Boom-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  “Let’s just say if that problem had been left up to us, you would still be in that room at O’Hare.”

  146

  “But Carter will go crazy when he watches the security footage and sees me shoot Farhad,” I said.

  “Those videos now show a female FBI agent firing the second gun,” Deputy Director Roth said. “The agent was chosen for this assignment because she resembles you. She met with the press with her hair in a ponytail and…” She pointed at the sack she’d handed to me. “Those clothes you had on at O’Hare… Dressed like that, she gave an interview with our version of the events. As corroboration of what happened, the press has been provided copies of the altered recordings showing the female agent’s head Photoshopped on your body as she fires the second gun.”

  “The gun that missed.”

  “Well, we needed a hero, and it couldn’t be you.”

  “Tony.”

  “Exactly. He certainly loves all the attention. He may never stop talking.”

  “What happens to the strippers?”

  “In one week, they will have revision surgery with normal implants.”

  “Paid for by the government?”

  She glanced at her watch and scooted back her chair.

  “What about the terrorists in the Montblanc store at O’Hare?” I asked.

  “He will be formally charged as a terrorist, and I am certain will be given a suitable prison term.”

  He? Didn’t you forget someone?

  “There were two terrorists in that store. One is an American whose first name is Jamie. I don’t know his last name.”

  “There was only one suspect in the store, and he was Middle Eastern. He was arrested.”

  “You let Jamie go? Why did you do that?”

  As she smiled, her lips compressed into a thin line. “No comment.”

  The answer is written on your smug face.

  “You’re going to follow him to see if he leads you to other terrorist cells in this area, right?” I asked.

  Roth stood up.

  “Hold it,” I said. “What about me? Jamie knows I shot al-Turk and one of his buddies. I brought down their entire plot. He’ll blame me for that.”

  She walked into our entrance hall. “You might consider keeping al-Turk’s gun handy, in case you need it.”

  “You bitch!”

  She smiled widely. “I’ve been called much worse, but there’s a lesson here for you. I urge you to stick to writing your local column. The last time you did an investigative story, you ignored specific orders from an FBI agent not to enter the clinic, and you were blown up.”

  “And letting Jamie go is payback, right?”

  Roth opened our front door. “It’s a risk we will take to catch other terrorists. If unfortunate events occur because of it, we will consider that to be collateral damage.”

  She walked out without closing the front door.

  147

  It was midnight. Carter was still at O’Hare, and Kerry was in bed. I’d let her stay up way past her normal bedtime. Even though she had a fun time at Molly’s, I felt engulfed by guilt at having left her for several hours.

  We’d cuddled up on the couch with Elmo and Ralph, and she had her favorite strawberry ice cream for a treat. I read two Dr. Seuss books to her, but she nodded off before I was halfway through the second one, and I put her to bed.

  Checking my cell phone, I scanned my messages. Two were from Cas, one from Molly, and three from Linda. I would call them tomorrow, especially Linda. She knew about the C4 and the boob bombs. Since she was my lawyer, those discussions and discoveries had been privileged communications, and she couldn’t tell anyone unless I gave her permission.

  And I was never going to do that.

  The front door opened, and Carter slumped in. He kissed me on the cheek. I stood up and hugged him for a long time.

  He kissed me on the lips and looked into my eyes. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  My response caught in my throat, and I remained silent, as I held back the tears. I didn’t want him to know why I was crying.

  We sat down on the couch. “It’s a compelling story, but unfortunately, the available details at this point are sketchy,” he said, switching to his reporter voice.

  “What did you find out?”

  I didn’t want to be caught in a lie.

  “The only thing we have for certain is this is a case of industrial espionage. Apparently, a man attempted to force a scientist to give up his secret formula. The man was shot by a female FBI agent and a Chicago PD detective.”

  Roth did tell me the truth.

  “Did they give you the name of the scientist?”

  “It was Dr. Micah Mittelman.”

  “Which was why I was at the airport. Hannah called in a panic worried Micah might be harmed before he flew out of O’Hare to a medical meeting. She didn’t know what to do and asked for my help.”

  “And you called Detective Infantino?”

  “Carter, I appreciate how you feel about him, but he is the only policeman I know.”

  He stared at me.

  I’m not lying about that.

  “He and the female FBI agent were made available to us for a detailed interview. They showed security video footage of the shooting. The FBI agent looked like you and wore clothes and ASICS running shoes exactly like yours.”

  I pointed at my brown shorts, yellow golf shirt, and ASICS running shoes that had been handed to me by FBI Deputy Director Roth.

  “Obviously, it can’t be mine because I’m wearing them.” I handed three sheets of paper to him. “Read this.”

  Before Carter had arrived home, I’d gone online and printed up the background story about the neighbors that the NSA had planted. It was good. All the details were included except one: what Micah did in his lab. His research was discussed in general terms, but no specifics were included.

  Carter would have to believe it. Heck, I believed it, and I knew it was phony.

  He went through the material.

  “Then the story is factual, but it isn’t an investigative piece,” he said. “Do you want to write it?”

  “I do. It’s not the in-depth story I’ve been looking for, but it’s way better than my monthly column.”

  I didn’t add that writing it would help take my mind off of the two men I’d killed.

  “What’s my time frame?” I continued.

  “It’s local news. I need it for our morning print and online editions.”

  “May I have your notes from what you learned at O’Hare?”

  He reached into his wrinkled blue blazer’s pocket, pulled out his reporter’s spiral notebook, and handed it to me.

  “Sorry there isn’t more.”

  “Whatever you have will save me a lot of time.” I pictured Linda’s face. “What does this assignment pay?”

  He smiled. “I’ll find money in the budget for this one.”

  “I better get to work.”

  He held up the fictitious research. “You already have.”

  Part 7

  148

  That night, I wrote my fake story. Doing an investigative piece might take weeks or even months to write, edit, rewrite, and re-edit. It was a local news story, and I could easily type it on Carter’s work laptop in a couple of hours. I included the details from the airport shooting, excluding the true female shooter’s identity and the specifics of Micah’s research.

  The article made the Thursday morning print and online editions. Several former newspaper friends called to congratulate me on my return to writing. That the story was bogus troubled the ethical portion of my brain, but there was no other option.

  Friday was the deadline for my column for the Lakeview Times, and I was going to miss it because I didn’t have a story for Gayle. I decided to resign, but I didn’t want to do it by email.

  I called her as I stretched before my morning run. “Gayle, I’m sorry, but I’m going to miss my deadline.”

  “It is total
ly understandable after what I read in yesterday’s Tribune,” Gayle said. “It was a terrific article. You’re a wonderfully talented reporter.”

  Who you wanted to fire.

  “I sincerely hope you’ll find time to continue with your column. I might even find extra money in my minuscule budget to give you a raise. But please remember I was the one who helped revitalize your career by hiring you to write for the Lakeview Times.”

  Guilt trip. I called to resign.

  “I promise I’ll try and find a juicy story for you,” I said.

  “I am so happy. Don’t forget me.”

  Crap. Now I would have to try to cobble together a story for her.

  I hung up and began running. After going only two blocks, I was soaked in sweat from the muggy early morning heat. After three more blocks, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched.

  Thanks to the FBI.

  Because of them, Jamie was still out there. Was I safe from him? And what about the Hamlin Park Irregulars? Was he a danger to them?

  Or was my brain reminding me about the man who blew me up in Arlington? Did he know about Micah’s research? What if the bomber tried to destroy Micah’s lab?

  Too many unanswered questions.

  Stopping my run, I reached into my backpack and pulled out al-Turk’s handgun. I racked a bullet into the chamber. From now on, the Glock was going to be as much a part of my life as Elmo and Ralph were of Kerry’s. I wouldn’t tell Carter about the gun until I had to. I prayed I would never need to use it.

  149

  As I continued to run, I listened to Wilco’s songs through my ear buds. Before I realized it, I ran past Hannah’s home on West Henderson.

  Stopping in the middle of the block, I jogged in place and watched the outside security cameras rotate back and forth. Other than Jamie, those cameras were the only remaining evidence al-Turk and his crew had been terrorists.

  Whirling around, I intended to sprint away before the NSA or FBI agents monitoring the security cameras recorded my presence. I detected movement out of my peripheral vision, and before I could react, I crashed into a fellow runner, knocking him flat on his back.

  “Oh my God, it’s you,” I said, when I saw who it was.

  “Me?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him he was Lyndell’s leprechaun, but he might take it as an insult, even though with his green eyes, red hair, and freckles, he did look like one.

  He picked up his New York Yankees baseball cap and black horn rim glasses, both of which had been knocked off, and put them back on.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. How about you?”

  “I’m fine.” I reached down toward him. “Let me help you up.”

  The man waved my hand away. “No need.” Rolling to his knees, he stood up.

  I held out my hand. “Tina Thomas.”

  “David John.” He had a firm grip, but not overly aggressive. His voice was soft without a trace of an Irish accent.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” I said, thinking about Gayle and my promise to her.

  “Looking forward to it.” He ran toward Belmont.

  Once I began running again, my brain shifted to reporter mode. When I found time, I would do an online background analysis on David John, and if I discovered facts which were remotely interesting, I would ask him for an interview.

  I shivered as I ran.

  Someone is watching me.

  Look for Book 2

  in the Hamlin Park Irregulars series

  — Déjà Boom! —

  and learn the answers to Tina’s questions.

  And this is what started it all.

  Lonely Stay-at-Home Mothers Are Now Wooing Each Other

  By Christina DUFf

  Special to The Wall Street Journal Nov. 17, 2000

  CHICAGO -- Lipstick on and baby in tow, Sarah Jane Marshall cruises the streets here trying to pick somebody up.

  She plants herself and her 11-month-old, Noah, at a table in a bagel shop known for attracting good prospects. "I feel like such a loser," says Ms. Marshall, 35 years old, smoothing her hair and eyeing the door.

  A single mother? Actually, Ms. Marshall has been married for four years. But she is one of today's more overlooked lonely hearts. Mothers who leave careers to stay home with new babies are trying to do what men have attempted for ages: Meet, seduce, date, then settle into a lasting relationship with a desirable woman. "There has to be someone out there for me," says Ms. Marshall, a former technology-group manager, gazing longingly at two mothers sharing a Barry bagel.

  With so many books and Internet sites now devoted to caring for newborns, professional mothers-to-be expect few surprises. They buy the baby backpack and the designer diaper bag. They've read up on infant sleep patterns and the advantages of breast-feeding. Yet rarely do they anticipate loneliness. Their own mothers didn't prepare them. Back then, plenty of women were having kids at the same young age; most hadn't already spent time in the work force. But many of today's at-home mothers, having worked for a while, are used to having colleagues around for gossip or lunch -- and they miss that at home. Without bosses to provide the atta-girls they learned to crave, they look to other women. The question is, how to find them?

  Organized mothers' groups work something like singles clubs. At a 20-member group in Fort Collins, Colo., Nancy Ebby says she began to "panic when the whole room started hooking up." Two mothers were arranging lunch. Two more made plans to see a mall Santa Claus. "It hurts," says Ms. Ebby, 33, who left a career as a physician's assistant to care for her daughter. But she vows -- sometime -- to invite over one mother who lives nearby. "I don't want to be too forward," she says.

  Other groups provide more cover, maintaining that they are really for the babies, not the mothers. At Chicago's Adams Playground, a line forms at 7 a.m. to sign up for under-age-two classes that feature art projects and tumbling. "It's worse than getting concert tickets," says Maureen Belling, the playground supervisor.

  Never mind that the babies can barely walk. Indeed, Marc Weissbluth, a pediatrician and clinical-pediatrics professor at Northwestern University Medical School, says that until the child is closer to two years, organized preschool activities have "no direct benefit either in terms of social development or instructional education." For the mother, however, they can keep her from being "worried, anxious or isolated," he says.

  And so what if a potential mate doesn't cook or like the same movies. Moms on the make can't be bothered about "hobbies or shared interests," says Vicki Iovine, mother of four and author of The Girlfriends' Guide to Surviving the First Year of Motherhood. "That woman who picks up a Kleenex when your daughter's nose is running? You love her. You don't care if she's a Martian."

  Choosing the pick-up joint isn't hard. There's the park, the zoo, the mall. It's the execution that's tricky. Here are several rules Dr. Spock doesn't divulge. One, flatter the mother, but really pile it on her baby. Two, never walk away without a phone number. Three, if you chat someone up, make sure you could have a future together.

  Gosia Dolinski, a nanny in northwest Chicago, is a daily tease. Pushing 13-month-old charge Sam Stevens around a Whole Foods store, the fashionable brunette -- who looks a lot like Sam -- first gets some stares from a mother across the vegetables. Then some smiles. The mother giggles when Sam grabs a green pepper.

  Ms. Dolinski shoots her down: "His mother says he'll eat anything." (Read: I'm the nanny.) The mother nods, wilts, then moves on to dairy.

  Mothers are "always friendly, until they hear I'm a nanny," says Ms. Dolinski, 31. She tries to break it to them "before they get too interested. It's sad."

  But try busting into the world of women-chasing-women -- as a father. David Ginsburg, a former high-school teacher with a one-year-old, Victor, is the only stay-at-home father he knows. At Chicago's Hamlin Park, the mothers sing to and flirt with each other's babies in falsetto. Mr. Ginsburg, after 40 years of acting only one way around women -- man
ly -- simply can't join in. "I'm so inhibited at the swings," he says.

  Yet even he finds cause for hope. One day at the park, he spots the ideal companion. Young. Attractive. Great conversation about nap times. But he doesn't get her number. Each day, at his wife's urging, he looks for her. She doesn't come. Finally, she's there -- talking to other mothers. Mr. Ginsburg keeps on walking. "I'm not worthy of getting involved with," he tells himself. "She's got other people." He rounds the corner, stops, and says, "D--- it! Be a good role model to Victor!" He turns back.

  She spots him and calls to him -- by name. They talk a bit. But still, he doesn't get her number. That requires his wife, Corkyne, an accounting manager, on a later park visit: "I need your phone number for my husband," Ms. Ginsburg tells her.

  "It's more acceptable for me to be on the make than David," Ms. Ginsburg says.

  Try telling that to Katie Weissler. Ms. Weissler, 32, plunked down $196 for 14 weeks of Sing 'n Dance classes for her daughter, Emma -- not because the six-month-old can carry a tune, but because Ms. Weissler's friends either work or live far away, and she needs to hook up.

  The former emergency-room nurse sits with Emma in a circle of mothers on their first day. With a grin, she approaches the woman next to her -- by talking to her kid.

  "Look how strong you are!" Ms. Weissler says, eyes wide.

  She is surrounded by other couples. Rachel and Barb, whose babies are a week apart, met in prenatal class. Susan and Liz live in the same neighborhood.

  Two more women, a physician and a stockbroker, hit it off and talk over the music. Ms. Weissler continues her one-way conversation with the baby to her left: "That's a good toy, your toes." No reaction from the mom.