“Well, I guess I came in another way.”
“What’s the Secret Service doing down here? You got something to show that to be true, by the way?”
“Can we go outside in the light? I feel like I’ve been spelunking on dry land for about six hours.”
“Okay, but don’t pick up your gun. I’ll get it.”
They walked outside, where Michelle got a better look at the man. He was middle-aged with short grayish hair, medium height and trim, and wearing a rent-a-cop uniform.
He stared at her while he held his pistol in his left hand and slid her pistol into his waistband with his other. “Okay, you were going to show me your badge. But even if you are Secret Service, you still got no business here.”
“Do you remember about eight years ago a politician named Clyde Ritter was killed at this hotel?”
“Remember? Lady, I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s the only exciting thing that’s ever happened in this damn place.”
“Well, I came down to check it out. I’m relatively new to the Service, and this is one of the scenarios we study at the training center—things to avoid, of course. I guess I was just curious, wanted to see for myself. I came all the way from Washington, and I saw that it was closed up, but I didn’t think a quick peek would hurt.”
“I guess I can see that. Now, your badge?”
Michelle thought for a moment. As her hand reached up to touch her chin, it nudged a tiny bit of metal on the way. She took off her lapel pin with the Secret Service insignia and held it out. The lapel pins were worn to allow agents to be identifiable to each other. The colors were constantly changed to prevent successful forging. It was such a routine for her that even on suspension she rose each morning and put one on.
The guard took the lapel pin and studied it before handing it back.
“I left my badge and creds back at the motel where I’m staying,” she explained.
“Okay, I suppose it’s all right. You sure don’t look like the riffraff who break into boarded-up hotels.” He started to handback her gun and then stopped. “But first, how’s about you open your bag?”
“Why?”
“So I can see what’s in it, that’s why.”
She very reluctantly handed her bag over. As he looked through it, Michelle said, “So who owns the place?”
“They don’t tell folks like me that. I just walk the walk and keep people out.”
“Is there somebody here twenty-four seven?”
“Hell if I know, I just pull my shift.”
“So what are they going to do with this place, knock it down?”
“Beats me. They wait much longer, it’ll fall down.” He pulled the hotel index cards out of her bag and looked at them. “You mind telling me what you’re doing with these?”
She tried to look as innocent as possible. “Oh, those? Well, I happen to know both of those people. They were here when the shooting happened. I… I just thought they might like to have them, sort of as souvenirs,” she added lamely.
He just stared at her and then said, “Souvenirs? Damn, you federal people are weird.” He dropped the cards back into the bag and handed it and her gun back.
As Michelle returned to her car, the security guard watched her go. He waited a few more minutes and then went into the hotel. When he came out ten minutes later, his appearance had drastically changed. Michelle Maxwell was very quick on her feet, he judged. She might very well make his list if she kept up this sort of activity. That’s why he’d come here and dressed as a security guard, to see what she’d found. Certainly those names on the cards had been interesting but hardly surprising: Sean King and J. Dillinger. What a delightful pair. Buick Man climbed into his car and drove off.
19
“Deputy Marshal Parks, what can I do for you today? How about I cop to a couple of misdemeanors, do community service, and let’s call it a day?” King was sitting on his front porch watching the lawman climb out of his car and then head up the steps. The big man was dressed in jeans and a blue windbreaker that, ironically, read “FBI” and a baseball cap with the initials “DEA.”
In response to King’s look, Parks said, “I started doing this when I was a D.C. cop way back in the seventies. I get this stuff from every agency there is. One of the few perks we in law enforcement have. For my money, DEA has the nicest stuff.” He sat down in a rocking chair next to King and rubbed his knees.
“When I was young, it was pretty cool being so big, a star football and basketball player in high school with the pleasant duty of nailing all the cheerleaders. I even carried the pigskin to pay for college.”
“Where was that?”
“Notre Dame. I never started, but I played in pretty much every game. Tight end. Better blocker than receiver. Only had one career touchdown but it was sweet.”
“That’s impressive.”
Parks shrugged. “Now that I’m not so young, it’s not so cool anymore. It’s just a big pain in the ass. Or the knees or the hips or the shoulders—take your anatomical pick.”
“So how’d you like being a cop in our nation’s capital?”
“I like being a marshal a lot better. Those were weird times. Lots of shit going on.”
King held up his bottle of beer. “You off duty enough to have one?”
“No, but I’ll enjoy a smoke. Got to combat this fresh, bracing mountain air somehow. Nasty stuff. Don’t know how you folks stand it.”
Parks pulled a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and coaxed it to life with a mother-of-pearl lighter, then snapped the lid shut. “You got a nice place here.”
“Thanks.” King watched him carefully. If Parks was heading up the investigation of Howard Jennings’s death along with his other duties, he was a busy person, and his being here had to have a purpose.
“Nice law practice, nice home, nice little town. Nice guy who works hard and gives back to his community.”
“Please, I’ll start blushing.”
Parks nodded. “Of course, nice successful people kill other people all the time in this country, so that doesn’t mean shit to me. Personally I don’t like nice guys all that much. Mark ’em as pantywaists.”
“I wasn’t always so nice. And it wouldn’t take too much of an effort for me to revert to my old asshole ways. In fact, I feel an explosion coming on.”
“That’s encouraging, but don’t try and get on my good side.”
“And how nice can I really be? My gun was the murder weapon.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Would you care to hear my theory on that?”
Parks eyed his watch. “Sure, if you can spare a second and fetch me one of those brews. Funny thing, I just went off duty.”
King did and handed the bottle to him. The marshal sat back in his chair and propped his size fourteens up on the railing and took a swig in between cigar puffs.
“Your theory on the gun?” he prompted as he watched the sun setting.
“I had it with me at the time Jennings was killed. According to you, that same gun killed Jennings.”
“Seems pretty straightforward so far,” Parks said. “In fact, I can handcuff you right now if you want.”
“Well, since I didn’t kill Jennings, it seems pretty clear that I didn’t really have my gun with me.”
Parks shot him a glance. “You changing your story?”
“No. On the six days I don’t use it I keep my gun in a lockbox. I live alone, so I don’t always lock the box up.”
“Pretty stupid.”
“Trust me, after this it goes in an underground vault.”
“Go on.”
“Theory number one, someone takes my gun and leaves a substitute in its place, which I take with me that night. This same person uses my gun to kill Jennings, then puts it back in my box, retrieving the substitute. Theory number two, a substitute gun is used to kill Jennings, and that substitute is placed in my lockbox and becomes the one the ballistics test was run on.”