Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

Sean handed her his card. “You think of anything, please contact us.”

She clutched the card. “Have you seen Edgar? I mean up in that… place?”

“We have.”

“How is he?”

“Not that good.”

“Could you tell him that Judy says hello? And that I believe in his innocence,” she added in a firm tone.

“I will.”

They climbed in Michelle’s SUV and started off.

She said, “Okay, Edgar’s got at least one person rooting for him.”

“Make that two. His half sister.”

“Right.”

“So he just stops coming to work one day. His IRS boss clams up. Nobody is told anything. And he takes a risk and calls his friend and tells her he has a new job and that it’s sensitive.”

She scowled. “And Murdock is counterterrorism. So it’s got to be national security, you know, spy stuff. And you know how much I hate spy stuff.”

“What, you mean the double and triple backstabbing and multiple agendas for every scenario?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“So if he’s wrapped up with the spies? Why?”

“Because of his mental prowess, probably.”

Sean shrugged. “I don’t know what else he has to offer other than his height. And I doubt the CIA or any of the other spy mills have a basketball team. So he’s in with the spies and then this happens. His new employer must be having a cow.”

“Accounts for all the guys with guns in black suits, satellites, and Bureau involvement.”

“I’d like to look at the medical examiner’s report.”

Michelle grimaced. “Let’s hope the locals are a bit more cooperative than that IRS clown. I’m expecting to get audited any day now.”

TWO HOURS LATER Sean had a copy of the ME’s report and other forensic details.

“Let’s hope this gives us something to go on,” said Michelle.

“You’d think if there was some smoking gun in here the police would’ve already acted on it. This case has been going nowhere. And I don’t think it’s just because Edgar Roy is sitting in a federal nuthouse.”

“Strings are definitely being pulled,” replied Michelle. “This sucker is being executive-lagged big time.”

“Which goes to show the forces behind the scenes.”

“Yeah, scary forces.”

“Let’s grab something to eat and see if we find anything in this report.”

Over sandwiches and coffee Sean read the report and discussed parts of it with Michelle.

“No surprises. The bodies were in various states of decay. ME calculated that one of the bodies had been dead about a year. The others between four and six months.”

“That means he killed six times in less than a year.”

“We’ve seen serial killers more active than that. Besides, burial messes up the time of death some. Could be longer or shorter than that. If the bodies had been left aboveground at least we’d have fly larvae evidence. That’s pretty accurate. But even in the ground there are some helpful things. Bugs in the dirt too, I mean.”

Michelle put down her tuna sandwich. “Nice meal conversation. Really sparks the old appetite.”

He slid the report back in his briefcase and looked around the small restaurant. In a low tone he said, “Your two o’clock, guy in the sweatshirt and jean jacket trying real hard to look like a student. He’s–”

“I know. I scoped him about ten minutes ago. He’s got a pistol bump under his jacket and a bud in his left ear.”

“FBI?”

“One of the alphabets, most likely. But what do we do about it?”

“Don’t let on that we suspect.”

Michelle picked up her sandwich again. “That just brought my appetite back.”

“Well, this might just take it away again.”

She stopped with the tuna special halfway to her mouth.

Sean said, “Spotted something in the ME report that puzzled me.”

“I can hardly stand the anticipation.”

“What kind of dirt was in the barn on Roy’s property?”

“This is Virginia. So red clay. Why?”

“The findings indicated that each of the bodies showed evidence of dirt present that was different from that found in the barn.”

Michelle put her sandwich down again. “But that would only be possible if–”

“Excuse me?”

They both looked up to see the man in the jean jacket standing next to their table.

“Yeah,” said Sean, who looked annoyed at having allowed the guy to come right up to the table without him noticing.

“I was wondering if you two could step outside with me?”

“And why would we want to do that?” asked Michelle, whose right hand had snaked toward her own weapon and her left hand had curled into a fist.

“Let’s do this the easy way.”

“Let’s not do this any way at all,” she shot back.

The man reached inside his jacket, which was his first mistake.

Michelle swiveled, and her left leg shot out and caught him right in the gut. He was propelled back and hit the table against the wall.

His second mistake was coming at her again.

Before he could strike, Michelle had tagged him on the chin with a powerful swing kick that lifted him off his feet and put him on his back, out cold on the worn, yellowed linoleum.

Sean stood, looking down in shock at the man.

The few other patrons in the deli, mostly older folks, sat frozen in their chairs at the sudden violence.

Michelle looked at them and said, “Little misunderstanding. Someone will be in to get him shortly. Just return to your meals and, what the hell, order some dessert.” She pointed at the fallen man. “It’s on him.” She turned back to Sean and hissed, “I suggest we get out of here before a strike team interrupts our coffee.”

He threw some cash down on the table for the meal and said, “If he is a Fed we are in deep shit.”

“Look, he never flashed a badge. For all we knew he was going for his gun.” She edged his jacket open with the toe of her boot and the weapon was revealed.

“But still,” said Sean.

“Cross that bridge when we get to it. Personally, I’m a little tired of being pushed around by the badge-and-baton community. And patience has never been my virtue.”

“How is it that you actually passed the Secret Service entry psychological exam?”

“Easy. Lots of Diet Coke and a ton of chocolate.”

They left the deli by the rear door, circled around, and spied another car with another man in it. Michelle edged into her truck from the passenger side followed by Sean. She fired it up and had backed out before the driver in the sedan could react.

As Sean looked in the side mirror he said, “Driver doesn’t know what to do. Follow us or, okay, there he goes inside to check out what happened to his buddy.”

Michelle hit the road and sped up. The car didn’t follow them.

He said, “Two minutes from now there’ll be a BOLO out on us for attacking a Fed.”

“If he is a Fed.”

“Come on, the guy was screaming it.”

“Do we ditch these wheels and get another?”

“They’ll have markers in the system in five minutes. Our credit cards and driver’s licenses will pop up.”

“Then call Murdock, tell him what happened.”

“Are you out of your–” Sean’s face froze. “That is actually a brilliant idea.”

“Thank you. Cut him off at the pass and tell him some armed guy came at us. Wanted to warn him that something was up. When he says why the hell did we attack a Fed, we can plead ignorance.”

Sean was already punching in the number. He spent two minutes on the phone and did not let the FBI agent get a word in edgewise until the end. But whatever Murdock said did not sit well with Sean, by the look on his face.

“Yeah, I can give you a description. And the plate number.” He did so. He talked a bit more, answered two more questions and clicked off.