by P. J. Tracy
'You and Mom want to watch this with us, Dad?' Kyle called up the stairs. Kyle was kind of brilliant at parental management. He knew damn well if he invited his parents down, they'd assume they were actually watching that stupid Civil War thing and didn't need any supervision; plus, it allowed them to tell themselves they'd be good parents if they trusted the boys and just stayed upstairs, watching the Great Mystery Boxes show while they had a few cocktails.
As predicted, Kyle's dad said thanks very much but they'd stay upstairs so they didn't interrupt the boys while they were watching a homework assignment, which meant it was perfectly safe to light up some green.
Kyle turned on the HEPA air machine, opened the windows, and pointed at the big screen. 'Oh, that is so sweet. Look at the traffic cams.'
Clark focused on the screen for a while, grinning at the endless lines of cars frozen on all the freeways out of town. It wasn't like earlier this afternoon, with all the cars dodging and speeding and one spectacular rollover on 94 into Wisconsin, but all the same, he felt his gut tighten and ripple like that super fool who hip-hopped to super-abs. 'It's kind of weird, watching this, isn't it?'
'Weird, how?'
'Well, they're idiots. Assholes. Freaked out over nothing. They've blown all the boxes, for Chrissake. They know they're empty, and look at those fools, still running'
'They don't know if they found them all.'
'I want to tell somebody,' Clark said.
'Who?'
'Carrie Wynheimer, for one.'
'She's a loser. Wears a push-up bra.'
'So what? It's pushing up something'
Kyle snatched the stick away and pulled a load into his lungs, thinking he might have made a big mistake hooking up with Clark.
They were both mellowed out by the time the sun started sinking and the basement started to get murky. Bad thing about basements and their little window slices at ground level, especially when your parents planted yew bushes to hide the top four courses of cement blocks, as if no one knew they were there.
They'd watched a lot of the news coverage of the panic in the city. At first it had been fun to see the traffic jams and wide-eyed residents packing up their minivans with kids and pets. After a while it got old. And then the doorbell rang.
The door to the basement opened onto the hall just beyond the foyer, so Magozzi was front row center to read the body language of the kids when they came upstairs.
Gino had wanted these kids to be the perps, partly so they could sew this thing up fast, and partly because he hated all teenage males. That kind of prejudice was the price of doing business when you were the father of a drop-dead sixteen-year-old daughter. Magozzi hadn't known what to wish for or what tack to take until he heard the footsteps plodding up from the basement. The way he figured it, you didn't stop running up any flight of stairs until you were at least twenty, unless you were nervous about what was at the top.
Kyle came first. His house, his lead on the stairs. He was a good-looking kid, blond and blue, with a pleasant, intelligent face.
'Hey, Dad. What's up?' his eyes immediately shifted to the three strangers standing in the foyer, and his brows tipped in polite curiosity. No tell there. Total innocence. Christ, the kid was good.
Clark came and stood a step behind his friend, unintentionally showing Magozzi the pecking order. Funny how people positioned themselves in a physical display of hierarchy without ever being taught such a thing. Then again, wolves did it. Why not kids?
Mr. Zellickson, proud papa, put his arm around his son. 'This is my son, Kyle, and this is his friend, Clark. Boys, these two gentlemen are Minneapolis police officers, and this is Agent Smith of the FBI. They'd like to ask you some questions about anything you might have seen at the Metrodome today.'
'Sure thing,' Kyle said pleasantly. 'Although I can't think of anything unusual. Just the usual slew of 'bladers and skaters we see there most of the time.'
Magozzi smiled and nodded. 'How about at the Crystal Court?'
Clark's face went stiff, Kyle's smile faded, and Mr. Zellickson looked puzzled. 'Uh… I thought you said you saw them on surveillance film at the Dome.'
'That's right. And at Crystal Court, and the Mall of America, and I don't know how many other sites where we found boxes. We're still going over the film.'
'Oh, Jesus.' Clark was swallowing hard, over and over again, and beads of sweat popped on his forehead.
Magozzi and Gino both took a step backward as the boy suddenly folded in half and threw up on the Zellicksons' oriental foyer rug. 'It was just a joke,' he wailed, and then threw up again.
'Shut up, for Christ's sake,' Kyle screamed, but as it turned out, Gino barely had time to read them both their rights before Clark started talking.
Magozzi looked down at the mess on the rug and felt bad, then turned up the edge with his toe and immediately felt better. Damn thing was a fake, just like the house and the pretense of a perfect family and the golden boy who was starting to look really tarnished.
Then he saw Mr. Zellickson's world falling apart on his face, and felt really bad all over again.
Officer Haig answered the call for a squad with a cage, which made Gino and Magozzi very happy. The man was in the last quiet year of twenty as a workhorse on the streets, and there was no retirement present that could hold a candle to bringing in some most-wanteds while a hundred cameras were rolling. Magozzi went out to talk to him before Gino and John brought out the little monsters.
'You hit the jackpot, Haig'
Yeah? What have you got?'
'Box boys.'
Haig's forehead wrinkled. You mean the kids who pack up your stuff at the supermarket?' He studied Magozzi's grin for a second, then his graying eyebrows went up to say hello to his hairline. 'No fooling?'
'No fooling. You saw the mess of cameras and reporters at the house, right?'
You mean the ones who've been blocking the streets and sidewalks and the entrances all day? Nah. Didn't notice them.'
'It's worse now than when you went out. All the networks, a ton of cable stations, and a few foreigns have the place surrounded with satellite vans. Looks like the Martians have landed.'
'Don't worry about it. I'll just zip down into the garage like always…'
'No.'
'No?'
'I want you to off-load these boys at the front entrance. Maybe go around the block a couple times before pulling in so the media catches sight of you. We'll be right behind you to help walk them up the steps, but you take the lead with one of them and go slow, got it'
'Wow. I'm going to be on TV.'
'Comb your hair, Haig. The whole world's going to get a look at it by tomorrow morning.'
'Cool.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-six
The media ranks had swelled in the past few hours, vans filling the streets, photogs and reporters milling on the sidewalks and front steps of City Hall. They were all hooked into Dispatch, Magozzi knew, and all had heard that the possible perpetrators of the box fiasco were being brought in. That had been the plan.
Gino looked up at the windows and saw faces at almost every one, watching what was going down. 'This is about as big as it gets, Leo,' he said. We're going to be all over the news.'
'Let's hope it works.'
'It's not going to work. We'll haul these kids off to Federal prison in front of the cameras and a million idiots out there will still think they could do what they did and not get caught. We'll be chasing this tail for years to come. What a rush, closing down a city and getting the attention of the world. Look at this. In less than a week we've got murders on film and a fake terrorist attack, and maybe neither one of those things would have happened without the Internet. Goddamn Web is escalating everything, just like Chelsea said. Somebody's gotta get a handle on this, 'cause there's no going back.'
Officer Haig led Clark up the stairs to City Hall, pausing every few steps, supposedly to look for the men behind him, but actually giving prime shots to
all the cameras flashing behind him.
Gino and Magozzi, flanking Kyle on their way up the steps, were forced to stop whenever Officer Haig stopped, and the media cashed in on film of the terrified boys that the satellites sent around the county and the world.
'Jeez, Leo,' Gino said when the hard lights hit his face, 'what happened to Haig's hair?'
Magozzi was trying to look professional and a little mean. A really good-looking woman with BBC all over her microphone was in his face, asking if these were the two perpetrators who had engineered and planted the boxes that had had the world holding its breath all day. 'No comment,' he said, pushing past her gently while dozens of other voices yelled out questions. He leaned toward Gino and whispered, 'I told him to comb his hair, and believe it or not, he pulled a comb out of his back pocket. Looked like Fonzie next to the jukebox, sweeping back the strands, getting ready for the girls.'
'He's pushing sixty, Leo. He's no Fonzie.'
John was trailing behind a few steps. Even in this media age, the Bureau still clutched at the threads of dignity from times past, avoiding the limelight. Hungry reporters and camera operators looked at him curiously, wondering if he was a person of importance, then turned away as if he were an unknown escort on the red carpet, not worth the film.
City Hall was blessedly quiet when they finally managed to get their prisoners inside, but behind closed doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of celebration. A lot of off-duty cops had stuck around after their shifts to revel in the happy ending to a nightmare day, clap each others' backs like the warriors they were, and get the latest gossip.
'We're going to have to give the Chief a couple minutes, John,' Magozzi said. 'Will you and Haig take the prisoners down to a holding cell?'
'My pleasure.'
McLaren ran into them in the hallway on the way to the Chief's office. 'Swe-eet,' he greeted them. 'Well done, guys.'
Gino always tried hard to play the curmudgeon, but nobody could ever accuse him of being unfair or ungracious. He reliably gave credit where credit was due, and today was no exception. 'Are you kidding me, McLaren? We were just your delivery boys. You had the sharp eye, Monkeewrench had the brains, and we had the courage to go bust a couple Clearasil geniuses who puked the minute they saw a cop. Kind of like The Wizard of Oz.'
'Man, I wish I'd been there. Did they really puke?'
Gino smiled. Yes, they did puke, and oh, it was pretty, my friend. A sight to behold. Normally, you don't want to see recycled candy bars and nachos, but this was very satisfying'
McLaren gave them both high fives. 'Cool. Well, I'm outta here. Just wanted to stick around long enough to give you props.'
'Likewise,' Magozzi said. You want to catch a beer with us later?'
His pale face turned slightly pink, and then he grinned. 'Sorry, guys, but I've got a real cutie lined up for dinner.'
Gino nodded his approval. 'No shit? Way to go, dude.'
Johnny's grin got bigger. 'JDate rocks.'
'I hope like hell you told her you were a Belfast Catholic before you agreed to meet her.'
'I know her story, she knows mine. Everything's kosher.'
'Hey, at least you're working your way into the lingo. Best of luck, friend,' Gino said, meaning it.
'Thanks. And hey, speaking of cuties… there's a profiler from the FBI somewhere around here waiting for you. That's some hot property.'
'Chelsea Thomas,' Magozzi informed him.
McLaren's red brows lifted. 'Ah, so you know her. Lucky you. She's way outta my league.'
Gino shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know, McLaren. She might be the kind of woman who picks the ugliest Christmas tree on the lot or adopts the blind, one-legged puppy at the pound.'
'Rolseth, you are such an asshole. Anyhow, have a good night, guys, and wish me luck.'
Chelsea Thomas was waiting for them outside the Chief's office, and she did look hot… and different. She was dressed in a suit, but it wasn't a Fed suit. Magozzi was no fashionisto, but he knew really great, expensive clothes when he saw them - Annie Belinsky had schooled him in that.
'Detectives. Excellent work today.'
Her smile was infectious, and Magozzi and Gino both succumbed. 'Yep. Everybody did their part, and it turned out great.'
Yes, it did. You can't imagine how important this is as a deterrent. What kind of impression did you get from talking to them?'
Magozzi thought about that for a minute. 'Actually, they weren't the monsters I was expecting.'
'New kind of monster,' Gino said. 'Stupid little bastards with too much alone time and no sense of consequence who think they can get away with anything'
Chelsea nodded. 'Their brains aren't fully developed at that age. Actually, they're boys, so their brains never fully develop.' Her smile flashed again.
Magozzi's brows lifted. 'Wow. You're in a great mood.'
'Aren't you?'
'Absolutely. Want to grab a beer with us later?'
'I'd love to, but I have to get to the airport. The Director wants me on the morning talk-show circuit tomorrow to get as much publicity on this as possible. Save the interview tapes for me, will you? And congratulations again.'
Gino looked over at Magozzi. 'We're zero for two on the happy-hour buddies. I think we're stuck with each other.'
'I think we're going to be stuck here all night, anyway.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-seven
Grace was standing at the marble counter in Harley's kitchen, picking her way through a chicken pot pie - she was eating purely for sustenance, not pleasure, so it seemed appropriate that she do it standing up. Huttinger's hard drives had arrived, and they were all staring down a long night's work.
She looked up when John Smith walked in a few minutes later. He was clearly exhausted, which was understandable, and yet there was something almost peaceful in his face, as if gravity had granted him a temporary kindness.
'You've had quite a night,' she said, laying down her fork. 'We caught the news. Congratulations.'
'None deserved. The credit belongs to all of you and your extraordinary software, and to Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth, of course. They're quite an impressive pair.'
Yes, they are. But I'll bet they didn't feed you,' she raised her plate in an invitation. 'There's more in the oven if you're hungry.'
'What about the others?'
'They ate earlier.' She started to move toward the oven but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'Don't interrupt your meal. I'll get it, and thank you very much. It smells delicious. When on earth did you find time to make this today?'
'I make them in advance, and keep them in Harley's freezer for nights like this.'
He asked for permission to sit after he'd filled his plate, and Grace pulled out stools for both of them. They sat side by side, looking straight ahead, eating in a silence that was oddly comfortable for two people who didn't really know each other at all.
'I have a boat,' John said abruptly, ruining everything.
Grace chased a piece of carrot around her plate, letting the statement hang there. Damnit. And it had all been going so well. She should have known he'd turn out to be just like everyone else. It was one of the reasons she avoided people. 'Hello' always turned into some inane conversation that would interest her not at all. What did she care if he had a boat? Now he'd tell her how long the boat was, what he'd named it, where he parked it, or docked it, or whatever it was you did with boats, as if all this information would be important for her to know.
'This is important,' he said, which was almost as weird as saying 'I have a boat.'
She looked up from her plate, annoyed with herself for being a little curious. 'I have no interest in boats,' she told him. Best to nip conversations like this in the bud.
'Neither do I. But I like where they take me.'
'Right. On the water.'
He almost smiled, but he didn't look at her. 'Not where they take me physically, where they take me in my head. I called my bo
ss tonight and resigned. When I get back to D.C., I'm going to get on the boat and just sail away.'
Grace couldn't help herself. She actually turned her head and looked at him, because, damnit, that was interesting. And stupid. 'That wasn't very smart, John.
You're going to lose part of your pension. Why would you do that?'
'Because you looked at me the other day, saw your future, and didn't like it. I don't like it much, either. So I'm going to change it. You want to come along?'
She snatched up the plates and walked to the sink. 'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Okay. Do you want me to cover the leftovers with plastic or tinfoil?'
'Tinfoil.'
He went right to the correct drawer and pulled out the tinfoil. Grace watched from the corner of her eye. Harley had about fifty drawers in his kitchen. How the hell did he know where it was? Did he sneak down here when they were working and inventory everything? She spun away from the sink and folded her arms over her chest. 'Why did you ask me that?'
John shrugged. 'Because I didn't know how much butter you put in the crust. A lot, and plastic wrap would make it soggy-'
'Not that, the boat thing'
'Oh. Because you're a great cook and you don't talk much.'
Upstairs in the office, Harley, Roadrunner, and Annie were deep into Huttinger's hard drives, and were about to break when Harley roared from his station, 'NO WAY!'
'Christ, Harley, give us a warning when you're going to go ballistic in a quiet room,' Roadrunner complained. 'What's up?'
Harley spun his monitor around for his gathering audience. 'I just found a hit list.'
