Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m hungry,” Kerr said.

  Gus ignored her. “Why didn’t you call back?”

  I told him about the dancing beluga.

  “You need a new phone.” To Kerr. “I’ll order room service when she goes out.”

  An Academy Award eye roll, then Kerr flopped onto her mattress. Gus and I moved to the far side of the room.

  “Time to dial in the locals,” I said, voice low and even.

  “Beau gave me a name. Major Bertie Hoebeek. He’s working as an onsite commander for the Derby.”

  “Hoebeek is solid?”

  “Beau must think so.”

  I realized that, in my haste to get to the track, I hadn’t told Gus about John Scranton’s murder and Scranton’s mother’s possible abduction. Did so.

  “What’s the latest from Capps?”

  “I’ve had no phone for the past two hours.”

  “Right. Think events in Winnetka are coincidental?”

  “Damn big coincidence.”

  “You have to tell her.” Tipping his head toward Kerr.

  “Food first.”

  “It improves her very little.”

  “Was she helpful today?”

  “Is tapioca helpful?”

  I glanced through the window. Below on the street, traffic seemed to be flowing.

  “While I score a phone, you call Hoebeek. I’ll get an update from Capps, then break the news to Kerr.”

  The drive took a while, but the purchase was quick. Once the burner was activated, I dialed Capps’s mobile, fingers crossed he’d answer an unknown caller. I wouldn’t. He did.

  “Where are you now?” Capps, noting the new number.

  “Louisville. Any news on the Scranton front?” As I hurried toward the Maxima.

  “John’s still dead, Mama’s still missing.”

  “Kerr claims her real name is Denise Scranton.”

  “No shit. Neighbors said there was a daughter.” I heard a voice in the background, maybe Clegg. “Here’s a tidbit. Shirley, that’s the mother, is a 9/11 widow. When the planes hit, John senior was on the thirty-ninth floor of tower one.”

  “And thus a domestic terrorist was born.”

  “John junior would have been twelve or thirteen.”

  “Tough age to have your father murdered by al-Qaeda.”

  “Tough age to have your father murdered by anyone.”

  I did more math. Jasmine Kerr/Denise Scranton would have been four in 2001. Images rushed me from a past life. I blocked them.

  “What did Scranton do?” I asked.

  “Money management. Left the family loaded. By all accounts his death also left Shirley pretty screwed up. She worked briefly with organizations aiding the families of terrorism victims, gave that up, and became a recluse. According to one neighbor, when the kids were young she hardly let them leave the house.”

  “Find anything interesting in there?”

  “Lots of cash.”

  “Anything linking John junior to Bronco and his Jihad for Jesus?”

  “No.”

  “To any of the email addresses on Kerr’s laptop? The Bnos Aliza School? The addresses in L.A. or Wash—”

  “No.”

  “A mobile phone? Computer?” I wheep-wheeped the lock.

  “Wow. Maybe we should have looked for those things.”

  “Bronco’s here in Louisville.”

  “You saw him?”

  I told him everything that had happened since last we’d spoken. Said Gus and I were contacting the Louisville cops.

  I expected to be blasted for going solo so long. Instead, “Landon Crozier works for Old Capital Feed and Supply in Corydon, Indiana.”

  I grasped the significance, not the geography. “Supplies would come to Churchill Downs from that far away?”

  “Corydon’s maybe thirty miles from Louisville, just over the state line.”

  “That’s it. Landmine’s hidden IEDs in hay bales or feed containers.” I yanked the door open and threw myself behind the wheel, mind seething with gruesome images. “Someone on the inside has retrieved and planted them.”

  “I want you to—”

  “Gotta go.” Tossing the phone to the dash, I palmed the gearshift and tore from the lot.

  Gus had carried through. Back at the room, two uniformed cops filled the open doorway. He stood facing them. Behind him, Kerr was eating a BLT on her mattress. Two covered plates and two bottles of Stella Artois sat on a cart.

  The first cop spoke while scanning to see if I was armed. His name tag said GOMEZ. He was younger than his partner and had a curiously aerodynamic nose. “Hold it there, ma’am.”

  I raised my hands, palms out, indicating I meant no harm. Down the hall, a door opened.

  “I suggest we take this inside,” I said.

  Gus stepped back.

  Gomez looked at his partner, whose name tag said O’ROURKE. O’Rourke nodded.

  Right hands not so subtly cocked at their hips, Gomez and O’Rourke followed me into the room, eyes circling, resting a second on Gus, Kerr, the bed, the open bathroom door.

  “I couldn’t get through to Hoebeek,” Gus said to me.

  “One of you want to explain the 911 call?” O’Rourke had an explosion of tiny vessels in each cheek, features that looked straight out of Killarney.

  I told him that I’d been on the job in Charleston, and that I’d come to Louisville in connection with work for a client.

  “Inspiring. So why are you and your brother claiming terrorists plan to blow up the Derby?” Sounding mildly irritated.

  “We think terrorists plan to blow up the Derby.”

  O’Rourke’s face remained steadfastly impassive.

  I explained Jihad for Jesus, the group’s anti-Muslim agenda, the pipe bomb at the Bnos Aliza School, the coded message referencing the Godolphin horses.

  “You know Major Hoebeek?” O’Rourke asked when I’d finished.

  I nodded.

  “I assume you have firearms.” Addressing both Gus and me.

  “Real beauties.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Locked in the safe.”

  “Keep them there. And yourselves available. Contact info?”

  I gave him my new cellphone number. Which I had to check. Which caused his brows to twist like suspicious little worms.

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  “That’s it?” I wasn’t really surprised.

  “Y’all have a good night.”

  With that they were gone. To report up the chain, I hoped.

  Bertie Hoebeek called twelve minutes later. I answered and put him on speaker.

  “You’re Beau Beaumonde’s kid?” Low, raspy. I guessed Hoebeek perpetually smelled of tobacco.

  “Yes.” Close enough.

  “How is the old goat?”

  “I believe IEDs have been smuggled inside Churchill Downs.”

  “Go on.” All business.

  Figuring O’Rourke or Gomez had relayed my personal creds, I skipped that part and shared everything I knew, beginning with the school bombing and Stella’s disappearance, continuing with Kenneth “Bronco” Dickey, Landon “Landmine” Crozier, and John Scranton, Chicago, Venice Beach, and D.C., ending with the intel I’d just gotten from Roy Capps and my theory about explosives being smuggled in supplies going to the barns. I didn’t mention the guys Gus and I shot.

  Hoebeek never interrupted. When I stopped talking, he asked the spelling of Crozier’s name, a few more details, as though checking quickly jotted notes.

  “You got pics of these guys?”

  “I can send them by email.” No point explaining the loss of every image on my late burner. “Landmine won’t look good.”

  “You said the Chicago investigation is out of Area Three, violent crimes?”

  “Yes.” I gave him Capps’s number.

  “Thank you, Ms. Night.”

  “I hope I’m wrong.”

>   “I hope you’re wrong, too.” I detected strain in Hoebeek’s voice. Maybe exhaustion. “This is my private number in case you think of anything further. In the meantime, you and your brother sit tight.”

  I said nothing.

  “Are we straight on that?”

  “We look forward to hearing from you.” I disconnected.

  “Think he’s blowing us off?” I asked Gus.

  “Could be he listened out of professional courtesy to Beau, but I doubt it. I think he’s feeling what you said, pulling in all the extra security he can manage. Rallying the bomb squad.”

  “Either way, we sitting tight?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  We slapped a high five. Childish, but we did.

  Gus cocked his chin toward Kerr. “You have to—”

  “Okay. Jesus.”

  I redid the binder holding my hair. Took a deep breath. Cleared my face and went to sit on the edge of the box spring. Kerr kept her head down, her eyes on her empty plate.

  “Denise.” As tender as I could manage. “I’m sorry. I have some bad news.”

  No reaction.

  “There was a break-in at your home. In Winnetka. Your brother was stabbed.” Blunt. I could think of no buildup.

  Still holding the plate with one hand, she drew the quilt up and over her head with the other.

  “Your mother is missing.” I felt awful. Knew she had to be feeling worse. “John died.”

  She didn’t ask when or where. Or who. She didn’t ask anything.

  “I know you must be devastated.”

  Silence.

  “You can help catch the animals who did this.”

  Nothing.

  “John was one of Bronco’s followers, wasn’t he?”

  More nothing.

  “After the failed ambush at Foster Beach, Bronco sent John to kill me at the Ritz.”

  No response.

  I glanced at Gus. He was eating his BLT but listening.

  I tried again.

  “What happened to Stella Bright?”

  I felt like I was talking to myself.

  “You need to work with us, Denise. To have any hope of finding your mother. Or saving the horses.”

  I heard a hollow little laugh. “You don’t have a clue.”

  “Help me out.”

  She looked up, quilt encircling her head like an Inuit hood, plate still clutched in one hand. I noticed it was trembling.

  “John was nothing.” Cheeks moist, face oddly blank. “We’re all nothing.”

  “Stop playing the fucking victim.”

  Too harsh. The plate smashed the wall with such force it shattered. I jumped. Gus shot to his feet.

  Kerr dropped to her side and curled into a quilt-wrapped ball.

  I looked a question at Gus. “Tomorrow” was all he said.

  As I booted my Mac, Gus got his Glock from the safe and laid it on the nightstand. After hitting the head, he stretched out and, in seconds, was snoring. I envied him. His ability to sleep anyplace, anytime was a skill not coded in our shared DNA.

  I searched through images, thankful of the transfers I’d made from earlier phones. Found Gus’s shot of Bronco standing lookout on Venice Beach. Mine of Landmine bleeding through his luau shirt on the Rose Avenue floor.

  I paused at the image of the laptop screen in Kerr’s Argyle Street apartment. Read the cryptic email that had sent us hurtling down the path to Louisville. Godolphin Vintage Claret Beauty 05 05 06. FL1X: LM-inf /JC-GR/B5-S2+4.

  Vintage, owned by Godolphin stable, had run in the Oaks that day. Claret Beauty was entered in tomorrow’s Derby. For the zillionth time, I strained to crack the final sequence in the coded message. For the zillionth time, I experienced no breakthrough.

  Frustrated, I sent the images to Hoebeek, then tried my sandwich. The toast and bacon were cold and soggy, the lettuce limp as pale green tissue. I chucked it and drank the Stella. The bedside clock said 10:20.

  I plugged in my phone and settled on the box spring.

  10:40. 11:00. 11:20.

  Hoebeek didn’t call.

  Just past midnight, Gus sat up and grunted something I took to mean I could rest. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come.

  12:17. 12:32. 12:45.

  Finally, fatigue had its way. I dozed fitfully, drifting in and out of familiar dream fragments.

  I’m sitting in shadow at the top of a staircase. My heart is pounding. Something bad is going to happen, but I don’t know what. I’m afraid. For me. For Mama. For Gus.

  I’m running through woods, branches clawing my hair.

  I’m crouching in darkness, too terrified to slap mosquitoes sucking my blood. Someone is with me. I’m afraid for them.

  I see circled corpses, black as briquettes. Feel Beau’s hands on my shoulders, strong and solid.

  I woke, fists clenched, face damp with sweat. Moving quietly, I got up for water, then lay back down. All was dark save for the glowing digits on my phone.

  Maybe dreaming about Beau. Maybe being at the Derby with Gus. Those gatherings around the old RCA replayed in my head. The disputes about the all-time finest Thoroughbred. One year I argued for Genuine Risk, one of only two fillies ever to win the roses.

  Sudden synapse. A grenade exploding in my brain.

  Dear God. Could that be it?

  The idea swelled and filled every inch of the room. I turned it this way and that. Grabbed the Mac and rechecked the puzzling cipher.

  Pulse racing, I reached for my mobile.

  Hoebeek didn’t answer. I left a ten-second message. Ten seconds later, he called back.

  “Explosives already inside the track? What in the name of sweet Christ are you talking about?”

  “Along with the pics of Bronco Dickey and Landmine Crozier, I sent you a screenshot of a coded email. I think the final sequence refers to potential or actual bomb locations. LM-inf. Lockheed Martin has a hospitality tent on the infield, right?”

  “Smack-ass on the finish line.”

  “JC-GR. One of the Jockey Club Suites is named for Genuine Risk. I’m guessing the Godolphin contingent has it this year.”

  “Go on.”

  “B5-S2+4. Barn five, stalls two and four. Godolphin horses?”

  Hoebeek didn’t answer.

  “Doesn’t Lockheed Martin do business in the Middle East?” I asked, meaning the company has ties up the wazoo.

  Tense breathing. Then, “You come to Louisville planning to spoil our party?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you got lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t shut it down yet.” Hoebeek’s words had just unlocked the last missing piece.

  “I won’t have people blown up on our watch,” Hoebeek said, meaning his watch.

  “The middle of the code. FL1X. Finish line, first crossing.” Hiding the adrenaline rush I was feeling. “Does that make sense?”

  “The track’s a mile long. The Derby goes a mile and an eighth. The horses cross once after the bell, again when they finish.”

  “I’m guessing the first crossing is when Bronco plans to pull the trigger. It’s 1:20 now. The Derby is scheduled to go off at 6:24 P.M. That gives us more than seventeen hours to find and deactivate the devices.”

  “The track opens at eight.”

  “So we work fast.”

  Hoebeek thought about that. Or reread the email.

  “I’ve got the bomb squad and ATF onsite. You say it’s terrorism, so the feds will want in.”

  “And on our end?” Meeting Gus’s eyes. Which were sparking like mine.

  “Keep the guns in the safe and your ass in that room.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “That’s an order.”

  “You can’t order me.”

  “I can have you detained.”

  “For what?”

  “Questioning.”

  He could. “Find the bombs, lose the bombers,” I said. “Not a headline to be envied.”

  “We’ll get the sons of
bitches.”

  “You talk to Capps?”

  “Your point?”

  “Bronco and Landmine are slippery as hell. My brother and I can ID them.”

  More breathing. A lot. I was about to push harder when the rusty voice rasped again.

  “Might be you could contribute in some limited way.” Meaning, do exactly what I say, nothing more.

  “You’re the commander.” Meaning, that flies at Churchill Downs.

  “I’ll send a cruiser.”

  —

  It took ninety minutes. By the time the squad car arrived, driven by Officer M. Albee, I was almost nauseous from the anxious energy swirling inside me. Unthinking, I snatched the red helmet from the bed and hurried downstairs.

  Albee pulled to the curb near the point where our shuttle had dropped us the previous morning. The plaza, paddock area, and grandstands were dark and deserted, a scene starkly different from that of Oaks Day.

  Albee led us up a VIP elevator to the fourth floor of the clubhouse, our footsteps echoing loud in the stillness. My restless instincts shrieking that the serenity would soon be shattered.

  The command post was an ordinary room with two desks, a couple of laptops, and a bank of monitors. Bland horsey print on one wall, ugly carpet on the floor. I hoped money saved on office space was going toward Louisville Metro Police Department muscle. And bomb-sniffing dogs.

  Unlike the post, the commander was far from ordinary. Bertie Hoebeek had skin the color of rind inside a lemon, ruddy cheeks, hair morphing from wheat to gray. She kept it buzzed on the sides, long enough on top to flip forward onto her forehead, perhaps to divert attention from the fact that only half of her ear remained on the right.

  Yeah. She. The major’s first and last names were inscribed on a brass plaque riding her ample left breast. Huberta Hoebeek. I guessed her family legends involved a lot of tulips and windmills.

  I also guessed no one asked about the AWOL ear. Bertie Hoebeek stood six one and looked like she could bench-press three hundred pounds. Maybe bend crowbars with her bare hands. Think the Pillsbury Doughboy toned and on steroids in full cop attire.

  My eyes did their usual scan, ending with the monitors. The screens displayed a glowing montage of empty rooms, deserted tunnels, unoccupied bleachers, and abandoned parking lots. The two techs wore polo shirts with LMPD patches. Soft uniforms. Not-so-soft weaponry. Like their boss, each carried a great big gun.