Split Second

Susan Whitehead was in her early forties, divorced, attractive, rich and apparently dead set on making him her fourth husband. King had handled her last divorce, knew firsthand the number of impossibly annoying quirks the woman had, how vindictive she could be, and his sympathies lay entirely with poor husband number three. He was a timid, reclusive man so smashed under the iron fist of his wife that he'd finally gone off on a four-day drinking, gambling and sex spree in Las Vegas that had been the beginning of the end. He was now a poorer but no doubt happier soul. King had no interest at all in replacing him.

"I'm having a small dinner party on Saturday and was hoping you could come."

He mentally checked his calendar, found Saturday night free andsaid, without missing a beat, "I'm sorry, I've got plans, thanks anyway. Maybe another time."

"You have a lot of plans, Sean," she said coyly. "I'm really hoping that I fit into them at some point."

"Susan, it's not good for an attorney and client to become personally involved."

"But I'm not your client anymore."

"Still, a bad idea. Trust me on that one." He reached the front door and unlocked it before adding, "And you have a great day." He went inside, hoping she wouldn't follow. He waited a few seconds in the foyer of the building, breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't charge in, and headed up the stairs to his office. He was almost always the first in. His partner, Phil Baxter, was the litigation arm of the two-person firm, while King handled all the other areas: wills, trusts, real estate, business deals, the steady moneymakers. There was a lot of wealth secreted in the quiet nooks and crannies around Wrightsburg. Movie stars, business tycoons, writers and other enriched souls called this area home. They loved it for its beauty, solitude, privacy and local amenities in the form of good restaurants, shopping, a thriving cultural community and a world-class university down the road in Charlottesville.

Phil was not an early riser-court did not open until ten-but he worked very late, the opposite of King. By five o'clock King was usually back home, puttering in his workshop or fishing or boating on the lake that his house backed up to, while Baxter labored on. The two consequently made a nice match.

He opened the door and went in. The receptionist/secretary wouldn't be there yet. It was not quite eight.

The chair lying on its side was the first thing that caught his eye, and after that the items that were supposed to be on the receptionist's desktop but were now strewn across the floor. His hand went instinctively to his holstered gun, only he had no holster or gun. All he had was a really kick-ass codicil to a will he'd drafted that wouldintimidate only the future heirs. He picked up a heavy paperweight from the floor and peered around. The next sight froze him.

There was blood on the floor by the door leading into Baxter's office. He moved forward, holding the paperweight ready; with his other hand he pulled out his cell phone, dialed 911 and spoke quietly and clearly to the dispatcher. He reached out his hand to the doorknob, thought better of it and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket so no prints would be smeared. He slowly eased the door open, his muscles tensed, ready for an attack, yet his instincts told him that the place was empty. He looked into the darkened space and used his elbow to flick on the light.

The body was lying on its side directly in front of King; a single gunshot wound to the center of the chest, exiting out the back. It wasn't Phil Baxter. It was another man-very well known to him, though. And this person's violent death was about to shatter Sean King's peaceful existence.

He let out the breath he'd been holding in, and it all hit him in a blinding instant. "Here we go again," he muttered.

7

The man was sitting in his Buick and watched as the police cars pulled up in front of King's law building and the uniformed officers raced inside. His appearance had changed much since he'd sat playing the role of an old man whittling in front of the funeral home while John Bruno was being carried away. The suit he'd worn that day was two sizes too large, to make him look small and emaciated; the dirty teeth, whiskered face, moonshine flask, whittling and a wad of chew in the mouth were all carefully designed to draw the eye to him. And the observer would come away with an indelible impression of who and what he was. And that conclusion would be absolutely incorrect, which was the whole point really.

He was younger now, perhaps by more than thirty years. Like King, he had re-created himself. He munched on a buttered bagel, sipped his black coffee and quietly pondered King's reaction to the discovery of the body in his office. Shocked at first and then perhaps angry, but not surprised-no, not really surprised when one thought about it.