L ike Michelle Maxwell, King had also risen early and was also out on the water. He was, however, in a kayak, not a scull, and was going considerably slower than Michelle. The lake was ripple-free at this hour, and the quietest it would be all day. This was the perfect place to think, and he needed to do a lot of that. Yet it wasn't to be.

He heard his name being called and looked up. She was standing on the rear deck of his house, calling out to him and holding up a cup of what he assumed was coffee. Joan was wearing the pajamas he kept in the guest bedroom. He took his time paddling back in and then walked slowly up to the house where she met him at the back door.

She smiled. "Apparently you were the first up, but no coffee was on. That's okay, I live to provide suitable backup."

He accepted the coffee from her and sat at the table after she insisted on making him breakfast. He watched her prancing barefoot around his kitchen in the pajamas, apparently playing the role of the happy vixen housewife with aplomb. He remembered that Joan, though one of the toughest agents the Service had ever produced, could be as feminine as any woman, and in private moments she could be downright sexually explosive.

"Still prefer scrambled?"

"That's fine," he answered.

"Bagel, no butter?"

"Yep."

"God, you're so predictable."

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.

A s 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."

An FBI agent followed King inside. As they walked down the hall, the agent looked in surprise at the mess in the kitchen.

"My dog is kind of wild," explained King.

The man nodded. "I got a black Lab named Trigger. What's yours?"

"Pit bull bitch named Joan."

They went to his den, where King opened the lockbox and then motioned the agent to inspect the contents. The man bagged the pistol, handed him a receipt for the weapon and followed King back outside.

"Sorry about this, Sean," said Todd. "I know it's all a crock." The good police chief didn't sound like he meant it, King noted.

As the men pulled off in their vehicles, Joan came down the stairs, fully dressed.

"What did they want?"

"Collecting for the policemen's ball."

"Uh-huh. Are you a suspect or what?"

"They took my gun."

"You have an alibi, right?"

"I was on patrol. I saw nobody and nobody saw me."

"Too bad I wasn't here earlier. I could have given you a hell of an alibi if you had just played your cards right." She raised her right hand and placed her other on an imaginary Bible. "Your Honor, Mr. King is innocent because at the time of said murder, yours truly was getting seriously banged on the kitchen table by the said Mr. King."

"Maybe in your dreams."

"It has been in my dreams. But now I think I'm too late."

"Joan, do me a great favor: get out of my house."

She stepped back, her eyes searching his. "You're not honestly worried about it, are you? The ballistics won't match and that'll be it."

"You think so?"

"I'm assuming you had your gun with you while you were on patrol."

"Of course, I did. My slingshot's broken."

"Jokes. You always made stupid jokes when you were the most nervous."

"A guy is dead, Joan, in my office, dead. None of this is really funny."

"Unless you murdered the man, I don't see how your gun could have done it." He didn't answer and she said, "Is there something you haven't told the police?"

"I didn't kill Jennings, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking it. I know you too well."

"Well, people change, they really do."

She picked up her bag. "Would it be all right if I came to visit you again?" She added quickly, "If I swear not to do that." She glanced over at the trashed kitchen table.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Eight years ago I lost something important to me. This morning I tried to get it all back, using a method that turned out to be embarrassingly stupid."

"What's the point of our seeing each other again?"

"I actually have something I want to ask you."

"So ask."

"Not now. Another time. I'll be in touch."

After she left, he started to pick up the kitchen. In a few minutes everything was clean and back in order. If only he could do the same thing to his life. However, he had a feeling that a lot more things were going to be broken before this was over.