Hour Game

Seven hours! My God, seven hours! But not really seven hours, more likely longer than that. The seven-hour reference had made him think about Sally's death. She had died barely seven hours after telling him about Junior. That was one major point. However, the seven-hour time difference had just now made him recognize a startling fact, so startling that with that one revelation everything else started tumbling into place.

He fumbled around and found his watch on the nightstand. It was one o'clock in the morning. He staggered out of his bed, tripped over something Michelle had carelessly left on the guest room floor and fell down grabbing at his big toe. He felt around and found the object. It was a twenty-pound dumbbell.

"For Chrissakes," he yelled at no one in particular. He got up, rubbing his foot, and limped down the hallway to her bedroom. He was about to burst in when he thought better of it. Surprising Michelle Maxwell like that could earn him a one-way ticket to the morgue.

He rapped on the door. "Are you decent?"

A sleepy voice filtered through the one-inch wood of the door. "What?"

"If you still keep that fifty-caliber machine gun under your pillow, don't pull it. I come in peace."

He went inside and flicked on the light. She was sitting up in bed, rubbing at her eyes.

"I like your choice in lingerie," he said, eyeing her baggy gray sweat suit emblazoned with the acronym WIFLE, which stood for Women in Federal Law Enforcement. "You wear that on your honeymoon, and your hubby will never let you out of bed."

She looked at him irritably. "Is that why you woke me up, to critique my pajamas?"

He sat next to her. "No, I have something I need you to do while I'm gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I've got some things to look into."

"I'll go with you."

"No, I need you here. I want you to keep an eye on the Battles."

"The Battles. Which ones?"

"All of them."

"How exactly can I do that?"

"I'll call Remmy and say that you need to ask some more questions. She'll bring everyone together at her house, and that'll make it easier for you."

"What exactly am I supposed to ask them?"

"You'll think of plenty of things, don't worry."

She crossed her arms and looked at him stubbornly. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I really need you to do this."

"You're keeping things from me again. You know I hate that."

"I don't know anything definite yet. But you'll be the first to know. I swear."

"Will you at least tell me what the things are you're going to check into?"

"All right. I'm going to have a friend of mine look at Bobby's autopsy results."

"Why?"

"Next," he said, ignoring her question, "I'm going over to UVA Hospital and do a little research into certain narcotics. Then I'm going to do a little antiquing."

She raised her eyebrows. "Antiquing?"

"After that I'm going to visit Bobby Battle's family physician. I have some questions to ask that might clear up a lot. Last but not least I'm heading to D.C. to purchase a certain device that might assist us greatly. "

"And that's all you're going to tell me?"

"Yes."

"Gee, thanks for all your trust in me."

He rose. "Listen to me, Michelle. If I told you exactly what I'm thinking and I turn out to be completely wrong, it might make you trust the wrong person. Until I know if I'm right or not, keep one thing in mind: until we catch this person, no one is your friend. And I mean no one."

She stared back at him. "Are you trying to scare me?"

"No, I'm trying to keep both of us alive. We've already taken two shots. I don't want the third to be the charm."

CHAPTER 81

WHILE KING WAS HAVING HIS late night epiphany and conference with Michelle, a man with murder on his mind had entered the residence of Jean and Harold Robinson. Wearing a black hood, he'd opened the basement-door lock and slipped inside. It was easy when one had a key, and he did, having used the impressions he'd taken at the shopping mall to create one. Before entering the house he'd cut off the phone lines. Inside, he moved quickly up the stairs, the layout of the home well known to him. There were four occupants, and he knew where each was located, having scouted out the residence several times. For good measure he'd also studied a schematic of the house that was conveniently displayed on the builder's Web site.

As he'd deduced in the shopping mall where he'd first spotted the soccer mom Jean Robinson, the family had a security system but didn't use it. The three children-the infant he had waved to in the van and two older boys-were asleep on the upstairs level. The wife and husband had a master suite on the main level, only the husband wasn't home, which was why he was here tonight.