David Baldacci - The Sixth Man

“You don’t seem to be taking this too seriously.”

“I take it very seriously. I just doubt you’re going to find anything.”

“We’re pretty good at our job,” Dobkin said stiffly.

“I’m sure you are. But something tells me the other side is pretty good at its job, too.”

The two men stared at each other and seemed to reach a silent meeting of the minds.

Dobkin finally pointed at the Ford. “If I were you I’d get those windows covered over. Supposed to rain tomorrow.”

Sean watched him drive off and then he steered the Ford back to Martha’s Inn, his coat buttoned all the way up against the damp chill coming through the open windows.

CHAPTER

20

MICHELLE FLASHED her light around as she walked toward the back of the house. She’d had some dinner, reported back to Sean, and mulled over what she’d found thus far. She’d waited until it was well after dark before heading to Bergin’s house. She wasn’t breaking and entering, but the nighttime suited her better for these types of activities.

Ted Bergin had lived in an eighteenth-century farmhouse that he had restored about five years ago, just in time for his wife of forty years to die in a freak car accident. Sean had provided Michelle with this nugget of information, and it had served to deepen her empathy for the man and make her want to find his killer all the more.

The house was about eight miles from his office. The location was rural and isolated, with rolling green hills serving as a picturesque backdrop. She wondered what would happen to the place now. Maybe in his will he had left the property to Hilary Cunningham for years of faithful service.

The woman had given her a key to the house. She explained that Bergin had kept a spare at the office in the case of an emergency.

Well, I guess this qualifies as such.

Michelle opted for the rear door, because she liked to avoid entering anyplace through the front entrance. Or at least she did ever since she’d nearly gotten herself ripped in half when thirty rounds from a machine gun clip had blasted through the front door of a home in Fairfax, Virginia, that she had been standing in front of a second before.

She eased the door open and peered in, flashing her trusty Maglite around.

Kitchen, she easily concluded after the beam bounced off the refrigerator and then a stainless steel dishwasher. Michelle closed the door behind her and advanced into the space.

The house was not large and the rooms were not numerous, so after an hour she had pretty much covered the basics. Unless she was committed to tearing up floors and ripping open plaster walls, she wasn’t going to find anything of significance. Ted Bergin had been a man of tidy habits who had opted for quality over quantity. His possessions were relatively few but of excellent craftsmanship. She found a deer rifle and a shotgun locked behind the barred glass of a cabinet hung on the wall in what looked to be the lawyer’s library/home office. Boxes of ammo were housed in a drawer built into the lower part of the cabinet.

She’d found a shotgun vest, fishing tackle, and other sporting gear in a mudroom and concluded that Bergin had been an avid outdoorsman. Maybe if he’d retired from the practice he would still be alive and enjoying his golden years. Well, there was no maybe about it—he would have.

In a photo album she discovered a number of pictures of Mrs. Bergin. Several showed the woman in her twenties and thirties. She was pretty, with a coy smile that had probably garnered the attention of many young men. There were other photos where the lady’s hair had turned white and the skin had wrinkled. But even later in life there had been true warmth and even mischievousness in her expression. Michelle wondered why they had never had children. Maybe they couldn’t. And were of a generation that didn’t have the availability of fertility clinics and surrogate wombs, although they could have adopted.

She put the album down and considered what to do next.

Michelle wondered why the police or FBI had not been here yet. Perhaps they were confining their investigation to Maine, which seemed shortsighted since the man’s murder in Maine might be tied to something in Virginia not connected to Roy. And if his killing was tied to his representation of Roy, relevant evidence could certainly be down here as well. And there was the letter from Brandon Murdock. He, too, apparently wanted to know who Bergin’s client was. Yet something must have been filed with the court. Though maybe it was filed under seal. That might be a way to keep it from becoming part of the public record.

But it would seem that the FBI would be able to get past any sealed document.

She decided to go back to Bergin’s library one more time, just in case she might have missed something. She sat at his desk, which was ornately carved wood with the gravitas of a judicial bench, and turned on the green lawyer’s lamp. No computer here. A few files. Some legal pads with scribbles on them. His answering machine held no messages. The mailbox outside had been empty. That did strike her as odd, since mail should have been delivered since he’d been in Maine. Unless he’d had it cut off until after his return.

She slapped her forehead.

Jesus, I’m really losing it.

Ted Bergin hadn’t driven up to Maine; he’d flown. There was a single-car garage addition to the farmhouse. It was off the kitchen. She entered the garage and studied the sturdy Honda four-door. It was about ten years old but in good shape. She spent thirty minutes going over every cubic foot of it. Among the many things the Secret Service had taught her how to do quite thoroughly was search a car. However, that was usually to check for bombs. She had a feeling whatever was eluding her was far more subtle.

She sat in the passenger seat and thought about it. If Bergin didn’t use a computer and he wanted to keep the information about his client secret, where would it be if not at his office, on his person, or at his house? Unless he had memorized names, phone numbers, and addresses he probably would have written it down somewhere, in order to keep it handy. He was a pen and paper man, after all.

Michelle’s gaze finally fixed on the glove box. She had already been through it once and found the usual things. A spare pen, state inspection pink slip, car registration, and the Honda’s pristine operating manual.

Her fingers closed around the manual. She skipped to the back, where there were blank pages for one to fill in maintenance records. Michelle had never known anyone to actually do that, but—

There it was, smack in the middle of the blank pages.

Kelly Paul. Home and cell phones and a mailing address that would put Paul somewhere west of here, near the West Virginia border—if Michelle remembered correctly the location of the town Bergin had written down. This had to be it. The client. Unless Kelly Paul happened to be a Honda salesman. Michelle really didn’t think that was the case.

She ripped the page out, slid it into her pocket, got out of the car, and closed the door.

And froze.

She was no longer the only person in the house.

CHAPTER

21

SEAN KING PARKED his rental on a side road and walked toward the causeway. He’d gone back to the inn after running into Dobkin. But he’d grown restless, and there still had been no word from Megan. He wondered how many waves it would cause if he made a stink about the Bureau keeping the lawyer under wraps, perhaps against her will. He’d concluded that if she didn’t appear by morning he would have to take some sort of action.