by John Lutz
“Yes. Fahey.” Brand’s face became grave. “You and I were his superior officers. Sure, he wasn’t in the NYPD anymore, but we’re interested in seeing his killer caught.”
As they took seats, Harper reflected that so far this was going the way of his past meetings with the captain. Brand always told you what you wanted to hear. Then you had to figure out how much of it he meant.
“I’ve seen you quoted a number of times in media coverage of the case,” Harper said.
Brand gave a satisfied smile.
“You told the Times Fahey was one of your best men. Said you regretted the circumstances of his departure.”
“Yes. That was a good piece the Times ran, I thought.”
“Then you told the San Francisco Chronicle that Fahey was kind of a fuckup and no loss.”
Brand frowned. “Now, I didn’t say—”
But then he broke off. Tossing his glasses onto the desk top, he folded his arms and grinned at Harper with genuine amusement. “You’re something else, Harper. But you’re right. Why should we even pretend we can stand each other?”
“It’s not worth the effort,” Harper agreed. “So what’s this crap you’re giving the Chronicle?”
“You never understood reporters, Harper, that was your problem. I wasn’t talking to this Chronicle guy for more than two minutes before I figured him out. His angle was, what if Buck Reilly had been protecting his creator? Would he have been able to save him? So naturally, with that angle, the reporter’s got to make Fahey the goat. He was gonna do that anyway. If I didn’t give him what he wanted, I wouldn’t have gotten quoted.”
“Sure, I understand. If Jimmy had wanted people to take his death seriously, he shouldn’t have gotten killed along with a celebrity.”
Brand narrowed his eyes, studying Harper. “You’re really worked up about this, aren’t you? I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d gone down there to see him. Why you, of all people, would have any tender feelings for Jimmy Fahey is beyond me.”
Harper didn’t reply. It was no use arguing ancient history with Brand. He said, “It’s been more than three weeks since the bombing. There hasn’t been any real news about the investigation in a long time. What the hell’s going on?”
Brand leaned back in his chair. He was amused again. “This is really tough for you, isn’t it, Harper? I mean coming here today. You always thought I spent too much time going to meetings, keeping up my contacts, schmoozing. And now you have to come to me for information. You know I’ve got the inside stuff. You know you can’t get it anywhere else.”
“And you’re the man Angelina Jolie dreams of, Captain. Anything else I have to say?”
Brand savored his amusement in silence for another moment, then said, “The investigation isn’t going well. They haven’t been able to develop a suspect. In fact, they’re still shopping for a theory.”
Harper had hoped the Florida cops were finding leads they weren’t revealing to the media. He clenched his fists in frustration. Then he remembered to do as Laura kept telling him: take a deep breath, let it out, relax his fists. She worried about his heart. He said, “What about the theory that it was some drug cartel or terrorist group who hit Buckner?”
“That got going because Buckner used to say he wasn’t afraid to make the enemies of America his enemies. Stuff like that. To sell books. But the CIA and FBI think it’s bullshit. Same way Homeland Security proper. They say it was personal and not political, a murder. They won’t go near the case. They’re leaving it to the Florida State Police and the ATF.”
“So what have they got? What can they say about the bomber?”
“He’s not a terrorist operative, but he’s a pro. No question about that. He’s had training of some kind. Maybe been in the military.”
Harper frowned. He was always skeptical when investigators arrived at that conclusion. He said, “Anybody can make a bomb these days. I don’t have to tell you that. You can get step-by-step instructions in a book, or over the Internet. You can legally buy most of the components—”
Brand shook his head. “This guy understands blasts—how explosions work. And he did his research before he made his plan.”
Nodding, Harper said, “He must have spent a long time in the woods opposite the estate with his binoculars and insect repellent, studying Jimmy’s personnel and their routines.”
“More than that.” Brand hesitated, then went on. “Here’s something hasn’t been released yet. If you leak it, you didn’t get it from me. Somewhere or other—probably in the Pensacola City Engineer’s office, but we can’t confirm that—our guy did research on the construction of that gatehouse.”
“Oh?”
“When Buckner bought the estate, he replaced the gatehouse roof. Put in the new one to project out over the drive, give a sort of classy porte cochere effect. The rest of the gatehouse dates back to the fifties, when the estate was built. The guy who built it was worried about hurricanes, so he made everything strong. The gatehouse has only a few narrow windows. And there was cinder block under the stucco.”
Harper began to understand. He said grimly, “And the bomber found all this out?”
“He must have. He knew those strong walls would channel the blast upward and collapse the roof. It didn’t matter whether Buckner was inside the gatehouse or in his car under the overhang, he was a goner.”
Harper said, “The way it actually happened, a guard almost gave the package to Buckner. I was thinking, if he’d done so, the bomber could’ve detonated it after Buckner drove away, so only Buckner would’ve been killed.”
“That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to take out the whole gatehouse and everybody in or near it.”
So the bastard had meant to kill Fahey and the others all along. Why? Another wave of helpless anger swept over Harper. He breathed deeply and relaxed his fists. He said, “That call to Buckner telling him the book he wanted was at the gatehouse—”
“They don’t have a recording, unfortunately. But the maid heard Buckner take it. Came in over the intercom, she said, like calls from the gatehouse always did.”
“The intercom? How did the bomber patch into that?”
“They don’t know. Apparently there are a number of ways it can be done, assuming you have the equipment and expertise. One thing we know, it wasn’t an inside job. Everyone who was in the gatehouse was killed. The entire day shift, except for two guys who were out patrolling the grounds. The Florida cops are satisfied they’re clean.”
“It was a radio-controlled detonator?”
Brand nodded.
The bomber had been out there watching, and had pressed the button at exactly the right moment. “That tells us something about him,” said Harper.
“He wanted to be absolutely sure the bomb went off at the right moment.”
“My guess is he wanted to see it, too,” Harper murmured, “wanted to watch it go off.” He looked up at Brand. “So they’ve dropped the terrorist theory. What’s the popular theory now?”
“Our guy’s a pro, like I said.”
“So who’s he supposed to be working for?”
“Someone close to home. The Florida cops’ve found plenty of people with a grudge against Buckner. His ex-wife, for one. His ex-publisher for another. It was a small publisher that brought out his first book, made a big hit of it. For the next book, Buckner went to a big New York publisher. The small publisher went belly-up last year, and he bears a grudge. And one guy the cops especially like is this druggie producer out in Hollywood who claims Buckner stole the idea for his third bestseller from him.”
“So they’re going to trash Buckner pretty thoroughly. Should be fun for the media.”
“You don’t buy it, Harper? So what’s your theory?”
“I’m not big on theories. You know the way I used to work. I wish I could see the bomb reconstruction, if they’ve made one. And I’d like to see whatever fragments have survived.”
“That’s right, you always were a hardwar
e guy. Well, let’s see what I can do for you.” Swiveling his chair around, he turned to the filing cabinets. “I may have some pictures here.”
The phone rang while he was searching. It was unusual for Brand’s phone to have been silent for so long. In previous meetings in this office, Harper had spent most of the time waiting while Brand talked on the phone. This was someone named Charlie, and Brand was delighted to hear from him, or at least said he was. As be talked, though, he fished a manila folder out of the drawer. He dropped it on the desk in front of Harper.
In calling Harper a hardware guy, Brand was referring to the work Harper used to do with the detectives who were trying to catch a bomber. By analyzing the fragments of the bomb and reconstructing it, Harper was able to tell them a lot about the person they were looking for.
He opened the folder and skimmed through the forensic technician’s report. Then he turned to the photographs of the twisted bits of metal that had been recovered from the rubble of the gatehouse. Absorbed, he blocked out all traces of Brand’s phone conversation until Brand said, “So what’ve you got?”
He’d hung up. Harper, preoccupied, said, “Have you got a magnifying glass?” Brand reached in a drawer and handed one over.
The bomb was a pipe bomb. The explosive had been packed into a length of iron pipe inside the cardboard box, in order to concentrate the explosion and make it more powerful. Harper held up a photograph of a surviving fragment of pipe. “There’s a C on here.”
“A what?”
“The letter C. Here, near the left edge.”
Brand took the magnifying glass and photo. “Oh, yeah. Well, it looks like a C. So what?”
“The bomber inscribed it into the metal.”
“Harper, c’mon. This is a fragment of exploded bomb. They found it buried a foot deep in debris. Along the way it picked up a scratch.”
“I don’t think so. I think the bomber put it there.”
“Why? You think it’s his initial? We should be looking for a guy named Chris? Or Calvin?” Brand picked up the lab report. “The forensic guys in the Florida State Police and the ATF have both been over this fragment. You think they wouldn’t have picked up on this if it was significant?”
Harper dropped the photos on the desk. “I’d like to have a look at the fragments themselves.”
Brand shook his head, smiling. “That I can’t do for you.”
“Then pass on what I said the next time you’re schmoozing and making contacts.” Brand was still avoiding his eye. “Captain, this isn’t the first time I’ve asked you to pass something on. And you’ve always ended up looking good.”
“This time I’d look like a jerk.” Brand shuffled the prints into order and slid them back into the folder.
Harper’s instincts told him not to let this go. “Come on, Brand. What’s the worst that can happen? You get embarrassed. What’s that compared to the chance of catching Fahey’s killer?”
Brand didn’t answer. He swiveled and put the photos back in the file.
Harper waited for him to face front, then said, “Well?”
“Harper, go home to your lovely wife.” Brand smiled, not quite meeting his eye. “You’re retired, with a full pension and benefits. You’re on a paid vacation for life. It’s every cop’s dream.”
Abruptly Harper lost control. He’d borne the festering resentment about his departure from the Squad for a long time. But his frustration and sorrow over Fahey’s murder were too much for him. “Don’t act like you did me any favors, Brand. You forced me out. You just had to make it look good because the media were watching.”
Uncharacteristically, Brand seemed to welcome the confrontation. He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Yeah, that’s right, Harper. If the Post hadn’t been calling you “Martyr Cop,” I’d have kicked you out to starve in the gutter.”
“There’s no reason I couldn’t have come back to work.”
“Here? On the Squad?” Brand’s amusement deepened.
“We all know the NYPD’s an equal-opportunity employer. Open to both sexes, all races, every sexual orientation. But Harper, there’s no room on the Bomb Squad for the digitally challenged.”
A surge of anger nearly lifted Harper to his feet. But he stayed put and let it pass. Knowing it would annoy Brand, he smiled. “Cute line, Captain. But I was almost out of bomb disposal anyway. You know that. I could’ve done training and investigation. You didn’t have to retire me.”
“Harper, don’t you understand? It wasn’t me. It was the Squad.”
Harper felt as if he’d been kicked hard just below the breastbone. For a moment he couldn’t recover his breath to answer. Then he said, “Don’t give me that. It was you. The people I worked with wanted me to come back.”
“Of course, I’m not saying it was anything personal, Will. People like you. They feel sorry as hell about what happened to you. But your luck ran out. That’s why people don’t want you around. You’re unlucky, and they’re afraid of catching it.”
Harper sat there, incapable of replying. He could almost feel Brand’s words burning into his memory.
“I can’t have a guy whose fingers have been blown off hinging around here,” Brand said. “I especially can’t have him training the new guys. You know what the young macho types around here say, don’t you? You remember, Will?”
Harper did remember. He knew what was coming, but there was nothing to do except sit there.
“They say the big bomb is nothing to fear,” Brand went on, “You make a mistake and it blows you out of existence, you never know what hit you. No, it’s the crummy little bomb you got to be afraid of. The one that goes off and leaves you to live out your life blind, or disfigured, or crippled. That’s the worst thing.”
“I know,” Harper murmured. “I remember saying that myself. But I was a young stupid kid then. It’s better to be alive.”
Brand smiled and raised both hands. His cuff links glittered. “So we’re back where we started from. You got a great life. Do what retired people do. Take up golf. Move to Arizona. Whatever.”
The phone rang again. Brand picked it up. “Ben!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Great to hear from you.”
Harper stood and walked out of the office. He got away from Rodman’s Neck as quickly as he could.
4
Will and Laura Harper lived in an 1880s brownstone near Prospect Park in Brooklyn. It was a spacious town house on a good block, and the only reason it was within financial reach of a cop and a nurse was that it needed help. This was realtorese for hundreds of hours of backbreaking labor.
The Harpers weren’t deterred. They drew up a detailed seven-year plan to turn the place from shambles to showplace. Laura had boundless energy, and Harper had always enjoyed working with his hands.
Six months after they bought the house, Harper had his “accident.” That was what they’d come to call it. Laura put the house on the market, assuming they would have to move back to an apartment.
But when Harper came home from the hospital, he took down the FOR SALE sign. He’d decided to use the renovation work as a continuation of his physical therapy.
It was agony at first. Even the most routine tasks seemed impossible. He spent a week mashing his fingers before he learned how to hammer in a nail. By a slow, frustrating process of trial and error, he found out which jobs he could still do with his right hand. Others he learned how to do with his left. The hardest part was admitting to himself that there were some jobs he couldn’t do without help. His skill and confidence slowly returned and his pace picked up. He’d gotten well ahead of schedule on the seven-year plan.
But in the month since he’d returned from Florida—the month since Jimmy Fahey had died—he hadn’t been able to get any work done at all. There didn’t seem to be any point. The original plan had been to rehab the place and sell it for a small fortune. Then Laura would take early retirement and they’d travel or maybe buy a little place in the country. Now, though, this sounded to Harper like
the every-cop’s-dream retirement Captain Brand had recommended to him. It made him feel bitter. Made his life seem futile.
It was ten-thirty at night and Harper was lying in bed, staring at the TV and waiting for the news to come on. More and more lately, the Buckner case wouldn’t get on the news at all. Either there were no developments, or viewers were losing interest. But Harper was watching anyway.
He was lying on top of the coverlet, fully clothed. The only light in the room was the flickering blue glow of the television. He didn’t want to see the parquet floor, which needed cleaning and polishing, or the stained-glass fanlight over the door, which needed to have several panes replaced.
The program, a talk show about men who’d slept with women who employed them, didn’t hold his attention. He kept glancing at his watch. Laura was late. Only a few minutes, but she was definitely late. These days she was always late.
He pulled himself upright, trying to shake off the feeling of annoyance. He knew it was petty, unfair. Before, when he’d had a busy life of his own, he’d never noticed Laura’s unpunctuality. Only now, when time moved so slowly for him, did it bother him.
They’d only been married three years. For Harper it was his second marriage. The first had been a disaster. Like a lot of ambitious young cops, he’d put his job before his family and paid the price. His wife had left him and moved to Oregon, taking the infant daughter he’d never gotten a chance to know. He still ached over that. For the next fifteen years he was wary, determined not to repeat his mistake. Then he met Laura.
She was forty when they met, and she’d never been married. He couldn’t stop wondering at his luck, and at the blindness of other men. Laura was lovely and vibrant. She had a sly sense of humor and a wide variety of interests. Every time Harper tried to describe her to someone, he ended up sounding like the ideal personals ad. He’d often asked her why she hadn’t married before, and never got a straight answer. The one he liked most was that since she had a good job and a close family, she wasn’t about to settle for just any man.
He heard the key in the lock and then her bright “Hel-lo!”
