Storm Track

some coffee.”

Dwight accepted readily. Of all the law firms in town, Lee and Stephenson had the best coffee.

Hearing their voices, John Claude Lee came to the door of his office.

“Got a minute?” asked Dwight.

As soon as he explained what he wanted, John Claude brought out a folder from the file drawer in his desk. As precise and well-ordered as John Claude himself, it was labeled “Christmas Gifts, Office” and after a quick perusal, he was able to give Dwight the brand name and model number of the silver pens, as well as the name of the jewelry store at the Cary Towne Center Mall.

“I bought three,” said the white-haired attorney. “One for Reid, one for Deborah, who was still in partnership here that year, and the third for Sherry. Those were my personal gifts to my colleagues. As a gift from the firm the rest of the staff received silver pins shaped like snowflakes with their bonuses.”

He returned the folder to its proper place and closed the drawer. “May I assume your interest in my choice of Christmas gifts somehow relates to the death of that unfortunate Bullock’s wife?”

“It might, but don’t let it get out, okay?”

“My lips are sealed,” said John Claude. “Sherry’s on the other hand—Would you like for me to ascertain if she still has hers?”

“That would be a big help,” Dwight admitted. In addition to having the best coffee, Lee and Stephenson also had the most gossipy office manager. While she was fairly reticent about the firm’s business affairs, everything else seemed to be fair game.

“And of course, you’ll want to see Reid’s.” The older man shook his head in weary resignation. His partner’s randy nature was a constant trial.

Through the window behind John Claude’s head, Dwight spotted Millard King heading down the sidewalk toward the law office next door.

“I’ll check back by in a few minutes,” he said and hurried out.

Talk about banker’s hours, thought Dwight as he cut across the grass on an intercept path. Attorneys don’t do too shabby either. Here it was almost nine-thirty, yet Reid wasn’t in and King was just arriving.

* * *

“Overslept,” said Millard King, although he looked alert enough to have been up for hours as Dwight followed him into the two-story white brick building that housed the firm of Daughtridge and Associates. “And I have a ten- fifteen appointment, so I can’t give you but just a minute.”

“Actually, it may take ten,” said Dwight, settling into the comfortable leather chair in front of Millard King’s shiny dark desk. “I understand that you were seeing Mrs. Bullock?”

King had worked hard to lose weight this last year, but he was still robustly built and inclined to perspire a little when nervous. He mopped his brow with a snowy white handkerchief, then took off his beautifully tailored gray jacket and hung it on the antique cherry coat-stand behind the door before taking a seat behind his executive-sized desk. His shirt was pale blue with white cuffs and collar, his dark blue tie was held in place, not by a tie tack, but by a narrow gold clip. Late twenties, he had the slightly beefy, very blond, all-American good looks of an ex–college halfback who wasn’t quite good enough for the pros. Rumors were that he was a fair-to-middling attorney with political ambitions beyond this junior partnership in Ambrose Daughtridge’s firm.

King leaned back in his leather armchair, elbows on the armrests, and tented his fingers in front of his chest. “Am I a suspect in her death, Bryant?”

“Should you be?” Dwight asked mildly.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t play games.” The judicious tones would have been more effective without that light sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“This belong to you, by any chance?” Dwight asked, handing him the bagged flag-shaped tie tack they’d found near Lynn Bullock’s body. “I’m told you had one like it.”

“Sorry,” said King. “I don’t recognize it.”

“You’ve heard how she was found?” Dwight asked. “The way she was dressed?”

“And you think I was the one going to meet her that night? I was on the ball field,” he said indignantly. “You saw me. I hit a double off you, for God’s sake!”

“We don’t know yet when she was killed,” said Dwight. “No one saw her after five or spoke to her after five- ten. Our game didn’t start till well after six.”

“Well anyhow, I’m covered from around five till our game ended,” said King. “I try to run at least five miles a day and on Saturday, I used the school track to run laps from about five-fifteen till shortly before six when I joined the team.”

“There’s a footpath from the far end of the track, through the trees, out to the bypass. The Orchid Motel is exactly three-tenths of a mile from the track,” said Dwight. “We measured.”

“But I never left the track,” he said tightly. “Dozens of people would have seen me leave or come back. Ask Portland or Avery Brewer.”

“Were they out there running with you?”

“Of course not!” King snapped. “I was running alone. I mean, there were other people on the track, but not with me.”

“Can you give me their names?”

Millard King frowned in concentration, then shook his head. “I didn’t know any of them. One man looked a little familiar. He might be a doctor at the hospital, but I couldn’t swear to it. Wait a minute! One of the women. She had on red shorts and a white shirt and I think she works in the library. Peggy Somebody.”