Free Paramour by Gerald Petievich Page A

range, then find someone to forge Stryker's signature on a suicide note. Ridiculous."
    Landry shook his head. "You said it was uncommon for a man to shoot himself while standing up."
    "It is. Truthfully, that's the only thing I find out of the ordinary about the damn case. Other than the fact that you didn't have a hint of Stryker being depressed. A man doesn't kill himself on impulse. He thinks about it first. And to even consider the possibility, there has to be something in his life making him believe he's up shit creek without a paddle."
    "Ray Stryker worked for me. He wasn't the suicidal type."
    "I once worked with a guy in Vice who told me over and over again how happy he was his wife had left him. How overjoyed he was to finally get rid of the bitch. One night he went to her apartment, kicked the door down, and ate his lead right in front of the ex-wife and her boyfriend. You just never know."
    "I wouldn't have a man working for me in the White House if I thought he had suicidal tendencies."
    "You can't take this personal-"
    "I want you to test-fire the gun," Landry interrupted.
    Lyons finished his drink and spit some ice back into the glass. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll take it down to the lab and have it done tomorrow morning."
     
    In the morning Powers rose early. He'd experienced a fitful night's sleep and felt as tired as he had when he'd climbed into bed. While showering and dressing he still couldn't get the events of the previous day out of his mind.
    There was nothing in the refrigerator to eat for breakfast, but rather than make a trip to the supermarket and chance missing Sullivan's call, he found a Weight Watchers manicotti TV dinner in the back of the freezer compartment and warmed it in the microwave for breakfast.
    To kill time, he filled in some Secret Service daily report forms, a stack of which he kept in a kitchen drawer. Every Secret Service agent was required to complete a report for each day's work. After filling in the top section, which listed his name, date of birth, social security number, shift status, rank, and address of permanent record, he filled in the narrative portion under DAILY ACTIVITY. On each, he wrote Protective duties-POTUS . POTUS, of course, was the Secret Service abbreviation for President of the United States. All special agents assigned to the White House Detail wrote the same vague phrase on their daily reports. Though filling in such meaningless memoranda had been a constant source of irritation to Powers for years, he had finally accepted the ritual as part of the job. As Landry always advised, where else but in government service could one get paid to waste time filling in the same worthless form each day? In fact, recalled Powers, it was Ray Stryker who had used a calculator to figure that, during a thirty-year career, the average agent would spend two years and eleven months just filling in daily report forms.
    By 5:30 P.M., Powers had not only caught up on the two months' worth of reports he was behind but had completed enough reports for the next six months-which he would hand in, one each day, as required.
    The phone rang.
    He picked up the receiver. It was Sullivan.
    "Do you know La Serre? The French restaurant?"
    "Twenty-first and K Street?"
    "That's the one. She'll be there at seven ... at the counter. She's expecting Morgan to pick her up and drive her to meet the man, but he'll phone her at the last minute and cancel. She's yours from there on out."
    The phone clicked.
    Dressed casually, Powers left the apartment and took the Metro to the corner of 21st and K Street.
    The restaurant faced north on K Street, raised from the sidewalk by about ten steps covered by a red awning on which was painted LA SERRE. He ambled along the sidewalks in the area for a while, checking entrances and exits to the place as well as any nearby Metro stops and parking garages Marilyn might use. In a surveillance, such things could take on great importance, Then he checked his