David Baldacci - Split Second

"Okay, we rule out enemies from when he was a prosecutor and those for political gain, and we have left pure financial motivation. Was he worth enough to take that risk?"

"By himself, no. As I said before, his wife's family has money, but they're not Rockefellers either. They could pay a million dollars but not more than that."

"Well, it sounds like a lot, but a million bucks just doesn't go as far as it used to."

"Oh, how I'd love to find out," said Joan. She glanced at her file. "Bruno's political party has funds, but still, there are lots of other targets with far bigger payoffs."

"And ones that don't have the Secret Service guarding them."

"Exactly. It's like whoever took Bruno did it for-"

King broke in. "For the challenge? To show they could beat the Secret Service?"

"Yes."

"They must have had inside info. Somebody on Bruno's staff."

"I've got some possibilities. We'll have to check them out."

"Great. But right now I'm going to grab a quick shower."

"I guess exploring your past is a dirty business," she said dryly.

"Boy, it sure can be," he shot back as he walked up the stairs.

She called after him. "Are you sure you want to leave me alone? I might hide a nuclear bomb in your sock drawer and get you into real trouble."

King went to his bedroom, flipped on the bathroom light, turnedon the shower and started brushing his teeth. He turned to close the door, lest Joan get any weird ideas.

As he put his hand on the door and gave it a push, he sensed it was heavier than it should be. Far heavier, as though it had been weighted down with something. His adrenaline instantly surging, he eased it open with his hand and as it swung by, peered around curiously. The door's momentum, together with its increased weight, caused it to come around and close firmly. He didn't even hear the smack of the door against the jamb. His focus was entirely on the source of the extra weight.

He'd seen a lot of unsettling things in his life. Yet the sight of the Wrightsburg socialite and his former client Susan Whitehead hanging on the back of his bathroom door, her dead eyes staring at him, a large knife plunged right through her chest, almost dropped him to the floor.

An hour later King sat on his stairs as the investigative teams finished up and the body of Susan Whitehead was removed. Chief Williams came over to him. "We're done here, Sean. Looks like she was killed around five o'clock this morning. She goes for walks around then, I was told, and we're assuming she was taken at that time and killed immediately. That's why there wasn't any blood on the floor in your bathroom. She bled somewhere else. Anything you can tell me?"

"I wasn't here. I just got back from North Carolina."

"I don't mean that. I'm not implying that you killed Ms. Whitehead."

There was just enough emphasis on the word "you" for King to look up and say, "And I didn't have her killed either, if that's what you're so subtly implying."

"Just doing my job, Sean. I've got a damn crime spree going on, and right now nobody's above suspicion. I hope you can understand that. I know that Ms. Whitehead is your client."

" Was my client. I handled her last divorce, that's it."

"Okay, I might as well ask you this because, well, there's been talk around town." King stared at him expectantly. "There's been talk that maybe you and Ms. Whitehead were, well, seeing each other. Were you?"

"No. She might have wanted a relationship, but I didn't."

Williams's brow furrowed. "Was it a problem for you? I mean I know how the woman could be. Pretty overwhelming."

"She wanted something between us and I didn't. Simple as that."

"And that's all, you're sure?"

"What exactly are you trying to do here? Build a case that I had the woman killed because, what, I didn't want to date her? Give me a break."

"I know it sounds crazy but, well, people do talk."

"Especially around here."

"And Ms. Whitehead was very prominent. Lots of friends."

"Lots of paid friends."

"I wouldn't go around saying that, Sean, I really wouldn't." He held up the note that had been pinned to the chest of the unfortunate Whitehead. It had been placed in an evidence bag.

"Any ideas about this?"

King looked at the note and shrugged. "Only that it's from someone who was at the Ritter assassination or knows a lot about it. I'd give it to the FBI, if I were you."

"Thanks for the advice."

As Williams walked off, King rubbed his temples and contemplated taking a bath in pure bourbon and drinking half of it. The phone rang. It was his law partner, Phil Baxter.

"Yeah, it's true, Phil. She's dead, right here in my house. I know, it shocked the hell out of me. Look, I might need you to cover some things at the office for me. I… What's that?" King's expression darkened. "What are you talking about, Phil? You want to go solo? Can I ask why? I see. Sure, if that's what you want. You do what you have to do." He hung up.

Almost immediately his phone rang again. It was his secretary, Mona Hall, calling with her resignation. She was too scared to work for him anymore, she whined. Dead bodies kept turning up. And people were suggesting that King was somehow in on it, not that she ever believed that, but, well, where there's smoke…

After he hung up with Mona, a hand touched his shoulder. It was Joan.

"More trouble?"

"My law partner is hightailing it as fast as he can, and my secretary just joined him in the full retreat. Other than that, everything's fine."

"I'm sorry, Sean."

"Look, what can I expect? I've got dead bodies falling all around me. Hell, I'd be running too."

"I'm not running anywhere. In fact, I need your help more than ever."

"Well, it's nice to be wanted."

"I'm staying in the area for a couple of days while I set up interviews and do some background digging. Give me a call but make it soon. If you're not going to work with me, I have to move on. I have a private plane available. I want to help you through this, and I think work is the best way to do that."

"Why, Joan? Why do you want to help me?"

"Call it repayment of a debt long overdue."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you more than you think. I see that quite clearly now ."

She gave him a peck on the cheek, turned and left.

The phone rang again and King snatched it up. "Yeah?" he said testily.

It was Michelle. "I heard. I'll be there in half an hour." He remained silent. "Sean, are you okay?"

He looked out the window as Joan drove off. "I'm fine."

King grabbed a quick shower in the guest bathroom and then took a seat at the desk in his study. His brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote down, from memory, the words from the note that had been found on Whitehead's body.

Déjà vu, Sir Kingman. Try to remember if you can where you were on the most important day of your life. I know you're a smart guy but a little rusty, so you probably want a hint. Here it is: 1032AM09261996. Talk about pushing a post. Talk about giving good feet. Look forward to seeing you soon.

Ten-thirty-two A.M. on September 26, 1996, was the exact time that Clyde Ritter had been killed. What could this mean? So intense was his concentration that he never even heard her come in.

"Sean, are you okay?"

He jumped up and yelled out. Michelle screamed and fell back.

"God, you startled me," she said.

"Startled you ? Damn, woman, haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"I did. I have been for the last five minutes, nobody answered." She looked at the piece of paper. "What is that?"

He calmed and said, "A note from somebody in my past."

"How far in your past?"