A Danger to Himself and Others: Bomb Squad NYC Incident 1

by J. E. Fishman

Burbette crouched down and used his ETK on the burn in the sidewalk. He held up the test tube and confirmed. “RDX. That means C4.”

  No one looked even mildly surprised.

  WITH THE DAY NEARLY FINISHED, Kahn glanced at his watch. He’d let too much time pass but the lieutenant hadn’t called him to yell. That was strange. He took himself away from the group and dialed.

  Jill answered.

  “Hey, sorry to bother you. How’s the patient?”

  “Asleep. You need him?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Something big?”

  “Sometimes two smalls make a big.”

  Cap came on quicker than Kahn would’ve expected. Maybe the ringing phone had already awakened him.

  Kahn didn’t waste any time. “It’s the same pattern, Lieutenant.”

  “A guy with no legs?”

  “One arm this time. The rest fits the same.”

  “What kind of explosive?”

  “C4.”

  There was a long silence on the line. “Aw, hell. I just told Gowen this morning that it looked like a lone nut.”

  “That was a reasonable working theory, Cap.”

  “Reasonable but wrong.”

  “Not necessarily. Could be two nuts stirred up with the same inspiration.”

  “And they share a supplier?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Their very own blind sheik?”

  “Could be.”

  “Gowen’s gonna brief the chief, who’s gonna brief the Commissioner, who’s gonna brief the mayor. Who’s gonna brief the press, no doubt. What do I tell him?”

  “One bomber signifies a lone nut and three makes a pattern. Two—it’s possible that could be no more than coincidence.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not with prosthetics and C4 at the center of two bombings over less than seventy-two hours.”

  Kahn twisted his lower lip between two fingers. “Truth be told, I didn’t believe it as I was saying it. Let’s see. You could tell them we’re doing everything in our power.”

  “Great, Kahn. And you’d better be.” Kahn heard him swallow hard. “I’m gonna go take an aspirin.”

  For the lieutenant’s sake, Kahn hoped he could keep it down.

  TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK

  6.

  DAY THREE—Dark

  THAT NIGHT CAPOBIANCO SAT EXPECTANTLY at the kitchen table for his first meal in three days.

  “Here you go,” Jill said.

  He looked down at a bowl of steaming dark water with some dry toast on the side. “What is it?”

  “Beef consommé.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You have to ease your way back into it.”

  Capobianco took a cautious sip of the soup and a bite of the toast. He chewed slowly and swallowed. “How am I supposed to gain enough strength for work eating like this?”

  “You’re not going to work tomorrow and you know it. Doctor says another forty-eight hours.”

  “I’ll be mad by then.”

  “Not as mad as I’ll be if you sneak out earlier.”

  The phone rang. Jill looked at the caller ID and handed it to him. She mouthed the word: “Gowen.”

  Capobianco held it to his ear. “Hi, Hank,” he said. “Calling to see how the patient is feeling?”

  “You wish. But I can tell you how the mayor is feeling.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “And then some.”

  “Let me guess. He’s scheduled a press conference on the site of one of the bombings.”

  “I talked him out of that. It would only inflame people. We’re keeping it low-key for now, urging the press and the public not to jump to any conclusions.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “All of the NYPD is on high alert for the next one, and the Commissioner will ask the public for any information.”

  “If you see something, say something.”

  “Insert copyright notice here.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Hank. Anyone pissed that I’m out sick while this is going down?”

  “They’re big boys. They know people fall ill sometimes. But, you want my advice, get back to the precinct before patience wears thin.”

  “I hear ya. Unfortunately, I’m under house arrest here. Went to the doc this afternoon and he says I’m in danger of pneumonia if I don’t take it easy another couple of days. Nurse Jill confiscated my car keys.”

  “Don’t worry about it, then. I’ll cover for you.”

  “You’re a pal, Hank.”

  “Hell, I’m the one always telling these guys you’re the right man for the job. Don’t screw it up and prove me wrong.”

  They hung up and Capobianco looked across the kitchen at his wife. “If you have a heart, you’ll let me put the police radio back on. Doctor didn’t say I couldn’t use my brain.”

  DIAZ DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT HOME that evening. He exited the subway at the 181st Street station and stopped at a worn-out bar on St. Nicholas Avenue for dinner and a few pops. The place was dark and quiet, and some not-so-new cop flick played on a television that sat on a shelf beside bottles of Bushmills and Tullamore Dew.

  “What movie’s that?” he asked as he settled onto a stool.

  “Um, Kevin Spacey. Whatchamacallit. The Usual Suspects.”

  “Oh, right. Saw it. Keyser Söze. The bad guy wins.”

  “Don’t they always?”

  Diaz threw him a look. The bartender was an ex-con who’d served a few years for B and E a long time ago. Now he was as straight as anyone could be in a cash business.

  The detective placed a twenty on the bar and tucked one corner under a water-stained paper coaster. He didn’t expect to see any change, but if he went over budget he didn’t expect to have to reach into his pocket again, either.

  “That Bushmills is calling to me,” he said.

  The bartender held the bottle while Diaz downed the first shot and refilled him without asking.

  Dinner was a Jamaican meat patty from the warmer. It reminded him of his youth, all those stale greasy dinners alone with his brother in Bedford-Stuyvesant while his parents worked overtime. They were a rare intact family in that neighborhood, and he should’ve been grateful, but instead he felt jealous of the drama out on the streets every night—gang wars, people being shot at. Halfway through college he joined the army. Being mechanically inclined, he’d have been a natural for repairing Humvees and such, but there was no danger in that. Then some corporal told him how you cut a path to EOD.

  The movie ended and another came on. For dessert Diaz had a fifth or sixth shot with a Killian’s Red chaser. He felt loose in the joints when he left the bar around eleven.

  A few minutes later he found the apartment dark. He removed his pullover, slipped out of his shoes and settled onto the couch to watch the Knicks play the Kings in Sacramento. He never made it to the fourth quarter, passed out right there in a fetal position still wearing his cell phone and gun holsters.

  Deep into the morning, still more than half asleep, Diaz heard a suspicious sound and felt someone in the room. He opened one eye and saw a man’s legs in suit pants. Black socks covered the feet, and the toes faced him. Beyond the range of his vision, Diaz sensed that the intruder was doing something with his hands. The intruder took a small step forward and the floor creaked.

  Diaz, now fully awake, reached for his Glock. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up as he withdrew the gun and leveled it at the man, whom he now saw had his pants open and was fussing with a cuff of his shirt.

  “Whoa!” the man said, raising his hands. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Who are you?” Diaz said.

  The man was of medium build. He had brown hair and a five o’clock shadow and wore wire-framed glasses. “I’m with the woman.”

  “Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer. That’s right.”

  “Close friend?”

  The man smirked. “That’s some roommate you got t
here. I had a roommate like that, I’d have a chronic case of blue balls. I’d be in the bathroom all night with a roll of paper towels.”

  “How’s that your business?” Diaz lowered the gun to his hip but didn’t put it away. “You should be careful sneaking around here.”

  “She said you were a cop. We just didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Yeah, you did a great job of that.”

  Jennifer appeared in the doorway, barefoot in a long nightshirt, smiling at first, hair mussed. When Diaz saw her he did his best to look nonchalant while he holstered his gun, but he knew that the sight of it in his hand like that would freak her out. Sure enough, she strode between the two men, facing Diaz with her arms spread.

  “Don’t hurt him, for cryin’ out loud. Manny. Manny! You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He felt the glaze lift from his eyes. “Just surprised.”

  “Sorry if we disturbed you.” She turned to the other guy. “You better go.”

  Diaz scratched an eyebrow as she escorted him out the door. She was in such a hurry that she had to open and close it twice, just to get the man his shoes.

  “AWKWARD,” JENNIFER SAID WITHOUT MIRTH, locking the door.

  “The guy snuck up on me.” Diaz adjusted the strap of his holster and wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes.

  “You could’ve killed him.”

  “I doubt it. I kept my finger off the trigger.”

  “That’s small reassurance.”

  “There are six break-ins a day in this precinct. You might’ve told me ahead of time that you’d be home with someone.”

  She brushed back her hair with all five fingers. “I didn’t know. It was—um, spontaneous.”

  Diaz nodded slowly, his energy receding into his diaphragm. He made a move toward his room but she cut him off. “We have to talk.”

  He didn’t want to argue so he collapsed to the couch again. She sat on the chest that they used as a coffee table, her bare knees sealed together. When his eyes dropped, she stretched her nightshirt over them. “I can’t have you pulling guns on people, Manny. For the first time, I’m really wondering if rooming with a cop is going to work out.”

  “I told you. He surprised me. When I fell asleep, no one was here. I wake up and there’s a guy standing over me.”

  “We saw you there earlier. We did a good job of being quiet.”

  “Too good.” He paused, feeling a surge of unexpected sadness. “Honestly, when you said you’d start bringing guys back, I didn’t know it would be right away.”

  “And I didn’t know I needed your permission.” She caught herself and lowered her tone. “You’re on a knife’s edge lately. Want to talk about it?”

  He frowned. “Pressure at work, that’s all. Bombs going off. I thought I wanted that—a little action—but it has everyone in the squad on a short trigger.”

  “I wouldn’t use that term after what just happened.”

  Diaz shook his head, as if to clean the slate. “I’m jumpy. I admit it. I’m sorry. Tough days at the office. I got a reprimand just yesterday on top of everything.” He took a deep breath, at that moment realizing that he needed her. Not for the rent, mainly. He needed this person here, this source of stability—and more than he’d ever known. “I’m really sorry, Jennifer. Don’t go.”

  She searched his face and he looked into her eyes. The sparkle there said that she knew there was something more to it, something more than the events that make up a few bad days. She rested a hand on his thigh and ran her palm in a circle.

  “We don’t have to be strangers, you know. We can be there for each other.”

  Diaz closed his eyes and saw the man who’d just left, heard again his comment about the blue balls. An asshole like that, probably one of those Upper East Side guys who thought he was better than everyone else. Dude flashes some cash and a couple of wry jokes—not a care in the world—and in a few hours he’s bedding this hot chick within feet of Diaz. Diaz—a different kind of guy. One of those guys who spend their lives keeping America safe for assholes to screw beautiful women in peace.

  Opening his eyes and looking at her moving hand in disgust, Diaz blurted, “What the hell? You’re offering me sloppy seconds now?”

  Jennifer let out a cry at that. She took her hand back like it was burnt, stood abruptly and said, “Screw you, Manny. You don’t deserve me as a friend!”

  When the door slammed he thought: She’s probably right.

  HER TRAIN WAS LATE.

  Manis paced nervously in the bustling Amtrak hall of Penn Station, back and forth from the big board to the Hudson News store. The New York Post had a special late edition headline: AN ARM AND A LEG. Manis bought a copy and controlled every muscle in his face as he read the story standing up. The cops had nothing on him, every fact and word of the article inferring smalltime homegrown terrorism or veterans losing their minds. He’d diverted them all, just as he’d carefully planned. And now there were two targets down with only one to go.

  He stuffed the paper into the nearest trash bin and looked around. The train had finally arrived and passengers streamed up the escalator from the platform below. When he saw her auburn hair, the erotic shuffle of her feet in those cute red canvas sneakers, he sucked in a breath to calm himself.

  “An hour sitting in New Haven,” she said. “What a rat fuck.” She barely glanced at him. “Take my bag.”

  The bag, a small leather weekender, wasn’t heavy, but she handed it to him so abruptly that he almost dropped it.

  “Let me look at you,” he said.

  She ignored him and began walking toward the exit. In close-fitting jeans her butt looked tiny, almost boyish. She was lithe, wiry, small-boned—always had been. But Manis wasn’t interested in hips. Her smallness made her secret places that much more private. She exuded sensuality, and when he concentrated hard he could convince himself that she saved the best only for him.

  He jogged a few steps to catch up. “I made a reservation at that place you like. I’ve had to change it twice, waiting for you.”

  They rode the subway in silence, one or two feet apart, hanging on to the overhead rails as the train jostled them. Manis felt her aura like a physical force, penetrating him, though whenever he tried to ease closer that force seemed to push her away like matching poles on a pair of magnets. She met his gaze a few times, though. Those bright violet eyes of hers with the gravitational pull of planets—he could get aroused just looking into them.

  At the restaurant in downtown Brooklyn, they sat at a table for two in a corner banquette, knees occasionally brushing. He tried to let his leg linger in her direction, but she pulled away, turning her hip toward him. When he reached for her delicate, alabaster hand, she pulled that away, too.

  “You’re acting like it’s been so long,” she said.

  “It has. It’s been thirty-eight days.”

  “You know that?” She sniffed. “How many minutes?”

  “Let’s see.” He cocked his head, calculating.

  “You’re pathetic.”

  Manis smiled through his bushy gray beard, the one he’d worn since before they’d become reacquainted as adults. That he’d controlled her once she didn’t ever acknowledge. And he couldn’t remind her, for fear of losing her forever. She was like a stray dog who’d come home to a different house, and you never knew how much of the world the bitch had seen while she was gone, how much she now understood. But, in spite of that, he still claimed ownership rights, though he couldn’t articulate them after all that had happened. If only she knew how much power he had, how much he’d done for her. “I missed you.”

  “I’m not your wife. Buy a magazine. Surf the Internet. Get yourself off.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Then find a warm friend.”

  “I want you.”

  “Stop being so weak.”

  But she was here on his territory. She’d come to him. He must have something to offer her.

  “I’ve been working at talkin
g like them.”

  “Like who?”

  “What you like.” He put it on. “I took duh dawg to duh cah pahk.”

  “Sounds more Boston than New York. I can get Boston whenever I want.”

  He dropped his chin. “I’ll keep working.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because you are. Isn’t that what your mother always told you? She was right.”

  “She only told me that when she caught me spying on her. It was worth it, though. I learned a lot from that spying. When I was done, when I achieved manhood, she got hers.”

  “I thought you said that was an accident.”

  She had her hand around the stem of her wine glass. He tried to take her fingers but she withdrew again, placing her hand in her own lap.

  Manis said, “I picture us dying together in a fiery explosion, you and me. In complete ecstasy. Like my mother with that soldier.”

  “He wasn’t a soldier. He was a security guard.”

  “Oh, right. You got that right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re like—you’re desperate. Not me. I got laid just this morning.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t tell me.”

  “This guy was so fat, he would’ve crushed me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I had to go on top. But you know how much I like that.”

  Manis reached over and pinched her hard on the thin skin that stretched across her upper ribs.

  “Ow!” she said. “That hurt.”

  He reddened. “See what you made me do.”

  She looked at her butter plate. “Get the check.”

  WHEN THEY STEPPED THROUGH THE door of his apartment, Manis dropped the bag and wrapped his arms around her before the door closed behind him, but she shucked him off. “Let’s have a drink.”

  “Champagne?” He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle.

  “What brand is it?”

  “I don’t know. Something Italian.”

  “It isn’t even champagne, then.”

  “The cork still pops.” He let it fly, at first intending to hit her but flinching away at the last second and missing.