
“Carpenter and stonemason?”
“I subbed that out. I know my limitations.”
“That’s refreshing. Most men I know won’t admit to having any.”
“Thanks. But I still want to know why you’re here.”
“It has nothing to do with the Service and everything to do with you and me.”
“There is no ‘you and me.’”
“Well, there was. We worked together at the Service for years. We slept together. Given different circumstances we might have moved on to a more permanent arrangement. And I would like to think that if you heard that a man who happened to be in witness protection had been murdered at a place where I worked and my past was being dredged up again, you might come and see how I was coping.”
“I think you’d be wrong about that.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m glad my miserable situation afforded you this wonderful opportunity to exhibit your compassionate nature.”
“Sarcasm really doesn’t suit you, Sean.”
“It’s late, and it’s a long drive back to D.C.”
“You’re right. It’s too long a drive actually.” She added, “Looks like you have lots of room.” She rose and sat down next to him, uncomfortably close.
“You look fit enough to qualify for the FBI’s Hostage Rescue,” she said, running an admiring eye over his trim six-foot-one-inch frame.
He shook his head. “I’m an old man for that stuff. Bad knees, bum shoulder and all.”
She sighed and looked away, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “I just turned forty.”
“Consider the alternative. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Not for a man. Forty and unmarried for a woman, it’s not so pleasant.”
“You look great. Great for thirty, great for forty. And you’ve got your career.”
“Didn’t think I’d last that long.”
“You lasted longer than me.”
She put her wineglass down and turned to him. “But I shouldn’t have.” There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“It was years ago,” he finally said. “Water under the bridge.”
“Obviously not. I see the way you’re looking at me.”
“What did you expect?”
She picked up her wine again and finished it in one long sip. “You actually have no idea how hard this was for me to come here. I changed my mind about ten times. Took an hour to decide what to wear. It was more nerve-racking than securing a presidential inauguration.”
He had never known her to talk this way. She was always the ultraconfident one. Bantering with the boys like she was not only one of them but the ringleader to boot.
“I’m sorry, Sean. I’m not sure I ever said that I was sorry.”
“Bottom line, it was my fault. Case closed.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I just don’t have the time or energy to hold a grudge. It’s not that important to me.”
Slipping into her heels, she rose and put on her jacket. “You’re right, it is late and I should be going. I’m sorry if I interrupted your wonderful life. And I apologize for being so concerned about you that I came here to see how you were doing.”
King started to speak, hesitated, and then as she headed toward the door, he let out a sigh and said, “You’ve had too much to drink to drive these back roads at night. The guest room’s at the top of the stairs, on the right. There are pajamas in the bureau, and your own bath, and whoever gets up first makes the coffee.”
She turned back. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”
“Trust me, I know that. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She looked at him with an expression that said, “Are you absolutely sure you won’t come see me before the morning?”
He turned and headed away. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ve got some work to do. Sleep tight.”
Joan went outside and got her overnight bag out of the car. When she came back in, he was nowhere around. The master bedroom looked to be at the far end of the hall. She slipped across and peeked inside. It was dark. And empty. She slowly went to her room and closed the door.
12
Michelle Maxwell’s arms and legs moved with maximum efficiency, at least as she judged herself by the far lower standards of these post-Olympic days. Her scull cut through the waters of the Potomac as the sun rose and the already heavy air held the promise of a less chilly day. It was here at Georgetown that she’d begun her rowing career. Her muscular thighs and shoulders were burning with the effort she was expending. She’d passed every other scull, kayak, canoe and comparable vessel on the water, including one that had a five-horsepower engine.
She pulled her scull up to one of the boathouses that sat on the banks in Georgetown, bent over and took deep, long breaths, the endorphins coursing through her blood providing a pleasant high. A half hour later she was in her Land Cruiser heading back to the hotel she’d moved to near Tysons Corner, Virginia. It was still early and traffic was light—relatively light, that is, for a region that routinely saw clogged highways as early as 5:00 A.M. She showered and put on a T-shirt and boxers. With no uncomfortable shoes or stockings, and no holster chafing her, it felt great. She stretched, rubbed her tired limbs down and then ordered room service and threw on a robe before her breakfast was delivered. While having pancakes, orange juice and coffee, she channel-surfed the TV, looking for more news on the Bruno disappearance. Ironic that she was the lead agent in the field that day and was now getting her news on the investigation from CNN. She stopped surfing when she saw a man on TV who looked familiar. He was in Wrightsburg, Virginia, surrounded by news crews and obviously not enjoying it.
It took her a few moments to place him, and then she got it. The man was Sean King. She’d joined the Service a year or so before the Ritter assassination. Michelle had never known what became of Sean King, and had no reason to want to know. But now, as she listened to the details of Howard Jennings’s murder, she began to want to know more. Part of it was purely physical. King was a very good-looking man: tall and well built with close-cropped black hair now heavily graying at the temples. He must be in his mid-forties now, she calculated. He had the sort of face that looked better with lines; it gave him an attraction that he probably never had in his twenties or thirties, when he was probably too pretty-boy-looking. Yet it wasn’t his handsome features that intrigued her the most. As she listened to the sketchy details leading to Jennings’s death, there was something about the murder, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.