Hour Game

He looked at her. "If Pembroke was targeted specifically, for example, and Canney just happened to be there when it happened, that means therewas a reason for Pembroke to die. Now, if there was a reason for her to die, then maybe there's a reason why the others died too. And maybe those reasons are connected somehow."

"And the watches?"

"The guy's trademark obviously, but maybe there's more to it."

"Hopefully, Sylvia will have some answers soon."

King checked his watch. "I've got a dinner I need to get to."

"Where?"

"The Sage Gentleman, with people in from out of town. You want to tag along?"

"Nope. I've got some stuff to do too."

"Date?" He smiled at her.

"Yeah, with my kickboxing instructor. Our plan is to sweat and groan a lot with our clothes on."

They headed off in opposite directions. As was typical for her, Michelle clocked an average of twenty miles over the speed limit in her white Toyota Sequoia that she'd nicknamed the Whale, in honor of Melville's fictional creation, Moby-Dick. She passed the last little-used intersection about thirty seconds before she would reach the gravel road that wound through the woods to her cottage. As soon as she cleared the intersection, the lights of the pale blue VW came on and the driver put the Bug in gear, turned right and started following her.

He slowed as she turned onto the gravel road, and watched as her wheels kicked up dust and bits of rock and then was quickly out of sight in the gathering darkness. A quarter mile up and then to the left, he knew, having been up there already while Michelle wasn't at home. There were no other residences within a half mile of the place. It backed to the lake where she kept a scull, kayak and Sea-Doo at her small floating dock. The cottage was around fifteen hundred square feet and designed with an open floor plan. He'd ascertained that she lived alone with not even a dog to keep her company, and safe. However, she was a former federal agent with specialized skills; a person not to be underestimated. He drove a little farther down the main road, parked his car on a dirt patch behind a screen of trees and set off on foot through the woods toward the cottage.

When he arrived there, he saw that the Sequoia was parked in the roundabout by the front door. The lights were on in the house. He pulled out his binoculars and ran them over the front of the cottage. No sign of her. Keeping well back in the trees, he made his way to the rear of the house. A light was on in one of the rooms back here, upper floor. Her bedroom, he surmised. There was a sheet across the window, but he caught her silhouette twice. The movements were straightforward: she was undressing. He lowered his binoculars while she did so. She came out a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes, jumped in her truck and spun dirt as she headed off.

He came back around in time to see her taillights winking at him before disappearing in the darkness as she rounded the curve and then was out of sight. She certainly moved fast, he thought. He eyed the front door. It was locked, but that didn't pose much of a problem. There was no security system; he'd checked on that too. He pulled out the appropriate pick and tension tool from the set he carried.

A couple of lock-picking minutes later he was inside and looking around. The house was a mess; he marveled at the woman's ability to function amid such chaos. He placed the device behind a pile of books and CDs gathering dust in one corner of the living room. It was an FM test transmitter about the size of a quarter. He'd soldered a microphone to the transmitter, which was illegal under U.S. law because it turned the transmitter into a surveillance bug, not that he was concerned about that violation of law and privacy. He hustled upstairs to Michelle's bedroom, where he scanned her closet and found several black pantsuits, two white blouses, a trio of battered dress heels and also an abundance of jeans, sweatshirts and workout clothes and a variety of athletic shoes.

He went back downstairs. She didn't have a formal office area here; still he sorted through the stack of mail haphazardly scattered on the kitchen table. Nothing unusual there so long as one considered subscriptions to theS hooting Magazine and Iron Women normal.