knees or the hips or the shoulders-take your anatomical pick.'
'So how'd you like being a cop in our nation's capital?'
'I like being a marshal a lot better. Those were weird times. Lots of shit going on.'
King held up his bottle of beer. 'You off duty enough to have one?'
'No, but I'll enjoy a smoke. Got to combat this fresh, bracing mountain air somehow. Nasty stuff. Don't know how you folks stand it.'
Parks pulled a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and coaxed it to life with a mother-of-pearl lighter, then snapped the lid shut. 'You got a nice place here.'
'Thanks.' King watched him carefully. If Parks was heading up the investigation of Howard Jennings's death along with his other duties, he was a busy person, and his being here had to have a purpose.
'Nice law practice, nice home, nice little town. Nice guy who works hard and gives back to his community.'
'Please, I'll start blushing.'
Parks nodded. 'Of course, nice successful people kill other people all the time in this country, so that doesn't mean shit to me. Personally I don't like nice guys all that much. Mark 'em as pantywaists.'
'I wasn't always so nice. And it wouldn't take too much of an effort for me to revert to my old asshole ways. In fact, I feel an explosion coming on.'
'That's encouraging, but don't try and get on my good side.'
'And how nice can I really be? My gun was the murder weapon.'
'Yes, it was.'
'Would you care to hear my theory on that?'
Parks eyed his watch. 'Sure, if you can spare a second and fetch me one of those brews. Funny thing, I just went off duty.'
King did and handed the bottle to him. The marshal sat back in his chair and propped his size fourteens up on the railing and took a swig in between cigar puffs.
'Your theory on the gun?' he prompted as he watched the sun setting.
'I had it with me at the time Jennings was killed. According to you, that same gun killed Jennings.'
'Seems pretty straightforward so far,' Parks said. 'In fact, I can handcuff you right now if you want.'
'Well, since I didn't kill Jennings, it seems pretty clear that I didn't really have my gun with me.'
Parks shot him a glance. 'You changing your story?'
'No. On the six days I don't use it I keep my gun in a lockbox. I live alone, so I don't always lock the box up.'
'Pretty stupid.'
'Trust me, after this it goes in an underground vault.'
'Go on.'
'Theory number one, someone takes my gun and leaves a substitute in its place, which I take with me that night. This same person uses my gun to kill Jennings, then puts it back in my box, retrieving the substitute. Theory number two, a substitute gun is used to kill Jennings, and that substitute is placed in my lockbox and becomes the one the ballistics test was run on.'
'The serial numbers on the gun we ran matched the one registered to you.'
'Then it's my first scenario.'
'So you're saying somebody took your gun way back when, because they would have had to do that to make an exact replica, and then did this substitution to make it look like your gun killed Jennings?'
'That's what I'm saying.'
'Are you telling me a former lawman doesn't know his own weapon?'
'It's a mass-produced nine-millimeter, Marshal. It's not some fancy-ass museum piece with diamond studs. I got the gun when I became a deputy. I wear it once a week, never take it out of its holster and then forget about it. Whoever copied it knew what they were doing, though, because it seemed just like mine, weight distribution and feel of the grip.'
'And why go to all this trouble to pin it on you?'
'Well, murderers often try to pin it on someone else, don't they? I mean that's sort of the point. Jennings worked for me. Maybe they thought folks would think what you said earlier, that I killed Jennings because I caught him stealing or he caught me stealing. Motive, gun match, no alibi. Lethal injection here I come.'
Parks put his feet on the floor and sat forward. 'Very interesting. Now, let me give you a theory in return. Jennings had lots of guys looking to kill him. That's why he was in the program. So maybe you knew he was WITSEC and ratted him out for a chunk of cash. Then whoever hired you paid you back by using your gun and stiffing you in the form of a frame. How's that?' Parks eyed him steadily.
'Actually that one works too,' conceded King.
'Uh-huh.' Parks drained his beer, stubbed out his cigarillo and stood. 'How are the media hounds?'
'Not as bad as I would have thought. Most haven't discovered my house yet. When they do, I'll just chain off the road at the bottom of the hill, post signs and start shooting trespassers.'
'Now, there's my kind of asshole.'
'I told you I had it in me.'
Parks headed down the stairs to his car.
King called to him. 'So how come I'm not under arrest?'
Parks opened the car door. 'Well, primarily because I think your theory number one has some validity. Maybe you
'I actually didn't think you'd accept my theory that easily.'
'Oh, I'm not saying you didn't have Jennings killed and did the gun substitution yourself. Although my favorite scenario still has you ratting him out and the actual triggerman framing you for it.' He looked down at the ground for a second. 'No witness in the history of WITSEC who stayed in the program and followed the rules has ever been killed. That was a great sales point to potential witnesses. Now we can't claim that anymore. And it happened onmy watch. I placed Jennings here, and I feel responsible for his death. So just so you know, if you did set him up, I'll personally select the prison you'll be going to, and it'll be one where you'll scream for the death penalty about three hours after you check in, asshole or not.' Parks opened his car door and touched the brim of his DEA baseball cap. 'Now, you have a real nice evening.'
20
The next day King left Wrightsburg early, fought northern Virginia morning rush hour traffic and arrived in Reston, Virginia, around ten. The ten-story office building was relatively new and now about half- leased. A dot-com company had rented the entire space several years ago and despite having no products or profits, decorated it lavishly and then, astonishingly, ran out of money. The area was very nice with shops and restaurants at the nearby Reston Town Center. Well-dressed consumers slipped in and out of pricey stores. People struggled to get where they needed to go on the congested roads. It all had a high-energy, upscale feel to it. Yet King simply wanted to accomplish what he'd come to do, then retreat to the bucolic environs of the Blue Ridge.
The top floor of the building was now occupied by a firm known simply as the Agency, a name it had actually trademarked for commercial use, probably much to the chagrin of the CIA. The Agency was one of the premier investigative and security firms in the country. King rode up in the private elevator, waving to a surveillance camera that was eyeballing him, and was met in a small waiting room off the main lobby by someone who looked armed and ready to use his weapon. King was searched and had to step through a metal detector before he was allowed to proceed to the lobby. It was tastefully appointed and had no one in it other than a watchful woman at the front desk who took his name and dialed her phone.
He was escorted back by a stylishly dressed young man with broad shoulders and curly dark hair, wearing a headset and displaying an arrogant manner. He opened the door and motioned King through and then left, closing the door behind him. King looked around the office. It was a four-window corner unit, the glass all heavily tinted and reflecting from the outside, though on the top floor the only things capable of peeping in would be birds, or folks in
