Split Second (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 1)

She picked up her wine again and finished it in one long sip. “You actually have no idea how hard this was for me to come here. I changed my mind about ten times. Took an hour to decide what to wear. It was more nerve-racking than securing a presidential inaugurati

on.”

He had never known her to talk this way. She was always the ultraconfident one. Bantering with the boys like she was not only one of them but the ringleader to boot.

“I’m sorry, Sean. I’m not sure I ever said that I was sorry.”

“Bottom line, it was my fault. Case closed.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I just don’t have the time or energy to hold a grudge. It’s not that important to me.”

Slipping into her heels, she rose and put on her jacket. “You’re right, it is late and I should be going. I’m sorry if I interrupted your wonderful life. And I apologize for being so concerned about you that I came here to see how you were doing.”

King started to speak, hesitated, and then as she headed toward the door, he let out a sigh and said, “You’ve had too much to drink to drive these back roads at night. The guest room’s at the top of the stairs, on the right. There are pajamas in the bureau, and your own bath, and whoever gets up first makes the coffee.”

She turned back. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”

“Trust me, I know that. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She looked at him with an expression that said, “Are you absolutely sure you won’t come see me before the morning?”

He turned and headed away. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’ve got some work to do. Sleep tight.”

Joan went outside and got her overnight bag out of the car. When she came back in, he was nowhere around. The master bedroom looked to be at the far end of the hall. She slipped across and peeked inside. It was dark. And empty. She slowly went to her room and closed the door.

CHAPTER

12

MICHELLE MAXWELL’S ARMS and legs moved with maximum efficiency, at least as she judged herself by the far lower standards of these post-Olympic days. Her scull cut through the waters of the Potomac as the sun rose and the already heavy air held the promise of a less chilly day. It was here at Georgetown that she’d begun her rowing career. Her muscular thighs and shoulders were burning with the effort she was expending. She’d passed every other scull, kayak, canoe and comparable vessel on the water, including one that had a five-horsepower engine.

She pulled her scull up to one of the boathouses that sat on the banks in Georgetown, bent over and took deep, long breaths, the endorphins coursing through her blood providing a pleasant high. A half hour later she was in her Land Cruiser heading back to the hotel she’d moved to near Tysons Corner, Virginia. It was still early and traffic was light—relatively light, that is, for a region that routinely saw clogged highways as early as 5:00 A.M. She showered and put on a T-shirt and boxers. With no uncomfortable shoes or stockings, and no holster chafing her, it felt great. She stretched, rubbed her tired limbs down and then ordered room service and threw on a robe before her breakfast was delivered. While having pancakes, orange juice and coffee, she channel-surfed the TV, looking for more news on the Bruno disappearance. Ironic that she was the lead agent in the field that day and was now getting her news on the investigation from CNN. She stopped surfing when she saw a man on TV who looked familiar. He was in Wrightsburg, Virginia, surrounded by news crews and obviously not enjoying it.

It took her a few moments to place him, and then she got it. The man was Sean King. She’d joined the Service a year or so before the Ritter assassination. Michelle had never known what became of Sean King, and had no reason to want to know. But now, as she listened to the details of Howard Jennings’s murder, she began to want to know more. Part of it was purely physical. King was a very good-looking man: tall and well built with close-cropped black hair now heavily graying at the temples. He must be in his mid-forties now, she calculated. He had the sort of face that looked better with lines; it gave him an attraction that he probably never had in his twenties or thirties, when he was probably too pretty-boy-looking. Yet it wasn’t his handsome features that intrigued her the most. As she listened to the sketchy details leading to Jennings’s death, there was something about the murder, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She opened the copy of the Washington Post that had been delivered to her room and, scanning the pages, found a short but informative article about the slaying. The account also contained facts about King’s past, the Ritter fiasco and its aftermath. As she read the account and then looked at the man on the screen, she felt a sudden, visceral connection to him. They’d both made mistakes on the job, and it had cost them greatly. It appeared King had rebuilt his life pretty dramatically. Michelle wondered if she’d be anywhere near as triumphant in reconstructing her world.

She had a sudden inspiration and phoned a confidant of hers at the Service. The young man wasn’t an agent. He was in administrative support. Every field agent needed to cultivate strong ties to the admin staff, for those were the folks who really knew how to cut through the red tape that plagued most government agencies. He was a huge admirer of Michelle’s and would have somersaulted down the hall if she had condescended to have coffee with him. Well, she did so condescend. The price was, he had to bring her copies of certain records and other materials. He waffled at first—he didn’t want to get in trouble, he said—but she soon persuaded him otherwise. She also got him to agree to slow-walk her admin leave papers such that she would have access to the Secret Service database using her name and password for at least another week or so.

They met at a small café downtown where she got the records from him. She gave the young man a hug that she let linger just long enough for her to be quite certain that he would continue to do her bidding. When she joined the Service, she had not handed in her membership in the female ranks. At one level it was just another tool. In fact, used judiciously, it was far more powerful even than her .357.

As she was getting back into her truck, a voice called out. She turned to see an agent she had leapfrogged over in climbing the career ladder. The look on his face was clear. He was here to gloat.

“Who would have thought?” he began innocently. “Your star was shooting straight up. I still can’t understand how you let it happen, Mick. I mean, leaving the guy alone in a room you hadn’t really swept. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking, Steve.”

He slapped her on the arm, a little harder than he needed to. “Hey, don’t worry, they’re not going to let their superstar woman fall. You’ll get reassigned, maybe guarding Lady Bird down in Texas. Or maybe the Fords. That way you get six months in Palm Springs and six in Vail and a sweet per diem. Of course, if it were one of us poor slobs, they’d cut our heads off and forget about us. But who said life was fair?”

“You might be surprised. I might not be with the Service when this is all over.”

He smiled broadly. “Well, maybe life is fair after all. Hey, you take care.” He turned to leave.

“Oh, Steve?” He turned back. “I trust you got the memo that they’re doing a computer sweep on everybody’s laptop next week. You might want to get that porno stuff off—you know, from that site you keep checking from the office? That might blow your clearances. And who knows, maybe even your wife might find out. And while we’re on the subject, are big boobs and a tight ass really worth the risk? I mean isn’t that, like, so sixteen-year-old?”