“It wasn’t terrorism. It was a criminal act and I was the victim.”
“There were thirty-seven bullet holes in your car, Mr. King. Under our policy guidelines that is not a criminal act, it’s terrorism.”
“You go by the number of bullet holes! How the hell does that make sense, lady?”
“You can always appeal the decision.”
“Really? What do your guidelines say the odds are of me winning that appeal? Less than zero?”
Miss Cheery had hung up on him after thanking him for his business.
He started up the car and was preparing to back out when someone tapped on his window. He looked around. It was a woman, early thirties, blonde hair, shapely, too much red lipstick, and with the dried-out skin of someone forced to undergo pancake face paint on a daily basis to fight the high-def cameras. She was holding a microphone with a built-in digital recorder like it was a grenade she was about to heave.
He glanced behind her and saw the news truck ease into view and block his exit.
Crap.
Sean rolled down the window.
“Can I help you?”
“Sean King?”
“That’s right. Look, I gave the media pool guy a statement. You can piggyback off him.”
“Developments dictate a fresh angle.”
“What developments?”
“Did you steal confidential records from the office computer of Tuck Dutton?”
Sean’s stomach gave a heave and
part of his veal picatta got bumped up into his throat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who told you that?”
“Do you deny going to his office?”
“I’m not admitting or denying anything.”
“Tuck Dutton’s firm is a government contractor working on highly classified matters for DHS.”
“So are you a reporter or a company spokesperson? I can’t tell.”
“Do you realize it’s a crime to steal someone else’s property? And if you’re found to have stolen classified information for purposes of espionage you could be charged with treason?”
“Okay, now you sound like a lawyer wannabe. I happen to be the genuine article. So if you don’t get your buddy back there to move his van, I’m going to see how far I can push it down the street with my wheels. And then I’ll pull him out of the van and start to ‘assault and battery’ him. But I’ll just call it self-defense. It’s less of a prosecutable offense that way.”
“Are you threatening us?”
“I’m one second away from calling the cops and charging your ass with unlawful detention, harassment, and slander. Go look those up in your Black’s Law Dictionary while you’re cramming for the LSATs.”
Sean gunned the motor and slammed the car into reverse.
The woman jumped back and the news van driver nailed the gas just in time to avoid getting T-boned by Sean’s ride.
A half hour later Sean was walking to Tuck’s hospital room and his mood was growing darker with each stride. Of course he had taken the information, not because he was a spy but because he was trying to determine if Tuck was involved in his wife’s murder. It had left him legally exposed, but it wasn’t the first time he’d pushed the envelope. That wasn’t why he was ticked off. Someone was setting him up to take a fall. And he wanted to know who and why.