Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  The trooper had called in backup then lit ’em up.

  After a twenty-minute high-speed pursuit, the perps skidded into the mall, sped around back and vanished, but the trooper decided they were trying a feint. He didn’t head in the same direction they were; instead, he squealed to a stop and waited beside a Tires Plus operation.

  After five excessively tense minutes, the Brothers of Liberty had apparently decided they’d misled the pursuit and sped out the way they’d come in, only to find the trooper had anticipated them. He floored the cruiser, equipped with ram bars, and totaled the Taurus. The perps bailed.

  The trooper tackled and hog-tied one. The other galloped toward a warehouse area three or four hundred yards away, just as backup arrived. There was a brief exchange of gunfire and the second perp, wounded, was collared, too. Several CHP officers and a colleague of Dance’s at the CBI, TJ Scanlon, were at that scene.

  Now, at the outlet mall, the perp who’d been tackled, one Wayne Keplar, regarded Dance, Stemple and O’Neil and the growing entourage of law enforcers.

  “Nice day for an event,” Keplar said. He was a lean man, skinny, you could say. Parentheses of creases surrounded his mouth and his dark, narrow-set eyes hid beneath a severely straight fringe of black hair. A hook nose. Long arms, big hands, but he didn’t appear particularly strong.

  Albert Stemple, whose every muscle seemed to be massive, stood nearby and eyed the perp carefully, ready to step on the bug if need be. O’Neil took a radio call. He stepped away.

  Keplar repeated, “Event. Event…Could describe a game, you know.” He spoke in an oddly high voice, which Dance found irritating. Probably not the tone, more the smirk with which the words were delivered. “Or could be a tragedy. Like they’d call an earthquake or a nuclear meltdown an ‘event.’ The press, I mean. They love words like that.”

  O’Neil motioned Dance aside. “That was Oakland PD. The CI’s reporting that Keplar’s pretty senior in the Brothers of Liberty. The other guy—the wounded one…” He nodded toward the warehouses. “Gabe Paulson, he’s technical. At least has some schooling in engineering. If it’s a bomb, he’s probably the one set it up.”

  “They think that’s what it is?”

  “No intelligence about the means,” O’Neil explained. “On their website they’ve talked about doing anything and everything to make their point. Bio, chemical, snipers, even hooking up with some Islamic extremist group and doing a quote ‘joint venture.’”

  Dance’s mouth tightened. “We supply the explosives, you supply the suicide bomber?”

  “That pretty much describes it.”

  Her eyes took in Keplar, sitting on the curb, and she noted that he was relaxed, even jovial. Dance, whose position with the CBI trumped the other law enforcers, approached him and regarded the lean man calmly. “We understand you’re planning an attack of some sort—”

  “Event,” he reminded her.

  “Event, then, in two and a half hours. Is that true?”

  “’Deed it is.”

  “Well, right now, the only crimes you’ll be charged with are traffic. At the worst, we could get you for conspiracy and attempt, several different counts. If that event occurs and people lose their lives—”

  “The charges’ll be a lot more serious,” he said jovially. “Let me ask you—what’s your name?”

  “Agent Dance. CBI.” She proffered her ID.

  He smacked his lips. As irritating as his weaselly voice. “Agent Dance, of the CBI, let me ask you, don’t you think we have a few too many laws in this country? My goodness, Moses gave us ten. Things seemed to work pretty well back then and now we’ve got Washington and Sacramento telling us what to do, what not to do. Every little detail. Honestly! They don’t have faith in our good, smart selves.”

  “Mr. Keplar—”

  “Call me Wayne, please.” He looked her over appraisingly. Which cut of meat looks good today? “I’ll call you Kathryn.”

  She noted that he’d memorized her name from the perusal of the ID. While Dance, as an attractive woman, was frequently undressed in the imaginations of the suspects she interviewed, Keplar’s gaze suggested he was pitying her, as if she were afflicted with a disease. In her case, she guessed, the disease was the tumor of government and racial tolerance.

  Dance noted the impervious smile on his face, his air of…what? Yes, almost triumph. He didn’t appear at all concerned he’d been arrested.

  Glancing at her watch: 1:37.

  Dance stepped away to take a call from TJ Scanlon, updating her on the status of Gabe Paulson, the other perp. She was talking to him when O’Neil tapped her shoulder. She followed his gaze.

  Three black SUVs, dusty and dinged but imposing, sped into the parking lot and squealed to a halt, red and blue lights flashing. A half-dozen men in suits climbed out, two others in tactical gear.

  The largest of the men who were Brooks Brothers–clad—six two and two hundred pounds—brushed his thick graying hair back and strode forward.

  “Michael, Kathryn.”

  “Hi, Steve.”

  Stephen Nichols was the head of the local field office of the FBI. He’d worked with Dance’s husband, Bill Swenson, a bureau agent until his death. She’d met Nichols once or twice. He was a competent agent but ambitious in a locale where ambition didn’t do you much good. He should have been in Houston or Atlanta, where he could free-style his way a bit further.

  He said, “I never got the file on this one.”

  Don’t you read the dailies?

  Dance said, “We didn’t either. Everybody assumed the BOL would strike up near San Francisco, that bay, not ours.”

  Nichols said, “Who’s he?”

  Keplar stared back with amused hostility toward Nichols, who would represent that most pernicious of enemies—the federal government.

  Dance explained his role in the group and what it was believed they’d done here.

  “Any idea exactly what they have in mind?” another agent with Nichols asked.

  “Nothing. So far.”

  “There were two of them?” Nichols asked.

  Dance added, “The other’s Gabe Paulson.” She nodded toward the warehouses some distance away. “He was wounded but I just talked to my associate. It’s a minor injury. He can be interrogated.”

  Nichols hesitated, looking at the fog coming in fast. “You know, I have to take them, Kathryn.” He sounded genuinely regretful at this rank pulling. His glance wafted toward O’Neil, too, though Monterey was pretty far down on the rung in the hierarchy of law enforcement here represented and nobody—even the sheriff himself—expected that the County would snag the bad boys.

  “Sure.” Dance glanced toward her watch. “But we haven’t got much time. How many interrogators do you have?”

  The agent was hesitating. “Just me for now. We’re bringing in somebody from San Francisco. He’s good.”

  “Bo?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s good. But—” She tapped her watch. “Let’s split them up, Steve. Give me one of them. At least for the time being.”

  Nichols shrugged. “I guess.”

  Dance said, “Keplar’s going to be the trickiest. He’s senior in the organization and he’s not the least shaken by the collar.” She nodded toward the perp, who was lecturing nearby officers relentlessly about the destruction of the Individual by Government—he was supplying the capitalization. “He’s going to be trickier to break. Paulson’s been wounded and that’ll make him more vulnerable.” She could see that Nichols was considering this. “I think, our different styles, background, yours and mine, it’d make sense for me to take Keplar, you take Paulson.”

  Nichols squinted against some momentary glare as a roll of fog vanished. “Who’s Paulson exactly?”

  O’Neil answered, “Seems to be the technician. He’d know about the device, if that’s what they’ve planted. Even if he doesn’t tell you directly, he could give something away that’d let us figure out what’s going on.
” The Monterey detective wouldn’t know exactly why Dance wanted Keplar and not Gabe but he’d picked up on her preference and he was playing along.

  This wasn’t completely lost on the FBI agent. Nichols would be considering a lot of things. Did Dance’s idea to split up the interrogation make sense? Did she and he indeed have different interrogation styles and background? Also, he’d know that O’Neil and Dance were close and they might be double-teaming him in some way, though he might not figure out to what end. He might have thought she was bluffing, hoping that he’d pick Wayne Keplar, because she herself wanted Gabe Paulson for some reason. Or he might have decided that all was good and it made sense for him to take the wounded perp.

  Whatever schematics were drawn in his mind, he debated a long moment and then agreed.

  Dance nodded. “I’ll call my associate, have Paulson brought over here.”

  She gestured to the two CHP officers towering over Wayne Keplar. He was hoisted to his feet and led to Dance, O’Neil and Nichols. Albert Stemple—who weighed twice what the suspect did—took custody with a no-nonsense grip on the man’s scrawny arm.

  Keplar couldn’t take his eyes off the FBI agents. “Do you know the five reasons the federal government is a travesty?”

  Dance wanted him to shut up—she was afraid Nichols would change his mind and drag the perp off himself.

  “First, economically. I—”

  “Whatever,” Nichols muttered and wandered off to await his own prisoner.

  Dance nodded and Stemple escorted Keplar to a CBI unmarked Dodge and inserted him into the backseat.

  Michael O’Neil would stay to supervise the crime scene here, canvassing for witnesses and searching for evidence—possibly items thrown from the car that might give them more information about the site of the attack.

  As she got into her personal vehicle, a gray Nissan Pathfinder, Dance called to Nichols and O’Neil, “And remember: We have two and a half hours. We’ve got to move fast.”

  She pulled out her phone, briefed TJ Scanlon about Paulson and Nichols and turned on the flashing lights suctioned to her windshield.

  1:52.

  Dance left rubber on the concrete as she sped out of the parking lot.

  Fast…

  * * *

  ALBERT STEMPLE WAS PARKED outside CBI, looking with some contempt at the press vans that were lolling near the front door. Dance parked behind him. She strode to the Dodge.

  A reporter—a man with an aura of Jude Law, if not the exact looks—pushed to the barricade and thrust a microphone their way.

  “Kathryn! Kathryn Dance! Dan Simmons, The True Story dot com.”

  She knew him. A sensationalist reporter who oozed toward the tawdrier aspects of a story like slugs to Dance’s doomed vegetable garden.

  Simmons’s cameraman, a squat, froggy man with crinkly and unwashed hair, aimed a fancy Sony video cam their way as if about to launch a rocket-propelled grenade.

  “No comment on anything, Dan.” She and Stemple shoehorned Wayne Keplar out of the car.

  The reporter ignored her. “Can you give us your name?” Aimed at the suspect.

  Keplar was all too happy to talk. He shouted out, “The Brothers of Liberty,” and began a lecturette about how the fourth estate was in the pocket of corporate money and the government.

  “Not all reporters, Wayne,” Simmons said. “Not us. We’re with you, brother! Keep talking.”

  This impressed Keplar.

  “Quiet,” Dance muttered, leading him toward the front door.

  “And we’re about to strike a blow for freedom!”

  “What are you going to do, Wayne?” Simmons shouted.

  “We have no comment,” Dance called.

  “Well, I do. I’ve only been arrested,” Wayne offered energetically, with a smile, ignoring Dance and mugging for the reporter, whose disheveled photographer was shooting away with his fancy digital video camera. “I’m not under a gag order. Freedom of speech! That’s what the founders of this country believed in. Even if the people in charge now don’t.”

  “Let him talk, Agent!” the reporter called.

  “I have no comment at this time.”

  Simmons replied, “We don’t want your comment, Kathryn. We want Wayne’s.” He then added, “Were you hurt, Wayne? You’re limping.”

  “They hurt me in the arrest. That’ll be part of the lawsuit.”

  He hadn’t been limping earlier. Dance tried to keep the disgust off her face.

  “We heard there were other suspects. One’s wounded and in FBI custody. The other’s at large.”

  Police scanners. Dance grimaced. It was illegal to hack cell phones, but anybody could buy a scanner and learn all they wanted to about police operations.

  “Wayne, what do you expect to achieve by what you’re doing?”

  “Makin’ the people aware of the overbearing government. The disrespect for the people of this great nation and—”

  Dance actually pushed him through the door into the CBI Monterey headquarters, an unimpressive building that resembled one of the insurance agencies or law offices in this business park east of the airport on the way to Salinas, off Highway 68.

  Simmons called, “Kathryn! Agent Dance—”

  The CBI’s front door was on a hydraulic closer but she would have slammed it if she could have.

  Dance turned to him. “Wayne, I’ve read you your rights. You understand you have the right to an attorney. And that anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you wish to waive your right to an attorney and to remain silent?”

  “Yup.”

  “You understand you can break off our interview at any time.”

  “I do now. Thanks very much. Informative.”

  “Will you tell us where you’re planning this attack? Do that and we’ll work out a deal.”

  “Will you let our founder, Osmond Carter, go free? He’s been illegally arrested, in contravention of his basic human rights.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Then I think I’m not inclined to tell you what we’ve got in mind.” A grin. “But I’m happy to talk. Always enjoy a good chin-wag with an attractive woman.”

  Dance nodded to Stemple, who guided Keplar through the maze of hallways to an interrogation room. She followed. She checked her weapon and took the file that a fellow agent had put together on the suspect. Three pages were in the manila sleeve. That’s all? she wondered, flipping open the file and reading the sparse history of Wayne Keplar and the pathetic organization he was sacrificing his life for.

  She paused only once. To glance at her watch and learn that she had only two hours and one minute to stop the attack.

  * * *

  MICHAEL O’NEIL WAS PURSUING the case at the crime scene, as he always did: meticulously, patiently.

  If an idea occurred to him, if a clue presented itself, he followed the lead until it paid off or it turned to dust.

  He finished jotting down largely useless observations and impressions of witnesses in front of where the trooper rammed the suspects’ car. (“Man, it was totally, like, loud.”) The detective felt a coalescing of moisture on his face; that damn Monterey fog—as much a local institution as John Steinbeck, Cannery Row and Langston Hughes. He wiped his face with broad palms. On the water, fishing from his boat, he didn’t think anything of the damp air. Now, it was irritating.

  He approached the head of his Forensic Services Unit, a dark-complexioned man, who was of Latino and Scandinavian heritage, Abbott Calderman. The CBI didn’t have a crime scene operation and the FBI’s closest one was in the San Jose–San Francisco area. The MCSO provided most of the forensics for crimes in this area. Calderman’s team was clustered around the still-vaporing Taurus, practically dismantling it, to find clues that could tell them about the impending attack. Officers were also examining, then bagging and tagging, the pocket litter from the two suspects—the police term for wallets, m
oney, receipts, twenty-dollar bills (serial numbers, thanks to ATMs, revealed more than you’d think), sunglasses, keys and the like. These items would be logged and would ultimately end up at the jail where the men would be booked—Salinas—but for now the team would examine the items for information about the “event” Wayne Keplar had so proudly referred to.

  Calderman was speaking to one of his officers, who was swathed in bright blue crime scene overalls, booties and a surgeon’s shower cap.

  “Michael,” the CS head said, joining the detective. “My folks’re going through the car.” A glance at the totaled vehicle, air bags deployed. “It’s real clean—no motel keys, letters or schematics.”

  Rarely were perps discovered with maps in their possession with a red grease pencil X, the legend reading: “Attack here!”

  “We’ll know more when we analyze the trace from the tires and the floor of the passenger compartment and the trunk. But they did find something you ought to know about. A thermos of coffee.”

  “And it was still hot?”

  “Right.” Calderman nodded that O’Neil caught the significance of the discovery. “And no receipts from Starbucks or a place that sells brewed coffee.”

  “So they might’ve stayed the night here somewhere and brewed it this morning.”

  “Possibly.” Oakland was a long drive. It could take three hours or more. Finding the thermos suggested, though hardly proved, that they’d come down a day or two early to prepare for the attack. This meant there’d probably be a motel nearby, with additional evidence. Though they’d been too smart to keep receipts or reservation records.

  The Crime Scene head added, “But most important: We found three cups inside. Two in the cup holders in the front seat, one on the floor in the back, and the rear floor was wet with spilled coffee.”

  “So, there’s a third perp?” O’Neil asked.

  “Looks that way—though the trooper who nailed them didn’t see anybody else. Could’ve been hiding in the back.”