David Baldacci - Split Second

"I can understand that."

"Well, I poked my head in and I saw that man shaking hands and talking real slick and smooth and his eyes would hold anybody's he was talking to. I read where he was a TV preacher too. I could see how that man could get dollars and votes, yes indeed. He just had that way. But from a person of color's perspective I think Clyde Ritter was right at home in the Stonewall Jackson Room and was probably sleeping in the Jefferson Davis Penthouse Suite and loving that too, and damn if he was going to get my vote."

"I can understand that too. Besides Ritter, did you notice anyone else?"

"I remember a police officer blocking the doorway. I had to kindof look around him. I could see Ritter like I said, and there was the man behind him, real close."

"Secret Service. Agent Sean King."

Baldwin stared hard at her. "That's right. You say that like you know the man."

"Never met him. But I've been doing a lot of research."

Baldwin ran her gaze up and down Michelle, a scrutiny that made the younger woman finally blush. "You got no ring on your finger. What, are you telling me there ain't any eligible men that would appreciate a beautiful young thing like you?"

Michelle smiled. "I keep really crazy hours. Guys don't like that."

"Hell, honey, men don't like nothing but a meal and their beer in front of them when they want it, nobody questioning the stupid things they do, all the free time in the world and a warm body to do the sex thing when they feel like it, and no talking after."

"I see you have them pretty well figured out."

"Like it takes a lot of deep thinking?" She fell silent for a moment. "Yep, a real nice-looking man. When he fired that gun, though, he wasn't real nice-looking."

Michelle tensed again. "You saw that?"

"Yep. All hell broke loose when Ritter got shot. You wouldn't believe it. The policeman in front of me, he turned to see what was going on, but he got knocked down and people tripped over him. I just froze. I've heard guns go off, fired 'em myself growing up, to scare off critters and trespassers and such. But this was different. Then I saw King shoot Ramsey. Next I seen them run off with Ritter, but that man was dead, anybody could see that. And I watched that King fellow stand there just looking down, like, like…"

"Like he'd just seen his life end too," Michelle suggested.

"Just like that. How'd you know?"

"I know someone who had a similar experience. Did you by chance hear a sound before Ritter was shot, something that might have distracted Agent King?" Michelle didn't want to mention thatthat sound could have been the ding of an elevator car because she didn't want to influence Baldwin's recollection.

The old woman thought about this and then shook her head. "No, I can't say that I did. There was lots of noise. I tell you what I did do. I ran down the hallway and hid in the supply closet. I was so scared I didn't come out for an hour."

"But before all that you maybe cleaned the third floor?"

Baldwin looked over at her. "Why don't you ask me what you want to ask me and save us both a lot of time?"

"Okay, did you clean Agent King's room?"

She nodded. "They had all checked out before the event. But I got people's names down on my list. Yes, I cleaned his room before all the shooting started, and let me tell you it needed cleaning." She looked pointedly at Michelle.

"Why, was he a real slob?"

"No, but there was just a lot of activity in that room the night before, I guess." She raised an eyebrow as she said this.

"Activity?" asked Michelle.

"Activity."

Michelle had been perched on the edge of her rocker. Now she sat back. "I see."

"Looked like a couple of wild animals had gone through that room. Even found a pair of black lace panties on top of the ceiling light fixture. Don't know how they got there, and I don't want to know."

"Any idea who the other animal was?"

"No, but it seems to me you don't look too far away, you see my point?"

Michelle's eyes narrowed as she thought about this. "Yes, I think I do," she said. "So you didn't notice anyone getting off the elevator when all this happened?"

Baldwin looked at her strangely. "Trust me, honey, I wasn't paying attention to no elevators."

She looked at her notes. "So I see the hotel is closed now."

"Shut down not all that long after Ritter was shot. Bad publicity and all. Bad for me, ain't had a steady job like that since."

"I see they have a fence up."

Baldwin shrugged. "Folks who want to take a piece of the place, boys doing drugs and dragging their girlfriends in there for you know what."

"So any plans to reopen it?"

Baldwin snorted loudly. "Knock it down more than likely."

"Any idea who owns it now?"

"Nope. It's just some big old empty pile of nothing. Sort of like this town."

Michelle asked her a few more questions and then thanked her and took her leave, but not before giving Loretta Baldwin some money for helping.

"Let me know when it's going to air. I'll watch it on the TV."

"When and if it does, you'll be the first to know," Michelle replied.

Michelle got back in her car and drove off. She now had another stop to make.

As she pulled off, she heard the rattle of a muffler about to fall off and looked up in time to see an ancient, rust-eaten Buick slowly pull down the street past her, the driver barely visible. Her only thought about it was that the car certainly symbolized this town, in that they were both falling apart.

The Buick driver looked over at Michelle without seeming to. As soon as Michelle pulled off, the man glanced over at a smiling Loretta Baldwin counting her money and rocking in her chair. He'd captured their entire conversation using a sound amplifier recorder hidden in the antenna of his car, and he'd also taken pictures of the two women using his long-range camera lens. Their discussion had been very interesting, so very enlightening on a personal level. SoLoretta the maid had been in the supply closet on that day. Who would have thought it, after all these years? And yet he had to put that aside for now. He slowly turned the car around and followed Michelle. He felt certain she was going back to the hotel. And after hearing her conversation with Loretta Baldwin, he understood why.

King was at his office desk going over a file when there were footsteps outside his door. Neither his partner nor his secretary was coming in today, so he rose and, armed with a letter opener, went swiftly over to the door and opened it.

The men staring back at him looked grim. There was Todd Williams, the Wrightsburg chief of police, the same big uniformed U.S. marshal and two gents who flashed FBI credentials. King brought them all into the small conference room adjacent to his office.

The marshal leaned forward in his chair. His name was Jefferson Parks, he said, and he did not go by "Jeff," he told King firmly, but by "Jefferson," although he preferred simply " Deputy Marshal Parks." "U.S. marshals are political appointees. The deputies do the real work," he said.

He held up a pistol in a plastic evidence bag. "This is the pistol that was taken from your home," he said in a flat, low voice.

"If you say so."

"It is your pistol. Chain of custody intact."

King glanced at Williams, who nodded his head.

"Okay," said King. "And you want to give it back to me because…?"

"Oh, we're not giving it back," said one of the FBI agents.

Parks continued, "We dug the bullet that killed Jennings out ofthe wall of your partner's office. It was jacketed, so there was little projectile deformity. We also found the shell casing. The shot that killed Howard Jennings was fired from your gun. Pinprick, land, groove and even shell ejector mark. A perfect match."