The Trigger

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “Yeah, but the problem is, we all know what you were thinking about,” the detective said, and went to greet the forensics team.

  Sam refrained from making a sharp retort. He considered it beneath his dignity. Besides, he couldn’t think of one.

  THE BLAST PATTERN. The amount of damage. The fragments of a cell phone found in the debris.

  As the hours went by, Nora became more and more convinced she knew at least part of what had happened, because it reminded her of two previous cases she’d worked. Nothing explained the fire outside the doorway, but she had a theory about that, too.

  Sam would probably accuse her of jumping the gun. It was a matter of intuition, but in Nora’s experience, intuition had a way of turning out to be right.

  By late afternoon, her rumbling stomach reminded her of the unfinished sandwich. Nor was that the limit of her physical discomfort, she realized.

  The air-conditioning had been turned off to prevent currents from disturbing the evidence, and beneath her coveralls, she could feel herself sweating. The flat-soled spare shoes she’d retrieved from her trunk chafed her stocking-clad feet, and her hair might never recover from being stuffed into a protective cap to keep it from sullying the scene.

  Still, she’d made progress. That was what counted.

  Emerging into the bright summer day, Nora squinted. About to go to the car for her sunglasses, she noticed Sam approaching.

  He had a well-coordinated way of moving as he strode along the path, she conceded silently. Although she’d never been impressed by his dark-blond hair or tanned skin, up close she saw that his gray eyes took on smoky depths. They made her wonder if, beneath his rock-solid exterior, the arson investigator might actually possess a personality.

  A trick of the light, no doubt.

  It must have been the heat that made her pull off the ugly cap and shake out her hair. There was nothing she could do about the rest of her getup, though. Not that she cared what she looked like around him.

  “You done already?”

  His question gave Nora the impression he believed she’d rushed the job. Well, what else had she expected from him?

  “I’m taking a break,” she said. “I thought I’d see if the motel manager sells snacks.”

  At close range, Sam smelled of smoke and sun-warmed skin, reminding her pleasantly of her father and brothers, who ran a demolition firm in L.A. She’d helped them out in high school and college and at one time had set her sights on joining the Navy in the hope of becoming a SEAL, although personal plans had sidetracked her.

  So what if his scent tickled her endorphins? Nora wondered, bringing herself sharply back to reality. So did the smell of the leather seats in her car.

  Sam glanced toward the main building. “Watch out for the potato chips. They’re stale.”

  “Thanks.” The tip was a small courtesy but a useful one.

  Before she could decide whether to take a chance on the stale snacks or head to a nearby drive-through, Grant joined them. “To update you, the nursing supervisor says Mr. Garcola’s in stable condition but still comatose. He must have been across the room when the bomb detonated, because aside from some second-degree burns and abrasions, his biggest problem appears to have been hitting his head when he fell.”

  “There haven’t been any women seeking treatment for burns?” Nora asked.

  Grant shook his head. “No, but we got some more information about Mr. Garcola. According to his wife, he planned to fly his plane to San Francisco this afternoon on business. She had no idea why he might have been at the motel. I didn’t mention the two women.”

  “Any idea what Mrs. Garcola looks like?” Nora asked. “I’m betting she’s the short-haired blonde.”

  “Now that’s impressive.” Sam didn’t try to hide his sarcasm. “Unless you know more about this case than you’ve let on, you must have gotten psychic vibrations from the crime scene.”

  “Grant?” she persisted.

  A bit sheepishly, he said, “Actually, the detective who interviewed Mrs. Garcola at the hospital said she fit the description of the first woman, except for the clothes. But she had time to change.”

  “Lucky guess,” Sam muttered.

  Nora might have let the comment pass, but a couple of other cops had drifted over to listen and her pride refused to knuckle under. “Yes, it was a guess, but a logical one. Given the scenario, I’m guessing Mrs. Garcola followed her husband and his mistress to their rendezvous. It wouldn’t surprise me if she lit the fire to scare the heck out of them.”

  “What about the explosion?” Grant asked.

  Nora and Sam both answered at the same time.

  “Probably a cell phone,” she said.

  “I’m betting it’s a cell phone,” Sam said.

  They both stopped in surprise. Nora regarded Sam with suspicion. He must have actually been reading her reports. How else could he know about the two prior incidents involving plastic explosives hidden in cell phones and detonated by dialing the number from a remote location?

  She’d deliberately kept the details from the press. And although, ideally, fire and police officials should keep close tabs on each other’s work, in reality, coordination between the departments often fell by the boards.

  One of the firemen, Huff Robertson, glanced uneasily at his pocket. “Is there a problem with phones exploding?”

  “Not by accident,” Nora said. “I’ve had two cases since last fall in which people were killed by bombs planted in their battery packs.”

  “You’re kidding!” Sam’s face colored. “I’m looking into three arsons set off by cell phones, including a fatality.”

  “You had a fatality? Why haven’t I heard about it?” she demanded.

  “Maybe you don’t read my reports.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you read mine, either!” It upset Nora that the same bomber might have claimed another victim without her realizing it. The fact that Sam hadn’t put two and two together either provided little consolation for such a huge oversight.

  Grant whistled. “I’d say the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing.”

  “You got that right,” Sam muttered.

  Despite the competitive attitude between the two departments, every training course Nora had taken stressed the importance of teamwork. She and Sam had let their personal antagonism get in the way of doing the job, a fact that, in retrospect, she deeply regretted.

  Well, she couldn’t change the past. The important point now was that one perpetrator might be responsible for five attacks. Make that six as of today. She and Sam needed to go over the clues and see what the cases had in common.

  “Isn’t it kind of hard to plant a bomb in a cell phone?” Huff asked.

  “Not really.” Sam took one from his pocket, turned it over and slid out the flat, rectangular battery pack. “All you need to make a bomb are three things: an explosive, a blasting cap to set it off and a power source for ignition. You’ve got a battery right here, and everything else can fit inside.”

  “You’ve seen plastic explosives before,” added Nora. She could make that statement with certainty because she ran bomb-training exercises for both departments. “You know how lightweight they are.”

  Plastic explosives such as Semtex, which resembled children’s Play-Doh, packed a wallop. A pound of it could bring down an average-size house, and a few ounces could easily kill a person. It was malleable enough to fit, along with a blasting cap and battery, inside a pack of cigarettes. Or, obviously, a battery pack.

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t you have to actually get your hands on somebody’s cell phone, rig it and return it?” Huff asked. “That could be tricky.”

  “There are several ways you could do it,” Nora said. She’d already made up a list of possibilities, which included slipping an additional cell phone into someone’s purse or pocket or substituting one phone for another. Most people didn’t examine the devices closely enough to notice the difference.

  �
��Hold on.” Sam indicated the other personnel drifting over to listen. “I think it’s best if we keep the details to ourselves.”

  Nora shrugged. To her, it made more sense to fully inform the other officers and firefighters so they’d know what to be on the lookout for. However, she and Sam had enough issues to sort out without arguing over nonessentials. “Fine. Obviously, we need to compare notes and figure out which of us takes over from here.”

  “I’ve been working on this since last August,” Sam declared, staking his claim. “How about you?”

  “I learned about the first bombing—” she emphasized the word “—in October.”

  “It would appear I have first claim,” he announced.

  Nora couldn’t believe his gall. “The use of explosives clearly makes this my territory.”

  “If you two don’t quit, I’m going to send out for a referee’s whistle.” Grant glanced at his watch. “It’s getting close to dinnertime. Here’s my suggestion. The two of you go grab a burger, sit down and hash this out. If all else fails, flip a coin. The loser hands over his or her notes and bows out gracefully.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Sam said.

  “I’m sure we can both be objective.” Unworried, Nora tossed back her hair. Obviously, a serial bomber was a matter for the bomb squad specialist. The fact that fires had resulted came in a distant second.

  “Your car or mine?” Sam asked.

  She glanced at the tan government-issue sedan he drove. Boring. Plus, she recalled hearing that he had a penchant for rescuing stray cats. Much as she liked animals, they shed like crazy in warm weather, which meant she’d be picking hairs off her suit for the rest of the day.

  “Mine,” she said.

  “You sure? It’s kind of cozy, don’t you think?” Something about the way Sam cocked his head and gazed down at her gave the impression he was trying to intimidate her.

  Nora drew herself up to her full five foot seven. “I can handle it. Can you?”

  A lazy grin spread across his face. “Hey, no problem.”

  She went to clean up in the motel manager’s bathroom and waited with what patience she could muster as Sam did the same. Not until they were in the car and her hand bumped his thigh for the third time while she was changing gears did Nora realize exactly what he’d meant by cozy.

  She wished she weren’t so tinglingly aware of the hard muscles in his legs. Like most firefighters, he kept in superb shape.

  Eager to get this over with, Nora nodded toward a chain restaurant by the road. “How about that?”

  “They stopped carrying grilled chicken on their menu a few years ago, and everything else is loaded with fat,” Sam said. “I know you’ve got a reputation for making doughnut runs, but I prefer healthy food.”

  “And so you should, at your age. When I start pushing forty, I’ll cut down on the fat, too.”

  He chuckled. “Now, that might hurt my feelings, except that I’m thirty-five and I happen to know for a fact you’re only three years younger.”

  “Been scoping out my vitals?” She shot past her favorite chili dog stand. No point in even asking.

  “Some of the guys were wondering and one of them nosed around,” he said. “You’re a hot topic when things get dull at the firehouse.”

  She ignored the barb. Besides, she couldn’t concentrate on comebacks as she cornered sharply and he swayed against her. The man had broad shoulders; she’d give him that. “If you want chicken, we’d better head for the Bar and Grill.”

  “That’s downtown.” The Courage Bay Bar and Grill, located near the central police and fire station, was a favorite hangout for emergency workers, and the menu provided a change from fast food.

  “You got a better idea?” Nora asked.

  “No. Actually, I’m enjoying the ride.”

  He’d said that to annoy her, she knew. Sam Prophet didn’t enjoy her company any more than she did his. “If we eat in the bar, we can get quick service.”

  “You in a hurry?” He had to be kidding. The man was more of a workaholic than she.

  “Not at all,” she replied sweetly. “Maybe we should eat on the rooftop patio. If we stretch things out until dark, we could listen to music, maybe dance a few slow ones. What do you say?”

  Sam retreated like a turtle pulling its head back to safety. “The bar’s fine.”

  A few minutes later, they reached the restaurant, an atmospheric site occupying an old brick movie theater that dated to 1914. As she tucked her car into a parking space along Jefferson Avenue, Nora hoped she’d been right about the quick service.

  They could hit the highlights of their cases while they ate. After that, it must be obvious even to someone as stubborn as Sam Prophet that she was the best-qualified person to handle this case. Deciding who took it from here was going to be a no-brainer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SAM DIDN’T KNOW WHY he’d taken such pleasure in needling Nora during the drive. She brought out the worst in him, he supposed.

  Although she’d once accused him of being macho, that wasn’t the case. He respected women colleagues and, in general, had no doubts about their expertise.

  Still, he had to admit, the protective side of him hated the thought of a woman putting herself in danger, but Nora had the right to make that choice. Everyone who worked in emergency services took risks.

  Nobody knew that better than he did. During his early years as a firefighter, Sam had watched his father die in a blaze. Learning that it had been set for the insurance money had inspired him to become an arson investigator.

  He glanced at Nora as they strolled into the dim interior of the restaurant. Despite her feminine appearance and swingy, rich mahogany hair, she moved with an almost aggressive confidence. But surely even she had to admit that this case belonged to him.

  He’d worked three of the previous five incidents, more than she had, and there’d been a fire set outside the doorway of the cabin. Unless the other two cases differed significantly, it seemed obvious that the bombs were being used primarily as incendiary devices.

  As always when he came in here, Sam’s throat squeezed at the sight of the sign reading Lest We Forget Their Selfless Acts of Courage. It hung above a wall of photos of emergency personnel who’d died in action.

  Peter Goodman, the paramedic son of the restaurant’s owners, had perished while treating victims of a chemical spill ten years ago. Ben Prophet was up there, too, smiling from atop his fire truck, just the way his son remembered him.

  A hostess hurried toward them with menus. “Where would you folks like to sit?” At only a few minutes past five, the place was sparsely populated, so they had plenty of tables to choose from.

  “We’d like a table in the bar,” Nora said. “Away from the traffic area, please.”

  “Sure thing.” She led them past the long, U-shaped bar, where a couple of men sat nursing drinks. To Sam, the place still carried the faint, aging scent of cigarette smoke, although it had been illegal to smoke in a California restaurant or bar for years.

  The men turned to watch Nora pass. So did a couple of guys quaffing beers at a table.

  She stood out, Sam conceded silently. The hostess was a pretty young woman, and objectively speaking, he supposed she might be considered as good-looking as Nora. But she lacked the intensity, the intelligence, the physical awareness. Oomph, his father would have called it.

  Sam called it trouble.

  At the table, the hostess handed them menus. “Can I get you folks anything to drink?”

  Since they were on duty, he requested a soft drink and Nora asked for iced tea. “Are you going to order an appetizer?” she asked him after the hostess left. “I might get the potato skins.”

  “Don’t you know those are dripping with fat?” he queried, mostly to see what kind of reaction he’d get.

  “I hope they deep-fry them in lard,” she shot back. “Then brush them with shortening and douse them in salt, with maybe a spritz of butter on top.”


  “Sounds delicious,” he said blandly. “But I think I’ll pass.”

  A waitress stopped by. After they ordered sandwiches—hot pastrami for her, roast turkey for him—Nora rested her elbows on the table. “Let’s get to the point. Tell me about your cases.”

  Sam would rather have heard about hers first, so he could marshal his arguments in advance. However, she’d beaten him to the punch, so he conceded the point with good grace.

  Obviously neither of them needed notes, he mused as he started. They’d both been working their cases hard.

  The first incident had begun last August when a fire erupted at an old warehouse on the south side of town, he explained. The next day, he and Fire Chief Dan Egan had been investigating on-site when a second blaze occurred. Although Sam had suffered burns and a compound fracture to his leg, he had long since healed. Dan, however, was still undergoing treatment for the contact burn to his side.

  Nora rested her chin on her palm and listened intently. In spite of his innate resistance, her attention sparkled through Sam like a glass of champagne.

  “I remember that,” she said. “I started to look into the matter myself but the department pulled me off.”

  “That’s probably because the FBI didn’t want you stumbling into the middle of their investigation,” he explained. “I’m sure you read some of the details in the newspaper.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  As it turned out, the warehouse was being used to store smuggled Freon, an illegal refrigerant damaging to the ozone layer but needed by individuals and businesses to keep their existing air conditioners and refrigerators running. Banned by the Environmental Protection Agency, it sold briskly on the black market—briskly enough to be worth a lot of money. However, the warehouse had also leased space to other businesses, one of which had apparently been the target of the initial blowup.

  “The tricky part is that although the smugglers set the second blaze to cover their tracks, the first fire appears to have been a coincidence.” The fire department hadn’t released that information to the newspaper to avoid interfering with an ongoing investigation. “Someone had jammed a cell phone loaded with Semtex beneath a support beam.”