Дэвид Балдаччи: The Sixth Man

“Actually, mine is an enhanced version of the one you guys just pointed at us.”

“Enhanced? How?”

“Your weapon is an older and more basic model. My H and K is more ergonomic and it’s got a ten-round mag box versus your twelve because of the restyling. Textured, finger-grooved grip and backstraps let it sit lower in the hand web, translating to better control and recoil management. Then there’s an extended ambidextrous slide, a universal Picatinny rail instead of the H and K proprietary USP rail for accessories that you have. And it has an O-ring polygonal barrel. It’ll drop pretty much anything on two feet all in a compact twenty-eight-ounce model. And it’s built right across the border in New Hampshire.”

“You know a lot about guns, ma’am ?”

“She’s an aficionado,” replied Sean, seeing the look of growing anger in his partner’s eyes at the officer’s condescending tone.

“Why?” she said. “Are girls not supposed to know about guns?”

The lieutenant abruptly grinned, took off his hat, and swiped a hand through his blond hair. “Hell, in this part of Maine pretty much everybody knows how to use a gun. My little sister’s always been a better shot than me, in fact.”

“There you go,” said Michelle, her anger quickly receding at his frank admission. “And you can swab my hands for gunshot residue. You won’t find any.”

“Could’ve worn gloves,” he pointed out.

“I could’ve done a lot of things. You want to do the GSR or not?”

He motioned to one of the techs, who performed the test on both Michelle and Sean and did the analysis on the spot.

“Clean,” he said.

“Wow, how about that,” said Michelle.

The lieutenant said, “So you two are private investigators?”

Sean nodded. “Bergin engaged us to help with the Edgar Roy case.”

“Help with what? Man’s as guilty as they come.”

“Just like you said, not for us to decide,” said Sean.

“You licensed in Maine?”

“We’ve filed the paperwork and paid the fee,” said Sean. “Waiting to hear back.”

“So that’s a no? You’re not licensed?”

“Well, we haven’t done any investigative work yet. Just found out about the job. We filed as fast as we could. The jurisdictions where we’re licensed have reciprocity with Maine. It’s just a formality. We’ll get the approval.”

“People looking to be PIs need some sort of special background. What’s yours? Military? Law enforcement?”

“United States Secret Service,” said Sean.

The lieutenant eyed Sean and then Michelle with a new level of respect. His men did the same.

“Both of you?”

Sean nodded.

“Ever guard the president?”

“Sean did,” said Michelle. “I never got to the White House before I left the Service.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Sean and Michelle exchanged brief glances.

Sean said, “Had enough. Wanted to do something else.”

“Fair enough.”

Forty-five minutes later another car pulled up. The lieutenant looked over and said, “That’s Colonel Mayhew. Must’ve put the pedal to the metal, think he was over near Skowhegan tonight.”

He hurried off to greet his commander in chief. The colonel was tall and broad shouldered. Though in his fifties, he had retained his trim figure. His eyes were calm and alert, his manner brisk and businesslike. He looked, Sean thought, like a Hollywood-inspired poster for police recruitment.

He was briefed on the situation, took a look at the body, then came over to them. After introductions Mayhew said, “When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Bergin?”

“Phone call earlier today, around five thirty p.m. A little while before we got on the plane.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was going to meet us at the B-and-B where we’re staying.”

“And where is that?”

“Martha’s Inn near Machias.”

The colonel nodded approvingly. “It’s comfortable, food’s good.”

“Nice to hear,” said Michelle.

“Anything else from Bergin? E-mails? Texts?”

“Nothing. I checked before we got on the plane. And then when we landed. I tried calling him around nine o’clock but he didn’t answer. It went right to voice mail and I left a message. Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

The colonel ignored this. “See any other cars?”

Sean said, “None, other than Bergin’s. Pretty lonely stretch of road. And we didn’t see any evidence of another car having pulled up to his, although unless it leaked some fluid there probably wouldn’t be leave-behind trace.”

“So you have no idea where he might have been going tonight?”

“Well, I presume he was going to meet us at Martha’s Inn.”

“Do you know where Bergin was staying? At Martha’s?”

“No, she didn’t have any more rooms, apparently.” Sean searched his pockets and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through some pages.

“Gray’s Lodge. That’s where he was staying.”

“Right, know that one too. It’s closer to Eastport. Not as nice as Martha’s place.”

“I guess you get around,” said Michelle.

“I guess I do,” replied the colonel impassively. He looked over at the car. “Only thing is, if Bergin were coming from the direction of Eastport, his car would have been going in the opposite direction. You were coming from the southwest. Eastport is to the north and east. And he never would have come this far. The turnoff for Martha’s is five miles further on this road.”

Sean looked over at the vehicle and then at the colonel. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s how we found him. Car was pointed the same way as ours.”

“Complicated,” said the lawman.

Sean looked over as a black Escalade screeched to a stop and four people in FBI windbreakers literally leaped out. The federal cavalry from Boston had just arrived.

And it’s about to get a lot more complicated, he thought.

THE LEAD AGENT’S NAME was Brandon Murdock. He was about Michelle’s height, a couple inches under six feet and rail-thin, but his grip was surprisingly strong. His hair was thick but cut to FBI standards. His eyebrows were caterpillar-sized. His voice was deep and his manner was compact, efficient. He was briefed first by the lieutenant. He then spent a few private minutes with Colonel Mayhew, who was the highest-ranked Maine police representative on-site. He checked out the body and the car. Then he walked over to Sean and Michelle.

“Sean King and Michelle Maxwell,” he said.

Something in his tone made Michelle remark, “You’ve heard of us?”

“Scuttlebutt from D.C. makes its way up north.”

“Really?” said Sean.

“Special Agent Chuck Waters and I went to the Academy together, still keep in touch.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“Yes he is.” Murdock glanced over at the car. The chitchat was over. “So what can you tell me?”

Sean said, “Dead guy. Single GSW to the head. He was up here repping Edgar Roy. Maybe somebody didn’t like that.”

Murdock nodded. “Or it could’ve been a random thing.”

“Any money or valuables missing?” asked Michelle.

The lieutenant answered. “Not that we can tell. Wallet, watch, and phone intact.”

“Probably not random, then.”

“And he might’ve known his attacker,” said Sean.

“Why do you think that?” asked Murdock quickly.

“The driver’s side window.”

“What about it?”

Sean motioned to the car. “You mind?”

They trooped over to the Buick.

While they all looked on, Sean pointed to the window and then to the body. “Entry head wound, lot of blood splatter. No exit wound, so all the blood was driven out of the front of his head. It would have been a gusher. The steering wheel, Bergin, dashboard, seat, and the windshield all have splatters. I even got some on my hands when I opened the car door and he slumped out.” He pointed to the clear window. “But not here.”