by Diane Kelly
I glanced at the teetering stacks shoved against the wall. “I like to read. You?”
He didn’t answer for a moment but rather picked a few books off the stack and looked them over. Criminal Psychology. Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. A treatise on Buddhism. Nora Roberts’ latest romance novel.
He returned the tomes to the stacks and looked up. “The last book I read was To Kill a Mockingbird. It was required reading sophomore year of high school.”
“You didn’t read the assigned books your junior and senior years?”
He said nothing, simply eyeing me and offering a shrug. He must’ve cheated and read the Cliffs Notes.
“So you haven’t read a book in … what? Ten years?” I couldn’t even imagine going that long without books. They’d been my escape all those years ago, and now they provided not only a refuge from the real world but also information and entertainment.
He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve been busy.”
“Defusing bombs in Afghanistan?”
“Among other things.” His eyes traveled around the rest of my space. “Rifles?” he asked, gesturing at the three long metal cases in the corner.
“No.” I retrieved one of them. “F-flaming batons.”
I opened the end of the case and slid the baton out to show him. “You just light the ends,” I said, stepping back and beginning to twirl it, “and the crowd goes wild.” With a simple thumb toss, I sent the baton spinning a couple of feet into the air. Would’ve been more impressive if I’d had higher ceilings.
Seth’s head bobbed in appreciation of my skills. “And you can do all three at a time?”
“Yes,” I said. Twirl à trois.
A sexy smile played about his lips. Amazing how turned on men get by such things. Shake a pair of pom-poms or twirl a baton in their faces and they turn to lust-crazed mush.
After returning my fire baton to its case, I dropped a handful of liver treats into Brigit’s bowl, gave her both a scratch behind the ears and a kiss on the nose, and told her I’d be back in a couple of hours. “Be a good girl, ’kay?”
The look she gave me in response said, I’ll think about it. No guarantees. She was as noncommittal as the kid at the dry cleaner’s.
Seth followed me down the steps to his Nova, where he opened my flame-covered door for me.
Rhino stepped up to the fence around the pool and let out a wolf whistle. “That’s one bad-ass car.”
Seth lifted a chin in reply. “Thanks, man.”
I climbed onto the blue vinyl bench seat, which was cracked in places and repaired with duct tape. The dash, too, bore several strips to cover the cracks the Texas sun had meted out. Rhino was right, though. Despite the signs of age and the ridiculous paint job, the car did have a certain bad-ass charm.
While the car was ancient, the stereo was state-of-the-art, with six speakers installed throughout the car. Seth climbed in the driver’s side and punched a button to turn on the radio, which was tuned to a classic-rock channel. “What station do you like?”
“Ninety-point-one.”
His brow furrowed as he attempted to place it but evidently could not. He twisted the button to tune it in, his lip quirking when he realized the station was the local NPR affiliate. “You like this brainy stuff?”
“Sure,” I replied. “It’s interesting. I always learn s-something new.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
He sighed. “Damn. I don’t normally go for smart girls.”
“And why is that?”
“Harder to impress. With dumb girls I just have to flex my guns and they’re putty in my hands.”
To illustrate, he raised an arm and flexed his biceps. I wasn’t dumb, but at the sight of his bulging muscle I was reduced to near putty myself. I blamed the primal instincts coded into my female DNA, telling me to hook up with a man who’d be a good protector, who could take down a woolly mammoth for dinner and fight off a saber-toothed tiger intent on eating our baby.
He cut me a sly grin. “Admit it. You’re kind of impressed, too.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re going to have to work harder.”
“What do I have to do? Quote Shakespeare? Perform calculus computations?”
It never hurt to keep a guy on his toes. “We’ll see.”
With one last, assessing look my way, he started the car and pulled out of the lot.
On the drive over, in response to my request, Seth gave me a primer on bombs. Pipe bombs were some of the easiest to make and transport, he said, hence their popularity.
“Sometimes people put chlorine tablets in them,” he said. “Other times it’s sparklers. Any kind of combustible substance will do.”
I found myself wondering again whether the skater boys had planted the bomb.
“What about the bomb at the mall?” I asked. “Can you tell what was used in that one?”
“Judging from the damage, my guess would be gunpowder and a very powerful model rocket engine.”
Both items could be purchased easily in stores or online with no identification required. It was chilling to realize how much the safety and security of the American public depended on people’s innate sense of right and wrong and general tendency to refrain from violence. Even more chilling to realize how easily a person intent on evil could exploit the situation.
Twenty minutes later, the Latina hostess at Joe T. Garcia’s seated us at an umbrella-shaded table on the restaurant’s extensive patio. The place had been a Fort Worth landmark for years. They served their Mexican food family-style and their margaritas strong.
The group of middle-aged couples at the next table was discussing the explosion.
“They’re calling him the Tunabomber,” one of the women said as she read over the menu.
“Why’s that?” asked one of the men.
“Because he planted dynamite inside a fish,” replied another.
Seth and I exchanged glances but made no effort to correct the man. No sense getting dragged into a conversation when we’d been warned by the detective not to give out any details.
“I’ve made my decision.” The first woman set her menu down. “I’m getting the fish tacos.”
Seth fought a grin, held up his menu to give us privacy, and whispered, “I’m guessing you will not be having the fish tacos.”
“You’ve guessed correctly.”
The waiter came by with a basket of chips and bowls of salsa and took our drink orders.
“So,” Seth asked when the waiter departed, “how long you been a cop?”
I snatched a chip out of the basket and used it to scoop up some salsa. “Since January. I got a degree in criminal j-justice from Sam Houston State last May and attended the police academy in the fall.”
With four remaining kids to support, my parents hadn’t been able to help me out financially once I left for college. I’d paid for my own education and hadn’t wanted to come out with too much debt hanging over me, so I’d worked part-time during the school years and full-time during the summers. It had taken me six years to complete college and another four months to finish the academy. I still owed fifty thousand on my loans, but at least the monthly payments were relatively manageable so long as I watched my expenses.
Seth broke a chip in two. “You like your job?”
Not exactly. I saw it as a means to an end. But I hardly knew this guy and, what’s more, I didn’t know whom he was acquainted with. I couldn’t very well tell him I was only biding my time as an officer until I made detective. The information might get back to my superiors, make them question my commitment to the department. I gave him an ambiguous answer. “For the most part. What about you?”
He dipped one piece of his chip in salsa, too. “I love my job.”
“You enjoy risking your life defusing bombs? Are you crazy?”
“Certifiable.”
“What makes you do it?”
His eyes g
leamed. “You never feel more alive than when you look death in the face and tell it to go to hell.”
Whoa. What I wouldn’t give for just an ounce of his courage. When I’d looked death in the face today it had laughed back in mine. Mwahahaha!
“So that’s why you do it?” I asked. “For some kind of thrill? To ch-cheat death?”
I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. Why take such big risks for a fleeting buzz? What did it say about Seth that he was willing to do such a thing?
He shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta do it, right?”
“I suppose so.”
The waiter arrived with our drinks, setting Seth’s beer in front of him and my jumbo frozen margarita with salt on the rim in front of me. After taking our food order, the waiter left again.
I took a slow sip of my frozen drink to avoid a headache. When I looked up, I caught Seth eyeing me intently.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
I was tempted to lie, to pretend to be unfazed by the day’s events, to tell him that everything was fine. After all, guys didn’t want to hear women complain or whine, right? But when I looked into his green eyes, eyes dark with knowledge and experience, I realized he’d see past any lie I offered.
Still, no sense getting too emotional. “Someone p-planted a bomb right under my nose and I didn’t even notice. I feel really…”
Stupid. That’s how I felt. But I wasn’t about to say that ugly word. If not for Brigit alerting on the bag, though, there was no telling how many people would have been maimed, or blinded, or worse. Hell, I’d been sitting only a few feet away from the bomb. I could’ve been among the dead or injured, my corpse zipped inside a plastic body bag, my bloodstained uniform accessorized with a toe tag. At least I had a fresh pedicure.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Seth said. “Surely the bomber took pains to avoid being noticed. You had no way of knowing.”
What he said was undeniably true, yet it made me feel only marginally better.
“Besides,” he added, “you got everyone out of the mall safely. That took some quick thinking. You can be proud of that.”
I might’ve felt more proud if Chief Garelik had acknowledged my actions rather than seeming to place blame on me. The man could be a real ass sometimes.
I fished another chip out of the basket and dipped it in the salsa bowl. “Who would plant a bomb in a shopping mall? What would they hope to gain?” I held the chip aloft, waiting to see what insights Seth could offer.
He lifted a shoulder. “There’s no point trying to make sense of random violence. Whoever planted the bomb is some sick bastard who likes to hurt people. The world is full of them.”
I ate the chip while I pondered his words. Was he right? Was the bomber some type of insane psychopath who simply enjoyed hurting others? Or had there been more to it, some message the bomber intended to send? Thinking back on my conversation with Detective Jackson, how she’d noted Seth’s fast arrival at the mall, I forced my voice to sound nonchalant. “You arrived quickly today.”
“Got there as fast as I could.” Seth took a long drag on his bottle of Dos Equis but said nothing more.
“Were you in the area?”
A simple “yes” was his only reply. He wasn’t making this easy.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“You interrogating me?” His green eyes sought mine and hardened, as if challenging me to cut the crap and shoot straight.
Okay, then. I would. “I guess so.”
He gave me a well-deserved grunt. “I take you out for dinner and margaritas and you accuse me of attempted murder. Now who’s being rude?”
Me, evidently. So why stop now? “Where did you come from?”
“The pool in Forest Park,” he said. “I was swimming laps. You can verify my whereabouts with the lifeguard if you’d like.”
Seth was a swimmer, hmm? That explained the well-developed shoulders.
He cocked his head. “Why would a guy on a bomb squad plant a bomb? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Job security,” I pointed out. “The city’s announced across-the-board layoffs. They won’t reduce the bomb squad if there’s a bomb problem going on.”
Seth stared at his beer bottle for a moment, turning it in his hands as he thought over my words. “Couldn’t the same be said for the police force? In fact, maybe you planted the bomb. After all, the bomb squad works the entire city while you have a specific beat, right? Like you said, the bomb was planted right under your nose.”
His face was smug. I supposed he’d earned the right to smirk, though.
“All right. You made your point.” I wiped some condensation from my margarita glass and flicked it at him.
He chuckled as he used a napkin to dab the droplets from his cheek. “You’ve sure got a short fuse.”
I could have argued but decided against it. Putting up a fight would only prove him right. Besides, it was true. “Irish temper. I get it from my mother.”
My father, on the other hand, had given me both the dark hair and the last name Luz. The word meant “light” in Spanish. Ironic that with a name like that people still didn’t realize how bright I was.
I took a sip of my drink. “I hope we can bring the bomber in before he does it again.”
“I’m sure the detectives will do their best,” Seth said. “It’s really not your problem.”
“Of course it is!”
He raised a conciliatory palm. “You know what I mean. It’s your job to deal with immediate situations and it’s the detectives’ job to solve the crimes, right?”
What he said was true. Still, it didn’t mean I shouldn’t try to assist in the investigation.
Seth tossed back the last of his beer and signaled the waiter for another before leaning across the table. “The best you can do at this point is keep an eye out for males carrying duffel bags, backpacks, boxes, anything they could hide a bomb in. Also be aware of anyone who seems to be taking an unusual interest in the area of the explosion. In my experience, bombers sometimes return to the scene of their crimes to see how much damage they’ve done. Their curiosity gets the best of them. We caught several insurgents in Afghanistan that way.”
My thoughts slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I blamed the tequila in the margarita. “Did you get those scars on your back when you were in the Army?”
Seth’s upper lip quirked. “Were you checking me out when I changed into my bomb suit?”
He and his buddies had stripped down in broad daylight while belting out the lyrics to “Big Balls.” I wasn’t about to apologize for watching him under those circumstances. “You were hardly being modest.” Of course, with a body like his, who could blame him?
He lifted his chin in agreement, but his smile faded. “Yeah, the scars are a souvenir from Afghanistan. I gave a ten-year-old a pack of gum and he threw a grenade at me.”
What?!?
My mouth fell open. I couldn’t even imagine how frightening that must have been. Well, actually, after the explosion in the mall this afternoon maybe I could. I had no idea what to say in response, though. The words that came out were infinitely inadequate: “What an ungrateful brat.”
Seth chuckled. “I can’t fault the kid too much. The insurgents put a lot of pressure on their sons to follow in their footsteps. At least the boy warned me first. He made a running motion with his fingers before pulling the pin.”
“Oh, Seth, I—”
He raised a palm again to stop me. “It is what it is. I’m fine.” Smiling now, he wagged his brows suggestively. “Besides, the scars get me lots of sympathy from the ladies.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. If Seth was some kind of man-whore, I wasn’t interested. Still, something told me he wasn’t. Most man-whore types were overly familiar and handsy and tended to invade a woman’s personal space. Seth had done none of these things. He hadn’t touched me at all, in fact, and after I’d sat at the table he’d chosen the seat across from me rather than the clos
er one next to me.
The waiter arrived with our food, putting an end to our discussion. Over the meal, our conversation turned to lighter, less personal matters: The upcoming end of summer and its brutal temperatures. The delicious flavor of the guacamole. Our dogs.
“How long have you and Blast been p-partners?” I slurped up the remnants of my first margarita and started in on the second.
Seth swallowed a bite of his enchiladas. “Two years, give or take. He was only eight months old when we began training, but that dog was born for bomb detection. Best nose in the business.”
Seth’s words got me wondering again why Brigit had alerted on the bag with the bomb. Had she heard the ticking and realized it was out of place? Surely that was too much to expect of a dog not trained to listen for that particular sound, especially in such a noisy, crowded area. Had the bag contained drugs or been handled by someone with drug residue on his or her hands? I found myself wishing Brigit could speak and tell me what she’d been thinking. I asked Seth his thoughts on the subject.
“Who knows?” he said. “But I think you should take her a doggie bag of chicken fajitas, let her know she’s appreciated.”
“Good idea.”
I asked Seth more about his job then, and he explained that he primarily served as a firefighter, pulling bomb squad duty on the rare occasions such skills were needed. He was assigned to Station #10 on Hemphill Street. His jurisdiction largely overlapped with mine. Chances were we’d run into each other on occasion even without trying. Fire department and police personnel worked together on alarm calls and fires, the cops performing crowd control and directing traffic around fire sites.
When dinner was over, Seth drove me and my doggie bag home. He’d ordered a round of fajitas for Blast, too, asking the waiter to hold the onion. The two of us said little on the drive. The margaritas had freed my thoughts and now there were too many of them bouncing around in my head—and too much tequila in my bloodstream—to make coherent conversation:
Who was the bomber?
Was he some random stranger, or could he be someone I’d met before?
Why had he chosen to detonate the bomb in the mall?
