Split Second by David Baldacci Page B

interrupted your
wonderful
life. And I apologize for being so concerned about you that I came here to see how you were doing.”
    King started to speak, hesitated, and then as she headed toward the door, he let out a sigh and said, “You’ve had toomuch to drink to drive these back roads at night. The guest room’s at the top of the stairs, on the right. There are pajamas in the bureau, and your own bath, and whoever gets up first makes the coffee.”
    She turned back. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”
    “Trust me, I know that. I
shouldn’t
be doing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    She looked at him with an expression that said, “Are you absolutely sure you won’t come see me
before
the morning?”
    He turned and headed away. “Where are you going?” she asked.
    “I’ve got some work to do. Sleep tight.”
    Joan went outside and got her overnight bag out of the car. When she came back in, he was nowhere around. The master bedroom looked to be at the far end of the hall. She slipped across and peeked inside. It was dark. And empty. She slowly went to her room and closed the door.

CHAPTER
    12
    M ICHELLE M AXWELL’S ARMS and legs moved with maximum efficiency, at least as she judged herself by the far lower standards of these post-Olympic days. Her scull cut through the waters of the Potomac as the sun rose and the already heavy air held the promise of a less chilly day. It was here at Georgetown that she’d begun her rowing career. Her muscular thighs and shoulders were burning with the effort she was expending. She’d passed every other scull, kayak, canoe and comparable vessel on the water, including one that had a five-horsepower engine.
    She pulled her scull up to one of the boathouses that sat on the banks in Georgetown, bent over and took deep, long breaths, the endorphins coursing through her blood providing a pleasant high. A half hour later she was in her Land Cruiser heading back to the hotel she’d moved to near Tysons Corner, Virginia. It was still early and traffic was light—relatively light, that is, for a region that routinely saw clogged highways as early as 5:00 A.M. She showered and put on a T-shirt and boxers. With no uncomfortable shoes or stockings, and no holster chafing her, it felt great. She stretched, rubbed her tired limbs down and then ordered room service and threw on a robe before her breakfast was delivered. While having pancakes, orange juice and coffee, she channel-surfed the TV, looking for more news on the Bruno disappearance. Ironic that she was the lead agent in the field that day and was now getting her news on the investigation fromCNN. She stopped surfing when she saw a man on TV who looked familiar. He was in Wrightsburg, Virginia, surrounded by news crews and obviously not enjoying it.
    It took her a few moments to place him, and then she got it. The man was Sean King. She’d joined the Service a year or so before the Ritter assassination. Michelle had never known what became of Sean King, and had no reason to want to know. But now, as she listened to the details of Howard Jennings’s murder, she began to want to know more. Part of it was purely physical. King was a very good-looking man: tall and well built with close-cropped black hair now heavily graying at the temples. He must be in his mid-forties now, she calculated. He had the sort of face that looked better with lines; it gave him an attraction that he probably never had in his twenties or thirties, when he was probably too pretty-boy-looking. Yet it wasn’t his handsome features that intrigued her the most. As she listened to the sketchy details leading to Jennings’s death, there was something about the murder, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
    She opened the copy of the
Washington Post
that had been delivered to her room and, scanning the pages, found a short but informative article about the slaying. The account also contained facts about King’s past, the Ritter