by Kathy Reichs
“You sure?”
“Yes.” No way I’d be sleeping.
Gus removed his windbreaker and shoulder rig, freed the Glock, and laid it on the bed nearest the door. Stretching out, ankles crossed, he closed his eyes and rested his arms on his chest.
I slipped off my jacket and holster and placed my gun on the black desk. Sitting in the black chair, I dug Capps’s card from my purse, checked his mobile number, and forwarded the email and images to him. It was 1:27 A.M.
I’d just finished when Kerr turned off the shower. I heard no movement in the bathroom. When enough time had passed that I was growing concerned, the door opened and Kerr came out. Her hair was wet and she was wearing my jeans, the legs rolled so many times the hems looked like doughnuts around her ankles.
Kerr glanced at me, quickly away.
“Want to tell me how you got here?” I asked.
No response.
“Did Bronco chain you to the sink?”
Kerr said nothing. A few seconds passed. She drew a juddery breath, ran an index finger below each of her lower lids, observed the wetness. I noticed that her hands were trembling.
“Hit the rack,” I said, struck by a sudden, irrational splinter of pity.
“I’m hungry.”
“Can’t help you with that.”
Kerr limped to the bed. Lying supine, she settled her arms atop the covers and laced her fingers over her belly.
When Kerr’s breathing fell into a steady rhythm, I crossed to the coffee machine and made myself a cup using two packets. Didn’t really need it. Every nerve in my body was raw.
I spent the next four hours fighting my personal demons and pumping caffeine. Fortunately, the inn was generous with amenities. Or Gus had stockpiled.
I watched a cobweb dance on a grate as the furnace kicked on and off. Clouds run the moon outside the windows. Shadows shape-change in the wake of the clouds. I found the moon, if not calming, at least reassuring.
The bedside clock hummed. The old hotel played a soft serenade of tics and creaks and thrums, silent witness to the wee-hours secrets of its occupants.
At six, the sky was deep purple-gray going light at the edges. I was about to wake Gus when my phone vibrated. Recognizing the number, I answered.
“You’re up early.” Keeping my voice low.
“What the fuck?”
“Top of the morning to you, too.”
“Where are you?” Capps demanded.
“D.C.” Kerr was snoring softly. I moved to the bath.
“Explain the meat show.”
“I was hoping you’d do that. Rosehill Cemetery is in Chicago, right?”
“So?”
“Day before yesterday, field any 911 calls about a woman with her brains on a wall?”
“Could be.” Wary.
I’d never gotten around to texting Capps. Okay, I’d never bothered. So, keeping an eye on Kerr through the cracked door, I briefed him on all that had happened since I’d left Chicago. Gus. Bronco. Jihad for Jesus. The bungled bombing on Devon Avenue. The shootout at Venice Beach. The clues pointing to D.C. The stakeout on Mount Pleasant Street. Kerr’s appearance in my hotel room.
There was a long silence as Capps arranged facts in his head.
“So your twin capped one of the goons who grabbed you on Rose Avenue.”
“Yes.”
“Then the goon’s partner capped him.”
“He didn’t mean to.” Kerr’s skirt was hanging over the shower rod. I touched the fabric. It was damp. I looked around, saw wadded white panties in the trash basket.
“This Bronco character calls all the plays,” Capps said.
“Yes.”
“He and his group want to wipe out Muslims.”
“He’d put it more elegantly, but yes.”
“And he’s now in the wind.”
“It was High Noon in that apartment.”
“So you’ve said.” Pause. “He’s not the only one.”
“Meaning what?”
“The goon that caught the bullet took a pass on long-term treatment.”
“He left the hospital? Didn’t the LAPD have a guard at his door?”
“That moron won’t be enjoying a promotion real soon. Is this guy Bronco in D.C.?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“I don’t suppose you caught his last name.”
“I was hoping you’d clarify that detail. By the way, the dead goon in Venice was one of the bombers.”
“You’re sure?”
“He was one of the four in the Subaru Forester.”
“His name?”
“I was hoping you’d clarify that, too. A guy named Alves is handling the investigation. LAPD.”
“I should do this so you can score another twenty-five bills?”
“I want names for personal reasons. Drucker only asked for proof of capture.”
“Or death.”
“I try to avoid that.”
“Seems to me you’re all done. You shot the guy in our morgue and the guy in Venice.”
“I didn’t shoot the guy in Venice.”
“I’m guessing he counts. Bronco killed the woman in the photo. The fourth bomber, Harkester, died of cancer.” Empty air, as though Capps was running back through the photos. Or rereading the message. “You’re thinking this bargaining chip he’s threatening to kill is Stella Bright.”
“You saw the seventh image. He has her.”
“Or had her. The pic could be old. Why include a date marker in one shot and not the other?”
I’d thought of that. Didn’t believe it.
“I know you’re good at your job, Detective. And I know you’re busy.” Doing humble. “But you’re also frustrated. I was hoping we could help each other.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want to close the files on Bnos Aliza and Stella Bright. So do I.”
“Or maybe you’re playing me. Maybe you’re thinking this Bronco might be good for a bonus.”
“Bronco’s not on Drucker’s list.”
“Lucky for him.”
“The man’s a terrorist, Detective. Homegrown, but just as deadly as any foreign jihadist.” I let that lie for a second. Then, “I don’t know the target, but Bronco’s planning something big.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“He said that?”
“You read the email.”
Nothing but humming silence.
“How about you do me a solid, I do you a solid.”
“Ms. Night.” Capps spoke when he felt I’d grasped the depth of his aversion to dealing with me. “I will make no deals, no promises.”
There was a “but” in his tone, so I said, “I need you to background Harkester. Verify that he’s dead. He was army. Start there. I doubt he’s got a jacket.”
“Why?”
“Bronco said his movement only recruits people with clean records. Have you ID’d the John Doe in your morgue?”
“No.”
“Makes sense now he wasn’t in the system.” I had a sudden mental image of Capps in pj’s and slippers, frowning but listening. “Do the same for the woman in the hoodie. Who was she? What’s her story? Where was she murdered? Who’s leading the investigation? What’s the thinking on motive? A doer?”
“If your theory’s correct, that investigation is only one day old.”
“The first forty-eight.”
“Information relating to a homicide will be strictly confidential.”
“Last I knew, you were a cop.”
“I am. You’re not.”
“But I’ll need facts if I’m going to pitch the story to Dateline.” Stupid. But stress always brings out the sarcasm.
“You can’t do your own digging because…?”
“I can. But you’re local. And your access to certain resources will speed the process.”
“And what’s the solid you’ll be sending my way?”
“I share anything I get. And I keep looking fo
r Bronco.” And Stella.
“I’ll think about it.”
Capps disconnected.
The flood of coffee was making itself felt. After peeking out at Kerr, I eased the door shut and used the toilet. Flushed. Washed my hands.
When I emerged Kerr’s blankets were on the floor. Her bed was empty.
My brain screamed a five-alarm crisis alert.
“Gus!” Eyes darting the room.
He was on his feet without seeming to go through any intermediary stage. The gun was in his hand.
Then I saw her, crouched between the radiator and the wardrobe.
It took a mind-bending effort not to rush forward and grab her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Kerr gaped as though I’d just ripped the heart from a baby. I realized I was pointing the Glock at her chest. Good. I’d use her fear.
“I ought to knock you into fucking tomorrow!” Feigning rage. Or not.
Kerr stared, eyes Frisbees.
“No. I should put you out of your goddamned misery. Right here. Right now.”
“Easy.” Taking my cue, Gus slipped into good-cop mode.
“What’s your problem? It’s what I was hired to do.”
“She’s not on Drucker’s list.”
“I don’t like her.”
“Doesn’t mean you should kill her.”
“She tried to kill me.” Eyes blistering Kerr. “Foster Beach? The underpass?”
“They made me.” High and quavery, a terrified sparrow trapped by a cat.
“Who made you?”
Kerr said nothing. I knew her mind was racing, testing for right answers.
“Maybe she really doesn’t know,” Gus said.
“She knows. And she knows Bronco would fry us if he wasn’t tied up planning to murder more kids. Or is it old ladies this time?”
“You could be right,” Gus said.
“She probably knows where the bastard is. Right. This. Moment.” Air-jabbing the gun at Kerr’s face.
“I know nothing.” Pleading. “You have to believe me.”
“No. I don’t.” To Gus, never taking my eyes off Kerr. “Do I?”
“Not really.”
“Bronco keeps me out of all that,” Kerr said.
“You being his loyal jihadist.”
Tears trickled down Kerr’s cheeks. She raised trembling hands to wipe them away.
“That why he left you cuffed to my sink? Like a dog you don’t want anymore. Tie it to the tracks and walk away.”
“Does seem cold,” Gus said.
I stepped closer to Kerr. “Who are they, cupcake?”
Her head wagged slowly.
“You going to tell us what we need to know?”
Kerr glanced up, just a flash of brown. Her lashes glistened. They were long and heavy with tears. Then she looked down again.
“That’s it,” I said. “She’s wasting my time.”
“Maybe if we feed her,” Gus said.
“I’m not feeding her.”
“She must be hungry.”
“Why don’t you take a walk?” Tightening my grip and sliding one finger into the trigger guard. “Get breakfast for two. When you come back all this will be resolved.”
“Resolved like in Atlanta?”
“Up to her.”
“You really want names that badly?”
“Go.”
“No!” Kerr shrieked. To Gus, “Don’t leave me with her. She’s psycho!”
“She won’t like you saying that,” he said.
“Psycho?” With a hint of insanity in my voice.
“Oh my God!” Kerr now sounded like a scene in a teen slasher movie.
“Well, shit.” Gus crossed to Kerr and reached down a hand. She recoiled, shoulders turtled in, arms hugging her knees.
“What in the name of sweet Christ are you doing?” I demanded.
“Get up,” Gus ordered Kerr.
“She’ll shoot me.”
“I won’t let her.”
“She’ll hurt me.”
“I won’t let her do that either.”
“Really?”
“Unless there’s no other option.”
Kerr moaned and tightened the pressure on her legs.
“You’re a pussy,” I said to Gus, mean as I could.
Gus used an elbow to nudge me sideways. Pointed to Kerr, then to the black desk chair. “Sit there.”
“I don’t want to,” Kerr whimpered.
“Shall I go out for doughnuts?”
Kerr unwound and hobble-crawled to the desk, eyes skidding between Gus and me. Gus dragged a chair from the windows and dropped into it, facing her. I sat on the end of the bed, Glock still in my hand.
“Let’s start with your name,” Gus said. “Is it Jasmine Kerr?”
“It is right now.”
“Fine. We’ll go with that. Tell us about your group.”
“It’s Bronco’s group.”
“Jihad for Jesus.”
“I’m not a member.”
“That why you tried to ambush me at Foster Beach?” As menacing as I could.
“I didn’t try to ambush you.”
“That’s not my recollection.”
“Bronco told me to deliver an envelope to the Ritz. Then to be at the underpass to point out the person who picked it up.”
“You always do what Bronco says?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Everyone does.”
“Why you? You’re not a disciple?”
Pink mottled Kerr’s cheeks. She focused on the desktop. Ran a thumbnail along a groove in the wood.
Sudden insight.
“You’re banging him,” I said.
The pink went crimson.
Jesus Christ.
“What’s Bronco’s last name?” I snapped.
“Nagurski.”
“Seriously?” I wasn’t sure which was stronger, my revulsion or my pity. “How did you and lover boy meet? You kick off your Hanky Pankys to pick him up in a bar?”
“Bronco doesn’t go to bars.”
I snorted.
Gus tried to bring us back on topic. “Talk about Jihad for Jesus.”
“Muslims plan to take over the world.”
“Which Muslims?” I knew I should let Gus handle the questioning. Couldn’t help myself.
“What?”
“Sunni? Shiite? Sufi? Wahhabi?”
“All of them, I guess. They want to force the whole planet to follow their rules.”
“Which rules?”
“What?”
“Which rules?”
“They don’t believe in the Bible. Bronco’s going to stop them.”
“By blowing up Jewish kids?”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Why were you in Chicago?”
“I live there.”
“Was Bronco in Chicago when the school was bombed?”
“No.”
“Last week?” Hitting her hard, looking for a crack.
“No.”
“Who planted the bomb?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was the thug at the Ritz?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you go to L.A.?” Fast switch. An old trick to keep the interviewee off guard.
“Bronco told me to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he live there?”
“He lives a lot of places.”
“Who’s the guy got killed in Venice?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never once caught a name?”
“I think I heard someone call him Jano.”
“Is there a cell in D.C.?”
“I think so.”
“Is Bronco here now?”
She nodded, eyes again down, thumbnail digging.
“Why?”
“He’s organizing something.” The hand came up, palm out. “I haven’t a clue wha
t it is, where it is, or when it is.”
“You were staying at the address on Mount Pleasant?”
“Yes.”
“Whose place?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who else was there?”
“Landmine.”
“Who’s Landmine?”
“He’s disgusting.”
“Tough to pick that out of a lineup.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“His real name is Landon. He thinks he’s a stud, gets off on being called Landmine.”
For an instant I almost felt sorry for Kerr. She was so pitifully, pathetically lacking on so many levels. “Describe him,” I said.
“Big. With huge muscles. Like he works out a lot. You met him.”
“The other guy who got shot in Venice?” A feeling like smoke curling cold in my chest.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
“Someone spotted us yesterday on Mount Pleasant?”
She nodded. “Bronco did. When you left we all slipped out.”
“Where did you go?”
“An apartment near Dupont Circle.”
“Bronco brought you to my room while we were watching the building today.”
Her cheeks flamed anew.
“How’d he duck the motion detector?” Not really caring. Mostly pissed at having missed its final signal, sent while I was prowling Mount Pleasant.
“He’s good with gadgets.”
“Where’s the Dupont apartment?”
“They won’t be there.”
I waggled the Glock.
“Twentieth Street, near R. I don’t know the address. There’s a coffee shop in the basement.”
I looked at Gus. He got up, slid his Glock into the shoulder rig, donned it and the windbreaker, and left.
“Now,” I said. “It’s just us girls.”
Kerr’s body seemed to curl in on itself.
“Until yesterday you were boning Bronco. I’m sure there was pillow talk.”
“No.”
“Nothing?” Not asking nicely.
“No.”
“And you never got the teeniest bit curious about him and his pals? Maybe eavesdropped on a meeting or phone conversation? Peeked at a text? We know you’re good with email.”
Kerr looked at me with something. Wariness. Guilt. Fear. “That’s not his way.”
“What’s his way?”
“Bronco never shares anything with anyone. When it’s time, he tells people what to do. His instructions are always last-minute, never in advance.”
I got my phone and scrolled to the photo of the woman with her brains on a wall. Laid it on the desk. Kerr glanced at the image. Her breath caught and her eyes cut away.
