“No, you didn’t. Which means someone else killed her either there or somewhere else and brought her body there in order to frame you.”
“Maybe just like Edgar Roy?”
“Maybe.”
“But they had to know the police would get the ballistics run.”
“I didn’t say they wanted to have you convicted of the crime. Just screw things up for you for a while. Mess with your head.”
“Okay, on that point they succeeded. So what did ballistics show? Was it another round from the .45 that almost hit me?”
“No. Nine-by-nineteen-millimeter Parabellum jacketed hollow-point.”
“If you seek peace, prepare for war,” said Michelle. He looked at her curiously. “The word
“You are a positive treasure trove of ballistic jewels.”
“The nine-millimeter Luger is also the most popular military cartridge in the world and is used by the majority of the police forces in the US. Who was the manufacturer and what was the load?”
Sean looked at his phone screen again. “Double Tap. Gold Dot JHP load. Hundred and fifteen grain.”
“Okay, that has a one-stop rating of over ninety percent and a penetration factor in excess of thirteen inches. Not in the league of a .44 or .357 Magnum load, but still plenty powerful. It can definitely deliver hydrostatic shock wounds.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning a hit to the chest can cause the target’s brain to hemorrhage.”
“So it obviously wasn’t the round used to kill Bergin.”
Michelle shook her head. “No way. That ordnance would’ve gone through the skull at contact range. It never would’ve stayed in the head.”
“That’s interesting. Then the odds are whoever killed Bergin didn’t murder Hilary Cunningham.”
“That’s right. So what now?” she asked.
“I say we go back to Maine.”
“Plane?”
Sean shook his head. “Stop and get a big cup of coffee. We’re driving.”
“Can I get my gun back from the local cops before we go?”
“With my blessing.”
Michelle floored it.
CHAPTER
31
TWELVE HOURS LATER, they were in Boston, where they stayed overnight at a hotel. They hadn’t gone all the way to Machias, Maine, because even Michelle’s mega-caffeine pop had worn off and she’d slid into the backseat for some shut-eye after seven hours of piloting. After five hours at the wheel of the Land Cruiser, Sean’s eyes had begun to close once too often. After a few hours’ deep sleep and an early start the next morning, they pulled into the parking lot of Martha’s Inn in the early afternoon.
Megan Riley met them outside the front door. “Agent Murdock is an asshole,” she snapped.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” said Sean.
“A nicer way than I would have,” added Michelle.
“What did the FBI want to know?” he asked.
“Everything. But I told them zip. I’m Roy’s legal counsel. They can’t bully me around even though they tried.”
“Good for you,” said Michelle.
“I called Murdock, sort of read him the riot act,” added Sean.
“I know. He was not happy about that. That’s why he let me go. The jerk.”
“And we found out who the client is,” said Michelle.
“Who?”
Sean answered, “Roy’s half sister, Kelly Paul. She’s an interesting lady. Haven’t quite figured her out yet. But she’s a force to be reckoned with.” He stopped talking and led Megan over to a bench under a tree in front of the inn. “Sit.”
“Why?” She looked up at him with a fearful expression.
“We’ve got some bad news. Another death.”
They both could see Megan grip the seat of the bench so tightly her fingers turned white. “Who?”
“Hilary Cunningham.”
Megan managed not to cry. At least for a few seconds. Then she bent forward and started to sob into her hands.
Sean looked desperately at Michelle, who muttered, “Sorry, not good with this stuff.”
Sean sat down next to the woman and patted her back awkwardly. “I’m very sorry, Megan.”
Finally the young woman sat up, wiped her face dry with the sleeve of her jacket, and said, “How?”
“She was shot. And her body was left at Bergin’s home.” He glanced at Michelle, who said, “I was there when it happened.”
Megan looked up at Michelle. “Why would anyone want to kill Hilary? She was just a nice old lady.”
Sean answered. “She worked for Bergin. Bergin represented Roy. That seems to be enough in this case for certain people.”
Megan caught a breath. “So that means, what, I’m next?”
“We’re not going to let anything happen to you,” said Michelle. She sat down on the other side of the young lawyer.
“Maybe I should have stayed with the FBI,” said Megan, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Is that what you want?” asked Sean.
“Not really, no.” Her voice grew firmer. “What I really want is to find out who did this.”
“That’s what we want too.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“To see your client.”
“But you said he doesn’t talk.”
“You still have to see him. I’ll make the arrangements.”
Sean and Michelle showered, changed their clothes, and ate. After getting clearance from Carla Dukes at Cutter’s Rock, they drove to the facility. If possible, the security was even tighter. Finally, Michelle had had enough when one guard was too enthusiastic in his search of her.
“You cop one more feel on my ass, you’re going to have to learn to live with prosthetic hands,” she snapped.
He stepped back, stared at the ceiling, and motioned that they could proceed.
They waited in the little room. Edgar Roy was brought in. His appearance and demeanor remained unchanged. When Megan saw him she gasped and then sat in her chair, enthralled. When the guards had left and the door had clanged behind them, Megan remained silent. Finally, Sean said, “Uh, do you want to try and ask him some questions?”
Megan started, her face reddened. She opened her briefcase and meekly tapped on the glass wall separating them.
“Mr. Roy, I’m Megan Riley.” She pressed one of her business cards against the glass. Her face flushed again as Roy just sat there staring at the ceiling. She slowly withdrew the card and put it back in her pocket.
