Split Second

I guess so, he thought. He ventured a question of his own. "Any news on Jennings's death, or am I not cleared for it?"

She stopped cracking eggs. "That's FBI territory, you know that."

"Agencies talk to each other."

"Not any more than they used to, really, and that was never a lot."

"So you know nothing." He said this in an accusatory manner.

She didn't answer, and instead scrambled the eggs, toasted the bagel and presented the meal complete with silverware, napkin and more coffee. She sat across from him and sipped orange juice while he ate.

"Not having anything?" he asked.

"I'm watching my figure. Apparently I'm the only one here doing that."

Was it his imagination, or did her foot graze his leg underneath the table?

"What did you expect? After eight years we just jump back into the sack?"

She tipped her head back and laughed. "In an occasional fantasy, yes."

"You're crazy, you know that? I mean certifiable." He was not joking.

"And I had such a normal childhood. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a man in shades packing heat."

Okay, that time it was clear. Her foot had touched his leg. He was sure of that because it was still there and currently heading toward certain private areas of his person.

She leaned forward. Her gaze was not soulful; it was predatory. Clearly she wanted him, here, now, on the kitchen table in the middle of his "predictable scrambled eggs." She stood and slid off the pajama bottoms, revealing flimsy white panties. Next she slowly anddeliberately undid the pajama top as though challenging him to stop her at each button. He didn't. He just watched as the pajama top opened. She wore no bra. Joan dropped the pajama top in his lap and with one hand swept the dishes off the table and onto the floor.

"It's been way too long, Sean. So let's just do something about it." She climbed up on the table in front of him and lay on her back, her thighs spread. Joan smiled as he stood, towering over her in her glorious, pandering near-nakedness.

"You going mainstream on me?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

He glanced at the light fixture on the ceiling. "You didn't go for the three-pointer with your underwear."

"Oh, but the day's still young, Mr. King."

Her smile disappeared as King picked up the pajama top and laid it delicately over her private parts.

"I'm going to get dressed. I'd appreciate if you'd clean up this mess."

As he walked away, he heard her laughing. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, she called out, "You've finally grown up, Sean, I'm so impressed." He shook his head and wondered what insane asylum she had escaped from.

"Thanks for breakfast," he called back.

As King was coming back downstairs after showering and dressing, there was a knock at the door. He glanced out the window and was surprised to see a police car, a U.S. Marshals van and a black SUV. He answered the door.

He knew Todd Williams, the police chief, since Sean was one of Todd's volunteer deputies. Todd looked distraught as one of two FBI agents stepped forward and flashed his credentials like he was brandishing a switchblade.

"Sean King? We understand that you have a pistol registered to you."

King nodded. "I'm a volunteer deputy. The public likes to see us armed in case we have to shoot any bad guys. So?"

"So we'd like to see it. In fact, we'd like to take it."

King glanced sharply at Williams, who looked at him and shrugged and then took a huge, symbolic step backward.

"You have a warrant?" King asked.

"You're a former federal agent. We hoped you'd cooperate."

"I'm also a lawyer, and we're not a real cooperative breed."

"It's up to you. I've got the paper right here."

King had pulled that same trick before as a fed. His "search warrant" was often a photocopy of aNew York Times crossword puzzle neatly folded. "Show it to me," he demanded.

The warrant was produced and it was for real. They wanted his service revolver.

"Can I ask why?"

"You can ask," said the agent.

Now the deputy U.S. marshal stepped forward. He was about fifty, stood about six-five and was built like a professional boxer, with broad shoulders, long arms and huge hands.

"Let's just cut the cute shit, okay?" he said to the agent before looking at King. "They want to match it against the slug taken out of Jennings. I'm assuming you don't have a problem with that."

"You think I shot Howard Jennings in my office and used my own service revolver to do it? What, as a matter of convenience, or because I'm too cheap to spring for another gun?"

"Just eliminating possibilities," said the man pleasantly. "You know the drill. Being a Secret Service agent and all."

"Was. Was a Secret Service agent." He turned. "I'll get the gun."

The big man put a hand on King's shoulder. "No. Just show them where it is."

"So let them in my house and they can go merrily along picking up evidence to build a case against me?"

"An innocent man has nothing to hide," the deputy marshal shot back. "Besides, they won't peek, Scout's honor."