Warning Signs

by Stephen White

  What else did she have?

  Her wits. And her personal handgun. That was about it.

  She backed down the concrete steps and started strolling away from the building to give herself time to rethink her options. She considered calling Cozy to see how bad the fallout had been from the Daily Camera story about her and Susan Peterson but decided that she could wait to learn about that. No matter how bad it had been, she was sure it had been bad enough. She also second-guessed her decision not to call Sam until she was absolutely certain that Jason Ramp Bass was the man they were looking for.

  She reminded herself to think like a cop. There was no way she should approach Jason Bass alone without notifying somebody what she was up to. Ella Ramp may have already called her grandson and warned him that Lucy was on his tail. The young man could be armed.

  Lucy stopped and used her cell phone to call Alan. She got his voice mail. "Alan, listen, it's Lucy. I think I found Ramp. He lives in Capitol Hill in Denver." She recited the address on Pennsylvania. "I'm heading up to his apartment to try and talk to him now. If for some reason I don't get back to you later today or this evening, call Sam and tell him what I was up to."

  She hung up, squeezed her left triceps against her rib cage to feel the reassuring pressure of her holstered weapon, returned to the front door of the apartment building, and hit the bell marked "Bass."

  No answer.

  She tried the knob on the front door of the building. Locked.

  One more time she tried the bell. As she waited for a response she backed away from the door and stared up at the fourth floor, trying to guess which apartment was Ramp's.

  CHAPTER 36

  R amp was halfway to the Water Street location of the welding supply company where he worked when he realized that he'd forgotten his inspiration. He turned his car around and headed back to his apartment.

  The elusive alley parking spot was filled. He double-parked and ran up the back stairs. He retrieved the framed photograph of his mother from on top of the bookcase and was just about out the door when the buzzer sounded from downstairs.

  Ramp froze momentarily, then slowly walked to his front windows. The buzzer sounded again.

  He waited. Half a minute or so later he watched a blond woman back slowly away from the door, looking up toward the fourth floor.

  Who is she?

  Ramp said, "Shit," and stepped away from the window. "Here or there?" he asked himself. "Up here or down there?"

  If I let her up here, he thought, whatever happens will leave evidence. Trace. Can't have that. Out loud, he said, "The correct answer, therefore, is down there." He bounded out the door of his apartment and flew down the stairs like a kid afraid to miss something. Only slightly winded, he grabbed his bag from his car, stuffed the photograph of his mother inside, circled his building, and was on the sidewalk behind the blond woman before she got all the way back to her car.

  The red Volvo had the old, traditional, white-sky-over-green-mountains style Colorado license plates. The lettering on the plates read "MST." Ramp knew that designation meant the car was registered in Boulder County. The new green-over-white plates lacked a county code; you couldn't tell where the car was from.

  Who the hell would be visiting him from Boulder? Nobody he wanted to see, that's who.

  He noted the absence of a uniform and the presence of the leather blazer the woman was wearing on a warm afternoon. If the cops were after him, they wouldn't send a patrol officer. They'd send a detective, he thought. Probably two. He wondered about a gun under the blazer. He wondered about a partner. He couldn't spot anyone.

  If she was a cop, she had a gun. Either under her blazer or in that purse. But why would they send a solitary cop?

  Ramp was five feet behind her when he said, "Detective?"

  She turned to face him.

  He saw the look of resignation on her face when she realized she'd been duped. He smiled, and he said, "Thank you. That was easy. Go ahead and get in your car, Detective, but slide all the way across to the driver's side. I'll be right behind you. Once you're in the car, put your hands under your thighs. I'll take that purse, now, if you don't mind."

  Ramp recognized the woman from the news. She was the Boulder cop who was the prime suspect in killing the Boulder DA. She was on leave from the police force. There'd been something in the news all day long about her mother, too. Ramp hadn't really paid attention.

  She didn't seem frightened. Certainly wasn't jumping to obey him.

  He said, "Do what I say. Hand me the purse, please, then slide into the car." He lifted the satchel he'd just retrieved from his apartment. "I have a weapon in this bag-actually, it's an explosive device-a bomb-that will kill both of us instantly. Although I'm willing to set it off, I'd really rather not do that."

  He watched intently as the cop began to lower herself onto the car seat. When she was seated on the passenger's side, Ramp said, "Stop there for a second." He leaned in toward her and with his left hand pulled back the lapel of her blazer, exposing the butt of her handgun. Careful not to brush her body with his fingers, he removed the weapon and added it to the bag. "Now scoot over to the other side."

  She did.

  She noted that he wasn't using her weapon against her and asked, "Can I use my hands to raise myself over the console?"

  "Sure," he replied. "Thanks for asking. I don't think either of us wants to be surprised right now."

  She said, "You're Jason?"

  "I am. You're the cop from the news?"

  "Yeah, that's me."

  "Nice to meet you," he said.

  Despite herself, Lucy thought that Jason Ramp Bass was charming. She also thought that the fact that he was charming explained a lot.

  CHAPTER 37

  L auren waited until we were in bed to ask me who I thought had killed Naomi Bigg and severely injured Marin. Her question came after I filled her in about my conversation with Sam.

  I'd been thinking about that exact question-who had set off the bomb?-all day long, of course. Prior to the moment when Adrienne informed me that Paul Bigg had been dead for six years, I'd been assuming that it was Paul who had placed the bomb that had killed his mother and maimed his sister. I figured that he'd somehow managed to slip the device into Naomi's Vuitton bag during their confrontation in the parking lot outside her office.

  I said, "Before my visit to that ranch today I would've thought it was Paul. After I met Ella Ramp, I would've guessed that it could've been either Ramp or Paul."

  "But it wasn't Paul." Lauren spoke gently, wary perhaps of the unpredictability of the reaction of someone with closed head trauma. "We know that. Why do you think Naomi did that? Why did she keep Paul alive the way she did?"

  "I don't know. I'm not convinced that Naomi actually lied-not in the sense that she was trying to fool me by creating a grown-up version of her son. I think Naomi was just inviting me into her delusions. Maybe she'd split Marin in two and given half her daughter's life to her son in order to keep him alive. I'm not sure. But we know that Ramp is real and that he's connected to Marin in some way that's not clear.

  "I am convinced that before Naomi came over to my office, she had just spoken with somebody in her office parking lot."

  "Ramp?"

  "Yes, has to be."

  "And you think he placed the bomb then, right?"

  "She carried this big Vuitton bag around with her all the time. It always looked like it weighed a ton. I think he met with her at her office and managed to get the device into her bag."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe Ramp wanted to kill her because he found out she was talking to me about her fears about the wouldn't-it-be-cool games. She'd called me and implied that she was about to do just that. So Ramp met her at her office, and he placed the bomb. The alternative is that Naomi was carrying the thing around on her own. I don't see that."

  "Maybe the person who put the bomb in there was trying to kill both Naomi and Marin," Lauren suggested.


  "If Marin recovers, maybe we'll know the answer to that. She was terrified that her mother was in danger. She'd come to my office to warn Naomi about something. Marin was frantic, hysterical. She yelled at her mother not to turn off her car. It makes me think that she expected that the car was wired with an explosive."

  She asked, "Did Sam say how the bomb was set off?"

  "No, he didn't say. Hopefully the police can figure that out from examining the debris. The one they found in Nora's garage had a radio control. They blew it apart with that thing, that-"

  "Disruptor. The bomb squad calls it a disruptor. And it will be ATF and CBI doing the figuring, not the police." Lauren gazed at me warily, watching my reaction. I think she was still unconvinced that the condition of my brain would permit me to recognize either the acronym of the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Administration, the federal agency responsible for investigating bombings, or that of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.

  "I know what the letters stand for," I said.

  "I heard from Elliot that the ATF is mobilizing a Special Response Team. That means that they're taking this seriously. A forensic chemist deploys as part of the team, so we should know something soon about the explosive residue. I've been thinking, from the way the bomb went off outside your office the fuse had to be connected to either a timer or a radio signal. Do you see it that way?"

  I'd considered the options, of course. "That, or some kind of motion switch. She'd just thrown the bag over her shoulder when the explosion happened. Aren't there switches that respond to that kind of thing?"

  "I'm sure there are. But it seems like a risky way to set off a bomb to me, don't you think?"

  She was right, of course. I shuddered at the thought of the alternative. "If it was a radio switch, whoever set it off had to be close to Naomi. Close enough to see what she was doing, right?"

  Lauren said, "Yes."

  We both grew quiet as we digested the image of the bomber witnessing the carnage. Finally, I said, "Sam said every cop in the state is looking for Ramp."

  She allowed my words to dissipate like smoke and began caressing my neck. The taut muscles that stretched up from my back barely yielded to her touch. She said, "Alan?"

  "Mmmm?"

  "Did you think Grace and I were in danger?"

  "I was never really sure. Naomi hinted at things, but she was never really clear about what she knew. I tried to make decisions… as though you were at some risk."

  "I don't get it. What do you mean? If you thought we were in danger, why didn't you tell me what was going on? Why didn't you go to the police?"

  There was no mistaking her words. They were an accusation. She was asking how I could put my family at risk.

  I made sure she was looking at me. "Like I said, I was reading between the lines. And Naomi warned me that if I told anybody about her concerns, she'd stop talking to me, and then I would have never known whether you were really at risk or not. And I wouldn't have known what the two boys were planning or how to protect you. Or anybody else."

  "Even after they found the bomb at Royal's house?"

  "While we were at dinner the other night with Adrienne, I had a cop friend of Sam's bring her K-9 over here to check for explosives. She had the dog search the house and your car."

  "You did?"

  "Yes. She didn't find anything, obviously."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  I didn't want to answer that question, but I did. "One, privilege, which, given what happened today, is lame, I admit. But yesterday, it made some sense. Two, I thought you'd insist on going to the police, and then Naomi would stop talking to me. Three, your health. Although I was afraid, I really didn't know that you were at risk and I didn't want to add stress to your life by alarming you. I've been worried about an exacerbation of your MS."

  She digested my words. "And now?"

  "I'm still worried about an exacerbation. But now Naomi's dead. She won't be giving me any more clues. The police are all we have."

  Silence settled on the room like a comforter snapped over a bed.

  I broke the silence. "I didn't have any good choices, Lauren. I did what I thought was best. I thought I was protecting us."

  "I know," she said.

  "Maybe I blew it. Maybe I made the wrong call," I said.

  "Somebody's dead," she said. The words were her way of agreeing that perhaps I had made the wrong call.

  "Yes. But I'm still not convinced that things would have been better if I had opened my mouth." I didn't know what else to say. "What exactly would you have wanted me to do, Lauren?"

  "I'm not sure. I'll think about it, okay?"

  For some reason I thought of Lucy Tanner just then. I was eager to change the subject anyway, so I asked, "Did you and Cozy hear from Lucy today?"

  "You mean about Susan?"

  "Yes. How she feels about all the news coverage about… Susan being her mother."

  "Cozy got a message this morning. Lucy said she was planning to spend the day in Denver-I suspected to try to avoid the media-and she was going to get back in touch with him this evening. The last time I spoke with him was a couple of hours ago, and he hadn't heard from her again.

  "Before the bomb went off, Alan, I was thinking of calling Susan. Just to see how she was. This has to be terrible for her, too-all the stress. But the day sort of got away from me, you know?"

  "Yes," I said. "I know."

  The phone beside the bed rang. For the third time that night, Sam Purdy was calling.

  CHAPTER 38

  S am picked me up at our house around eleven-thirty. It took me twice as long as it should have to climb into his Cherokee. When we arrived across town at the Peterson house on Jay Street, it took me at least a minute to pull myself back out of the car. The shrapnel wound on my butt had tightened up as though the sutures were contracting like rubber bands, and pain was pulsing across my hindquarters like the backbeat of some hellacious tune.

  Watching me, Sam said, "You should really be home in bed."

  "Yes, I should be home in bed. But you said this might help find Lucy. There are times you have to play hurt."

  A lilt of mirth in his tone, he said, "My, my. You're talking like a hockey player." From Sam, this was the ultimate compliment and expression of appreciation.

  I laughed. It hurt, I winced. "Hardly," I said.

  Sam arrived at Susan Peterson's threshold long before I did. I was still trying to mount the single step in the walk without having to bend my leg. He turned and looked back down the walk and said, "By the way, I decided not to tell her I was bringing you with me. Thought the surprise factor might work in my favor."

  "Whatever."

  "Your role inside? In case you're wondering, it's lubricant. That's your job. If the bolt seems stuck, you're the WD-40. Otherwise let me do my thing. Got it? I may be nice to her, I may not. I don't plan these things out. But don't interfere unless things get squeaky."

  I nodded. I had a pretty good idea what to expect. In my experience, Sam was almost always the good cop and the bad cop all rolled up into one tasty package.

  He waited for me to join him on the landing. "Why don't you ring the bell? She might be happy to see you."

  "Sam, the last time I saw her, Susan was bedridden. She's not going to answer her own door. And anyway, it's almost midnight and it's Susan Peterson. She's not going to be happy to see anybody. Go ahead and ring the damn bell."

  He did.

  Susan's home-health-care worker pulled open the door after twenty or thirty seconds. She was a middle-aged woman with a big smile and bright green eyes. No makeup, wild curly brown hair, peasant blouse. I felt certain she'd been a hippie thirty years earlier.

  "I'm Detective Purdy," Sam said, holding out his badge. "I phoned a little while ago."

  "Alan Gregory," I added. "I'm a friend of Susan's."

  She eyed me suspiciously, as though she was finding it hard to believe that Susan actually had friends. "Hello, hello, we've been expecting you.
Come on in. I'm Crystal. Susan's upstairs waiting. Let me show you."

  Sam said, "That's not necessary. I know the way." His voice was less than pleasant. I was placing my bet that he was going to start this process in the bad-cop persona.

  I said, "The detective has been here before." What I didn't tell Crystal was that Sam's previous visit to this house was the night that Susan's husband was murdered.

  My ass throbbing, I gazed longingly at the electric lift that had been installed to assist Susan up and down the staircase. I was tempted to ask Crystal how to use it. I didn't. Sam waited at the top of the stairs while I took the steps one at a time, dragging my wounded leg behind me.

  "You're quite a gimp, you know?" He'd lowered his voice to a semblance of a whisper.

  "Yeah, I know." After what felt like a technical climb in Eldorado Canyon, I joined him on the upstairs landing.

  "You ready? You go first. Go lubricate."

  I knocked and walked in. Susan had a hospital bed in her room. Although a bedside lamp was on, she appeared to be sleeping. "Susan? It's Alan Gregory. I came along with that detective who wants to talk with you."

  She opened her eyes halfway and said my name. She appeared medicated. I wondered if she was taking something for pain or for sleep.

  "Susan, how are you doing?"

  "Oh, the pain. I'm having some pain."

  "You took something for it?"

  "I take things, but they can't find anything that really works. Doctors, doctors. The girl who's here-she's, she's-oh, let's just say she tries to help. I suppose they all try, don't they?" The aroma of her condescension and self-pity filled the room like a tuna sandwich left behind in the trash.

  "This is Detective Purdy." I pointed behind me at Sam.

  I'd seen Sam interview children before. He had a magical way of folding in on himself to disguise his size and appear less threatening. He managed the same transformation right then with Susan as he approached her bed. He became a big friendly gnome.