Demolition Angel

by Robert Crais

  The tape began.

  She was pulling the straps tight on Sugar’s armor suit. She was already strapped in, except for the helmet. Buck Daggett and another sergeant-supervisor, Win Bryant, who was now retired, moved at the back of the truck, helping them. Starkey hadn’t worn the suit since that day, but now felt the weight of it, the heavy density and the heat. As soon as you put the damned thing on, it turned your body’s heat back at you, cooking you. Starkey, tall and athletic, had weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds; the suit weighed ninety-five pounds. It was a load. Starkey’s first thought: Why do I look so grim? Her expression was somber, almost scowling; wearing her game face. Sugar, naturally, was smiling his movie star smile. Once, not long after they had begun sleeping together, she confessed to him that she was never scared when she was working a bomb. It sounded so much like macho horseshit that she had to work up her courage to say it, but it was true. She used to think that something was wrong with her because she felt that way. Sugar, in turn, had confessed that he was so terrified that as soon as they received a call-out he would pop an Imodium so he wouldn’t crap in the suit. Watching the tape, Starkey thought how relaxed Sugar looked, and that it was she who looked scared. Funny, how what you see isn’t always what’s there.

  They were talking. Though the tape had sound, she could hear only the ambient noise around the microphone. Whatever she and Sugar were saying to each other was too far away for the mike to pick up. Sugar must have said something funny; she saw herself smile.

  Daggett and Bryant helped them on with their helmets, then handed the Real Time to Sugar. Sugar smacked her helmet, she smacked his, then they lumbered toward the trailer like a couple of spacewalking astronauts.

  The field of view gave her the full length of the trailer, the overhanging trees, and a prime view of the thick azaleas that made a thready, matted wall around the trailer. Sugar had cut away part of the bushes on an earlier trip out, leaving a bare spot to work through. As she now watched, they each pointed at different parts of the bush, deciding how to approach the device. The plan was for Starkey to hold the limbs aside so that Sugar could get the snaps with the Real Time.

  Starkey watched the events with a sense of detachment she found surprising.

  Sugar had less than thirty seconds to live.

  She leaned into the bush first, using the weight of the suit to help her shove the limbs aside. She watched herself step away, then move in again for a better position. She didn’t recall that, and marveled at it. In her memory, she had not made that second move. Sugar leaned past her with the Real Time, and that’s when the camera bounced from the earthquake, not a big one, a pretty damned small one by L.A. standards, 3.2 centered just north of them in Newhall. The picture bounced, and she heard the cameraman mutter.

  “Hey, was that—?”

  The sound of the bomb going off covered his words. On television, it was a sharp crack! like a gunshot.

  It happened so fast that all Starkey saw was a flash of light and the Real Time spinning lazily end around end through the air. She and Sugar were down. There were shouts and frantic cries from behind the camera.

  “You gotta get this! Don’t fuck up! Keep rolling!”

  The picture was small and far away. It was like watching someone else.

  Daggett and Bryant ran to them, Daggett to her, Bryant to Sugar, Buck dragging her away from the trailer. One of the things they drilled into you at Bomb School was to fear a secondary explosion. When there was one explosion, there might be another, so you had to clear the wounded from the area. Starkey had never known that she had been moved. She was dead when it happened.

  The tape ran for another nine minutes as the paramedics raced forward, stripped away the armor suits, and worked to resuscitate them. In the dreams, Starkey was beneath a canopy of branches and leaves that covered her like lace, but now she saw that there was nothing above her. In the dreams, she was close enough to Sugar to reach out and touch him. Now, she saw that they were ten yards apart, crumpled like broken dolls, separated by a wall of sweating, cursing EMTs desperate to save them. There was no beauty in this moment. The tape ended abruptly as an ambulance was turning into the shot.

  Starkey rewound the tape to a point where she and Sugar were both on the ground and pressed the “pause” button. She touched the screen where Sugar lay.

  “You poor baby. You poor, poor baby.”

  After a while, she rewound the tape, ejected it from the VCR, then turned off her television.

  Twice during the evening, the phone rang again. Both times the caller left a message. She didn’t bother to check.

  She went to bed without having a drink, slept deeply, and did not dream.

  Manifest Destiny

  “And you are?”

  “Alexander Waverly, attorney at law. I phoned about Dallas Tennant.”

  The guard inspected the California State Bar card and the driver’s license, then handed them back, making a note in his log.

  “Right. You’re Tennant’s new attorney.”

  “Yes, sir. I phoned to arrange the interview.”

  “Have you seen clients here at Atascadero before, Mr. Waverly?”

  “No. I’ve never been to a facility like this before. My specialty is medical malpractice and pyschiatric disorders.”

  The guard smiled.

  “We call this ‘facility’ a prison. But it’s more like a country club, if you ask me. You gonna talk to Tennant about why he’s crazy?”

  “Well, something like that, but I shouldn’t discuss that with you, should I?”

  “No, I guess not. Okay, what you do is sign here and here in the register. I’ll have to inspect your briefcase, and then you come around here through the metal detector, okay?”

  “All right.”

  “Do you have any weapons or metal objects on you?”

  “Not today.”

  “A cell phone?”

  “Yes. Can’t I bring my cell phone?”

  “No, sir. Your pager is okay, but not the cell. We’ll have to hang on to it here. What about a tape recorder?”

  “Yes. I have this little tape recorder. It’s okay to have this, isn’t it? I’m the worst at taking notes.”

  “The tape recorder’s okay. I just need to look at it, is all.”

  “Well, all right, but about my phone. What if I’m paged and need to make a call? I have an associate in court.”

  “You let us know and we’ll get you to a phone. Won’t be a problem.”

  He signed the register where instructed, careful to use his own pen, careful not to touch the counter or logbook or anything else that might be successfully lasered for a fingerprint. He didn’t bother to watch as the guard inspected his briefcase and tape recorder. Instead, he passed through the metal detector, smiling at the guard who waited on the other side. He traded the cell phone for the briefcase and recorder, then followed the second guard through double glass doors and along a sidewalk to another building. He was aware that a security camera had recorded him. The videotape would be studied and his picture reproduced, but he had a high level of confidence in his disguise. They would never be able to recognize his true self.

  John Michael Fowles was delivered to a small interview room where Dallas Tennant was already waiting. Tennant was seated at a table, his good hand covering his damaged hand as if he was embarrassed by it. Tennant smiled shyly, then forgot himself and rested the good hand on a thick scrapbook.

  The guard said, “You’ve got him for thirty minutes, Mr. Waverly. You need anything, I’ll be at the desk down the hall. Just stick out your head and give a shout.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  John waited until the door was closed, then set his briefcase on the table. He gave Tennant the big smile, spreading his hands.

  “Tah-DAH! Mr. Red, at your service.”

  Tennant slowly stood.

  “This is … an honor. That’s what it is, an honor. There’s no other way to describe it.”

 
; “I know. This world is an amazing place, isn’t it, Dallas?”

  Tennant offered his hand, but John didn’t take it. He found Tennant’s personal hygiene lacking.

  “I don’t shake hands, m’man. For all I know, you were just playing with your pecker, toying with your tool, commingling with your cockster, know what I mean?”

  When Tennant realized that John wasn’t going to shake hands, he pushed the heavy book across the table. His awkward, shuffling manner made John want to kick him.

  “I’d like to show you my book. You’re in here, you know?”

  John ignored the book. He slipped off his suit coat, folded it over the back of the chair, then unbuckled his belt. He moved the chair with his toe.

  “We’ll get to the book, but first you have to tell me about the RDX.”

  Tennant watched John like a dog waiting for his master to spoon out the kibble.

  “Did you bring it? What we talked about, did you bring it?”

  “You don’t have to stand there drooling, Dallas. You think I’m taking off my clothes because I want to flash my pecker?”

  “No. No, I’m sorry.”

  “Mr. Red is a man of his word. You just remember that. I expect that you’ll be a man of his word, too, Dallas. That’s very important to me, and to our future relationship. You’re not gonna get carried away and brag to anyone that Mr. Red came to see you, now, are you?”

  “No. Oh, no, never.”

  “You do that, Dallas, and there’ll be hell to pay. I’m just warning you, okay? I want that to be clear between us.”

  “I understand. If I told, then you couldn’t come see me again.”

  “That’s right.”

  John smiled, absolutely certain that Dallas Tennant couldn’t go the week without telling someone of their encounter. John had planned for that.

  “The police were already here, and, you know, they might come back. I don’t want you to find out and think I told them anything. I can’t help it that they came.”

  “That’s fine, Dallas. Don’t you worry about it.”

  “They came about the RDX. I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Good.”

  “One of them was a woman. Her name was Carol Starkey. She’s in my book, too. She was a bomb technician.”

  Tennant pushed the book across the table, desperate for John to look.

  “She wasn’t alone. She brought an ATF agent named Pell or Tell or something like that.”

  “Jack Pell.”

  Tennant looked surprised.

  “You know him?”

  “You might say that.”

  “He was mean. He grabbed my hand. He hurt me.”

  “Well, you just forget about them. We got our own little business here, you and me.”

  John dropped his trousers, pulled down his shorts, and un-taped two plastic bags from his groin. One contained a thin gray paste, the other a fine yellow powder. John placed them on top of Tennant’s book.

  “This oughta wake’m up out in the vegetable garden, you set it off.”

  Tennant massaged each bag, inspecting the contents through the clear plastic.

  “What is it?”

  “Right now, just a couple of chemicals in bags. You mix’m together with a little ammonia like I’m gonna tell ya, Dallas, and you’re going to end up with what we in the trade call a very dangerous explosive: ammonium picrate.”

  Tennant held the two bags together as if he could imagine them mixing. John watched him closely, looking for signs that Tennant knew what he held in his hands. He figured that Tennant had heard of ammonium picrate, but probably had no experience with it. He was counting on that.

  “Isn’t that what they call Explosive D?”

  “Yeah. Nice and stable, but powerful as hell. You ever work with D before?”

  Dallas considered the chemicals again, then put the bags aside.

  “No. How do I detonate it?”

  John smiled widely, pleased with Tennant’s ignorance.

  “Easy as striking a match, Dallas. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “I won’t tell where I got it. I promise. I won’t tell.”

  “I ain’t worried about that, Dallas. Not even a little bit. Now, you tell me who has the RDX, then I’ll tell you how to mix these things.”

  “I won’t forget this, Mr. Red. I’ll help you out any way I can. I mean that.”

  “I know you do, Dallas. Now you just tell me about the RDX, and I am going to give you the power of life and death, right there in those little bags.”

  Dallas Tennant stuffed both bags down the front of his pants, then told Mr. Red who had the RDX.

  Later, John took his time signing out, but once he was in his car and past the security gate, he pushed hard toward the freeway. He had made Tennant promise not to mix the components for at least two days, but he didn’t trust in that any more than he trusted Tennant not to tell anyone about his visit. He knew that Dallas would mix the damned stuff as soon as possible; a goof like Tennant couldn’t help himself. John was counting on that, too, because he had lied about what the chemicals were, and how they would react.

  They weren’t Explosive D, and they were anything but stable.

  It was the only way he had to make sure that Tennant kept his mouth shut.

  11

  • • •

  Starkey woke at her usual early hour, but without the sense of anxiety she often felt. She made a cup of instant coffee, then sat smoking in the kitchen, trying to figure out how she felt about the tape. She knew she felt differently, but she wasn’t sure how. There had been no revelations, no surprises, no hidden truths to be found. She had witnessed no mistakes on her part or Sugar’s that would have sealed the curse of guilt, but also no heroic action that would remove it. Finally, it came to her. Every day for three years the trailer park had ridden her like a yoke, been immediate to her thoughts. Now the trailer park was farther away.

  Starkey showered, put on the same suit that she had worn the day before, then went outside and positioned her car so that the headlights lit the white gardenia bush on the side of her house. She cut three flowers.

  The Los Angeles National Cemetery in Westwood didn’t open their gates until six A.M., but Starkey found a security guard, badged him, and told him she needed to go in. He was an older man, uncertain and insecure, but Starkey kept the flat cop eyes on him until he relented.

  Starkey wasn’t one for visiting the dead. She had trouble finding Sugar’s grave, her flashlight darting over the uniform white grave markers like a lost dog trying to find her master. She walked past it twice, then doubled back, found it, and put the flowers beneath his name. Sugar had grown up with the scent of gardenias in Louisiana.

  She wanted to tell him something about moving beyond it all, but didn’t know that there was really anything to say. She knew that she would be saying it more for herself than him, anyway. Life was like that.

  Finally, Starkey took a deep breath.

  “We were something, Shug.”

  The old man watched her wordlessly from the gatehouse as she left the cemetery, driving away to start her day.

  Starkey spent her first hour at Spring Street organizing her casebook, then made a list of things to cover with Marzik and Hooker. Hooker got there before Marzik, sidling up to her as if he expected her to spray the office with gunfire. Starkey could tell by his expression that Marzik had told him about the tape. She felt disappointed, but that was Marzik.

  “Morning, Carol. Ah, how’s it going?”

  “I’m okay, Jorge. Thanks.”

  “You doing all right?”

  “I saw the tape. I’m okay with it.”

  Hooker nodded nervously.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do.”

  Starkey stood and kissed his cheek.

  “You’re a sweet man, Jorge. Thank you.”

  Hooker showed enormous white teeth.

  “Now get out of my face and lemme get back to work.”
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br />   Hooker laughed and went back to his desk. He was still laughing when Starkey’s phone rang.

  “Detective Starkey.”

  “It’s Warren Mueller, up here in Bakersfield.”

  Starkey was surprised, and told him so. She asked why he was calling.

  “Your people down there had our city attorney run a property check on Tennant’s mother, a woman named Dorthea Tennant.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You scored, Starkey. I wanted to be the one to tell you that. I’m standing outside the place right now. The old lady died owning a little duplex up here that’s still in her name. Tennant must have never brought the issue to probate court.”

  Starkey felt a tremendous rush of energy. Marzik walked in as Mueller was saying it. Starkey waved her over, cupping the mouthpiece to tell her the news.

  “It’s Bakersfield. We got a hit, Beth. Tennant has property.”

  Marzik pumped her fist.

  Mueller said, “What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I was telling the people here. Listen, Mueller, you need to have your Bomb Squad roll. There might be explosive materials on the site—”

  Mueller cut her off.

  “Throttle back, Detective. We’re two jumps ahead of you. You didn’t just score on the property; you got his shop. This is where he kept his goods, Starkey. Our bomb people are securing the location now.”

  Hooker and Marzik were both spreading their hands, wanting to know what was going on. She asked Mueller to hold on, told them what she knew, then got back to Mueller.

  “Okay, Sergeant. I’m with you. What do you have?”

  “This place his mother owned is a little duplex house. One’s empty, but the other has people living in it.”

  “Jesus. Was his shop next door?”

  Starkey was thinking this was how Tennant continued to pay rent on his own apartment even from prison.