“I can understand that.”
“Well, I poked my head in and I saw that man shaking hands and talking real slick and smooth and his eyes would hold anybody’s he was talking to. I read where he was a TV preacher too. I could see how that man could get dollars and votes, yes indeed. He just had that way. But from a person of color’s perspective I think Clyde Ritter was right at home in the Stonewall Jackson Room and was probably sleeping in the Jefferson Davis Penthouse Suite and loving that too, and damn if he was going to get my vote.”
“I can understand that too. Besides Ritter, did you notice anyone else?”
“I remember a police officer blocking the doorway. I had to kind of look around him. I could see Ritter like I said, and there was the man behind him, real close.”
“Secret Service. Agent Sean King.”
Baldwin stared hard at her. “That’s right. You say that like you know the man.”
“Never met him. But I’ve been doing a lot of research.”
Baldwin ran her gaze up and down Michelle, a scrutiny that made the younger woman finally blush. “You got no ring on your finger. What, are you telling me there ain’t any eligible men that would appreciate a beautiful young thing like you?”
Michelle smiled. “I keep really crazy hours. Guys don’t like that.”
“Hell, honey, men don’t like nothing but a meal and their beer in front of them when they want it, nobody questioning the stupid things they do, all the free time in the world and a warm body to do the sex thing when they feel like it, and no talking after.”
“I see you have them pretty well figured out.”
“Like it takes a lot of deep thinking?” She fell silent for a moment. “Yep, a real nice-looking man. When he fired that gun, though, he wasn’t real nice-looking.”
Michelle tensed again. “You saw that?”
“Yep. All hell broke loose when Ritter got shot. You wouldn’t believe it. The policeman in front of me, he turned to see what was going on, but he got knocked down and people tripped over him. I just froze. I’ve heard guns go off, fired ’em myself growing up, to scare off critters and trespassers and such. But this was different. Then I saw King shoot Ramsey. Next I seen them run off with Ritter, but that man was dead, anybody could see that. And I watched that King fellow stand there just looking down, like, like…”
“Like he’d just seen his life end too,” Michelle suggested.
“Just like that. How’d you know?”
“I know someone who had a similar experience. Did you by chance hear a sound before Ritter was shot, something that might have distracted Agent King?” Michelle didn’t want to mention that that sound could have been the ding of an elevator car because she didn’t want to influence Baldwin’s recollection.
The old woman thought about this and then shook her head. “No, I can’t say that I did. There was lots of noise. I tell you what I did do. I ran down the hallway and hid in the supply closet. I was so scared I didn’t come out for an hour.”
“But before all that you maybe cleaned the third floor?”
Baldwin looked over at her. “Why don’t you ask me what you want to ask me and save us both a lot of time?”
“Okay, did you clean Agent King’s room?”
She nodded. “They had all checked out before the event. But I got people’s names down on my list. Yes, I cleaned his room before all the shooting started, and let me tell you it needed cleaning.” She looked pointedly at Michelle.
“Why, was he a real slob?”
“No, but there was just a lot of activity in that room the night before, I guess.” She raised an eyebrow as she said this.
“Activity?” asked Michelle.
“Activity.”
Michelle had been perched on the edge of her rocker. Now she sat back. “I see.”
“Looked like a couple of wild animals had gone through that room. Even found a pair of black lace panties on top of the ceiling light fixture. Don’t know how they got there, and I don’t want to know.”
“Any idea who the other animal was?”
“No, but it seems to me you don’t look too far away, you see my point?”
Michelle’s eyes narrowed as she thought about this. “Yes, I think I do,” she said. “So you didn’t notice anyone getting off the elevator when all this happened?”
Baldwin looked at her strangely. “Trust me, honey, I wasn’t paying attention to no elevators.”
She looked at her notes. “So I see the hotel is closed now.”
“Shut down not all that long after Ritter was shot. Bad publicity and all. Bad for me, ain’t had a steady job like that since.”
“I see they have a fence up.”
Baldwin shrugged. “Folks who want to take a piece of the place, boys doing drugs and dragging their girlfriends in there for you know what.”
“So any plans to reopen it?”
Baldwin snorted loudly. “Knock it down more than likely.”
“Any idea who owns it now?”
“Nope. It’s just some big old empty pile of nothing. Sort of like this town.”
Michelle asked her a few more questions and then thanked her and took her leave, but not before giving Loretta Baldwin some money for helping.
“Let me know when it’s going to air. I’ll watch it on the TV.”
“When and if it does, you’ll be the first to know,” Michelle replied.
Michelle got back in her car and drove off. She now had another stop to make.
As she pulled off, she heard the rattle of a muffler about to fall off and looked up in time to see an ancient, rust-eaten Buick slowly pull down the street past her, the driver barely visible. Her only thought about it was that the car certainly symbolized this town, in that they were both falling apart.
The Buick driver looked over at Michelle without seeming to. As soon as Michelle pulled off, the man glanced over at a smiling Loretta Baldwin counting her money and rocking in her chair. He’d captured their entire conversation using a sound amplifier recorder hidden in the antenna of his car, and he’d also taken pictures of the two women using his long-range camera lens. Their discussion had been very interesting, so very enlightening on a personal level. So Loretta the maid had been in the supply closet on that day. Who would have thought it, after all these years? And yet he had to put that aside for now. He slowly turned the car around and followed Michelle. He felt certain she was going back to the hotel. And after hearing her conversation with Loretta Baldwin, he understood why.
17
King was at his office desk going over a file when there were footsteps outside his door. Neither his partner nor his secretary was coming in today, so he rose and, armed with a letter opener, went swiftly over to the door and opened it.
The men staring back at him looked grim. There was Todd Williams, the Wrightsburg chief of police, the same big uniformed U.S. marshal and two gents who flashed FBI credentials. King brought them all into the small conference room adjacent to his office.
The marshal leaned forward in his chair. His name was Jefferson Parks, he said, and he did not go by “Jeff,” he told King firmly, but by “Jefferson,” although he preferred simply “Deputy Marshal Parks.” “U.S. marshals are political appointees. The deputies do the real work,” he said.
He held up a pistol in a plastic evidence bag. “This is the pistol that was taken from your home,” he said in a flat, low voice.
“If you say so.”
“It is your pistol. Chain of custody intact.”
King glanced at Williams, who nodded his head.
“Okay,” said King. “And you want to give it back to me because…?”
“Oh, we’re not giving it back,” said one of the FBI agents.
Parks continued, “We dug the bullet that killed Jennings out of the wall of your partner’s office. It was jacketed, so there was little projectile deformity. We also found the shell casing. The shot that killed Howard Jennings was fired from your gun. Pinprick, land, groove
and even shell ejector mark. A perfect match.”
“And I’m telling you that’s impossible!”
“Why?”
“Let me ask you a question. What was the time of Jennings’s death?”
“Medical examiner says between 1:00 and 2:00 A.M. the night before you found him in your office,” replied Parks.
“At that time I was making my patrol rounds. And that pistol was in my holster.”
One of the FBI agents perked up. “Do we take that as a confession?”
King’s look made it clear what he thought of that comment.
Parks considered this and said, “We’ve been checking your movements that night. Your vehicle was seen on Main Street around the time Jennings was killed.”
“I probably was there. My rounds include the town area, so it would be logical that someone saw my truck then. But you don’t have a witness that saw me at my office, because I wasn’t there.”
One of the FBI agents was about to respond until Parks put a big hand on his arm.
“That’s not something we have to discuss with you at the moment,” said Parks. “But we do have a positive on the ballistics, and with your background you know that’s as good as a fingerprint.”
“No, not quite as good as a print. It doesn’t place me at the crime scene.”
“On the contrary, we have your gun at the scene, and we have you nearby the scene. That’s pretty strong evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” countered King.
“And there have been convictions on a lot less,” shot back Parks.
“We should have done a trace metal test when they took the gun from you,” said one of the FBI agents.
“Wouldn’t have done any good,” said King. “I handled my gun the night before you came, so there would have been microscopic traces in my skin from the metal.”
“Convenient,” said the agent.
Parks’s gaze was on King. “May I ask why you were handling your gun? You weren’t on duty.”
“I thought there was a prowler around my house.”
“Was there?”
“No. Just an old acquaintance.”
Parks looked at him strangely, but apparently decided against pursuing the matter.
“Care to tell me my motive?” asked King.
“The man works for you. Maybe he was stealing, or maybe he found out you were stealing from clients and tried to blackmail you. You arrange to meet him and kill him.”
“Nice theory, only he wasn’t stealing from me, and I wasn’t stealing from my clients because I don’t have direct access to any of their funds. Check it out.”
“Oh, we will but that’s just two possibilities. Another might be that you somehow found out Jennings was WITSEC, and you let that slip to the wrong people.”
“And they killed him with my gun that was in my holster?”
“Or you did it to pocket the fee.”
“So now I’m a hit man.”
“Did you know Jennings was WITSEC?”
King hesitated an instant too long, at least to his thinking. “No.”
“Care to take a polygraph on that?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Just trying to help you out,” said Parks. “I mean you’ve already admitted having the murder weapon on you at the time Jennings was killed.”
“Just so you know, you haven’t advised me of my rights, so I doubt anything I’ve said to you is admissible anyway.”
“You’re not under arrest. You haven’t been charged,” pointed out one of the FBI agents. “So we’re under no obligation to read you anything.”
Parks said, “And if called to testify, we can merely repeat what you said in our presence.”
“Hearsay,” said King. “And I don’t really think you can get it in under an exception, because it’s prejudicial. I’d get a mistrial in a heartbeat.”
“You don’t practice criminal law, do you?” said Parks.
“No, why?”
“Because what you just said was a crock of shit.”
King didn’t look as confident now. Parks pressed on.
“So are you retracting your statement that the gun was with you at that time?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“It might depend on how you answer my question.”
King rose. “From now on, all discussions will be with my criminal defense attorney present.”
Parks rose too, and for a moment King had the feeling that the big man was going to come across the table and throttle him. Yet he just smiled and handed the bagged gun to one of the FBI agents.
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you,” he said pleasantly. “Just don’t make any travel plans for outside the area; that won’t make me happy.”
As they were leaving, King pulled Williams aside.
“Todd, why is Parks running the show? The FBI takes a backseat to no one.”
“The dead guy was in witness protection. Parks is really high up at the Marshals Service. I think he was actually the one who placed Jennings in this area. And he’s ticked off that he’s dead. I guess he pulled some strings in D.C.” Todd looked uncomfortable and his voice dropped. “Look, not for one instant do I believe you’re mixed up in this…”
“And you were about to say but?”
Todd looked even more uncomfortable. “But I think it would be best…”
“If I suspend my duties as a deputy pending the outcome of all this?”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
After Todd left, King sat at his desk. What was bothering him was that he hadn’t been arrested on the spot. In truth, they had enough to charge him. And how had the gun he’d been holstering on that night been used to kill Jennings? King could think of two scenarios, and when the other thought struck him he almost put his fist through the wall. How could he have been so stupid? Joan Dillinger.
He picked up the phone and called an old friend in Washington. The man was still employed by the Secret Service and had remained on King’s side throughout the Ritter ordeal. After some personal and professional chitchat King asked him how Joan Dillinger was doing.
“Don’t really know.”
“Oh, I thought you two worked closely together.”
“Well, we did until she left.”
“Left? Left the Washington field office?”
“No, the Service.”
King almost dropped the phone. “Joan is no longer with the Secret Service?”
“She left about a year ago. Went into private security consulting. And she’s making a boatload of cash, from what I’ve heard. And probably needs every penny. You know Joan likes to live well.”
“You got a number for her up there?” King wrote the information down.
His friend continued, “I guess you’ve heard about our troubles. It’s really too bad. Maxwell was good, a real supercharged model.”
“I saw her on TV. I’m reading scapegoat, am I right? I’m sort of an expert.”
“Comparing what she did to your situation is apples and oranges. Maxwell made a huge error in judgment. She was detail leader, you were just one of the grunts.”
“Come on, how many bedrooms have we stood outside of while the guy was in there having serious carnal knowledge with a woman who wasn’t his wife? And it’s not like we ever searched those ladies for weapons. And I don’t remember us going to the mat to stand next to the damn bed.”
“But nothing bad happened.”
“No thanks to us.”
“Okay, I’m not going to get into it any further, because I have to watch my blood pressure. So you gonna hook up with Joan?”
“Oh, I have a feeling I’m going to see her real soon.”
18
Michelle slipped back inside the Fairmount and went directly to the hotel office again. King had occupied room 304. Loretta Baldwin had hinted that she should not look too far from there, so she checked the occupant for room 302. Michelle remembered there was a connecting door.
“Damn,” she said when she saw the name on the registration card. J. Dillinger had been in room 302. Could that be Joan Dillinger? She’d met Dillinger briefly a couple of times. The woman had moved higher in the agency than almost any of her gender had previously and then abruptly quit. Michelle remembered being intimidated by the lady, something she was definitely not used to. Joan Dillinger had a reputation for being more cool under pressure, more tenacious, more ballsy than anyone else, man or woman. Ambitious as hell, she’d left the Service to grab the brass ring of private-sector consulting. But while she was at the Service she was someone Michelle had looked up to.
And yet was Joan Dillinger the other half of the wild animal act Loretta Baldwin had described? Was the iron lady whom Michelle admired the same woman whose black lace panties ended up on the overhead light? Was King’s mental lapse in guarding Clyde Ritter due to sheer physical exhaustion from a night of sex with Joan that was so explosive it had sent her flimsy underwear skyward? She felt certain it was Joan because on the index card used for registration, her address, like King’s, was the Secret Service headquarters in Washington.
Michelle put both index cards in her bag and went to the Stonewall Jackson Room. There she looked at the doorway from where Loretta Baldwin witnessed the first assassination of a politician campaigning for the U.S. presidency in almost thirty years. She stood where Loretta had and closed the door. It was again so quiet in here that she could hear her own pounding heartbeat.
As soon as she left the room and went back into the lobby, this sensation stopped. Normal sounds returned, and she could no longer hear the jarring thumps of her heart. She was beginning to wonder if the Stonewall Jackson Room was haunted, perhaps by a very upset Clyde Ritter. She went down the hallway and found the supply closet where Loretta said she’d hidden. It was fairly large and had shelves lining three of the walls.
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