Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

Yet Bergin was in his seventies, alone, no weapon. By all logic he should have just kept on driving. If whoever had killed him had faked an emergency to try and get him to pull off, he could have simply continued on and called 911 on his cell phone. He didn’t have to stop and roll down his window just so he could take a fatal round to the head.

So unless he knew the person he should’ve kept going, but he didn’t. Now Sean considered another possibility.

He might have been meeting someone and that person killed him. He studied the gravel shoulder and cast his mind back to that night. They had not seen traces of another car. But he had to admit he hadn’t looked all that closely before the police showed up. But if another car had been parked here there would likely be some evidence of that. Evidence the police and the FBI would have.

He looked toward the woods. The troopers had done a preliminary perimeter search, a down-and-dirty one with a fuller one to follow at first light. Had they found anything? If they had, either Dobkin didn’t know about it or else the FBI was keeping the Maine State Police in the dark, too.

If a meeting, who with and why here?

Bergin might have been a gentle, caring man, but he was no fool. If there had been the slightest chance of an ambush the man would not have come here. Had it something to do with Edgar Roy? It had to, he concluded. The only reason Bergin was in Maine was because of his client.

And if the meeting had something to do with Edgar Roy, there might be a limited number of suspects. Sean wondered if that list began and ended at Cutter’s Rock.

He tensed as a car’s headlights cut through the gloomy dusk. At first he thought it was just a passing motorist, but the car slowed and then pulled in behind his Ford.

Eric Dobkin was not in uniform, and the vehicle he stepped out of was a Dodge pickup, not a Maine State Police cruiser. His shoes made clicking sounds against the asphalt as he came to stand next to Sean. He had on worn jeans, a University of Maine pullover, and a Red Sox ball cap. He looked like a high school senior on the prowl after a football game.

“What are you doing out here?” asked Dobkin, his hands in the pockets of his pullover.

“I thought it would be obvious. Checking out the scene of the crime.”

“And?”

“And it’s not doing me much good, frankly.”

“You really think he might have known the person?”

Sean looked past Dobkin, into the stretch of dark woods. Though they were miles from the ocean the briny smell seemed to overwhelm him, drift into every pore, like the stench of cigarette smoke in a bar.

“Just an educated guess, based on that window. And the fact that he’d pull over on a lonely road late at night. Odds are he wouldn’t have for a stranger.”

“Maybe somebody suckered him. Faked a car being broke down. That’s what got you to stop.”

“Yeah, but there were two of us and my partner had a gun.”

“I know your theory about a cop pulling him over sounds plausible, but I don’t think that’s possible. This is an isolated area, but everybody knows everybody else. Some stranger running around in a police cruiser would’ve been noticed.”

“I think you’re right. And if they wanted Ted dead, they really didn’t need to go to that much trouble.” Sean paused, studying the face of the other man. “You guys totally off the case?”

“Not totally. FBI’s running it, of course, but they have to use us for some stuff.”

“Find anything of interest here?”

“Nothing really. I would’ve told your partner if we had.”

“What if he were meeting someone?” asked Sean. “That would account for him both pulling off the road and lowering his window. Was there any trace evidence of another car?”

“No wheel impressions. But that’s easily gotten around. Pull your car back on the road and go back and sweep the gravel. Who would he have been meeting with?”

“I was hoping you’d have some idea of that.”

“Didn’t know the man. You did, though.”

The last comment was said in a more accusatory tone than Sean thought the other man probably intended.

“I mean if he were meeting with someone they were probably from around here,” said Sean. “And since that doesn’t include a lot of people, I thought you might have at least a guess. Maybe somebody at Cutter’s Rock? You must know some of the folks who work there.”

“I do know some of the folks.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not sure I have anything to tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“All the same to me.”

“You spoke with my partner.”

“Right. Where is she, by the way?”

“Checking some other things out.”

“Murdock will be all over your ass if you get near his investigation.”

“It won’t be the first time we’ve rubbed the official machine the wrong way.”

“Just giving you my two cents.”

“So why’d you stop here then if you’ve got nothing to tell me?”

“Man was killed. Like to know who did it.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Dobkin scuffed the road with his shoe. “Got a chain of command. You’re not in it. Got a family. Can’t throw my career in the toilet. Not for nothing. Sorry.”

“Okay, I get that. I appreciate what you’ve done.” Sean headed back toward his car.

“Any idea who took a shot at you?”

Sean turned back around. “No, other than it wasn’t the first time they’d fired a rifle. That fact was pretty clear.”

“I’ll look into that.”

“Okay.”

“Why didn’t you notify the police? Somebody tried to kill you.”

“No, they were warning us off. Different thing.”

“I’ll still look into it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“You don’t seem to be taking this too seriously.”

“I take it very seriously. I just doubt you’re going to find anything.”

“We’re pretty good at our job,” Dobkin said stiffly.

“I’m sure you are. But something tells me the other side is pretty good at its job, too.”

The two men stared at each other and seemed to reach a silent meeting of the minds.

Dobkin finally pointed at the Ford. “If I were you I’d get those windows covered over. Supposed to rain tomorrow.”

Sean watched him drive off and then he steered the Ford back to Martha’s Inn, his coat buttoned all the way up against the damp chill coming through the open windows.

MICHELLE FLASHED her light around as she walked toward the back of the house. She’d had some dinner, reported back to Sean, and mulled over what she’d found thus far. She’d waited until it was well after dark before heading to Bergin’s house. She wasn’t breaking and entering, but the nighttime suited her better for these types of activities.

Ted Bergin had lived in an eighteenth-century farmhouse that he had restored about five years ago, just in time for his wife of forty years to die in a freak car accident. Sean had provided Michelle with this nugget of information, and it had served to deepen her empathy for the man and make her want to find his killer all the more.

The house was about eight miles from his office. The location was rural and isolated, with rolling green hills serving as a picturesque backdrop. She wondered what would happen to the place now. Maybe in his will he had left the property to Hilary Cunningham for years of faithful service.

The woman had given her a key to the house. She explained that Bergin had kept a spare at the office in the case of an emergency.

Well, I guess this qualifies as such.

Michelle opted for the rear door, because she liked to avoid entering anyplace through the front entrance. Or at least she did ever since she’d nearly gotten herself ripped in half when thirty rounds from a machine gun clip had blasted through the front door of a home in Fairfax, Virginia, that she had been standing in front of a second before.