She led him to a small room off the main library floor. They passed students sitting at small tables with laptops in front of them dutifully learning that the law can be equal parts exhilarating and stupefying.
“Sometimes I wish I were a student here again,” King said.
“You’re not the first to say that. If being a law student paid anything, we’d have lots of permanent ones.”
The librarian logged him on the system and departed. King settled in front of the PC terminal and went to work. The speed of the computer and ease of the on-line service made his search much easier than the manual one at his office, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for: the name of a certain lawyer in California. After several false hits he was almost sure he’d found the one he was looking for. The lawyer was now deceased. That was why he hadn’t been listed in King’s current directory. But in the 1974 edition the man was front and center.
The only problem now was to verify that it was indeed the man he was seeking, and such verification couldn’t be found on this database. Fortunately he thought he knew a way to get that confirmation. He called Donald Holmgren, the retired P.D. lawyer who’d initially handled Arnold Ramsey’s defense. When King mentioned the name of the firm and the lawyer, and the other man gasped, he wanted to let out a victorious scream.
“I’m sure that was it,” said Holmgren. “That’s the man who handled Arnold Ramsey’s defense. He was the one who cut that great deal.”
As King clicked off his cell phone, so many things began to make sense. And yet there were many places where he was still in the dark.
If only Michelle would report back to him with the answer he’d been looking for. The answer that would match what had been scratched on the wall of that prison cell. If she did, he might actually find the truth in all this. And if he was right? The thought actually sent chills down his neck, because the logical conclusion to all this was that at some point they’d be coming for him.
63
When she got back to the inn where she was staying, Michelle eyed the box in the back of her truck. It contained the files on Bob Scott they’d retrieved from Joan’s room at the Cedars. She carried it up to her room thinking she might go through it again in case Joan had missed something. As she sorted through it, she discovered that Joan’s notes were in the box as well.
The weather had seesawed back to chilly again, so she stacked pieces of wood and kindling in the fireplace and ignited them with matches and rolled-up newspaper. She ordered some hot tea and food from the inn’s kitchen. After what had happened to Joan, when the tray arrived, Michelle kept a sharp eye on the server and one hand on her pistol until the person left. The room was large and furnished in a graceful yet sumptuous style that would have made Thomas Jefferson smile. The cheery fire enhanced the serene atmosphere; all in all it was a cozy place. However, despite its amenities, the room’s steep cost would have forced her to check out by now had not the Service offered to pick up the tab for her meals and lodging at least for a few days. She was certain they expected a substantial quid pro quo—namely, a reasonable solution to this jagged and maddening case. And they were no doubt aware that she—along with King—had helped develop most of the promising leads so far. Yet she was not so naive that she didn’t realize that paying her lodging bills was a good way for the Service to keep tabs on her.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, hooked up her computer to the very new-looking data phone line in the wall behind the reproduction eighteenth-century writing desk and went to work on King’s unusual request. As she’d predicted, the answer to his query wasn’t on the Secret Service’s database. She started making calls to Service colleagues. On the fifth try she found someone who could help. She gave the man the information King had given her.
“Hell yes,” said the agent. “I know because my cousin was in the same damn prison camp, and he came out a skeleton.”
Michelle thanked him and hung up. She immediately dialed King, who was home by this time.
“Okay,” she said, barely containing her glee, “first you have to anoint me as the most brilliant detective since Jane Marple.”
“Marple? I thought you’d say Holmes or Hercule Poirot,” he shot back.
“They were all right, for men, but Jane stands alone.”
“Okay, consider yourself so anointed, Miss Smart-ass. What do you have?”
“You were right. The name you gave me was the name of the village in Vietnam where he was held prisoner and then escaped from. Now, can you tell me what’s going on? Where did you get that name from?”
King hesitated but then said, “It was scratched on the wall of the prison cell in the Tennessee bunker.”
“My God, Sean, does that mean what I think?”
“There was also a Roman numeral two scratched in after the name. Sort of makes sense. It was his second POW camp; I guess that’s the way he was looking at it. First Vietnam, now Tennessee.”
“So Bob Scott was the prisoner in that cell, and he left the inscription as a way to say so?”
“Maybe. Don’t forget, Michelle, it could have been left as misdirection, a clue we were meant to find.”
“But it’s such an obscure one.”
“True. And there’s the other thing.”
“What?” she said quickly.
“The ‘Sir Kingman’ note that was pinned to Susan Whitehead’s body.”
“You don’t think Scott could have written it? Why?”
“A number of reasons, but I still can’t be sure.”
“But assuming Scott isn’t involved, who the hell else is out there?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What have you been up to?”
“I had some legal research to do at the UVA law library.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes.”
“Care to fill me in?”
“Not yet. I need to think about it some more. But thanks for verifying that info. I’ll talk to you soon… Miss Marple.” He clicked off and Michelle put down her phone, not very pleased with his declining yet again to take her into his confidence.
“You help a guy out, and you think he’ll return the favor, but nooo!” she complained to the empty room.
She threw some more wood on the fire and started rummaging through the box of files and Joan’s notes.
It felt a little awkward reading over the woman’s personal comments on the case, considering she might be dead. Yet Michelle had to admit Joan kept meticulous notes. As she worked through them, she began to have a greater appreciation for the woman’s skill and professionalism as an investigator. Michelle thought about what King had told her about the note Joan received on the morning of Ritter’s murder. The guilt she must have carried all these years, though, seeing a man she cared for being destroyed while her own career rocketed onward and upward. And yet how much could she have really loved him if she chose not to speak up, in effect picking her career over her feelings for Sean King. And how must King have felt?
What was it with men anyway? Did they have this dominant gene that made them have to act noble when it came to suffering, however stupidly, as some woman walked all over them? Certainly a woman could pine over a guy just as hopelessly. And too often members of her gender fell for the bad boy who would break their hearts and even sometimes their heads. Yet a woman would have just cut her losses and moved on. Not the boys, though. They had to keep ramming their big pigheaded selves into a wall no matter how cold the heart lurking underneath the blouse and breasts. God, it was so frustrating that a man like King could be taken in by a woman like Joan.
Then she caught herself and wondered why it mattered so much. They were working a case together, that was all. And it wasn’t like King was perfect. Yes, he was intelligent, sophisticated, good-looking, and had a witty sense of humor. But he was also more than a decade her senior. And on the negative side he was moody, aloof, occasionally rude and at times condescending. And he was so damn neat! To think that she’d actually cleaned out her truck to please—