Run the Risk (8 page)

“Something that hasn't happened yet.”

“Another killing?”

“An act of terror.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“That makes two of us,” Foley said.

“We have two people dead for no apparent reason, and an exotic explosive designed for one purpose, to explode in places where it won't be detected.”

“What kind of places?” Foley said.

“Public places,” I said. “What's the date?”

“Thirtieth.”

“The first is two days away,” I said.

I could see in Harrison's eyes the light of recognition going off.

“Jesus,” he said. “The Rose Parade.”

I nodded and said, “Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” Foley said.

“And the bungalow and this, and even Finley were just acts to cover his tracks?” Harrison said.

“It's the logical conclusion,” I said.

“But it's not one you could base on evidence,” Harrison said. “There've been no threats, no warnings. We would have heard about them in the squad, we get those kind of warnings all the time.”

“And when don't bombers give warnings?”

He didn't even have to think about that. It was glaringly clear, even if the theory was supported by nothing more than the finest thread.

“When the device's intention is to kill, you don't warn anyone,” Harrison said.

We all know about that now. The terror that comes out of nowhere is seared into our collective consciousness.

“Devices?” Foley said. “You're saying the guy who did this is going to put a bomb in the Rose Parade?”

I turned to Foley. I didn't want this information picking up speed and getting out of control, not until I had more than conjecture to follow. We still had a couple of days. When time was up and push came to shove, we could send up the red flags of desperation. But until then we would do this quietly.

“What I'm doing is thinking out loud,” I said. “And no one else needs to know any of it. Not yet.”

“No shit,” Foley said, unhappy at being on the outside of the conversation.

“You find out everything about this man's movements and maybe we'll have something to talk about,” I said. “I don't want to start telling people that someone is sticking a bomb in the Rose Parade if all this man did was come across the border to take his kids to Disneyland.”

Foley nodded in such a way as to say he was unhappy but would do exactly as told. It was just one of the extra bonuses of being a woman on the job that when men accede to your authority, they often act as if they're doing you a favor.

“The Mexicans aren't exactly known for being real co-operative. It would help if I knew what the hell I was looking for . . . aside from everything,” Foley said.

“If he brought the explosives in, he would have been paid a lot of money for it. If we can find it, maybe it left a trail.”

“And?” Foley said.

“We need to know if he had access to explosives,” I said.

“He was in the army, how much more access do you need?”

“This is special,” I said.

“How special?”

“It doesn't officially exist, and it's your worst nightmare,” I said, glancing at Harrison to gauge if he was certain of his information.

“You're certain about this?”

“It's Israeli,” he said without hesitation.

“In Mexico?” Foley said in surprise. He let it sink in for a moment, then nodded. “You got it, Lieutenant.”

Back in the car Harrison sat silently looking down at the pool as we drove up the slope of the arroyo. His theory had just widened the investigation to include the killing of a major in the Mexican army and, if it was correct, a possible terrorist attack on one of America's favorite New Year's traditions as it was broadcast live around the world. The weight of Harrison's deduction had just landed squarely on his shoulders and had already begun creeping into the lines around his eyes as they tightened with the tension.

As we stopped at the top of the arroyo, I glanced back down and saw the bright red sweater of the Mexican major as they lifted his body out of the water. Played against the color of the surrounding vegetation, it looked like a single, red maple leaf floating in a pond in a forest of green.

“Jesus,” Harrison said. “I hope to God we're wrong.”

I put the car in park and leaned back in my seat.

“Why the parade?” I said. “It could be the game.”

“The game?” Harrison said, not knowing what I was talking about.

“The Rose Bowl. A hundred thousand people in one stadium.”

“Oh, that game.”

“You don't watch football much, do you?”

He shook his head.

“I'm a failure as a man by most standards,” he said in a deadpan voice, without a trace of a smile.

“Which of the standards aren't you a failure at?” I asked.

“I don't think I know you well enough to tell you that,” he said.

He turned and looked out the window, the trace of a private smile breaking his perfect jawline as if he were remembering a moment from his past.

My mind focused on the image of a bomb being placed somewhere as we spoke. I reached out and took hold of the steering wheel with both hands and gripped it tightly like it was the seat bar on a roller coaster.

“A stadium would be easy to secure in comparison to an entire parade route. If I'm wrong, there's no way we can adequately secure both sites.”

The smile on Harrison's face vanished. He looked down at his hands resting in his lap as if questioning something about them. I couldn't help but wonder if they had held his wife as she died. Did he look upon them as failures for not being able to save her? And was that why he was in the bomb squad, to test those hands again and again against bombs that could take his own life with the smallest slip?

Harrison looked up from his hands and out the front of the car.

“It's more complicated than that,” he said.

I turned to him, waiting for him to finish the thought.

“There's no way to secure either the parade or the game, not with this explosive,” he said. “That's what's complicated.”

We both sat silently for a moment as the reality of what we were facing settled over us like a shroud.

“Then we have to approach this from a different direction.”

“Which?”

“Why . . .” I corrected him softly. “That's the doorway into this. We figure that out, or we don't have a prayer.”

Harrison picked right up on the thought. “What battle is he fighting?”

“Or whose? Is it personal or political?” I said.

“Knowing how much explosive he brought in from Mexico would tell us a lot,” Harrison said.

“Meaning, if it's a relatively small amount, he could be
after an individual. And if it's a large amount, he's after something bigger?”

“Yeah,” Harrison said. “So where do we begin?”

I thought for a moment, trying to take hold of the flood of thoughts and emotions rolling through me like waves.

“We go through a list of the participants in the parade, start with the obvious targets: politicians, celebrities, prominent businessmen, work our way down.”

“What else?”

“Everything he's done so far has been to cover his tracks. That means the man in the casting pond, Finley, and Sweeny knew something that put him at risk, so he killed them. Except he made a mistake with Sweeny at the bungalow and got Traver instead. We need to find him.”

“What about Finley's partner, Breem?”

“You mean why wasn't he killed at the flower shop that night?”

He nodded.

Breem? I thought. That had bothered me since I watched the tape of Finley being shot in the back of the head. Was Breem just a lucky guy? Or was it something else?

“He either knew nothing, or he's a part of it.”

Harrison nodded in agreement.

“Let's talk to Finley's wife, and then we'll talk to Breem,” I said.

My cell rang inside my jacket pocket and I pulled it out.

“Delillo.”

“Lieutenant, Officer James.”

I suddenly forgot all about Breem and Finley and the bright red sweater in the dark water of the pond. Even the bomber vanished from my consciousness.

“Did you find her?” I asked.

“We covered every Starbucks in Pasadena—nothing. I put out a call on her car, and have a squad at your house. I'll let you know as soon as she turns up.”

“Turns up,” I said silently to myself. “Turns up” implies she's missing. I felt goose bumps rise on my forearm. I
wanted to ask more questions to find a way to erase those words.

“She's probably just at . . .” I let it go. I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know where she would go. Which was just another item to add to the list of what I didn't know about my own daughter.

“Thanks,” I said and hung up.

I sat there for a moment listening to the pounding of my heart in my chest. I felt entirely inadequate for every task I had facing me. It was all happening too fast. I was no good as a detective, no good as a mother.

“Your daughter?” Harrison asked.

My daughter? My voice caught with just the words.

“Yeah” was all I could manage. I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it slip out. “There've been some threats because of the pageant thing. We're trying to locate her.”

“Is she missing?”

I looked straight ahead without taking in anything I was looking at. “The principal sent her home without contacting me.”

“He shouldn't have done that.”

I shook my head.

“If there's anything I can do.”

“I'm thinking of driving over to the school and putting my gun against his head so he'll know exactly how I feel right now.”

“I could hold him for you,” Harrison said.

I glanced at Harrison and tried to smile, but only made it about halfway, so I turned and looked out my window. A man in a yellow running suit was jogging by with a golden retriever. I noticed his left leg swung loosely out wide as if he wasn't in complete control of where it would settle with each step. The detective in me began to construct a story about what had happened to him, but the mother in me took over and I saw Lacy as a two-year-old taking her first awkward steps.

“Why is it there's never enough time to do the things we most care about correctly and always enough time to excel at the things that don't matter,” I said, glancing at Harrison.

The look on his face told me he was unsure if a response was required.

“I'm not actually looking for an answer, Detective,” I said. “I'm just talking. Kids will do that to you.”

I imagined Traver would have smiled broadly and said, “Don't you love it.”

Harrison's eyes drifted away to some distant point beyond vision. I noticed the thumb on his left hand moving back and forth across the base of his ring finger as if his wedding band were still on it.

“I'm the wrong person to ask about time, Lieutenant.”

IF IT
'
S POSSIBLE
for a house to take on the character of tragedy, Daniel Finley's green Craftsman bungalow appeared to have the soul of a broken heart. The blinds were drawn on all the windows. Flower boxes lining the front porch hadn't been watered in what appeared to be weeks, impatiens hung limply down the sides. The grass was long and unruly. The overhanging roof appeared to be trying to shield the occupants from the outside world.

I stopped on the sidewalk before walking up to the front door and took it in.

“Something's wrong with this,” I said.

Harrison looked the house and yard over. “Wouldn't you expect this?”

“Finley died two days ago; this has been unattended for more than a week. Why would a man whose business was flowers let a place go to seed?”

Harrison got it. “His mind was on other things.”

“And it worried him to the point of all this.”

We walked up to the oak front door. A small, beveled window at eye level had a green paisley curtain drawn over it on the inside. The doormat read “Welcome. Think
Green.” As I reached out to ring the bell, I noticed the wood of the door frame next to the handle had a slim, barely noticeable crack in it.

“This door's been jimmied,” I said.

I tested the handle and it was unlocked.

“Don't open that,” Harrison said, his voice flush with tension.

My hand felt as if it were holding a stick of dynamite.

“Keep your hand on the knob and step to the side,” he said, then knelt down and examined the jamb where it had been jimmied. “It's possible you've just completed a circuit. Letting go would set it off.”

“It?” I said. Then it dawned on me. “You mean a bomb.”

“He's used doors before,” Harrison said.

“Are we being a bit paranoid?”

“I once found a bomb inside a cookie jar. In my world there's no such thing as paranoia.”

The handle of the door seemed to be growing hot in my hand.

“You have a suggestion?” I said, stretching out as far away from the door handle as I could go.

“I could go around back and enter, but that would only delay the inevitable.”

“Which is?” I said.

“If there is a device, I doubt I would be able to disarm it without breaking the circuit.”

“I don't have a real firm grasp on electricity,” I said. “What exactly are you saying?”

Harrison got up from his knees and moved to the other side of the door frame across from me.

“I think you should just run the risk.”

“The what?”

“It's what we do in the squad when we're out of other options.”

“That sounds suspiciously like being a parent,” I said.

“When you're ready, let go as quickly as you can.”

“You're sure?”

Harrison looked at me, his green eyes unblinking, his face betraying no emotion at all.

“Trust me . . . do it.”

I inched a little farther from the door and tried to let go, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate. My jaw tightened, the knuckles on my fingers holding the handle were turning white. My hand felt as if it were holding a hot coal.

“Let go?” I said. “A boy genius like you ought to be able to do better than that.”

“Let go,” Harrison said.

I looked away, gently began to release the tension in my fingers, and then pulled my hand away as quickly as I could. In my mind I could still hear the sound of the blast that injured Dave. I could still feel the rush of air and broken glass knocking me to the ground. The silence surrounding us now felt unnatural, as strangely unnerving in its own way as the blast from an explosion. I turned to Harrison and saw him breathe a sigh of relief, then smile.

“This happens all the time on the squad,” he said.

“It never happens in Homicide,” I said, taking my first breath in what felt like several minutes.

I reached out to take a hold of the handle again and involuntarily hesitated just before my fingers touched it.

“Why don't we ring the bell,” I said.

I pushed it and heard the chime inside the house followed by the rush of footsteps and something crashing to the floor.

“The back door!” I said to Harrison as I grabbed the door handle and flung it open. Harrison had already cleared the porch and was heading around back as I drew my gun and stepped in.

It was dark inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the brightness of the sunlight. And then I saw that the floor of the living room was littered with the ransacked contents of a desk.

“Police!” I yelled.

To the left were stairs to the second floor. I listened for a
moment and heard nothing. I moved inside toward a hallway lined with framed photographs, the wooden floor creaking under my weight. On either side of the hallway was a door, each closed. I stopped again and listened for any hint of sound but heard nothing. From the back of the house, I could hear Harrison trying to force open the back door. I looked at the doors on either side of me. I raised my gun, reached out, and tested the door on the right. The handle didn't move; it was locked. I looked over my shoulder at the other door and began to reach for the handle.

The door on the left flung violently open, its heavy oak knocking me back into the other door handle, which hit my ribs like a baseball bat. I felt a sharp bolt of pain spreading out across my body from the point of impact as if I had had a heart attack. My knees buckled. My gun slipped from my hand and landed on the floor with a thud. I tried to call to Harrison but could only gasp as I tried to get air into my lungs. I saw a figure move out of the closet, momentarily stepping through a ray of light cutting into the darkness from the open front door. And then the dark shape of the door swung at me again. I tried to raise my left hand in defense, but the door was already on top of me, striking me in the side of the face.

I fell back against the wall and slipped slowly down to the floor and onto my hands and knees. The side of my face was numb from the blow. It tingled like a leg that has gone to sleep. I was cut somewhere, probably the stitches I had already taken from the explosion. I could feel the dampness of blood on my tongue and slipping down my chin. The odor of aged varnish from the wood of the door hung in my mouth as if I had taken a bite out of it. I looked down and saw my gun lying within reach, but I couldn't make any part of me move toward it. The edges of my vision began to cloud as I slipped toward the tunnel of unconsciousness.

I sensed the attacker step up beside me. I saw his dark boots out of the corner of my eye and thought, This is how I die. Just like this, on my hands and knees. Shit. I wasn't
frightened or angry. I wasn't searching my life for moments of regret. I was embarrassed.

“I'm sorry,” came a soft voice.

I flinched, expecting another blow, and then nothing came. Jesus, what is he waiting for? I waited and waited and then the tunnel of unconsciousness closed in on me in a cascade of colors like a child's kaleidoscope.

IT WAS
a voice that brought me back. It was distant at first, as if someone were whispering from the other end of a long hallway. I couldn't make out the words, but it was enough for me follow. The voice called again and again, and then finally I could make it out.

“Mom,” Lacy said. “Mom.”

The tunnel began to open. Light began to filter in.

“Lacy,” I think I said.

The light began to come faster and then the image of a face appeared right in front of mine. It was soft at first, out of focus.

I said, “Lacy,” again.

My eyes blinked and the softness of the face began to sharpen. I could see the mouth move as if talking, but I heard nothing. I blinked again and tried to force my eyes to focus.

“Lieutenant,” Harrison said.

I slipped out of the tunnel and found myself on the floor of the hallway, propped against the wall. Harrison's hand was on my shoulder, steadying me so I wouldn't fall over onto my side.

“Can you hear me, Lieutenant?”

I looked at Harrison, and then up and down the hallway trying to orient myself. My eyes stopped on the heavy oak door of the closet.

“Oh, yeah,” I whispered, finally placing myself. I remembered the sound of the door hitting my face.

“Are you all right?”

The floor seemed to float like water for a moment, then it settled.

“They made very solid houses back then.” I looked at Harrison. “I heard my daughter's voice . . . she was . . .”

Harrison looked at me and shook his head. “It's just me. I'm sorry I couldn't get through the back door. I had to come through a window.”

I looked at the floor and my gun was still there.

“He left my gun,” I said, half-surprised.

“Did you get a look at him?”

I tried to replay the events in my head, but it came slowly. It was like trying to put tape back in a cassette that had spilled out onto the floor. I remembered the door, the handle digging into my ribs.

“I dropped my gun when I hit the door handle. . . . Then the other door hit me.”

The side of my face throbbed and I felt unsteady. I remembered the smell of varnish in my mouth. I reached up and touched my lip, and my fingers came away bloody.

“He said he was sorry,” I said. I was angry. The last thing you want from someone bashing your brains in is kindness. “How long have I been sitting here?”

“You've been drifting in and out for a few minutes. I checked out front, he was already gone,” Harrison said. “If he drove away I didn't see a car.”

My head cleared as if I had just stepped out of a heavy fog.

“I saw him,” I said. “He stepped into the shaft of light from the doorway.”

“Can you ID him?” he asked.

I reached out, picked up my Glock, and slid it back into my belt holster. I then took hold of Harrison's shoulder and raised myself to my feet.

“It was Sweeny,” I said.

Harrison looked at me as if trying to decide if my judgment had been affected from the knock on the head.

“From the bungalow? You're sure?”

I nodded. “I think he was looking for something; he rifled a desk.”

“I'll go call it in.”

“Shit.” A voice came from the front door.

We both turned and saw a woman holding a packet of information from a funeral home.

“I saw your car with the radio. I assume you're policemen.”

“Mrs. Finley,” I said.

She nodded. She had short dark hair, pale skin, and wore black jeans and a black sweater that, if worn anyplace other than Southern California might be taken as a statement of mourning. She was younger than her late husband. I put her in her mid-thirties. Beneath the exhausted look of someone who had dealt with death for two days, she had the face of a free spirit, pretty, hanging on to youth with every muscle in her body.

She looked into the living room and saw the contents of the desk spread out on the floor. “What happened?”

“You've been burglarized.”

Her shoulders sank ever so slightly, and she took a deep breath. “That's great.”

“It's not unusual for this to happen after a tragedy. They follow things like that in the paper,” I said, not wanting to draw too much attention to it.

She looked down at the folders from the funeral home she was holding in her hands.

“I guess they know you won't be around,” she said angrily.

“I'm Lieutenant Delillo. I'm investigating your husband's murder. This is Detective Harrison. I would have talked to you yesterday, but that wasn't possible.”

Mrs. Finley walked in and tossed the packet from the funeral home onto the dining room table with the rest of the junk mail that had piled up. She sat down and looked at me. I took a chair on the other side of the table.

“You have blood on you,” she said, looking flushed.

I reached up and wiped it off my chin.

“We surprised him,” I said.

“Looks like you're the one who was surprised, Lieutenant.”

She looked at me for a moment, her eyes reflecting someone who had used up all the emotions she had stored and had nothing left. What could possibly surprise a person whose husband had just been gunned down?

“I'm sorry. Can I get you something?” she asked.

“I'm fine,” I lied.

“You don't look fine. Trust me, I'm an expert on the subject,” she said.

She got up and walked into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a damp towel wrapped around ice cubes.