The Burning Season

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Did anyone talk to him about it? Let him know you knew?”

  “A few of us did. He said he didn’t appreciate people butting into his private life. Because Maureen is who she is, nobody wanted to push the matter too hard. She has a lot of influence with him.”

  “I’ll just bet she does,” Catherine said.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw someone hand Greg a printout, then walk away. “You really should have told us about this earlier, Mr. Donavan. Somebody should have. Lives could be at stake.”

  “I didn’t think the attacks had anything to do with this. I thought it was those protesters.”

  “So did most people. Which means everyone was looking in the wrong direction. You’re not in law enforcement, Mr. Donavan, so I don’t expect you to understand. But withholding any kind of information from an investigation can be a very dangerous thing.”

  “I . . . I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Greg held a sheet of paper before her, his index finger next to the finding of the trace examiner. Catherine scanned it and nodded. “One more thing, Mr. Donavan. Do you know anyone who drives a black Buick Lucerne, recent model?”

  “Ummm . . . I think that’s what Brett drives. Brett Cunningham. Some kind of Buick, anyway. He got it in the last couple of years.”

  “That’s Maureen’s husband?”

  “Yeah. He’s not associated with the company, but—”

  “But his wife is having a not-so-secret affair with Dennis Daniels. Thanks, Mr. Donavan.” She hung up before he could offer any more justifications for his previous lack of assistance.

  “Maureen’s husband?” Greg asked.

  Catherine held up a single finger, forestalling his questions. She had already punched Brass’s number, and the line was ringing. He answered almost immediately.

  “Jim,” she said. “We need to get someone to Maureen Cunningham’s residence, right away.”

  “Maureen who?” he asked. “Oh, Daniels’s administrative assistant?”

  “That’s right. She and Daniels have been having an affair. Apparently it’s not a big secret at the office. I think it’s possible that Daniels wasn’t the real target.”

  “What, Maureen?”

  “Think about it. She was driving the second car, the night of the bombing. The bomb was on the driver’s side of the road. Daniels always rode on the curb side, so he could get out quickly.”

  “He was hurt the worst.”

  “Only because the car flipped onto its side. An amateur bomber couldn’t have predicted that.”

  “And if it detonated a few seconds too early . . .” Brass said.

  “That’s right. Another amateur mistake. Earl was certain this was no experienced bomber’s work.”

  “I’m on my way,” Brass said.

  “Are you at home yet?”

  “I’m about two minutes from the lab. I was on my way to pick up a report.”

  “I’ll meet you in front.”

  She ended the call and turned to Greg.

  “I’m coming, too,” he said.

  “Are you sure? You look like you need some sleep.”

  “That makes two of us, Catherine. I’m as involved in this one as you are. I want to see it through.”

  “No overtime.”

  “I know. That’s okay.”

  “Well, no. It’s not. But it’s the way it is.”

  “Things are tough all over. Come on, we’d better get outside before Brass gets here.”

  34

  “BRETT CUNNINGHAM DIDN’T go to the event that night, did he?” Greg asked on the way.

  “No,” Brass said. He was driving fast, lights and siren going. “He stayed home. But Maureen probably let him know when they were leaving. And by then she knew what route they would take.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “And neither of them were at headquarters when that fire was set,” Catherine said. En route, she had called the day shift people who were out at the DCN building, and confirmed that the wheel-base measurement as indicated by the tire marks matched the 115.6 inches of a 2008 Buick Lucerne, which was the car registered in Brett Cunningham’s name. Brass had made a call of his own at the same time, asking that any available patrol units be dispatched to the Cunningham house. “But that was a nuisance fire, not a serious effort to hurt anyone.”

  “So you think Cunningham was just harassing Daniels,” Brass said.

  “He knew he couldn’t get at either one of them in the hospital. Dennis and Maureen spent most of their time together in Daniels’s room—which must have burned him up. But Garrett Kovash was there most of the time, and even when he wasn’t, there was a cop right outside the door. Brett could be in the room with them—”

  Greg interrupted. “He was there when I went by.”

  “—but he couldn’t make a move. Not and get away with it.”

  “So he took his rage out on the building,” Brass said. “By lighting a fire.”

  “That’s what I think. I believe he was hoping the demonstrations would give him cover, deflect suspicion.”

  “It almost worked,” Greg said. “Almost.”

  “Their place is on the next block,” Brass told them. They were tearing down a wide, gently curving residential street, in a development with mature desert landscaping between the houses, which were fronted by gravel yards instead of grass ones. Las Vegas had made a concerted effort to eliminate grass lawns, which Catherine was sure this place had when it was built. “I go in first.”

  “Last time you went in someplace first,” Catherine said, “you almost got blown up.”

  “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, Greg. Your warning came just in time.”

  “I’m just glad you were all able to get out.”

  “A couple of the SWAT guys had some minor injuries. Ringing in the ears, a few scrapes from debris or from being knocked down. We were still pretty close when it went off. The Free Citizens were better bomb makers than Brett Cunningham, but not good enough to kill us once we were away from the building.”

  “Would have been a hell of a statement, if they had,” Catherine said.

  “That was the idea, I’m sure. Lure a bunch of cops into the place and bring it down on top of them. Declare open season on law enforcement. If it hadn’t been for you two . . .”

  “It was Greg,” Catherine pointed out. “He was the one who figured it out.”

  “I only started to put it together,” Greg argued. “You realized it was a trap.”

  “I owe you both a debt,” Brass said. He killed the light and brought the car to a smooth halt outside a house. A black Buick Lucerne was parked in the driveway. No patrol units had arrived yet. “This is the place.” He got out of the car, drawing his gun. “Stay behind me.”

  “Okay, Jim.”

  Brass went to the door and hammered on it. The windows were dark, but light glowed from deeper inside the house, showing faintly at the curtains. Brass pounded again.

  “Nobody’s answering.”

  Catherine was about to speak when she heard what at first sounded like an echo of Brass’s knocking. But it was accompanied by a distant, high-pitched shriek. “There we go,” Brass said. He tried the knob, which opened at his touch.

  Inside, the house was mostly dark. Lights blazed upstairs, and the pounding sound continued from up there. Brass took the stairs three at a time, Catherine keeping pace right behind him, Greg at the rear.

  The light came from a master bedroom, off the upper landing. Every light in the room was on. Brett Cunningham was standing in front of a door, which no doubt led to a master bath. His shirt was torn at the collar, a couple of buttons ripped off, and he had a kitchen knife in his right hand. The blade was six inches long and the edge looked keen.

  “Drop that, Cunningham,” Brass said, training his gun on the man. “You don’t want to push me.”

  “You don’t know what she’s done,” Cunningham said.

  “Actually, I think we d
o. I know how you feel, man. But this isn’t the way.”

  “She betrayed me!” Cunningham said. There was a wildness in his eyes Catherine hadn’t seen before. She wondered what had made him snap. Had Maureen said something to him, before she and Daniels left the hospital? Told him about the affair, maybe claimed the marriage was over?

  “Brett,” she said, keeping her voice level. She approached him, moving slowly, working her way around Brass but careful not to come between Cunningham and Brass’s gun. “I understand that you’re hurting. We can work this out. It’s a crappy situation, but there’s a way out of it. As long as you haven’t really hurt anybody yet . . .”

  “That bastard Daniels. I hit him with my car.”

  “We know,” Brass said. “Broke his hip, that’s all. He’ll be okay. Nobody’s dead because of you. The rest of this . . . you know, a jury’s going to be sympathetic. Because of what they did.”

  Brett Cunningham’s eyes were rimmed with red. His light hair, neatly combed the first time Catherine had seen him, looked like he’d styled it in a wind tunnel. He was unshaven, and he reeked of sweat and fear. He probably hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, if not weeks.

  She took another few steps closer. “Give me the knife, Brett. We’ll get Maureen out of there and we’ll all talk about it. You okay in there, Maureen?”

  “That maniac tried to kill me!” Maureen shouted from the other side of the door.

  “We’re going to straighten it out,” Catherine promised. Heated rhetoric wasn’t going to defuse the situation. She thought Brett was cracking, though. She took another step, put out her hand. “Come on, Brett. Just give me the knife and it’ll all be over.”

  “It’s already over,” Brett said. His mouth dropped open, spittle flecking his lips, and he lunged at Catherine. She moved back but the bed was a few steps behind her, she wasn’t certain where. If that blade reached her—

  A gunshot rang out. She’d be hearing it for the rest of the day, and then some. Brass stood calmly where he had been, smoke drifting from the barrel of his weapon. The slug tore into Brett’s upper arm and passed through, chewing into the wall behind him. He dropped to his knees, the knife flying clear, blood pattering wetly onto thick carpeting.

  “Brett?” Maureen called. She yanked open the bathroom door. “Brett, are you—oh my God, you shot him!”

  “He’ll be fine,” Brass said. “I just winged him.”

  “He was trying to stab Supervisor Willows,” Greg said. “The captain had to do it. If he hadn’t, I would have.”

  Maureen went to her knees, wrapping her arms around her husband. His blood soaked them both. Catherine tugged on a poly glove and picked up the knife, holding it behind her back, out of view of the damaged couple on the floor, the wife trying to staunch the flow from her husband’s arm. She looked stricken, her face as blanched as his, the tears flowing from both of them and running together and joining with his blood in a sort of impromptu communion.

  All Catherine could think was, if this had happened a few months ago, it might have made all the difference for them.

  35

  SINCE DENNIS DANIELS wasn’t leaving his hospital room any time soon, he invited the Las Vegas press corps into his hospital room. He had asked Jim Brass, Louis Vartann, Catherine Willows, and Greg Sanders to join him and his wife there. They stood beside him for a round of photographs, then moved, strobes still burned into their eyes, to the far wall so Daniels could give his statement with only Joanna at his bedside. From what Catherine had seen in the news, the swell of public opinion had moved steadily in his favor since the attacks began.

  “I’ve asked you here today because I have a few things to say to the people of Nevada,” Daniels began. Pillows behind his back propped him up, and he offered a broad smile. TV cameras were rolling and print reporters had microphones and digital recorders held out toward him. “And clearly I can’t get around and speak to everybody one-on-one, as I’d prefer to do. Nor will the hospital allow me to invite every citizen of America’s greatest state into my room. So I’ll have to say my piece through you folks, through the media, and trust that the message will get out there. I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on how the media works.

  “Here’s the thing. I’ve been less than a hundred percent honest, with you and perhaps more importantly, with my wife.” He reached up, and Joanna took his hand. “I made a terrible mistake, and I broke a vow that I made on the day we married. I will spend the rest of my life trying to atone for that mistake. Joanna says she’ll be by my side for those days, helping me follow the right course, and together we will work on our relationship with renewed vigor. Joanna is trying to forgive me, and I pray that she can do so. I pray, also, that you can do so, because bringing you the news every day has been the greatest honor of my life, and it’s an honor I hope to continue.”

  Catherine figured the boost in his ratings had given him the freedom to admit to the affair. The truth would have come out anyway, since the attacks were all over the news and Brett Cunningham’s arrest was already fueling speculation. Putting it out there in this way—with Joanna at his side—asking for forgiveness, was probably the best way to handle the situation. He might lose a few viewers, but he might not lose enough to counterbalance the support he had gained.

  “I didn’t just want to talk to you about my personal problems, however,” Daniels continued. “I wanted to let you know, right up front, that I will not be running for governor, after all. I know some of you will be disappointed by this decision, and others will be ecstatic. Here’s the thing, though. I’m going to need to spend time with my wife, and time with my co-workers, and a political campaign is just too demanding for the time being. That said, I haven’t lost my interest in the political process, in how we make decisions in this country. I’ll keep bringing you the news, and commenting on it when I feel the need.

  “You’ve no doubt heard about the attacks on me and on my employees, attacks that injured—but fortunately, didn’t kill—other members of my staff, as well as put me in the bed you see me in now. Other things have been happening, these past few days, that you might not have looked at in this particular context, so I’d like to take a minute to tie them together for you.

  “Up on Mount Charleston, we had a terribly destructive forest fire that killed six of our brave first responders. The person who started that fire has been apprehended, and has admitted to his crime. Here in Las Vegas, a criminal organization—an illegal alien smuggling ring—that had branched out into other, even more violent crimes, targeting as victims the most vulnerable among us, has been broken up, its leadership arrested. A vicious feud between some domestic extremist groups resulted in murder, including the deaths of some brave police officers, and an attempt to kill more in a spectacular explosion.

  “The common denominator here is that the police department and the crime lab, some of the members of which are represented here today, worked—worked their tails off, to be quite blunt—to stop these criminals, to preserve the public safety, and to bring the evildoers to justice. They didn’t give any consideration to the wealth or social status of the victims or the perpetrators. They didn’t stop to ask themselves if they would personally be rewarded in any way. They did their jobs. That’s what government does, when it’s at it’s best. It’s responsive to the people—all the people. It is responsive in a way that is blind to class or color, to rich or poor, to—”

  “If I hear one more campaign speech this year,” Brass whispered, “I’m gonna lose my lunch.”

  “You and me both,” Catherine said. “For a guy who’s not running, he sure sounds like he’s running.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Vartann added. “While no one’s looking at us.”

  “I’m in,” Greg said. He was standing nearest the door. He slipped through it, followed by Catherine, then Vartann, and finally Brass. As Vartann had speculated, not a single reporter glanced their way. Joanna Daniels saw them leaving, and with the slightest nod
of her head, encouraged their decision.

  “You think he’s gonna run anyway?” Greg asked once they had reached the safety of the elevator.

  “Not this time. But next, when people have forgotten about the affair but remember that they felt sorry for him? Without a doubt,” Brass said. “Some people were born to be politicians. He’s one of them.”

  “His wife’s awfully forgiving,” Catherine noted.

  “Some people were born to marry people like Daniels. They know what they’re in for.”

  “He’s an okay guy,” Vartann said. “I mean, he’s not perfect. But he’s okay.”

  The elevator reached the ground floor, and Brass put his arm in front of the door to hold it while the others got out. “He’d better be. One more trip to the hospital, and he’ll be holding the key to the Oval Office in a few years.”

  “You think so?” Catherine asked. Brass was wearing his most ferocious grin; she always had a hard time knowing whether or not he was joking when he did that. More often than not, he was deadly serious, but perpetually amused by the foibles of humankind.

  “If nobody attacks him in the next six years, Catherine, I predict a skiing accident in his future. A cast on his leg, some old-fashioned wooden crutches—that, and a few million bucks from close personal friends, and we’ll all be dancing at his inaugural ball.”

  “Except him,” Greg said. “It’s hard to dance with a cast and crutches.”

  Catherine reached the hospital’s front door first. It slid open and she stepped out into the oven that Las Vegas had become. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I wish he’d already been elected. After this week, I could use a night on the town.”

  “After this week,” Vartann said, “you deserve one. Just don’t use taxpayer dollars for it. I’d hate to see those demonstrators show up outside the Crime Lab next.”

  Catherine laughed. The day was hot, the sun as bright as the strobes of the photographers upstairs, but she worked nights and sometimes felt like she and the sun were strangers to one another, each rising while the other slept, and the sunlight and warmth felt good on her skin, healing, somehow, burning away the cares that darkness brought. “You and me both, Lou,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder and enjoying that warmth, too, and the solidity of the man she touched. The rest of her week was already looking better. “You and me both.”