David Baldacci - Split Second

She was nearing the bottom of the box when her scrutiny intensified. She pulled out the sheaf of papers and spread them out on her bed. They appeared to be a warrant for the arrest of one Robert C. Scott. The address where the warrant was to be served was in Tennessee somewhere, although Joan didn't recognize the town's name. From what she could tell, it had to do with a weapons charge. This Bob Scott had some guns he shouldn't have. Whether it was the Bob Scott she was looking for or not, she couldn't tell yet. However, the Bob Scott she knew had loved his guns.

As she read further, it became even more intriguing. The Marshals Service had been engaged, as they often were, to serve the warrant on behalf of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, or ATF. That was probably why Parks had been able to get his hands on this document. Bob Scott might have ties to this current case, but it would have to be from the Ritter angle. And yet they had all speculated that Bruno and Ritter might be connected somehow. They had the murders of Loretta Baldwin and Mildred Martin to show that connection. And yet how could such two very different cases involve all the same parties? What was the common denominator? What! It was driving her mad that the answer might be staring them all in the face and they still couldn't see it.

Her cell phone rang. It was Parks.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"I'm at the Cedars. I've been going over that box you left. And I think I might have hit on something." She told him about the warrant.

"Damn, was it served on Scott?"

"I don't know. Presumably not, since if he'd been arrested, it would have shown up somewhere and we'd know about it."

"If the guy's got warrants issued against him for gun violations, maybe he's the wacko behind all this."

"But how do we tie him to everything? It doesn't make sense."

"Agreed," he said wearily. "Where are King and Maxwell?"

"They went to talk to Kate Ramsey. She called and said she had some more information for them. They were meeting in Charlottesville."

"Well, if her father wasn't working alone, the guy she overheard might have been Bob Scott. He would have been in the perfect inside place to set up the hit. A Trojan horse if ever there was one."

"How do you want to proceed on what I discovered?"

"I say we take a bunch of guys and go check it out. Nice find, Joan. Maybe you're as good as everybody says you are."

"Actually, Marshal, I'm better."

As soon as Joan hung up, she jumped as though she'd been electrocuted. "Oh my God," she exclaimed, staring at her phone. "It can't be." She said the next two words very slowly. "Trojan horse."

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, and the attendant carried the tray.

"Over here okay, ma'am?"

"Yes," said Joan absently. Her mind was truly whirling over this new development. "That's fine."

"Would you like me to pour out the coffee?"

"No, that's fine." She signed the check and turned away. "Thank you."

Joan was about to make a phone call when she felt the presence behind her. She turned, but didn't even have time to cry out before everything went dark. The young woman stood over Joan, who now lay on the floor. Tasha bent down and went to work.

It was late at night when King and Michelle arrived at Atticus College. The building housing Thornton Jorst's office was locked. At the administration building Michelle persuaded a young intern on duty there to give her Jorst's home address. It was about a mile off campus on a tree-shaded avenue of brick homes, where a number of other professors lived. There was no car in Jorst's driveway as King pulled his Lexus to the curb, and no lights were on. They went up the drive to the front door and knocked, but no one answered. They looked around at the small backyard, but that was empty too.

"I can't believe it, but Jorst must have been at the Fairmount Hotel when Ritter was killed," said Michelle. "There's no other explanation unless somebody called him from the hotel and told him what had happened."

"Well, we'll ask him that. But if he was there, he must have hightailed it out before the area was sealed off. That's the only way he could have gotten to Regina and Kate with the news that fast."

"Think he'll admit being at the hotel?"

"I guess we'll find out, because I intend on asking him. And I'd also like to ask about Regina Ramsey."

"You'd think he would have mentioned they were talking marriage when we first spoke to him."

"Not if he didn't want us to know. Which makes me even more suspicious." King looked at Michelle. "Are you armed?"

"Guns and creds, the whole power pack, why?"

"Just checking. I wonder if people lock their doors around here?"

"You're not thinking of going in? That's breaking and entering in the nighttime."

"Not if you don't break when you enter," he said.

"Oh, really? Where'd you get your law degree? The University of Stupid?"

"All I'm saying is, it would be nice to have a peek with Jorst not around."

"But he might be. He might be in there sleeping. Or he might come back while we're inside."

"Not we, just me. You're a sworn law enforcement officer."

"You're a member of the bar. Technically that makes you an officer of the court."

"Yeah, but us lawyers can always get around technicalities. It's our specialty, or don't you watch TV?" He went back to his car and got a flashlight. When he rejoined Michelle, she grabbed his arm. "Sean, this is crazy. What if a neighbor sees you and calls the cops?"

"Then we tell them we thought we heard someone calling out for help."

"That is so unbelievably lame."

King had already eased over to the back door and tried the knob. "Damn."

Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. "It's locked? Thank God!"

King swung the door open with a mischievous look. "Just kidding. I'll only be a minute. Keep a sharp lookout."

"Sean, don't-"

He slipped inside before she could finish. Michelle started wandering around, hands in her pockets, trying to look like she hadn't a care in the world while the acid ate away the lining of herstomach. She even attempted to whistle, but found she couldn't because her lips were too dry from her sudden anxiety attack.

"Damn you, Sean King," she muttered.

Inside, King found himself in the kitchen. As he swung his light around, the room was revealed as small and looked unused. Jorst seemed more of an eat-out kind of guy. He moved through to a living room that was very plainly furnished and neat. Bookcases lined the room and were, not surprisingly, full of tomes by Goethe, Francis Bacon, John Locke and the perennially popular Machiavelli.

Jorst's home office was off the living room, and this space was more reflective of the man. The desk was piled high with books and papers, the floor cluttered, the small leather sofa similarly stacked with objects. The place smelled strongly of both cigarette and cigar smoke, and King noted an ashtray on the floor that was filled with butts. The walls were covered with cheap bookshelves, and they sagged under the weight of the books resting there. King poked around the desk, opened drawers and looked for secret hiding places yet found nothing of the sort. He doubted that if he pulled out one of the books a hidden passageway would be revealed, but he dutifully slipped out a couple of volumes just in case. Nothing happened.

Jorst was working on a book, he'd said, and the condition of his study seemed to confirm this, since notes, drafts and outlines were piled everywhere. Organization was evidently not the man's strong suit, and King looked around in disgust at the mess. He couldn't live ten minutes like this, although in his youth his apartment had looked even worse. At least he'd grown out of his pigsty; Jorst apparently never had. King fleetingly contemplated inviting Michelle in so she could get a quick hit of clutter. It would probably make her feel better.