“I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe you should too.”
“Good-bye, Michelle,” said Joan. “And thanks so much for letting me take Sean off your hands,” she added icily.
“Yeah, thanks, Mick,” muttered King under his breath.
Michelle drove off, and King walked up the steps, with Joan marching right behind him. He could feel the white heat of her anger on the back of his neck. The condemned man going the last mile was the closest analogy he could come up with, and right now it seemed far too close.
Inside, Joan sat down at the kitchen table, while King put on some water for hot tea. Joan’s expression brimmed with fury. “So would you care to tell me about you and Michelle Maxwell?”
“I already did. She’s a recent phenomenon in my life.”
“I don’t believe in phenomena like that. She loses Bruno and then shows up on your doorstep?”
“What do you care?”
“What do I care? Are you insane? I’m investigating Bruno’s disappearance, and you pop up with the detail leader who’s on suspension for losing him.”
“She looked me up because we both lost presidential candidates, and she wanted to compare notes. That’s it. Bruno really doesn’t enter the equation.”
“Excuse me for saying, but my bullshit meter is clanging so hard it’s popping some springs.”
“That’s the truth, accept it or not.” He held up an empty cup. “Tea?” he asked pleasantly. “You look like you could use some. I’ve got Earl Grey, peppermint or the old standby, Lipton.”
“Screw the tea! Where were you and she coming from?” she demanded.
King kept his voice calm. “Oh, from about eight years ago.”
“What!”
“Just taking a walk down memory lane.”
“Eight years ago?” She looked at him incredulously. “Did you go to Bowlington?”
“Bingo. Sugar and cream?”
“What the hell did you go there for?”
“Sorry, I don’t think you’re cleared for it.”
Joan slammed her fist on the table. “Cut the shit, Sean, and tell me!”
He stopped making the tea and stared at her. “It’s none of your damn business unless you tell me you have some interest in the Ritter assassination that I don’t know about.”
She looked at him warily. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you tell me what it means?”
Joan sat back, took a deep breath and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Does she know we spent the night together at the hotel?”
“It doesn’t matter what she knows or doesn’t know. This is between you and me.”
“I still don’t know where all this is going, Sean. Why are you raking all this up now?”
“Maybe I don’t know why. And maybe I really don’t care to know, so let’s just drop the whole damn thing. Water under the bridge, right? Sleeping dogs lie, okay? Let asshole Ritter rest in peace, right?” He prepared the tea and handed her a cup. “Here, peppermint, drink it!”
“Sean—”
He grabbed her arm and leaned very close. “Drink your tea.”