128
Tommy Karr held up the laminated press card for the Secret Service agent in charge of screening the press horde covering McSweeney. The agent squinted, frowned, then consulted his list of reporters.
“If I’m not on there, can I take the rest of the day off?” Karr joked.
Secret Service agents were not known for their sense of humor, and this one was not an exception. He scowled at Karr, frowned at his list, and then told him to go ahead.
Karr tucked his new reporter’s notebook into his back pocket and ambled past the checkpoint and down the hall of the hotel. He’d pulled a sport coat over his jeans so he’d have enough pockets for his PDA and phone; the jacket placed him in the upper percentile of better-dressed journalists, at least in the room set up for the press conference. About fifty reporters were milling about, most of them hovering near the carts where coffee and donuts had been set out.
“Hey ya,” Karr said to no one in par tic u lar as he walked over. “Is this stuff free or do we have to pay?” A few of the others laughed, thinking he was joking. Karr didn’t see anyone taking money, so he helped himself to a coffee and a pair of Boston creams, which he stacked on top of each other chocolate to chocolate.
“Nothing like a sugar rush first thing in the morning, huh?” said one of the reporters nearby. She gave him a smile almost as sweet as the custard filling in the donut.
“Have to eat the whole table to get a sugar high going,” said Karr, his mouth full of donut.
“Theresa Seelbach,
“No, actually, I just came out from back east,” said Karr.
He held up his credentials, from the
“Been a reporter long?”
“Just about a year,” said Karr.
“First campaign, huh?”
“First big story,” said Karr.
“Your first story?”
“Oh, nah, nah,” said Karr. “Mostly I’ve covered like police stuff. And a fight in the city council. That was cool.
Mayor got decked.”
The other reporter laughed.
“When does McSweeney get here?” Karr asked finally.
“Oh, not for an hour or so. He’s out watering the money tree. Come on, the real coffee is in the lounge around the side. I’ll buy you one.”
129
“Why would they need DNA?” Mrs. Ball asked Lia. Her lip trembled. “Is he… did they find him… is he…?”
“He’s still missing, Mrs. Ball. It’s just a general precaution.” Lia struggled to find the magic formula that would get the DNA sample she needed voluntarily, without having to take out the warrant. Doing so would surely tip Ball off, if he wasn’t tipped off already.
“It’s how they identify bodies.”
“They can also use traces to see if someone was at a certain place,” said Lia. “You’d be surprised — sweat from a finger on an elevator button. I don’t think they have anything specific, but they want to be prepared.”
“Maybe in his comb,” said Mrs. Ball finally. She led Lia upstairs to the bedroom.
“Does he have any places he liked to go to be alone?” Lia asked. “A place people might not think of, a park or something? Somewhere he might be contemplative?” Some place where he might bring a nosey investigator, Lia thought, though she didn’t say.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t — he didn’t contemplate.” Mrs.
Ball went into the bathroom and returned with a comb. Lia took out the plastic Baggie she’d bought at the supermarket and put the comb inside. Then she pointed to the medal she’d spotted yesterday and asked about it again.
Mrs. Ball shrugged. Her head was drooping. Lia thought she was resigning herself to her husband’s death. She probably thought Lia was lying to protect her, and that he really had been found and they wanted to cinch the identification before telling her.
Lia turned to another photo on the wall, one that showed Ball about twenty years younger, a rifle in his hand and a deer at his feet.
“Does he like to hunt?” Lia asked.
“Oh yes, of course. Every year he gets his deer. After a few weeks I’m quite sick of venison.” Mrs. Ball smiled, her mood lifting slightly.
“Where does he hunt?”
“A few places. The Castro farm down in Clinton. Then there’s Irv Burdick’s property along Stissing Mountain.
That’s pretty good. Irv keeps one of the old farm houses in decent shape up there for some hunting friends, and the chief used to spend the night for a very early start. Car noise spooked the deer. Hasn’t had to do that in a while, though — more deer than he can shoot. Plus, I think his back bothers him if he doesn’t sleep on a thick mattress. Irv was a little cheap about that.”
“Could you point out those properties on a map for me?” Lia asked.
“He wouldn’t be hunting this time of year.”
“Probably not,” said Lia. “But maybe he’s up there thinking.”
130
Ball leaned forward from the taxi’s rear seat.
“Could you turn that up, please?” he asked the cabdriver.
The man, a dark-skinned Latino, flicked the radio’s volume up a notch.
“… the President is expected to meet the governor tomorrow eve ning. The next day, he’ll attend ceremonies at the Ronald Reagan Library, where among other guests at the nonpartisan event will be the man the opposition party seems to be leaning toward as his next opponent, Senator Gideon McSweeney… ”
“That’s fine,” said Ball, leaning back in the seat.
At least he knew where McSweeney would be tomorrow.
There was no question of getting him there, though; the security around the President would be too great.
When would he do it?
As soon as possible. The longer he waited, the better the odds would be that they would get him before he got McSweeney.
And he was going to get McSweeney.
checking into the hotel presented Ball with another dilemma. He’d need a credit card. He didn’t want to use his own, and was leery about using Amanda Rauci’s as well.
Someone was bound to be looking for her by now.
The fact that Ball had arrived before the hotel’s 4:00 p.m. check-in time gave him a brief reprieve. He told the
