David Baldacci - Split Second

Downstairs she was about to leave when a thought struck her. She went back to the office area and looked for the employee files. Unfortunately here she struck out. Thinking for a bit, she then checked her floor plan of the hotel, located the main housekeeping supply section and headed there. This room was large and filled with shelves, empty counters and a desk. Michelle looked through the desk and then checked a large file cabinet back against one wall. Here she found what she wanted: a clipboard with names and addresses of housekeeping employees on moldy, curled paper. Shetook the list with her and went back to the office to look for a phone book, but the only one she found was far out-of-date and therefore probably useless. Emerging into the darkness outside, she was surprised to realize she'd spent over two hours inside the hotel.

She checked into a motel and used the phone book in her room to check the names and addresses of the maids on the employee list against the phone book. She found three that still lived in the area-at the same addresses they had back then. She began calling. There was no answer at the first, and she left a message. At the other two the phone was picked up by the former maids. Michelle identified herself as a documentary filmmaker working on a project about political assassinations and conducting interviews with people familiar with the Ritter murder. Both women, surprisingly enough, said they'd be very happy to be part of such a film. Perhaps not so surprising, she reflected, for what else was there to do here? Michelle made appointments with both for the following day. Then she grabbed a quick dinner at a country-western roadside diner where three cowboy-hat-wearing dudes hit on her in the span of ten minutes. Vastly fed up by the time the third fellow made his pitch, she munched her cheeseburger with one hand, showed her gun with the other and watched as the would-be suitor fled. Oh, to be so popular. After dinner she spent a couple of hours in her room going over the questions she'd ask the women the next day. As she was doing so, the other former maid called back and also agreed to speak with her. As Michelle drifted off to sleep, she wondered where she was really heading with all this.

Outside Michelle's motel room, the old Buick, its muffler still rattling and its exhaust still noxious, pulled to a stop. The driver cut off the engine and sat there, his gaze fixed on the door to Michelle's room. So intense was his concentration that it appeared the man could see right through the walls, perhaps right into the mind of the young Secret Service agent.

Tomorrow promised to be an interesting day. He hadn't anticipated that Michelle Maxwell would come here to perform her own sort of investigation. Yet now that she had, it would have to be dealt with, delicately. He'd carefully constructed his list of targets and had no desire to add to that number injudiciously. However, plans did change as situations developed; whether Maxwell became a target remained to be seen.

There was a lot left to do, and a young inquisitive Secret Service agent could become a serious source of trouble. He debated whether to kill her right now, actually reaching down to the floorboard for his favored weapon of murder. As his fingers curled around the hard metal, he brooded on the matter further, and then his grip relaxed.

Too little preparation and too many potential complications would flow from her death right now. That was just not his way. So Michelle Maxwell would get to live another day. He put the Buick in gear and drove off.

The first two former Fairmont Hotel maids whom Michelle interviewed were not helpful. The assassination was the biggest thing that had ever happened in the town and in their lives, and in their discussions with "filmmaker" Michelle both women were prone to conjure all sorts of outlandish theories without being able to offer anything in the way of solid facts. Michelle listened politely and then left.

The third home she went to was a modest structure but neat, set back from the road. Loretta Baldwin was waiting for Michelle on the wide porch. Baldwin was a slender African American of sixty-plus years with high, pointed cheekbones, an expressive mouth and steel-rimmed spectacles that magnified her darting and energetic brown eyes. She sat ramrod straight in her chair and had a way of looking one over without seeming to that any Secret Service agent would be proud of, Michelle observed. Her hands were long and heavily veined. When the two women shook hands, there was such strength in the older woman's grip that it took the athletic Michelle by surprise. Michelle sat in the rocker next to Loretta's and accepted the glass of iced tea the woman offered.

"This film you doing, sweetie, we talking big or small?"

"It's a documentary, so small."

"So I guess no juicy part for me."

"Well, if your interview makes the cut, then yes, you'll be in it.We'll come back and film you at that point. I'm just doing preliminary research now."

"No, honey, I mean is this a paid engagement?"

"Oh, no, no it's not. Limited budget."

"Too bad. Not too many jobs 'round here, you see."

"I expect not."

"Not used to be that way."

"Like when the hotel was open?"

Baldwin nodded and rocked slowly in the gathering breeze. The weather had turned chilly, and Michelle wished more for a hot cup of coffee than a glass of iced tea.

"Who you talked to so far?" When Michelle told her, Baldwin smiled and then chuckled. "Them gals have no clue, you understand me, no clue about nothing. Did little Miss Julie tell you she was there when Martin Luther King Jr. was shot?"

"Yes, she mentioned that. She actually looked a little young for that."

"I'll say. She knows Martin Luther King like I know the pope."

"So what can you tell me about that day at the hotel?"

"A day like any other. Except we knew he was coming, of course. I mean Clyde Ritter. I knew about him, from the TV and all, and I read my newspaper, every day I do. The man's thinking was more in line with George Wallace before he found the light, but he seemed to be doing okay, which tells you all you need to know about this country." Then she stared at Michelle, a look of mirth in her eye. "Is your memory that good? Or maybe I ain't saying nothing you think is important enough to write down."

Michelle started and then pulled out a notepad and began scribbling. She also set a small recorder down on the table next to the woman. "Do you mind?"

"Hell no. Anybody sues me I ain't got no money. See, that's the poor person's best insurance policy: no assets."

"What were you doing that day?"

"Just like any other day, cleaning rooms."

"Which floor did you have?"

" Floors . Always had people calling in sick. Most time I had two floors all by myself. Had it that day, second and third. By the time I finished, seemed like it was time to start over again."

Michelle tensed at this. King had stayed on the third floor. "So you weren't on the main floor when the shooting occurred?"

"Now, did I say that?"

Michelle looked confused. "But you said you were cleaning."

"Is there a law against coming down and seeing what all the hoopla was about?"

"Were you in the room where the shooting happened?"

"I was right outside the door. There was a supply closet down that hall, and I had to get some things, you understand." Michelle nodded. "Management didn't like us maids to show ourselves in the main area, you see. Like they don't want the guests to know we're even there. Now, how do they think the place stays clean, you see my point?" Yes, Michelle said, she did. "Well, the room where Ritter was shot was called the Stonewall Jackson Room. It's not like down here we have us any Abraham Lincoln or Ulysses S. Grant Rooms."