“The serial numbers on the gun we ran matched the one registered to you.”
“Then it’s my first scenario.”
“So you’re saying somebody took your gun way back when, because they would have had to do that to make an exact replica, and then did this substitution to make it look like your gun killed Jennings?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Are you telling me a former lawman doesn’t know his own weapon?”
“It’s a mass-produced nine-millimeter, Marshal. It’s not some fancy-ass museum piece with diamond studs. I got the gun when I became a deputy. I wear it once a week, never take it out of its holster and then forget about it. Whoever copied it knew what they were doing, though, because it seemed just like mine, weight distribution and feel of the grip.”
“And why go to all this trouble to pin it on you?”
“Well, murderers often try to pin it on someone else, don’t they? I mean that’s sort of the point. Jennings worked for me. Maybe they thought folks would think what you said earlier, that I killed Jennings because I caught him stealing or he caught me stealing. Motive, gun match, no alibi. Lethal injection here I come.”
Parks put his feet on the floor and sat forward. “Very interesting. Now, let me give you a theory in return. Jennings had lots of guys looking to kill him. That’s why he was in the program. So maybe you knew he was WITSEC and ratted him out for a chunk of cash. Then whoever hired you paid you back by using your gun and stiffing you in the form of a frame. How’s that?” Parks eyed him steadily.
“Actually that one works too,” conceded King.
“Uh-huh.” Parks drained his beer, stubbed out his cigarillo and stood. “How are the media hounds?”
“Not as bad as I would have thought. Most haven’t discovered my house yet. When they do, I’ll just chain off the road at the bottom of the hill, post signs and start shooting trespassers.”
“Now, there’s my kind of asshole.”
“I told you I had it in me.”
Parks headed down the stairs to his car.
King called to him. “So how come I’m not under arrest?”
Parks opened the car door. “Well, primarily because I think your theory number one has some validity. Maybe you were carrying a substitution weapon while your gun was used to kill Jennings.”
“I actually didn’t think you’d accept my theory that easily.”
“Oh, I’m not saying you didn’t have Jennings killed and did the gun substitution yourself. Although my favorite scenario still has you ratting him out and the actual triggerman framing you for it.” He looked down at the ground for a second. “No witness in the history of WITSEC who stayed in the program and followed the rules has ever been killed. That was a great sales point to potential witnesses. Now we can’t claim that anymore. And it happened on my watch. I placed Jennings here, and I feel responsible for his death. So just so you know, if you did set him up, I’ll personally select the prison you’ll be going to, and it’ll be one where you’ll scream for the death penalty about three hours after you check in, asshole or not.” Parks opened his car door and touched the brim of his DEA baseball cap. “Now, you have a real nice evening.”
20
The next day King left Wrightsburg early, fought northern Virginia morning rush hour traffic and arrived in Reston, Virginia, around ten. The ten-story office building was relatively new and now about half-leased. A dot-com company had rented the entire space several years ago and despite having no products or profits, decorated it lavishly and then, astonishingly, ran out of money. The area was very nice with shops and restaurants at the nearby Reston Town Center. Well-dressed consumers slipped in and out of pricey stores. People struggled to get where they needed to go on the congested roads. It all had a high-energy, upscale feel to it. Yet King simply wanted to accomplish what he’d come to do, then retreat to the bucolic environs of the Blue Ridge.
The top floor of the building was now occupied by a firm known simply as the Agency, a name it had actually trademarked for commercial use, probably much to the chagrin of the CIA. The Agency was one of the premier investigative and security firms in the country. King rode up in the private elevator, waving to a surveillance camera that was eyeballing him, and was met in a small waiting room off the main lobby by someone who looked armed and ready to use his weapon. King was searched and had to step through a metal detector before he was allowed to proceed to the lobby. It was tastefully appointed and had no one in it other than a watchful woman at the front desk who took his name and dialed her phone.
He was escorted back by a stylishly dressed young man with broad shoulders and curly dark hair, wearing a headset and displaying an arrogant manner. He opened the door and motioned King through and then left, closing the door behind him. King looked around the office. It was a four-window corner unit, the glass all heavily tinted and reflecting from the outside, though on the top floor the only things capable of peeping in would be birds, or folks in dangerously low-flying planes. The whole feel of the place was quiet, understated yet undeniably prosperous.
When a side door opened and she walked in, King didn’t know whether to say hello or knock the woman over her desk and strangle her.
“I’m very touched that you’d brave the traffic to come and see me,” said Joan. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit that was flattering to her figure, not that many clothing choices wouldn’t be. Yet the sleek cut of the suit and her three-inch spikes gave her the impression of height she really didn’t have.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Only fair considering how much of me you’ve seen recently. But I really was very surprised to hear from you.”
“Well, now we’re even. Because I can’t tell you what a shock it was to find out you weren’t with the Service anymore.”
“I didn’t tell you that when I came to your house?”
“No, Joan, that one you somehow forgot to mention.”
She sat down on a small leather sofa set against one wall and motioned for him to join her. On the table in front of her was a coffee service. While King sat, she poured.
“You can hold the eggs, toasted bagel. And lace panties,” he added. He was very surprised when the woman reddened at his remark.
“I’m really trying very hard to block that out of my mind,” she said quietly.
He took a sip of coffee and looked around. “Wow, look at this place. At the Service did we even have desks?”
“No, because we didn’t need them. We were either driving really fast in cars…”
“Or pushing till our feet gave out,” he finished for her. “Pushing” was Secret Service shorthand for being on duty, usually standing at a post to secure it.
She sat back and looked around her office. “It is nice, but I’m not really here that much. I’m usually on a plane somewhere.”
“At least you get to fly commercial or private. Military transport is hard on the back, butt and stomach. We flew enough of those.”
“You remember going on Air Force One?” she asked.
“Anyone who has never forgets.”
“I miss that part.”
“But you make a lot more money.”
“I guess you do too.”
He shifted his weight and balanced his cup in the palm of his hand. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll get down to it. A U.S. deputy marshal named Jefferson Parks came to see me. He’s heading up the investigation on Howard Jennings, the murdered WITSEC. He was the one who came for my gun while you were there.”