Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  “Either they were recently pulled because of the father’s overwhelming grief or they were never here.”

  “Overwhelming grief? Essentially, he buried his only son under cover of darkness.”

  “Everyone exhibits their emotions differently, Michelle. Some people, for example, kick wooden posts in half when they’re upset.”

  Roger appeared a minute later, a tall, craggy man with stooped shoulders and an unhappy, wan expression. He motioned them to sit on the couch in the living room, and he sat across from them. The man didn’t bother to look at them when he spoke, instead resting his gaze on the beamed ceiling.

  “I’m not sure why another interview is necessary,” he began.

  King said, “I know this is an awfully difficult time—”

  Canney interrupted. “Right, right, let’s just get on with it.”

  They went through the standard questions, to which Canney answered in extremely unhelpful monosyllables.

  Frustrated, King asked, “So no enemies at school that you know of? Or that your son might have mentioned?”

  “Steve was very popular. Everyone just loved him. He could do no wrong.”

  This was not said in the tone of a proud father, but in a mocking manner. King and Michelle exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Had he ever mentioned that he was seeing Janice Pembroke?” asked Michelle.

  “Steve didn’t confide in me. If the kid was screwing around with some slut, that was his business. He was seventeen with raging hormones. But if he’d gotten some girl pregnant, I would have been more than upset.”

  “How long ago did your wife die?” asked Michelle.

  Canney’s gaze dropped from the ceiling to her. “Why is that relevant?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Well, confine your curiosity to the matter at hand.”

  “Okay, can you think of anything at all that Steve might have told you or that you might have overheard him say, or even one of his friends mention, that could shed some light on his murder?” she asked.

  “Look, I already told you that we weren’t exactly chums. We lived in the same house, but that was about it.”

  “Is there a reason why you and your son weren’t close?” asked King.

  “We both had our reasons, and they’re not pertinent to his death.”

  “I’m afraid we need to decide that for ourselves. So if you’d answer the question…”

  “I’m afraid I must decline,” Canney said acidly.

  “Well, that’s up to you. Let’s review what you’ve said. You and your son had what could reasonably be construed as an openly hostile relationship. You were perhaps upset that he was dating some slut, as you called her, and were concerned you’d have to pay for a child at some point. And then Steve and this ‘slut’ end up shotgunned to death. Do you own a shotgun, sir?”

  Canney stood, his pale face now flushed. “What the hell are you implying? How dare you! You’ve twisted my words all around.”

  King remained impassive. “No. I’m simply making the argument any competent prosecutor would. What you’ve told us makes you a possible suspect in your son’s death. I’m sure you were asked about your whereabouts when he was killed. I’d like you to tell us as well.”

  “I was home asleep.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes!”

  “So you have no alibi,” concluded King. “Well”—he looked at Michelle—“let’s go report back. At least it’s another line of investigation the FBI can actively pursue.” He looked back at Canney. “I’m sure the Bureau will be contacting you. Please make no plans to leave the area in the near future.” He started to rise.

  Canney, looking pale again, said, “Wait a minute, wait just a damned minute. I had nothing to do with Steve’s murder.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Canney, I never met a murderer who said otherwise,” replied King.

  Canney stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands while King watched him expectantly. Finally, Canney sat back down.

  After a minute of silence, as though he were searching for just the right words, he said, “Steve was, quite simply, his mother’s child. He adored her, worshiped her. When she died, he somehow blamed me.”

  “I don’t recall what she died of,” said King.

  Canney was now rubbing his hands together nervously.

  “She was in a car accident, well over three years ago now. She ran off the road and into a ravine. Died instantly.”

  “How could your son possibly blame you for that?” Michelle wanted to know.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know!” roared Canney suddenly, and then just as quickly he calmed. “I’m sorry. As you can appreciate, this is all very difficult.” They all remained silent for a bit. “There… there apparently was alcohol involved,” Canney finally said in a very low voice.

  “Your wife was intoxicated when she was killed?”

  “Apparently so. It was surprising, because she’d never been a heavy drinker.”

  “And your marriage was a happy one?” asked Michelle.

  “It was a marriage much like many others,” said Canney defensively.

  “Meaning?” persisted Michelle.

  “Meaning it had its ups and downs.”

  At that moment the housekeeper entered the room and told Canney he had a phone call. He excused himself and went out of the room.

  Michelle turned to her partner. “Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Do you think he had something to do with his wife’s death?”

  “I can’t rule it out.”

  “He’s definitely holding something back. You think he killed his son?”

  “Son. That’s an interesting word.”

  She looked at him puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that Canney never referred to him as his son. Just Steve.”

  “That’s right. Although it might just be because Steve was almost a man, and the relationship was strained.”

  “No, I think he might have given us the answer.”

  “Okay, Sean. What was it?”

  “He was explaining why their relationship had gone wrong. He said Steve blamed him for his mother’s death.”

  “So?”

  “Well, right before that he said…” King pulled out his notepad and read from it. “He said, ‘Steve was, quite simply, his mother’s child.’ ”

  “Right, meaning he favored his mother over his father.”

  “Or, more literally, that she was his mother—” King stopped and looked at Michelle.

  His point finally dawned on her. “And Roger Canney was not his father.”

  Outside, the pickup truck started up. The man had heard all he needed to. It was time to act. But first he had to lay the groundwork.

  CHAPTER

  48

  KYLE MONTGOMERY

  hadn’t had a response to his blackmail letter yet. He had rented a post-office box a while back and had given that address for the person to respond to. He’d sent it anonymously, of course. His letter covered up the fact—very cleverly, he thought—that he actually didn’t know much at all. He was counting on a guilty conscience to bring out something of importance, meaning, in his mind, something of material value. Yet he was starting to wonder if he was wrong. Well, if so, there was no harm done. Or so he thought.

  He was heading to the Aphrodisiac with another delivery for his “client.” He hadn’t had to make another withdrawal from the pharmacy, having smartly taken extra quantities the last time. No reason to push his luck there.

  He parked in the crowded lot and went inside. He didn’t notice the car pull in behind him. Lost in thoughts of forthcoming cash, Kyle was completely unaware he’d been followed since leaving his apartment.

  He went inside and, as was his habit, spent a few minutes watching the pole dancers. There was one in particular he favored, not that he had much of a chance with her. He had neither the looks nor, more important, the money these girls required to show him s
pecial attention.

  He went upstairs and started to go behind the red curtain when a woman appeared next to him. She looked drawn and wobbly on her feet.

  “Where you going?” she asked.

  “To see someone,” he answered nervously. “I’m expected.”

  “Is that right?” the obviously intoxicated woman slurred. “You got some ID?”

  “ID? For what? I’m not drinking and I’m not watching the girls. And do I look like I’m underage? Or did you miss the gray hair in my goatee?”

  “Don’t get smart with me or your ass is out of here.”

  “Look, ma’am, is there a problem?” asked Kyle in a more polite tone. “I’ve gone back there before,” he added.

  “I know you have, I’ve seen you,” said the woman.

  “You come here a lot?” asked Kyle nervously. It suddenly dawned on him that earning a reputation as a regular visitor wasn’t a good thing.

  “I come every day,” answered Lulu Oxley. She flicked her hand toward the red curtain. “Knock yourself out, slick.”

  Lulu staggered down the stairs while Kyle hurried through the red curtain.

  He knocked on the same door and received the usual reply. He went in. The woman was lying on the bed, a blanket over her. The room was so dark he could barely make this out.

  He held up his Baggie. “Here you go.”

  She pitched something to him. He put out his hand but missed, and the object fell to the floor. He picked it up. Ten rolled hundreds secured by a rubber band. He put the Baggie on the table and stood there, nervously looking at her. After a few seconds passed and she said nothing, he turned to leave. He stopped when he heard the bedsprings rattle and saw the lights brighten. Squinting, he looked back and saw her coming toward him. She wore the scarf and the dark glasses and had the blanket wrapped around her. When she drew closer, he could see that her shoulders were bare and she was in her stocking feet.

  When she drew within a foot of him, she let the blanket drop. She had on a black lace thong and matching thigh-high stockings and bra, and that was it. He started breathing hard and felt every muscle tense. Her body was absolutely stunning, her belly flat, her hips soft, her breasts straining against the slender black material holding them in. He just wanted to rip off what little she had on.

  As if sensing his thoughts, transparent as they were, she reached behind her, undid the clasp, and the bra fell to the floor and her breasts sprang free.

  Kyle moaned and almost dropped to his knees. This was, without doubt, the greatest night of his life.

  She reached out as if to touch him but then merely took the Baggie, picked up the blanket and covered herself again.

  Kyle moved forward. “No need to do that, baby,” he said in as cool a fashion as he could muster. “It’ll just get in the way.” He’d never come close to having a woman like this. A thousand bucks and he gets laid for free too. What could be better? He went to put his arms around her, but she shoved him back with a strength that surprised him.

  His face flushed when she started to laugh.

  She returned to the bed, let the blanket slip to the floor again, lay back on the bed and stretched like a cat. Then she turned over on all fours, reached over and put the Baggie on the nightstand. She did it with a slow deliberateness that gave him a long and unobstructed view of her from behind. He was so aroused now it was actually painful.

  She rolled over on her back, put her feet up in the air and took her time sliding each stocking down her leg and then balled them up and tossed them at him. After that she pointed at him and laughed again. Kyle felt his blood pressure shoot upward even as other parts of him deflated.

  “You little bitch!” His fantasy would finally be realized, and he was going to teach her a lesson at the same time. He rushed forward and then stopped just as quickly when the pistol swiveled in his direction. It must have been hidden under the bedcovers.

  “Get out.” This was the first time she’d spoken in a normal tone to him. He didn’t recognize the voice. However, he wasn’t focused on that. His gaze was on the gun that moved up and down, aimed first at his head and then at his crotch.

  Kyle started to back up, his hands up in front of him as though to deflect a bullet. “Hey, just stay cool, lady. I’m going.”

  “Now,” she said in a louder voice. She wrapped the blanket around her and stood in front of him, holding the gun with both hands like she knew exactly how to use it.

  He raised his hands even higher. “I’m going. I’m going! Damn!”

  He turned to leave.

  “Put the money on the table,” she said.

  He turned slowly back around. “Excuse me?”

  “On the table, the money.” She motioned with her gun.

  “I brought you what you wanted. That costs money.”

  In response she let the blanket drop once more and ran one hand along her curvy, nearly naked body. “So does this,” she said very firmly. “Take a good look, little boy, it’ll be the last time you see it.”

  He bristled at this insult. “A thousand dollars! For what? A frigging peep show? I wouldn’t pay a thousand bucks even if I got to screw you.”

  “No amount of money would be enough to let you even touch me,” she said bluntly.

  “Oh, yeah? Boy, you’re quite the catch. A druggie exhibitionist living in a room in a strip club? And hiding behind a scarf and those big dark glasses. Waving your naked ass in front of me and then not giving it up. Who the hell do you think you are? Huh?”

  “You’re boring me. Get out.”

  “You know what? I don’t think you’re going to fire that gun, not with lots of people around.” He looked at her in triumph. The look was short-lived.

  She tapped a cylindrical object attached to the gun’s muzzle and said, “This is a suppressor. Really makes for a silent shot.” She pointed it once more at his crotch. “Would you like a quick demonstration?”

  “No,” he yelled, backing away. “No.” He dropped the money on the table, turned and ran out of the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

  The woman locked the door, went back to her bed and swallowed several pills. A few minutes later she was moaning on the floor, happy again.

  Outside the woman’s door, Sylvia ducked out of the way right before Kyle came running past. She had heard everything. Rushing back outside, Sylvia was just in time to see Kyle spit gravel out of his Jeep’s tires as he raced out of the parking lot. Sylvia slipped the hat off her head and let her hair down. Her suspicions had been confirmed. Kyle was stealing drugs and then selling them to the woman in the room. Sylvia decided to wait out in the parking lot to see if she came out.

  Hours passed. It was very early in the morning, and Sylvia had watched well over a hundred people, mostly men, leave the building. She was just about to give up when someone emerged. It was a woman, her head was wrapped in a scarf and she wore sunglasses even though it was very dark outside. She seemed a little wobbly on her feet but got into a car parked near the rear of the building and drove away. Sylvia did not follow, because she would have been too easily spotted. However, she did see the car the woman got in. She drove off. While some questions had been answered tonight, troubling new ones had taken their place.

  CHAPTER

  49

  THE DAY OF ROBERT E.

  Lee Battle’s funeral started out under a blue sky that soon turned cloudy. By the time the procession reached the cemetery, a warm, gentle rain was falling. The army of black sat around the freshly dug hole under an enormous white tent.

  King looked at many faces he knew and many he didn’t. It was said that the regional airports in Charlottesville and Lynchburg were lined wingtip-to-wingtip with private jets belonging to friends of the Battles who’d come to pay their last respects. Morbid curiosity had probably enticed more than a few attendees.

  Michelle sat next to King. She was actually wearing a dress! King knew better than to make any comment. His arm was still aching from his last wisecrack.r />
  The Battles were in the front row, Eddie and Savannah on either side of their mother. Chip Bailey was next to Eddie. Dorothea sat at the end of the row, arms crossed. Mason stood off to one side, his gaze on the heavily veiled Remmy. Ever the dutiful servant, thought King.

  On the other side of King sat Harry Carrick. The man was dressed as dapper as ever, his white hair even more striking against the backdrop of his dark suit. He’d given Michelle a peck on the cheek and King a firm handshake before sitting down.