The Sixth Man

was that the only way to safely communicate with us was face-to-face.”

“They followed Dukes to the meeting?”

“Of course they did. And then they saw you there.” Bunting felt a dull ache in his head. “And then they followed you. They’re probably standing outside your office as we speak.”

“Oh shit.”

Bunting rubbed his temples. “Did you notice anyone that looked like Sean King on your flights?”

“No, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”

Bunting nervously tapped the top of his desk. “Did you cab it from the airport?”

“No, I had a driver meet me at the airport.”

Bunting ground his teeth together. “So they have your name now, too. Okay, they followed you to the office and have no doubt discovered that you work for BIC. From BIC it’s only a Google search to Peter Bunting.”

“But, sir—”

Bunting hung up on him and paced his large office, nervous energy feeding his system like liquefied rocks of crack.

He calmed himself, sat back down. He had to think. Even if King had connected the dots to BIC, he had no proof of any wrongdoing because there was none. But that wasn’t the point. Revealing to the public what Edgar Roy really was could be catastrophic.

And now Bunting had no one he could really trust.

Except myself, apparently.

Right now that was small comfort.

CHAPTER

42

KELLY PAUL SAT at her desk in her hotel room in New York and looked around the small, comfortable space. How many such rooms had she inhabited over the last twenty years? She wouldn’t sound cliched and say too many. Actually, the number had been just about right.

She didn’t doodle with the hotel-supplied pen and paper because she might inadvertently leave behind some clue that might one day lead back to her. Her bag was packed, her traveling documents in order. She carried no weapon with her but had ready access to any she might need only five minutes from here.

She had learned of Carla Dukes’s death at six thirty a.m. She didn’t spend much time wondering who had killed the woman. The answer to that question was important. But not as important as the matters she was focusing on presently.

By now Peter Bunting had to know about the woman’s death, too. His inside source at Cutter’s Rock had allowed him to take certain liberties in seeing her brother. Well, Paul had her own sources, and they had told her that the prisoner’s condition had not changed.

Keep it that way, Eddie, keep it that way. For now. Don’t let them get to you.

She glanced down at her cell phone, hesitated, and then picked it up. She punched in the number. It rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Mr. King, it’s Kelly Paul.”

“I was hoping to hear from you. Do you know about Carla Dukes?”

“I heard.”

“Theories?”

“Several. That’s beside the point right now. Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“East Coast.”

“Me too. I’ve had an interesting search on the Web this afternoon.”

“About what subject?” she asked.

“BIC, stands for Bunting International Corporation. Peter Bunting is the president of it. Heard of him?”

“Should I?”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

“What did you find?” Paul wanted to know.

“BIC is based in New York, but it has facilities in the D.C. area because it’s a government contractor. Sells intelligence services. Talked to some of my buddies on the inside. They say the BIC government contract is worth a gazillion dollars but they don’t know exactly what the company does for it. Apparently no one who will talk to me does. Highly classified.”

“Some do know what he does. Otherwise Uncle Sam wouldn’t cut that check.”

“So you do know about him?”

“I’d say it’s time we met.”

“Where?”

“I’m in New York.”

“I can come up there.”

Paul said, “Up? So you’re in D.C.?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Do you have anything to tell me?” Sean asked.

“I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. How did you get onto BIC?”

He said, “Just good old-fashioned detective work.”

“I think you rolled Dukes, somehow she got scared, and she led you to them. And the price she paid for being weak and stupid was her life.”

“Do you really think that’s why she was killed?” he asked.

“Not really, no. But I don’t want to speculate right now. Can you be in New York by this evening?”

“I can catch the next Acela. Be there by six.”

“There’s a little French restaurant on Eighty-Fifth.” She gave him the address. “Say seven o’clock?”

“See you then.”

She clicked off and set the phone back down on the desk. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and eyed Central Park across the street. The leaves were turning, the crowds were thinning, and the overcoats were getting heavier. The rain had started, just a drizzle, but the darkening skies promised more foul weather later. It was in this sort of weather that the city was at its most grimy. The black and dirt and filth were revealed in all their abundance.

But that’s my world too. Black, grimy, and full of filth.

Paul slipped on her raincoat, put up her hood, and set out on a stroll. She crossed Fifty-Ninth Street and passed down the line of horse-drawn carriages. She patted one horse on the snout and eyed the driver. They were all Irishmen. It was an old law, or an older tradition, Paul couldn’t exactly remember which.

“Hello, Shaunnie.” The man’s full name was Tom O’Shaunnessy, but she had always called him Shaunnie.

He continued to clean out some trash from his carriage and didn’t look at her. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Haven’t been around for a while.”

“Heard you retired.”

“I unretired.”

He glanced at her with interest. “You can do that?”

“Is Kenny in the same spot?”

Shaunnie refilled the bucket of oats. “Where else would Kenny be?”

“All I needed to know.”

“So you’re back working?” he asked.

“For now.”