Split Second (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 1)

19

DEPUTY MARSHAL PARKS, what can I do for you today? How about I cop to a couple of misdemeanors, do community service, and let’s call it a day?” King was sitting on his front porch watching the lawman climb out of his car and then head up the steps. The big man was

dressed in jeans and a blue windbreaker that, ironically, read “FBI” and a baseball cap with the initials “DEA.”

In response to King’s look, Parks said, “I started doing this when I was a D.C. cop way back in the seventies. I get this stuff from every agency there is. One of the few perks we in law enforcement have. For my money, DEA has the nicest stuff.” He sat down in a rocking chair next to King and rubbed his knees.

“When I was young, it was pretty cool being so big, a star football and basketball player in high school with the pleasant duty of nailing all the cheerleaders. I even carried the pigskin to pay for college.”

“Where was that?”

“Notre Dame. I never started, but I played in pretty much every game. Tight end. Better blocker than receiver. Only had one career touchdown but it was sweet.”

“That’s impressive.”

Parks shrugged. “Now that I’m not so young, it’s not so cool anymore. It’s just a big pain in the ass. Or the knees or the hips or the shoulders—take your anatomical pick.”

“So how’d you like being a cop in our nation’s capital?”

“I like being a marshal a lot better. Those were weird times. Lots of shit going on.”

King held up his bottle of beer. “You off duty enough to have one?”

“No, but I’ll enjoy a smoke. Got to combat this fresh, bracing mountain air somehow. Nasty stuff. Don’t know how you folks stand it.”

Parks pulled a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and coaxed it to life with a mother-of-pearl lighter, then snapped the lid shut. “You got a nice place here.”

“Thanks.” King watched him carefully. If Parks was heading up the investigation of Howard Jennings’s death along with his other duties, he was a busy person, and his being here had to have a purpose.

“Nice law practice, nice home, nice little town. Nice guy who works hard and gives back to his community.”

“Please, I’ll start blushing.”

Parks nodded. “Of course, nice successful people kill other people all the time in this country, so that doesn’t mean shit to me. Personally I don’t like nice guys all that much. Mark ’em as pantywaists.”

“I wasn’t always so nice. And it wouldn’t take too much of an effort for me to revert to my old asshole ways. In fact, I feel an explosion coming on.”

“That’s encouraging, but don’t try and get on my good side.”

“And how nice can I really be? My gun was the murder weapon.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Would you care to hear my theory on that?”

Parks eyed his watch. “Sure, if you can spare a second and fetch me one of those brews. Funny thing, I just went off duty.”

King did and handed the bottle to him. The marshal sat back in his chair and propped his size fourteens up on the railing and took a swig in between cigar puffs.

“Your theory on the gun?” he prompted as he watched the sun setting.

“I had it with me at the time Jennings was killed. According to you, that same gun killed Jennings.”

“Seems pretty straightforward so far,” Parks said. “In fact, I can handcuff you right now if you want.”

“Well, since I didn’t kill Jennings, it seems pretty clear that I didn’t really have my gun with me.”

Parks shot him a glance. “You changing your story?”