As she straightened back up, the light moved away from her eyes.
“What are you doing here? This is private property.”
“It is?” she said innocently.
“There’s a fence and signs up, lady.”
“Well, I guess I came in another way.”
“What’s the Secret Service doing down here? You got something to show that to be true, by the way?”
“Can we go outside in the light? I feel like I’ve been spelunking on dry land for about six hours.”
“Okay, but don’t pick up your gun. I’ll get it.”
They walked outside, where Michelle got a better look at the man. He was middle-aged with short grayish hair, medium height and trim, and wearing a rent-a-cop uniform.
He stared at her while he held his pistol in his left hand and slid her pistol into his waistband with his other. “Okay, you were going to show me your badge. But even if you are Secret Service, you still got no business here.”
“Do you remember about eight years ago a politician named Clyde Ritter was killed at this hotel?”
“Remember? Lady, I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s the only exciting thing that’s ever happened in this damn place.”
“Well, I came down to check it out. I’m relatively new to the Service, and this is one of the scenarios we study at the training center—things to avoid, of course. I guess I was just curious, wanted to see for myself. I came all the way from Washington, and I saw that it was closed up, but I didn’t think a quick peek would hurt.”
“I guess I can see that. Now, your badge?”
Michelle thought for a moment. As her hand reached up to touch her chin, it nudged a tiny bit of metal on the way. She took off her lapel pin with the Secret Service insignia and held it out. The lapel pins were worn to allow agents to be identifiable to each other. The colors were constantly changed to prevent successful forging. It was such a routine for her that even on suspension she rose each morning and put one on.
The guard took the lapel pin and studied it before handing it back.
“I left my badge and creds back at the motel where I’m staying,” she explained.
“Okay, I suppose it’s all right. You sure don’t look like the riffraff who break into boarded-up hotels.” He started to hand back her gun and then stopped. “But first, how’s about you open your bag?”
“Why?”
“So I can see what’s in it, that’s why.”
She very reluctantly handed her bag over. As he looked through it, Michelle said, “So who owns the place?”
“They don’t tell folks like me that. I just walk the walk and keep people out.”
“Is there somebody here twenty-four seven?”
“Hell if I know, I just pull my shift.”
“So what are they going to do with this place, knock it down?”
“Beats me. They wait much longer, it’ll fall down.” He pulled the hotel index cards out of her bag and looked at them. “You mind telling me what you’re doing with these?”
She tried to look as innocent as possible. “Oh, those? Well, I happen to know both of those people. They were here when the shooting happened. I… I just thought they might like to have them, sort of as souvenirs,” she added lamely.
He just stared at her and then said, “Souvenirs? Damn, you federal people are weird.” He dropped the cards back into the bag and handed it and her gun back.
As Michelle returned to her car, the security guard watched her go. He waited a few more minutes and then went into the hotel. When he came out ten minutes later, his appearance had drastically changed. Michelle Maxwell was very quick on her feet, he judged. She might very well make his list if she kept up this sort of activity. That’s why he’d come here and dressed as a security guard, to see what she’d found. Certainly those names on the cards had been interesting but hardly surprising: Sean King and J. Dillinger. What a delightful pair. Buick Man climbed into his car and drove off.
CHAPTER