His introspection was interrupted by an attractive (weren’t they always), on-air female reporter from WFXT, the Fox News Channel affiliate in Boston, rushing toward him. Immediately in tow was the required cameraman and video camera, along with the blinding field video light, ready for an on-the-the-spot interview. Behind her he could see many other TV, radio and print reporters moving as one in his direction. All undoubtably hoping for some tidbit of new information they could breathlessly pass on to their viewers, listeners or readers.
“Lt. Beckett!” she called out as she approached. “I’m Stacy Eggers with Fox 25 Boston. Would you care to comment about the stories circulating that the driver of the van, Adelmo Garza, was in this country illegally and he was drunk?”
A Boston Globe reporter he’d dealt with on several other occasions, unencumbered by a cameraman, ran past her and skidded to a stop, nearly falling on the wet asphalt. Almost before he could straighten up he tried to fire off a question. “Given that Mr. Garza was apparently being paid under-the-table by his employer, do you think.......”
“I don’t deal in ‘apparentlys.’ Beckett said curtly, cutting him off. “I deal in hard, cold, fact and truth. And I would hope and expect that you would do the same. Beyond that I have no additional comments.”
The four sentences were the most he’d said to the press in the roughly 48 hours since the initial press conference he’d convened and lead. There was no point in talking to them anymore when there were very few answers to an ever-growing list of questions.
He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the complex, tried to straighten up and immediately felt every day of his 49 years. The bad back he’d acquired while fighting with a robbery suspect many years before immediately made itself known again. When he stopped to massage the throbbing back, his knee decided to join the pain parade, reminding him yet again he would soon have to replace it.
Trying as best he could to ignore the pain, he limped toward a cluster of a dozen police investigators from the State of Massachusetts, City of Cambridge and Harvard University, as well as other agencies directly involved in the investigation. He could see they were having a fairly heated discussion and decided it would be best to take control before the numerous cameras aimed in their direction got a “juicy” story for the evening news: “Breaking news! Cambridge explosion investigators arguing!”
He broke into the circle, raising his hands, hoping to calm the storm. “Whoa! Whoa! Enough already! In case all you geniuses hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by about 10,000 media types just itching for something to take back to their editors. I’d prefer the story not be that city, state and campus investigators were having a fist fight! What in hell is going on?!”
The huddle of men and women quieted, looking at each other, wondering who would speak for the group in response to Beckett, who was the lead investigator for the state and local team.
The chief of the Campus Police, himself a retired former state police captain, spoke first. “We don’t like this thing turning into a media circus. We can hardly breathe without some self-appointed spokesperson for the ‘public trust’ chasing us down, demanding answers we don’t have. Some of us think you should have another press conference to pacify them.”
A tall, young woman cut in next. Beckett recognized her as the PR spokesperson for the City of Cambridge and recent grad from the Harvard Journalism School. “Not a good idea. Essentially we’ve got more questions that answers. We don’t want to look like a pack of fools. We should wait until we’ve got solid answers based on good forensics, which from all you’ve been telling me, is so far inconclusive.”
“Not according to the FBI,” the Cambridge fire chief said. “That big special agent that’s been pushing everybody around says as far as he’s concerned it’s an open-and-shut case: a drunk driver loses control and crashes, plain and simple. Yeah, it takes out a historic building and valuable computer, but that’s it in a nutshell. And since he’s really in charge—no offense Austen—we should defer to him and wrap this thing up.”
The city’s CSI chief cut in next. “For me, I think the thing that’s most frustrating is how the FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms investigative teams have disappeared into the woodwork. And what about the federal OSHA guys? Normally those three agencies are front and center with every part of an unprecedented investigation like this one. This time they’re conspicuous in their absence. Why? We’ve been the only ones getting our hands dirty. Maybe you should talk to that agent some more and get them back on the job.”
A couple agreed, while the majority didn’t. They began to argue again.
“Come on people! Give me a break!” Beckett hissed, trying not to be heard by the crush of media who were beginning to watch with greater interest from afar. When the team calmed down he continued. “Yeah, the FBI’s ultimately in charge, and yeah I don’t understand why the Feds aren’t as involved as they should be. But we’ve got an obligation to the citizens of this city and state to get it right. For now let’s break up this little conclave and all head back to our hotels for the night. What I’d like all of you to do is get a good nights rest. I think we’re getting a little bit punch drunk from the overtime and constant pressure. As best you can, try to forget about this mess, at least for one night. We’ll take a fresh look at it tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get with whoever I can in the Bureau to get them more involved. I’ll also......”
Just then the PR spokesperson interrupted. “Speak of the devil.” She gently nodded her head toward an approaching figure. A tall, very athletic-looking man, wearing the ubiquitous, dark-navy FBI jacket, slid under the yellow tape and with long, confident strides approached the group.
“Head for the hills folks,” Beckett quietly said. “I’ll send you a text as to when and where we’ll meet again.” He sighed with resignation. “I’ll deal with our friend from the feds.”
The group scattered in different directions trying as best they could to fend off the vultures from the Fourth Estate as they tried to pick off individual team members.
The FBI agent ignored the rest of the group, heading straight toward Beckett, who, in spite of his bad back, tried to straighten himself up to his full 5’ 10” height; this in a hopeless attempt to counter the other man’s at least six inch advantage.
“Agent Ludlow. What can I do for you?” Beckett said impassively as the agent, ostensibly in charge of the entire investigation, came to halt a few feet away. He knew from the fortunately few times they’d met over the last 72 hours that the man cared little for professional courtesy and protocols, so he wasn’t surprised or insulted when the man got right to whatever point he had.
“I see you’ve been meeting with your team again. I trust that as far as the state- and local-level investigations are concerned you’re ready to wrap things up.”
“No, not really.” Beckett said as casually as he could. “There are a few loose ends that I need to.....”
“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Lt. Beckett,” Ludlow rudely interrupted. “Your investigation is now over. We’ve seen all the forensic and other physical evidence your team has sent over. We have also compiled our own data and are ready to close everything down. The evidence is overwhelming. The illegal alien was drunk. He lost control of the van. He crashed into the astrophysics building resulting in an explosion and fire. End of story.” He paused, almost triumphantly, smiling slightly, seemingly daring Beckett to contradict him in any way.
Beckett stared at Ludlow for a few seconds, trying to compose himself, as his blood pressure and heart rate soared in anger and frustration. He knew he could end up in hot water if he pushed the arrogant SOB too far. The governor and mayor had both already told him to cooperate in every way with Ludlow. The agent had apparently been on the phone with both within hours of the explosion; which was a big red flag by itself. As Beckett looked at things now, he knew with growing certainty there was something more—perhaps even sinister—to this “acciden
t” and he was going to find out exactly what it was.
“What I’m going to do Agent Ludlow is.....”
“What you’re going to do, Lt. Beckett, is send me every last piece of evidence—no matter how small—including anything you may have ‘forgotten’ about,” Ludlow said, making quotations marks with his fingers, “so that we can complete our final report to the Director of the FBI and Attorneys’ General.” He menacingly took one step closer to Beckett. “And you will do it within 24 hours. Do I make myself clear?”
Beckett didn’t budge as Ludlow towered over him. He ironically realized he was in way over his head with this man. “As per instructions from my superiors, I will do everything I can to provide you with whatever you wish.”
Ludlow stepped back but continued to scrutinize Beckett carefully. For a moment he seemed to be reconsidering, then said, “I have a better idea. I’m going to send a special courier to your hotel. I believe you’re staying at the Cambridge Inn. Since I know you’ve been poring over all the evidence at night, you’ve got everything I require there. I fully expect it all to be packaged and ready for pickup at......1900 hours.” He pulled up his jacket sleeve to look at his wrist watch. “You’ve got four hours. That should give you more than enough time.”
As he revealed the watch Beckett immediately recognized it as a Rolex Steel Submariner-Date—“modestly” priced for the genuine article at around $9,000. Years earlier he’d been a member of a state police task force commissioned to eliminate counterfeit high-end watch and electronics trafficking. He’d learned to ID the good watch from the bad on sight. This one was the real deal. His gaze instantly jumped from the watch to Ludlow’s steely eyes where he could see an emotion quickly closing in on discomfort mixed with annoyance.
“Nice watch, Agent Ludlow,” Beckett said with a not-so tiny trace of ‘Gotcha!’
“I inherited it from my great grandfather when I was in college,” he replied easily without breaking Beckett’s gaze. “Remember! I expect everything to be ready by 1900.”
As Ludlow turned to leave, Beckett wanted to tell him that that particular Rolex model had been introduced in 1989, so it was very unlikely it had ever belonged to his relative.
But now he knew. Ludlow was much more than an in-charge FBI special agent. What the man was he didn’t know, but he was 100% certain Ludlow wasn’t going to be of any help getting to the bottom of the mysterious explosion. It was up to him and his local team. He would start by re-examining all the crime-scene evidence from the explosion.
He watched as Ludlow purposefully strode back out of the restricted zone. He continued to watch in fascination as not one media member made any attempt to approach the agent—widely spreading out to let him pass as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.
Chapter 16
Three hours later Beckett stood in his luxurious sixth-floor hotel room trying to make sense of a pattern that seemed to be developing. Reams of reports, documents, photos, plastic baggies of every size filled with a myriad of forensic evidence, DVDs and other investigation paraphernalia were arrayed around the bedroom portion of the three-room, executive suite.
He’d spent an hour making copies of everything he could at an Office Depot not far away. The originals were carefully packaged and stacked near the door leading to the hallway, ready for pick up by the FBI courier he was expecting within the hour. The copies were neatly arranged around the bedroom on every available horizontal, flat surface.
There were two pieces of evidence that upon further inspection seemed to clear up the mystery. Microscopic photo analysis of a section of a valve on one of the hydrogen tanks seemed to show evidence of tampering. He picked up one of the photos to scrutinize it further. Exactly where the FBI had said the initial gigantic g-force loads had caused the valve to break, there were what looked like score marks in the metal. They said the marks were probably made post-explosion as the debris collided with each other at high velocity. He didn’t believe it.
He also looked at a 50X magnification photo of the engine compartment gasoline hose that the FBI said had cracked open. It had allowed gas to mist out, to be apparently detonated by the hot engine. In the photo he could clearly see what looked like a tiny nick near the rupture point; almost certainly caused by a sharp instrument. Again, the FBI investigators said the mark was caused by post-explosion shrapnel. That he didn’t believe either.
Why? Why would the FBI lie? A man had died. 37 other innocent people had been injured, some severely, by flying glass and falling debris. In addition to the astrophysics building, property for miles around had been destroyed or damaged. Was the FBI complicit in a criminal conspiracy? And if so......
Why?!
At that moment he heard an authoritative knock on his door. He quickly left the bedroom, closing the door as he did to hide the copies from view. He went to the main door, looked through the peephole, only to see nothing except an FBI ID badge. Opening it he was silently greeted by a severe-looking woman wearing the usual official jacket. She had a small, two-wheeled hand cart; obviously expecting more materials than she could carry.
“Special Agent Ludlow sent me to pick up all evidence your team has accumulated,” she said impassively.
“It’s ready.” He held the door open for her and pointed to the two stacks of envelopes and boxes near a pullout sofa. “Right over there. Do you need some help?”
“No thank you. I can handle it.” She moved passed him pushing the cart in front of her. She quickly put everything on the cart, looked around to see if there was anything else and left without further comment or looking at him.
As he closed the door behind the courier, Beckett realized he’d committed a felony by copying all the evidence without proper clearance. Although he planned to destroy everything he had within the next few days, it still bothered him that he’d been forced to take such drastic action, especially when it could cost him 5 to 10 in a Federal prison.
Suddenly he realized he’d not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast. He’d been so engrossed in the investigation he’d completely forgotten how hungry and thirsty he was. He grabbed his room key and headed out the door.
Chapter 17
Thirty-five minutes later, in the chic Concord Bridge Restaurant just off the hotel lobby, Austen sat at the upscale bar finishing off what had turned out to be a great burger. He was also draining his second, $11.00 Moscow Mule martini, a delectable mix of vodka, ginger beer and lime. He’d also had two, small-brewery beers while waiting for his burger and was beginning to feel much more relaxed about all things in general. He decided he might have another drink or two—maybe even get totally smashed—go back to the room and do exactly what he’d told his team to do: forget about the investigation for the evening but hit it hard in the morning.
He looked around the dining room and saw that he was one of the few people left this Sunday evening. The only other person was a woman at the far end of the bar. She was slumped over, head on her arms, a nearly empty bottle of wine in front of her. It almost looked as if she was crying. He could see her shoulders gently heaving. She was dressed in a sleek, elegant and obviously expensive evening gown. Her blond hair looked like it’d been recently and very carefully coiffed but was now coming undone.
He signaled the bartender. “Who’s the lady?”
“Beats me. Asked her if there was anything I could do. She just shook her head.”
“Think she’d mind if I tried to talked to her?”
“Be my guest. Couldn’t hurt I suppose.”
He could hear his late wife jokingly chastising him for daring to approach another woman. Her beautiful melodic voice echoed inside his mind. ‘My goodness Austen! I’ve been gone for less than a year and you’re already on the prowl!’
‘Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, honey,’ he responded as he got up and headed for the other end of the bar.
He settled onto the stool next to her, waited for a few seconds and spoke gently without looking at her. “I’
m sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be upset about something. Is there anything I can do to help?”
She turned slowly to look at him and he could immediately see that she had indeed been crying. Her mascara was running along with her nose. Her eyes were bloodshot and one false eyelash was seriously drooping. In spite of the emotional and physical trauma to her face and makeup he could see she was a strikingly attractive woman. He guessed she was probably in her mid forties.
“Why?” she responded blankly, laying her head back down.
“ I guess I just hate to see a woman cry.”
“Why?”
He laughed softly. “I guess that’s how my mother raised me. You know, a woman in distress and all that.”
She snorted without looking up. “A regular Prince Charming coming to my rescue.”
He waited a beat then touched her shoulder and extended his hand. “Austen Beckett, at your service.”
She peeked out of the corner of one eye, saw his hand and whispered, “Sorry. I’d shake your hand but I’m too tired.”
“No problem. I guess emotional stuff can really take it out you. Been there myself a few times.”
She said nothing for a few seconds, then surprisingly straightened up, took a deep breath, smiled slightly and extended her hand toward him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be rude. I’m Sabrina Fairchild.” She suddenly rocked back in her chair before he could take her hand, obviously unsteady. “Whoa there!”
Instinctively he reached out to keep her from falling off her stool, grabbing her upper arm, steadying her. “Look out! No falls allowed.”
She straightened again. “You really are a Prince Charming, Austen Beckett. Guess this Cinderelly has had a little too much wine.”
Blinding Fear Page 9
