The Sixth Man (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 5)

The colonel nodded approvingly. “It’s comfortable, food’s good.”

“Nice to hear,” said Michelle.

“Anything else from Bergin? E-mails? Texts?”

“Nothing. I checked before we got on the plane. And then when we landed. I tried calling him around nine o’clock but he didn’t answer. It went right to voice mail and I left a message. Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

The colonel ignored this. “See any other cars?”

Sean said, “None, other than Bergin’s. Pretty lonely stretch of road. And we didn’t see any evidence of another car having pulled up to his, although unless it leaked some fluid there probably wouldn’t be leave-behind trace.”

“So you have no idea where he might have been going tonight?”

“Well, I presume he was going to meet us at Martha’s Inn.”

“Do you know where Bergin was staying? At Martha’s?”

“No, she didn’t have any more rooms, apparently.” Sean searched his pockets and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through some pages.

“Gray’s Lodge. That’s where he was staying.”

“Right, know that one too. It’s closer to Eastport. Not as nice as Martha’s place.”

“I guess you get around,” said Michelle.

“I guess I do,” replied the colonel impassively. He looked over at the car. “Only thing is, if Bergin were coming from the direction of Eastport, his car would have been going in the opposite direction. You were coming from the southwest. Eastport is to the north and east. And he never would have come this far. The turnoff for Martha’s is five miles further on this road.”

Sean looked over at the vehicle and then at the colonel. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s how we found him. Car was pointed the same way as ours.”

“Complicated,” said the lawman.

Sean looked over as a black Escalade screeched to a stop and four people in FBI windbreakers literally leaped out. The federal cavalry from Boston had just arrived.

And it’s about to get a lot more complicated, he thought.

CHAPTER

4

THE LEAD AGENT’S NAME was Brandon Murdock. He was about Michelle’s height, a couple inches under six feet and rail-thin, but his grip was surprisingly strong. His hair was thick but cut to FBI standards. His eyebrows were caterpillar-sized. His voice was deep and his manner was compact, efficient. He was briefed first by the lieutenant. He then spent a few private minutes with Colonel Mayhew, who was the highest-ranked Maine police representative on-site. He checked out the body and the car. Then he walked over to Sean and Michelle.

“Sean King and Michelle Maxwell,” he said.

Something in his tone made Michelle remark, “You’ve heard of us?”

“Scuttlebutt from D.C. makes its way up north.”

“Really?” said Sean.

“Special Agent Chuck Waters and I went to the Academy together, still keep in touch.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“Yes he is.” Murdock glanced over at the car. The chitchat was over. “So what can you tell me?”

Sean said, “Dead guy. Single GSW to the head. He was up here repping Edgar Roy. Maybe somebody didn’t like that.”

Murdock nodded. “Or it could’ve been a random thing.”