“No,” Mari answered definitively. “They were trying to kill me.”
Susan still didn’t follow what Mari was saying. Then Casey offered an explanation.
“The poison was in the milk jug.”
Both women looked at Casey—Susan with incredulity and Mari with affirmation.
“Yes,” Mari confirmed.
“How the hell did you know that?” Susan asked Casey.
“Mel Gibson,” he answered.
“What?”
“Mel Gibson. The bad guys used the same M.O. in Edge of Darkness. I just assumed Mari gave her cat milk to drink before she went to work.” Mari nodded in agreement. “It’s just lucky you didn’t have cereal for breakfast that morning.”
“Jesus, Casey.”
“No, he’s right,” Mari said. “When I got back from the vet, I called the police. They said the same thing when they discovered the milk in the refrigerator was poisoned.”
“Did they find anything else? Anything that might tell them who did it?” Susan asked.
“No. They said there was nothing they could do about it right now, anyway.” Mari took a deep breath. “If I had been poisoned instead of Ameerah, they said they would be able to expend the resources...but not for a cat.”
“That’s bullshit,” Susan said. “It was attempted murder. They should be looking everywhere for a suspect.”
Casey looked over at the police officer at the front of the diner by the far wall. “I don’t know,” he said. “Cops are pretty damn busy. And they’re just human beings.”
“What are you saying?” Susan asked.
Casey watched the policeman help the pregnant woman—his wife?—get up from her chair, probably so she could use the restroom. “I’m just saying they have to draw the line somewhere. They can’t spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on every crime in the city. They have private lives, too.” He turned to Mari. “I don’t mean to sound like a bastard, but that’s reality.”
“I understand,” Mari said. She looked back at Susan and added, “That’s why I came to see you. I was hoping you could help me.”
Casey looked back towards the front of the diner. This time he looked past the police officer to the street outside. The morning foot traffic was a constant blur of color in the window as people made their way to work, shopping, or wherever else they were going. That was why the solitary figure caught Casey’s attention. He wasn’t moving. He was standing still. He was also wearing a knit watch cap and army surplus jacket—definitely not required in July. What kept Casey’s attention, however, was the tattoo on the man’s neck. It was nothing fancy or obscene, but it looked familiar.
“What report?” Susan asked. Casey realized he had tuned out the two women sitting next to him for a moment, and he tried to come back into the conversation.
“It’s on the thumb drive,” Mari answered.
“Okay. So you wrote a report. And then what?”
“I turned it into my supervisor. That was about six weeks ago.” Mari looked around the table. Susan picked up on her friend’s need and slid her untouched glass of water across the table.
“Thank you,” Mari said after taking a sip and continued. “There was nothing out of the ordinary until two weeks later. I had already started on the next research assignment, and I was looking through our database to see if I could find some earlier reports that I could leverage off of.”
“Where do you work?” Casey asked.
“At the Congressional Research Service.”
“Okay. Sorry for interrupting.”
“Anyway. I was going through the database and came across the report I just turned in. It’s only the third one I’ve had sole authorship on, so I opened the file to see if there were any editing changes before publication that I could learn from before writing the next one.”
“Were there any?” Susan asked.
Mari took another sip of water. “The whole report was changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the whole thing—except the introduction and a few minor statistics.”
Casey caught a glimpse of the pregnant woman passing their table and looked up. In the window, he saw the tattooed man still there. But he was no longer standing. He was bent over. Under a table by the window, Casey could see the man fumbling with something inside a tan canvas satchel. The man was sweating profusely.
Casey looked at the police officer who was helping the woman back into her chair. When he looked back to where the loiterer was crouched, the man was gone.
The satchel was still there.
A flurry of horns gave away the man’s position as he tried frantically to cross three lanes of rush hour traffic. Casey looked back at the satchel, and his heart rate accelerated dangerously. The police officer must have been thinking the same thing.
“Get down!” both men yelled, almost in unison.
Casey grabbed Susan and dragged her to the floor, overturning the small table for protection at the same time. A half-second later the front of the diner disintegrated. The blinding flash of the explosion was accompanied by a deafening boom and a violent rush of air and debris.
And then...silence.
Chapter 10
Casey walked into the hospital room just after one o’clock and quietly shut the door behind him. Susan was seated next to the hospital bed where Mariam Fahda lay in a coma. The sounds of life support equipment and an occasional muffled intercom announcement in the hallway were the only noises interrupting the otherwise complete silence.
“Any change?”
Susan shook her head and continued to stare at the floor on the far end of the room. “No.”
Casey sat down in the other empty chair put there for visitors. He scratched underneath the fresh bandage on his right forearm. He was lucky. The table had stopped most of the shattered window from hitting him, but not all. Twenty-three stitches later, he was released, though he expected to have a nice scar when the healing process was done.
Susan came out dirty, but without a scratch. And while she was physically unscathed, emotionally, she took a heavy blow with what happened to Mari. When Casey pulled Susan to the ground and turned over the table where they were sitting, Mari froze. It seemed to Casey that the natural reaction of anyone, let alone someone who thought she was a killer’s target, would be to take cover when someone yelled, “get down.” Unfortunately, that’s not what Mari did.
She froze.
There was no time for Casey or Susan to pull the woman to the floor before the bomb went off. A wave of glass, metal, and wood slammed into Mari full-force. When the ambulance came five minutes later, the emergency medical technicians immediately assessed the situation inside the building. Of those who were not killed instantly by the blast, Mari was put near the top of the priority treatment list.
The scene outside the deli was not much better, though because the open air allowed much of the energy from the explosion to dissipate, the destruction was less severe. Casey was not sure on the number of casualties, inside or out, but most of the follow-on medical personnel seemed to be coming into the deli.
Because of Casey’s injury and Susan’s unyielding insistence, they were allowed to ride to the hospital in the ambulance with Mari. It would be easy enough, the police reasoned, to question them both there.
Susan hadn’t looked away from the floor since Casey came in the room. He knew she wasn’t ready to talk to the police yet, even though things had settled down. He also knew his friend well enough by now to know when she wanted to be left alone. When she needed someone to help her work through things, she would let you know. Or it would be obvious. Right now wasn’t one of those times.
“I’m gonna go walk around,” Casey told her, neither expecting nor getting a response.
Casey stepped out of the room and looked for a sign that would point to a vending machine. His stomach growled loud enough, apparently, to catch the attention of three police officers talking outside of another roo
m down the hall. Casey nodded to the group and turned the other way.
Casey found what he was looking for at the end of the hall—a visitors’ break room. He sat down at a small table under the fluorescent lights and opened his Diet Coke. A decades-old television sat in the corner, no doubt put there to entertain visiting children. There were no cartoons on at the moment, though. Instead, the set was tuned to CNN. The sound was muted, so Casey went and turned the volume up. He sat back down and realized he hadn’t seen any pictures of the bombing that morning besides the images that were burned in his mind from the inside of Soren’s Deli. He made his way through a stale honey bun as he watched the carnage on the screen.
“In case you’re just joining us, what you’re looking at are scenes from a terrorist attack that struck at the heart of Manhattan just over four hours ago,” the news anchor said. “At approximately 8:15 Eastern time, the first of three bombs detonated outside of Soren’s Deli on East 40th Street.”
Casey sat up straight. “Three?”
“Just two minutes later, simultaneous explosions occurred outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Manhattan’s Central Synagogue,” the news woman explained. “We are waiting for a statement from New York Senator Bill Cogburn in just a few moments, and later, the president will address the nation from the White House. We’ll carry both presentations live as they happen.”
“Holy shit,” Casey said to himself, unaware that someone else had also come into the room. The sound of coins dropping brought Casey’s attention to the vending machines. Casey watched a police officer remove a bottle of water and collapse into one of the cushioned chairs against the wall. The officer’s uniform was torn and soiled, though his face appeared to be recently cleaned. Casey recognized him.
“What the fuck,” the policeman commented.
Casey followed the officer’s gaze back to the TV.
“...from the morning service,” the anchor reported.
Casey couldn’t believe what he was watching. Every weekday morning, the Catholic Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral was shown live on one of the local stations in New York. Today was no different. What angered the policeman next to Casey was that the producers at CNN saw no issue with re-broadcasting what happened inside the church when the bombing occurred. The chaos captured on video was not unlike the scene at the deli, only there were more people. From what Casey could see, most of those attending the service were senior citizens, and the panic and uncertainty in their actions following the explosion was disheartening. Now he was starting to get angry. But, unlike the officer, Casey’s anger was directed toward the bombers, not the media.
The television suddenly went blank. Casey saw the police officer had the remote control in his hand. He obviously didn’t care that someone else was watching. He also offered no apology or explanation. Casey thought it best not to protest.
Still, he was curious.
“You were at the deli this morning,” Casey said, hoping to start a conversation.
The police officer looked up at Casey, who by all accounts, didn’t look as bad as he did. “So were you,” he said. After a few seconds, he asked, “How is the woman you were with?”
Casey assumed he meant Mari since Susan wasn’t injured. “She’s stable, but in a coma,” he answered.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Casey remembered the police officer was also with someone—a pregnant someone. “How about you? Was that your wife with you?”
The policeman lowered his eyes. “She’s not so good, but the doc says she’s gonna make it.”
When the man didn’t offer, Casey asked. “The baby?”
The man leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor, shaking his head. Casey instantly regretted his question.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The officer wiped his eyes before any tears fell—if there were any left—and took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault.” He picked up the remote control and turned the TV back on, putting the conversation on hold.
“...goes out to all the families of those killed today.” Senator Bill Cogburn’s voice filled the room. Flanked by several other people, the senator alternated speaking into the camera and to the reporters off-screen. “This brazen attack on America will not go unpunished. We owe that to those families. We owe that to the American people.”
Looking directly into the living rooms of people all over the world, Cogburn grabbed the podium on both sides and seemed to get taller. “We will find who is responsible for this,” he said, his voice stern and determined. “The arm of American justice is long, and no one is out of our reach. Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Adolf Hitler—history has shown time and again that evil will always be defeated when faced with American resolve. And make no mistake, America is resolved to bring justice to the cowards responsible for these attacks.”
“Who did this, Senator?” someone from the crowd of reporters shouted before Cogburn turned to leave, his prepared statement completed.
“The FBI and New York’s Finest are working on that as we speak,” Cogburn said. “But I think we all know who’s responsible. The coordination of the bombings shows the definite mark of a group like al Qa’ida, Hizbullah, or al Houthi. But don’t worry, we’ll know for sure soon enough. Thank you,” he said, waving to the camera and the reporters as he left the podium.
“And there you have it,” the television commentator said. “Senator William Cogburn of New York and Republican hopeful to be the next president of the United States.”
“How did he get on before the president?” Casey asked as the news shifted from the senator’s statement to repeated images and reporting of the morning attacks.
“What?” the police officer asked.
“How did this guy get national air time to make threats in the name of the United States before the president? Isn’t that kind of bad form for a senator?”
“If you say so.”
“And who the fuck is al Houthi?” Casey asked the television.
“Who?” the officer asked.
“Cogburn said the attacks this morning looked like the work of Hizbullah, al Qa’ida, or al Houthi. I got Hizbullah and al Qa’ida, but I don’t remember ever hearing about a terrorist group named al Houthi.”
The police officer eyed Casey. He thought he was coming to get a break while his wife was sleeping. But this was New York, and if there was more than one person in the room, there was going to be a conversation. “What is it you said you did?”
“I didn’t,” Casey said. He held his hand out. “Casey Shenk. I’m an analyst at the Intelligence Watch Group.”
“Paul Giordano,” the police officer said, shaking Casey’s hand. “What’s the Intelligence Watch Group? Feds?” Giordano wanted to find out more about this guy he was chatting with.
“No, we’re a private company. We analyze information that most people overlook and try to predict what’s gonna happen—so our clients can make informed decisions,” Casey explained.
“About what?”
“Whatever they need to make decisions about, I guess. The bosses are supposedly pretty selective about who our clients are. I’ve only been there for a year, so I’m not sure about a lot of them. My group does a lot of work for the government, so some of the things we’re assigned to work on are sensitive. I mean, we use open source material, but some of the conclusions we make could cause trouble if the wrong people get a hold of them.”
“And you’ve already concluded that al Qa’ida didn’t pull off those bombings?”
Casey smiled. He was glad he could take Officer Giordano’s mind off of his shattered family for a little while—especially since he asked about the baby. At least, he hoped that was what he was doing. “I didn’t say that.”
“Hell you didn’t. Just a minute ago you were practically calling the senator an imbecile. Like he was making up his own terrorist groups and shit.”
“I just said I never heard of al Houthi. I’m the first to admit
I don’t know everything. Maybe the guy’s right,” Casey said.
“Or maybe he’s not.” Giordano tried to get Casey to bite, but the analyst wasn’t taking the bait. He decided to keep fishing. Giordano was a police officer, after all, and Casey was a material witness. He’d be Mirandized before being interviewed later, so Giordano saw no harm in getting the man’s opinion. And he had a feeling Casey knew a little more than their brief conversation had revealed.
“You never answered my question,” Giordano said. “You don’t really think al Qa’ida or Hizbullah had anything to do with this, do you?”
Casey hadn’t decided one way or the other, but he had his doubts. The morning’s events played through Casey’s brain on fast-forward. After a moment, he looked up. “No, I don’t”
“Why not?”
“Well, unless transnational Islamic extremists are recruiting Appalachian rednecks nowadays, I think the senator doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
There it was. Paul Giordano’s instincts were correct.
“You saw him, too?”
Casey didn’t expect that response. The man-in-question’s actions were what triggered Casey to move. He assumed the police had tagged the guy as the prime suspect and were working to identify him, but Giordano’s question told him otherwise.
“Yeah,” Casey said. “Who was he?”
“I was hoping you might know.”
“You’re the police, aren’t you? Can’t you run a DNA scan on the body?”
“It doesn’t happen that fast,” Giordano explained. “Plus, only about ten million people in the country are in some kind of DNA database—convicts and military, mostly.”
“What about identification? Like a driver’s license or something?”
“That’s just the starting point. Then you need something else to move those people from the victim pile to the suspect pile.”
“Like a witness,” Casey said.
“Exactly. That’s why I was hoping you knew who he was. Right now they’re still cleaning up the mess down there, and it’ll be another day or so before mug shots get circulated.”
The Complicity Doctrine Page 5
