The Sixth Man (28 page)

“W
HEN?” ASKED
P
ETER
B
UNTING,
his voice shaky.

He sat behind his large desk holding the phone receiver to his ear. He had just been told that Carla Dukes had been murdered in her home.

“Do the police have any leads? Any suspects?”

The person answered.

“All right. But the minute you hear anything I need to know.”

Carla Dukes had been his handpicked person to take over the director’s slot at Cutter’s. They went a long way back. They hadn’t been close friends, but they had been professional colleagues. She was good at what she did. And Bunting had respected her. He’d also unwittingly led the woman to her death.

Instead of taking the long walk to the pizza building he decided to phone.

James Harkes picked up on the second ring.

“What the hell is going on?” Bunting said.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Carla Dukes was murdered last night.”

Harkes said nothing. All Bunting could hear was the man’s breathing. Regular, calm.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“My hearing is excellent, Mr. Bunting.”

“She was my operative. I put her at Cutter’s for a specific reason.”

“Understood.”

“Understood? What does that mean? If it was understood, why did you have her killed?”

“You need to calm down, Mr. Bunting. You’re not making any sense. I would have had no reason to kill Ms. Dukes.”

Bunting had no way to know if Harkes was telling the truth or not, but something told him the man was lying.

“Not only is a good person dead, I have no eyes at Cutter’s now. Roy is up there with no coverage.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. We have the situation in hand.”

“How?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

“Are you insane? I don’t trust anyone, Harkes. Particularly people who won’t answer my questions.”

“If you have any other concerns just let me know.” Harkes clicked off.

Bunting slowly put the phone down, rose and went to the window, and stared down at the street. His mind was literally catapulting forward to one devastating scenario after another.

Why would anyone have wanted Dukes dead? She was the director of Cutter’s, but it wasn’t like she had any real power. If Harkes had killed her, why?

He sat down and called Avery, who had just flown in to the D.C. office. Bunting knew he had met with Dukes last night. It had been a last-minute thing, prompted by a frantic text to Avery, who had gone back up to Maine only the day before. Dukes had wanted to meet with Bunting, but since Avery was already on the ground in Maine and Dukes had wanted to meet immediately, Avery had gone instead.

“Avery, Carla Dukes is dead, murdered, not too long after she met with you.”

Avery said, “I know, I just heard it on the news.” His voice was shaky.

“What did she want to meet about? When she texted me that she wanted to meet, she didn’t say why. That’s when I texted her back to contact you directly.”

“Sean King had approached her at her home.”

“King? About what?”

“He said he knew she was working with someone other than the
FBI. That the Bureau wouldn’t be happy when they found that out. He really shook her up.”

“How the hell did he know about that?”

“No clue.”

Bunting thought quickly. “It must’ve been guesswork on his part.”

“But she was frightened. He gave her an ultimatum of sorts.”

“What did he want?”

“Us, I guess.”

“How good is our wall?”

“No one at Cutter’s Rock will talk to him.”

“But they suspect someone else is involved.” Bunting had a sudden, terrible thought. “Did King meet with her right before she came to see you?”

“Yes. She was upset. Sent me a coded message and in it she said King had told her the FBI had tapped her phones and e-mails.”

“And you met with her where?”

“The rendezvous point we had designated previously. It’s a little picnic area really off the beaten path, even for Maine.”

“So King put the fear of God into Carla with the result that she got spooked and went running to you. Was Michelle Maxwell with King when he met with Carla?”

“She said he was alone.”

“Shit!”

“What is it?”

“They played us.”

“What? How?”

“While King was busy scaring the crap out of Carla, Maxwell was doing something else, maybe placing a tracking device on Carla’s car. Then King bullshitted her about the FBI tapping her phone and e-mails. The result was that the only way to safely communicate with us was face-to-face.”

“They followed Dukes to the meeting?”

“Of course they did. And then they saw you there.” Bunting felt a dull ache in his head. “And then they followed
you
. They’re probably standing outside your office as we speak.”

“Oh shit.”

Bunting rubbed his temples. “Did you notice anyone that looked like Sean King on your flights?”

“No, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”

Bunting nervously tapped the top of his desk. “Did you cab it from the airport?”

“No, I had a driver meet me at the airport.”

Bunting ground his teeth together. “So they have your name now, too. Okay, they followed you to the office and have no doubt discovered that you work for BIC. From BIC it’s only a Google search to Peter Bunting.”

“But, sir—”

Bunting hung up on him and paced his large office, nervous energy feeding his system like liquefied rocks of crack.

He calmed himself, sat back down. He had to think. Even if King had connected the dots to BIC, he had no proof of any wrongdoing because there was none. But that wasn’t the point. Revealing to the public what Edgar Roy really was could be catastrophic.

And now Bunting had no one he could really trust.

Except myself, apparently.

Right now that was small comfort.

K
ELLY
P
AUL SAT
at her desk in her hotel room in New York and looked around the small, comfortable space. How many such rooms had she inhabited over the last twenty years? She wouldn’t sound clichéd and say
too many
. Actually, the number had been just about right.

She didn’t doodle with the hotel-supplied pen and paper because she might inadvertently leave behind some clue that might one day lead back to her. Her bag was packed, her traveling documents in order. She carried no weapon with her but had ready access to any she might need only five minutes from here.

She had learned of Carla Dukes’s death at six thirty a.m. She didn’t spend much time wondering who had killed the woman. The answer to that question was important. But not as important as the matters she was focusing on presently.

By now Peter Bunting had to know about the woman’s death, too. His inside source at Cutter’s Rock had allowed him to take certain liberties in seeing her brother. Well, Paul had her own sources, and they had told her that the prisoner’s condition had not changed.

Keep it that way, Eddie, keep it that way. For now. Don’t let them get to you.

She glanced down at her cell phone, hesitated, and then picked it up. She punched in the number. It rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Mr. King, it’s Kelly Paul.”

“I was hoping to hear from you. Do you know about Carla Dukes?”

“I heard.”

“Theories?”

“Several. That’s beside the point right now. Where are you?”

“Where are
you
?”

“East Coast.”

“Me too. I’ve had an interesting search on the Web this afternoon.”

“About what subject?” she asked.

“BIC, stands for Bunting International Corporation. Peter Bunting is the president of it. Heard of him?”

“Should I?”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

“What did you find?” Paul wanted to know.

“BIC is based in New York, but it has facilities in the D.C. area because it’s a government contractor. Sells intelligence services. Talked to some of my buddies on the inside. They say the BIC government contract is worth a gazillion dollars but they don’t know exactly what the company does for it. Apparently no one who will talk to me does. Highly classified.”

“Some do know what he does. Otherwise Uncle Sam wouldn’t cut that check.”

“So you do know about him?”

“I’d say it’s time we met.”

“Where?”

“I’m in New York.”

“I can come up there.”

Paul said, “Up? So you’re in D.C.?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Do you have anything to tell me?” Sean asked.

“I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. How did you get onto BIC?”

He said, “Just good old-fashioned detective work.”

“I think you rolled Dukes, somehow she got scared, and she led you to them. And the price she paid for being weak and stupid was her life.”

“Do you really think that’s why she was killed?” he asked.

“Not really, no. But I don’t want to speculate right now. Can you be in New York by this evening?”

“I can catch the next Acela. Be there by six.”

“There’s a little French restaurant on Eighty-Fifth.” She gave him the address. “Say seven o’clock?”

“See you then.”

She clicked off and set the phone back down on the desk. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and eyed Central Park across the street. The leaves were turning, the crowds were thinning, and the overcoats were getting heavier. The rain had started, just a drizzle, but the darkening skies promised more foul weather later. It was in this sort of weather that the city was at its most grimy. The black and dirt and filth were revealed in all their abundance.

But that’s my world too. Black, grimy, and full of filth.

Paul slipped on her raincoat, put up her hood, and set out on a stroll. She crossed Fifty-Ninth Street and passed down the line of horse-drawn carriages. She patted one horse on the snout and eyed the driver. They were all Irishmen. It was an old law, or an older tradition, Paul couldn’t exactly remember which.

“Hello, Shaunnie.” The man’s full name was Tom O’Shaunnessy, but she had always called him Shaunnie.

He continued to clean out some trash from his carriage and didn’t look at her. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Haven’t been around for a while.”

“Heard you retired.”

“I unretired.”

He glanced at her with interest. “You can do that?”

“Is Kenny in the same spot?”

Shaunnie refilled the bucket of oats. “Where else would Kenny be?”

“All I needed to know.”

“So you’re back working?” he asked.

“For now.”

“You should have stayed retired, Kelly.”

“Why?”

“Live longer.”

“We all have to die sometime, Shaunnie. The lucky ones get to pick the time.”

“I don’t think I’m in that group.”

“You’re Irish, you have to be.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not that Irish,” said Paul.

The rain picked up as she eased her way through the park. She kept to the walking paths until she drew near to her destination. She had on waterproof boots that raised her considerable height another two inches. The old man was hunkered down on a bench behind a large rock outcrop. On sunny days people would drape over the stone, improving their tans. On this rain-drenched day, it was deserted.

Kenny sat with his back to her. At the sound of her approach, he turned. He was dressed only a notch above a street person. This was by design—less attention that way. His face and hands were clean, however, and his eyes were clear. He pulled his crumpled hat down farther on his head and studied her.

“Heard you were in town.”

She sat down next to him. He was small and seemed smaller still with her tall frame beside him.

“News travels uncomfortably fast these days.”

“Not that fast. Shaunnie called me on the cell just now. What do you need?”

“Two.”

“The usual?”

“Always worked for me.”

“How’s your trigger finger?”

“A bit stiff, actually. Maybe early arthritis.”

“I’ll factor that in. When?”

“Two hours. Here.”

He rose. “See you in two hours.”

She offered him cash.

“Later,” he said. “I trust you.”

“Don’t trust anybody, Kenny. Not in this business.”

She slowly made her way back to her hotel. The rain was coming
down harder, but Paul was lost in thought and didn’t seem to notice. She had walked through many such rains in many different parts of the world. It seemed to help her think, her mind clearing even as the clouds above thickened. Light from darkness. Somehow.

Bunting. King. Her brother. The next move. It was all building. And when the pressure spiked it would burst out like a freed rocket. And that precise moment would decide the winners and the losers. It always did.

She hoped she was up to it, one more time.