Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

“Sir, it would be helpful to me if I had some idea of the contents of the case.”

“It would be very helpful to me to have that, as well, Erik.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Suffice it to say that I believe it contains evidence of secret pardons, one of them that of Rawls, granted by Will Lee late in his second term, and that public knowledge of these might be an insurmountable impediment to the reelection of Katharine Lee.”

“Who was the other pardon for, sir?”

“I don’t know, but I would certainly like to. Beyond the pardons, there may be inflammatory information concerning our friend Mr. Knott.”

“Sir, I and my people have searched his background thoroughly, to the point where no one, in my view, could find anything derogatory that we have not already expunged from his various records.”

“I am aware that there are limits to what one man may learn of another, Erik. It is always possible to miss something, and I cannot afford that.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Keep me posted on Rawls.”

“Yes, sir.” Macher got out of the van and left on foot as it drove away.

Ed Rawls kept the lowest possible profile for the first week. He used one light at a time, double-checking to see that the blinds were drawn, and he stayed out of the living room, which fronted the road. But then he ran short of scotch, and as an afterthought, groceries. It would take too long to get the scotch delivered, so he made plans to go to the village.

Shortly after midnight he grabbed a flashlight and made his way to the garage. He pulled the cover off the old Mercedes and disconnected the battery charger, all this without turning on a light. The car started immediately, and he let it run for a couple of minutes with the garage door open, then backed it out and pointed it at the main road, up close against the tall hedge, then he switched it off, closed the garage door, and went back into the house.

As he walked to the front steps he froze, then stood behind the big oak tree out front. A light had gone on in the house across the road, a hundred yards away, and as far as he knew, nobody lived there. It was a weekend place for the owners, and not every weekend, and tonight was not a weekend.

Keeping the oak tree between him and that house, he made his way to the driveway, then around back, letting himself in the rear door. He locked it behind him and went to lock the front door, as well. He got his binoculars from the bookcase in his study; they were high-powered, and he went to a front window and trained them on the light across the road.

The light was in a kitchen window, and a moment later a blond woman opened the refrigerator and took out something. He had caught a glimpse of her through the crack of his study door when the couple had come to look at his house. They must have liked the neighborhood, he thought.

He got his throwaway cell phone, looked up the number for the sheriff’s substation in the village, and called. As expected, he got a beep. “There are intruders in the Denton house on County Road 6,” he said into the phone. “I just passed by there and saw somebody inside. Please look into it.” He hung up and hoped the call had wakened the deputy, who would be asleep on the sofa in the squad room.

Deputy James Garr woke from a light sleep and heard someone recording a message. He got up, went to the machine, and played back the message.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He went outside and started the patrol car, then picked up the radio microphone. “Central, this is car three. Come back.”

“What’s goin’ on, James?” a woman’s voice said.

“I’m leaving substation four. Got a call of intruders at the Dentons’ place on County Road 6.”

“You want backup?”

“Not yet. I’ll call you from my handheld if I do.”

“Sorry they woke you up, James.”

“Screw you, Suzie.” He hung up the microphone and started driving. It took him four minutes to reach the Denton house, and he drove past at thirty miles an hour, then pulled over and turned off his lights. Looking back, he could see the kitchen window, and there was a light on.

He walked back to the house and had a look in the front window; all he saw was the light from the kitchen. He unsnapped the keep on his Glock and walked quietly around the house to the kitchen window. There was an empty recycling bin at the foot of the steps to the back door, and he turned it upside down and stood on it. He took off his hat and peered through a corner of the kitchen window. There was a blond woman in a pantsuit sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. There was a half-empty glass of orange juice beside her on the table.

Now, he asked himself, what would a woman be doing sitting at a kitchen table in a pin-striped suit at one o’clock in the morning? He got down from the bin, reinstalled his hat, walked up the back steps, and rapped sharply on the pane in the door with his high school class ring.

He heard something resembling a scuffle from inside, and the woman called out, “Farrell!” He rapped again. “Sheriff’s office,” he called out. “Open up, please!”

“Farrell!” she shouted again.

Garr tried the door, found it unlocked, and let himself in. “Sheriff’s office!” he called out again, and unholstered the Glock.

“What the hell is it?” a man’s voice demanded.

Garr stepped into the kitchen, the weapon at his side, and found himself staring into somebody else’s Glock. A man in a gray business suit was pointing it at him.

“Drop your weapon,” Garr said. “I’m a uniformed sheriff’s deputy, can’t you see that?”

The man didn’t drop it. “What the hell do you want?” he asked sourly.

“Drop the weapon,” Garr said. “I won’t tell you again.”

The man lowered the pistol. “What’s this about?”

Garr walked over to him, his Glock in plain view but pointed at the floor, and took the pistol from the man’s hand. “This is about you showing me some ID, both of you, and explaining what you’re doing in this house.”

The woman put a hand to her breast. “Oh, you scared me half to death,” she said.

“Both of you, put your ID on the table and step back.”

They both came up with driver’s licenses, set them down, and stepped back.

“Tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Well,” the woman said, “the owners are in the Bahamas for a couple of weeks, and they offered us the house while they were gone.”

“You have anything in writing to confirm that?” Garr asked.

“I’m afraid not,” the man said.

“What’s their cell phone number?” Garr asked.

The man began slapping his pockets. “I’ve got it somewhere,” he said.

“Then let’s have it.” He was going through his pockets now. Garr picked up the two licenses; one was New Jersey, the other, Connecticut. The names were Drake and Solberg. “Are you two married?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man said, “but not to each other.”

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“It’s like that.”

“Where’s that number?”

“I appear to have left it in another suit.”

“Why are you dressed in business clothes in the middle of the night?”

“We were watching television and hadn’t got sleepy yet,” the woman said.

“You weren’t watching television,” Garr said, tapping the crossword, “and neither was he.”

“Oh, yes, I was watching the news in the living room,” the man said.

“The Dentons don’t own a TV,” Garr said. “Now, both of you grab the table, and don’t make any sudden moves.” He began patting them down. “And let me see the license for the Glock.”

“I have a Connecticut license,” the man said. “You want to see that?”