David Baldacci - Hour Game

"You bet I am."

"Let me know when you're thinking of heading over."

"Why, so you can talk me out of it?"

"No, so I can hold the bastard down while you beat the crap out of him."

HE'D FOLLOWED KING AND Michelle to the Pembrokes' and was now trailing them as they headed across town to Roger Canney's home. He was not driving the blue VW today; an old pickup truck was his ride. A sweat-stained cowboy hat, shades and a stick-on beard and mustache of his own design provided satisfactory cover. The pair of investigators was starting to become a real issue, and he wasn't sure what to do about them. Pembroke could lead them nowhere; nor could the death of Diane Hinson. And by itself the murder of Rhonda Tyler was also a dead end. Canney was a different matter, though. The boy was the key that could make the entire house of cards come tumbling down.

He didn't have time to kill Roger Canney, and anyway that would raise even more suspicion about why the high school football star had to die. He had no choice but to let the interview take place, analyze what information was provided and take appropriate action. It was fortunate he'd had the foresight to bug Canney's home before he'd killed the boy. Tactics, it all comes down to tactics.

He rubbed his back where it had been bruised in the fight with Junior Deaver. He couldn't afford another encounter like that. He'd watched Michelle Maxwell snap the post in half with a seemingly effortless thrust of her leg. She was a dangerous woman. And King was even more dangerous, in his own way. In fact, Sean King was the only person he really feared could beat him. He might have to do something about that. And then he might have to kill Maxwell as well. He didn't want the woman coming after him, seeking revenge for her partner's death.

As the car ahead of him pulled into a long driveway heading up to a large brick colonial, he turned off on a side road, parked the truck and pulled down a pair of earphones that had been hidden under his hat. He tinkered with a receiver on the front seat, found the correct frequency to the transmitter he'd hidden in the Canney home, settled back and waited for the show to begin.

"SO WHAT DOES ROGER CANNEY do?" asked Michelle as she looked around the impressive home. A housekeeper had let them in and gone to get her employer.

"I don't know, but whatever it is, he does it well," answered King.

"What did his wife die of?"

"I don't know that either. I'm not friends of theirs."

Michelle kept looking around. "You know what I'm not seeing?"

King nodded. "There are no family pictures."

"What do you make of that?"

"Either they were recently pulled because of the father's overwhelming grief or they were never here."

"Overwhelming grief? Essentially, he buried his only son under cover of darkness."

"Everyone exhibits their emotions differently, Michelle. Some people, for example, kick wooden posts in half when they're upset."

Roger appeared a minute later, a tall, craggy man with stooped shoulders and an unhappy, wan expression. He motioned them to sit on the couch in the living room, and he sat across from them. The man didn't bother to look at them when he spoke, instead resting his gaze on the beamed ceiling.

"I'm not sure why another interview is necessary," he began.

King said, "I know this is an awfully difficult time-"

Canney interrupted. "Right, right, let's just get on with it."

They went through the standard questions, to which Canney answered in extremely unhelpful monosyllables.

Frustrated, King asked, "So no enemies at school that you know of? Or that your son might have mentioned?"

"Steve was very popular. Everyone just loved him. He could do no wrong."

This was not said in the tone of a proud father, but in a mocking manner. King and Michelle exchanged puzzled glances.

"Had he ever mentioned that he was seeing Janice Pembroke?" asked Michelle.

"Steve didn't confide in me. If the kid was screwing around with some slut, that was his business. He was seventeen with raging hormones. But if he'd gotten some girl pregnant, I would have been more than upset."

"How long ago did your wife die?" asked Michelle.

Canney's gaze dropped from the ceiling to her. "Why is that relevant?"

"Just curious."

"Well, confine your curiosity to the matter at hand."

"Okay, can you think of anything at all that Steve might have told you or that you might have overheard him say, or even one of his friends mention, that could shed some light on his murder?" she asked.

"Look, I already told you that we weren't exactly chums. We lived in the same house, but that was about it."

"Is there a reason why you and your son weren't close?" asked King.

"We both had our reasons, and they're not pertinent to his death."

"I'm afraid we need to decide that for ourselves. So if you'd answer the question…"

"I'm afraid I must decline," Canney said acidly.

"Well, that's up to you. Let's review what you've said. You and your son had what could reasonably be construed as an openly hostile relationship. You were perhaps upset that he was dating some slut, as you called her, and were concerned you'd have to pay for a child at some point. And then Steve and this ‘slut' end up shotgunned to death. Do you own a shotgun, sir?"

Canney stood, his pale face now flushed. "What the hell are you implying? How dare you! You've twisted my words all around."

King remained impassive. "No. I'm simply making the argument any competent prosecutor would. What you've told us makes you a possible suspect in your son's death. I'm sure you were asked about your whereabouts when he was killed. I'd like you to tell us as well."

"I was home asleep."

"Alone?"

"Yes!"

"So you have no alibi," concluded King. "Well"-he looked at Michelle-"let's go report back. At least it's another line of investigation the FBI can actively pursue." He looked back at Canney. "I'm sure the Bureau will be contacting you. Please make no plans to leave the area in the near future." He started to rise.

Canney, looking pale again, said, "Wait a minute, wait just a damned minute. I had nothing to do with Steve's murder."

"With all due respect, Mr. Canney, I never met a murderer who said otherwise," replied King.

Canney stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands while King watched him expectantly. Finally, Canney sat back down.

After a minute of silence, as though he were searching for just the right words, he said, "Steve was, quite simply, his mother's child. He adored her, worshiped her. When she died, he somehow blamed me."

"I don't recall what she died of," said King.

Canney was now rubbing his hands together nervously.

"She was in a car accident, well over three years ago now. She ran off the road and into a ravine. Died instantly."

"How could your son possibly blame you for that?" Michelle wanted to know.

"How the hell am I supposed to know!" roared Canney suddenly, and then just as quickly he calmed. "I'm sorry. As you can appreciate, this is all very difficult." They all remained silent for a bit. "There… there apparently was alcohol involved," Canney finally said in a very low voice.

"Your wife was intoxicated when she was killed?"

"Apparently so. It was surprising, because she'd never been a heavy drinker."

"And your marriage was a happy one?" asked Michelle.

"It was a marriage much like many others," said Canney defensively.

"Meaning?" persisted Michelle.

"Meaning it had its ups and downs."

At that moment the housekeeper entered the room and told Canney he had a phone call. He excused himself and went out of the room.

Michelle turned to her partner. "Well, that wasn't exactly what I was expecting. Do you think he had something to do with his wife's death?"