King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

“I do, actually. And if you say no and walk away and sit with Dana, I’ll completely understand. I’ll work the case from another angle. But I will work it. I bear tremendous responsibility for Dana almost dying. I have to make it right.”

“Then you might run right up against the Pentagon.”

“I’m a licensed private investigator. And I know of no law that says I can’t investigate a matter on behalf of a client.”

“But national security.”

“Yeah, I keep hearing that phrase. People use it like a get-out-of-jail-free card. But the more you use something the less effect it has, at least for me. And this is America. So when push comes to shove, liberty trumps all else.”

“Until you lose that liberty.”

“Been there, done that, General. And I’m still here.”

“You’re still taking a risk. A big one.”

“I don’t care. Comes with the territory. And I owe it to someone.”

“Who? The kid?”

“No. Dana.”

Brown glanced away, looking thoughtful. Sean could almost see the mental machinery humming through the man’s scalp.

“No promises. But I’ll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate that.” Sean handed him his card.

Brown took it and started to walk off but then stopped and turned back.

“When I put on the uniform, I did put on a sense of honor. And duty. Not just to the Army. But to my country.”

“I felt the same way in the Service.”

Brown twirled Sean’s card between his fingers. “I’ll be in touch.”

He walked off to Dana’s room.

As Sean left the hospital his phone buzzed.

It was Michelle. She spoke in terse, energetic sentences.

Sean listened and then ran flat-out to his car.

CHAPTER

34

MICHELLE MAXWELL WAS NOT GOOD at waiting. In the Secret Service that had been one of the things that had most irritated her—the tedium.

She drummed her fingers on her steering wheel while she eyed the horseshoe-shaped motor court in south Alexandria, Virginia, right off Route 1, or Jeff Davis Highway, as it was known here. The area had once been nice but no longer was. And it was no longer that safe, either. The homes, strip malls, and other businesses around here had all seen better times. They were tired, used up, and, in some cases, abandoned and falling down.

Michelle was focused on the motor court. Specifically, room 14 at the Green Hills Motor Court. The name had made her smile when she’d first seen it since there were no hills, green or otherwise, around here. There was trash in the parking lot, mostly consisting of beer cans, used needles, empty condom packs, and smashed bottles of Jack and Black and gin. The paint on the doors and walls was peeling. The neon sign had long since lost its neon.

And yet Jean Wingo, or Shepherd, or whoever she really was, had letters addressed to her here. So presumably she had stayed here. Michelle kept drumming her fingers but the itch in her brain was telling her to act, to move, to knock down a door, to take somebody prisoner, or to kick someone’s ass.

When the other car pulled into the parking lot she got out at the same time Sean did. They met in the middle of the nearly empty lot. She showed him the envelope with the address of the motor court and explained in more detail how she had discovered it.

“Really, really good work, Michelle,” he said earnestly.