by Dee Davis
“That the bomber meant to take out the building and the senators were just collateral damage?”
“Exactly.” She pushed her hair back, and blew out a long breath. “Unfortunately, what I’m finding here seems to support the fact.”
“Why unfortunate?” Harrison frowned.
“Two reasons. First off, it’s easier to identify possible motives for murder. Figuring out why someone destroys a particular building is a whole lot harder. And secondly, there are all kinds of officials breathing down our necks to find out who is behind this thing. I’ve fielded six calls already this morning, including one from Washington. And that’s just me. No telling what Gabe and Cullen have been dealing with.”
“I can understand the pressure, but I don’t get why it makes a difference if they were killed on purpose or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The latter doesn’t play well with the media. Considering the fact that the senators were playing the system to line their state’s coffers, the press is already having a field day. And they sure as hell don’t want the end of the story to be that these guys were killed accidentally. Much better that it was a conspiracy. The more that gets airplay, the more pressure government officials will have to come up with that kind of answer. And the muddier the water gets, the harder it’s going to be for us to figure out the truth.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Harrison said, clearly disgusted. “That’s why I left the FBI for Phoenix.”
“You were in Madison’s class at Quantico, right?”
“Yeah, and then I spent a couple of years as a field agent. Not bad work, really, but I think I’m more suited to do my investigating in cyberspace.”
“Phoenix is a well-respected company.”
“That’s John Brighton. He’s the force behind it all. One of the smartest men I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve read about him, of course, but never met him. I’ve always been impressed with the fact that he uses all that brain power to help solve crimes. I mean to hear the talk, he could have been another Bill Gates or Cullen Pulaski.”
Harrison shrugged. “He had that once, but it almost killed him. Literally. And I think once you’ve faced death like that, you’re never really the same.”
“Sounds like that’s coming from personal experience.” Sam tilted her head, studying the younger man’s face, noticing for the first time the fine lines that framed his eyes and mouth.
“I guess it is.” His expression had become guarded. “I lost my sister when I was in high school. She was killed by an intruder.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Sam reached out to touch his hand. “Were you there?”
“Yeah.” The single word said it all.
“I didn’t mean to…” she trailed off, struggling for the right thing to say.
“It’s okay.” He blew out a breath. “I should be able to handle it better. It was a long time ago.”
“I don’t think wounds like that ever really heal.” She was thinking of her father. The thought of him still brought tears, even after all this time. And he’d died of natural causes. “Is that why you joined the FBI?”
He nodded. “I had this notion that if I fought the bad guys, it’d help me cope. But it didn’t change anything really. And, as I said, I was more comfortable with computers.”
“Either way, you’re making more of a difference than you know.” She squeezed his hand and then let go, determined to get back to more comfortable ground. “And I happen to be in need of that expertise as we speak.”
“Just tell me what you need.” He smiled, his gratitude reflected in the gesture.
He was more open than Payton, but in some ways they were a lot alike, preferring to bury their pain rather than deal with it. Part and parcel of the male species, she supposed.
She picked up a file from the table. “I’ve got photographs here of several fragments from the San Antonio site. Some are straight shots, and some are enhanced with the microscope. What I need you to do is examine them with whatever computer tools you have. Blow them up, segment them, whatever.”
“What am I looking for?” His expression was back to normal, the combination of boyish enthusiasm and intelligence the cornerstone of his charm.
“Anything unusual. A tool mark. A stress fracture. Even a signature.”
His eyebrows rose. “These guys sign their work?”
“Some of them do.”
“You’ve already seen something, haven’t you?” He crossed his arms, studying her face.
“Maybe.” Sam smiled. The man certainly didn’t miss a beat. “Just see what you can find.”
“You got it.” He picked up the file, then stood up with a grin and a salute and headed off toward the computer lab.
Sam returned to the fragment she’d been working on, her mind turning over the possibility that the bomber had indeed signed his work. If he had, it meant two things. First, that he was sending some kind of a message. And second, that Eddie was right. He’d most likely done it all before.
PAYTON SAT PERCHED on the arm of a chair in Cullen’s office, admiring the dark sheen of the man’s furniture. Mahogany antiques that had no doubt cost a fortune. But then, Cullen always acquired the very best.
Payton supposed the thought should be flattering; after all, Cullen had chosen him, in a way. But instead, the idea was repugnant. Money couldn’t buy everything. Or at least that’s what he preferred to believe.
“The president is riding my ass big-time,” Cullen said, his gaze encompassing both Payton and Gabe. “Tell me you have something positive to report.”
Gabe shook his head, his expression grim. “It’s still too soon. Sam’s got the NRT working on the fragments day and night. Not to mention the pieces she’s got here. Unfortunately it just takes time.”
“Time is not something we have.” As usual Cullen was talking in edicts.
“I can’t make it go any faster, Cullen. You’ll just have to tell Washington we’re working as hard as we can.”
“How about the bomb in Sam’s suite—anything there that could link it to San Antonio?”
“Nothing concrete so far.” Gabe shook his head. “But I think we have to assume that there’s a connection. The timing alone is indicative of that.”
“Well maybe Sam can find something there that’ll prove to be a lead in the other case.” Cullen picked up a ball on his desk, absently squeezing it. “How’s she holding up?”
“She’s fine.” Payton wasn’t certain why he answered. Gabe could easily have fielded the question. “Apparently this kind of thing happens a lot in her line of work.” It wasn’t exactly what Sam had said, but it would do. And for some reason Payton felt the need to protect her. Make certain that Cullen wasn’t aware of any chinks in her armor.
Not that she’d thank him for his involvement. Samantha Waters was perfectly capable of watching out for herself.
“And she’s fitting into the team all right?” Cullen’s question was aimed at Gabe, but again Payton felt compelled to answer.
“No problems at all. She’s a straight shooter and that certainly sits well with the rest of us. And she definitely knows her job.” He was bordering on effusive. And Gabe’s grin wasn’t helping matters any.
Cullen, thankfully, appeared to be oblivious to his discomfort. “Well, I’m glad it’s working. It’s important that you all work well together. Last Chance has created quite a reputation over the past couple of years, and I’d hate to see anything detract from that.”
He wasn’t talking about Sam anymore. And the only reputation he was worried about was his own.
“What people think of Last Chance is the least of our problems, Cullen,” Gabe said, pale eyes flashing. “We’ve got three men dead and a building destroyed. And as you so elegantly put it, people riding our asses.”
“Perception is everything, Gabriel.” Cullen’s expression was deceivingly bland. “Don’t ever forget that.”
“Right,” Gabe said, his gaze dueling wit
h Cullen’s. If they hadn’t both looked so serious, Payton might have laughed. But he knew better.
There was a moment of heavy silence, and then Cullen turned to Payton. “What about Houston?”
“It was a dead end.” Nothing like a little more bad news.
“Goddamn it.” The expletive hung in the air, Cullen’s expression thunderous. “I need something. I’m supposed to fly to Washington for a press conference tomorrow. The NRT scheduled it without so much as a by-your-leave.”
End runs did not please Cullen Pulaski. If there were a poster boy for control freaks, Cullen was the man. His attention to detail and personal involvement was the biggest contributor to his success. At the same time his constant meddling also meant that he was often involved in areas where he had no expertise. A double-edged sword if ever there was one.
In the case of Iraq, that lack of expertise had cost lives—Payton’s wife and brother principal among them.
Payton pushed his black thoughts away, focusing instead on the present conversation.
“You’ve got the senators’ illicit meeting, and their collusion to funnel money away from needed areas into their own backyards. That’ll have to satisfy the hungry dogs.” Gabe crossed his arms, his patience for Cullen and his caterwauling only slightly better than Payton’s.
“I thought you’d decided that the bomb wasn’t meant for the senators.” Cullen frowned. “Have you found something to contradict that?”
“Nothing,” Payton interjected. “In fact, for what it’s worth, Eddie Marcus believes the bomb was about the building and not the senators as well.”
“The point here, Cullen,” Gabe said, “is that there’s no need to tell the press any more than is needed. For that matter, there’s no reason to let the president in on this either, although with so many people involved I’m not sure how you can stop that. But as far as I’m concerned the longer the press thinks this is all about the senators’ backroom dealings, the better it is for us. It’ll take the heat off, and give us time to consider all aspects of the San Antonio bombing.”
“In addition,” Payton said, taking his cue from Gabe, “Madison thinks that it might play to our advantage with the bomber to keep the focus on the senators.”
“How so?” Cullen asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.
“If this guy is trying to send a message, it’s going to get lost in all the hoopla about the murders. Which, according to my wife, isn’t going to sit very well.”
“So you’re hoping it’ll draw him out.” Cullen frowned, considering the possible outcomes of such action.
“Exactly.”
“It’s a good theory in the abstract, except that it could mean more casualties.”
“Hopefully, not. If we’re right, the bomber was trying to destroy the building, not take human life, which should mean his next move will be destructive but not lethal.”
Cullen shrugged. “Unless he’s developed a taste for blood.”
WALTER ATHERTON was exhausted all the way down to his toes. It had been a hell of a day, the main order of business dealing with the San Antonio bombing. Although Sam Waters, along with Cullen Pulaski’s Last Chance, was in charge of the official investigation, his agents were working as part of the National Response Team, which meant long hours and little payoff.
Everyone in Washington wanted answers yesterday, which meant he’d spent the majority of his time on the phone. Sometimes he wished he’d never become a director. Administrative work was a pain in the ass.
In many ways he’d rather have still been in the trenches. Working with people like Sam. Digging through rubble to find answers. It had been years since they’d worked together, but he’d continued to follow her career, in many ways considering her his protégée.
Although, in truth, she far surpassed him, a fact which didn’t always sit well. Except that administrative work had helped pay off his home in McLean. And a summer cottage at the beach. So there really wasn’t much room for complaint.
It’s just that sometimes he felt so damn old. Five more years and the Bureau would be pushing him to retire. Not that they were alone in that regard. His wife was always talking about him being home. So that they could do things together. Things he had no interest in whatsoever. But he loved Amanda, and so he’d make the adjustment.
He pulled into his driveway, hitting the remote button on the visor that opened the garage. Amanda wouldn’t be home until late tonight, which meant he had time to himself to unwind. The thought of a double scotch was appealing, especially when his wife wasn’t around to remind him that alcohol wasn’t good for his heart.
In his mind, if it helped to relieve his stress then it could hardly be bad for him, but of course his cardiologist didn’t agree. And neither did Amanda.
He pulled the Acura into the garage and sat for a minute letting the silence surround him, ignoring the vibration of his BlackBerry. Technology was a wonderful thing, but sometimes it was too damn invasive.
At least it wasn’t his cell phone.
He pulled it out and scrolled through the messages, stopping to read one. A press conference tomorrow. Obviously the NRT felt the need to at least pretend there had been progress. He wondered if Sam would be involved.
He doubted it. If she’d been planning to come to D.C., she would have called.
With a sigh, he pocketed the machine and got out of the car, starting for the door, stopping short when he caught sight of the empty garbage can. Amanda would have his head if he left it out.
Nothing like a little domestic peace to clue you in to your real importance in life.
He strode down the driveway, lifting a hand to wave at the neighbor across the street. The houses here were all on big lots, which meant that it was rare to see your neighbors, and even when you did, they were too far away to talk.
Grabbing the can, he pulled it back onto its wheels and rolled it back up the driveway, deciding that he’d have two double scotches. Hell, after his day, he’d earned them. He pulled the bin over the bump that divided the garage from the driveway and maneuvered it into the open space between the door and some shelving.
Everything in its place—just the way Amanda liked it.
With a smile, he walked through the garage to the back door, and reached up to press the button to close the garage. Instead of the usual grinding noise that signaled the grudging descent of the door, there was only a hollow click.
Frowning, he tried again, this time pressing and holding the button.
The fireball crashed out through the open garage door and up into the twilight sky, taking half the house and its owner with it in less time than it took Walter Atherton to draw his last breath.
CHAPTER TEN
SAM STARED DOWN at the half-assembled model on the table. She’d cast the major pieces of the recovered bomb fragments and filled in the rest using a combination of experience and intuition. Her lab in Georgia was doing the same thing, and between the two of them, Sam was confident they’d soon have an accurate replica of the bomb used at the Prager.
In seeing how the bomb had been put together, it was possible to gain insight into the man who had built it. And right now that was of paramount concern.
She took a piece of putty and used it to connect two fragments, the entire thing beginning to take on lethal proportions. There was an odd kind of beauty at work, and despite the fact that the thing had killed three people, Sam couldn’t help but admire the ingenuity involved.
She’d been fascinated with things that went boom since she’d first discovered firecrackers as a kid. And listening to her dad’s stories had only fueled the fire, so to speak. While other kids were building forts or windmills with their Tinker Toys, Sam had been building explosive devices. Some of them even operational.
She’d been grounded once for a month after an experiment had gone wrong and blown up her mother’s washing machine. From that point on, she’d been a hell of a lot more careful where she tested her work.
After high school, she’d moved on to college and engineering. Texas A&M had opened a whole new world, and, except on paper, there hadn’t been time for explosives. But then once she’d landed with the crime scene unit in Abilene, she’d found her way back to what she loved most—the intricate combination of chemistry, physics and pyrotechnics that yielded a bomb.
That and the psychology of those that made them.
There was a certain symmetry in the fact that what she had once loved to create, she now spent the major portion of her life destroying. Most people thought she’d just followed in her father’s footsteps, but Sam knew better. There was something else there—something inherent in her makeup. Her father had had it, too. So maybe it was in the genes—or maybe it was a quirk in personality.
Either way, pure and simple, she loved her job. Even when it seemed to be going nowhere.
She dropped the piece she was working with and picked up another, turning it to see if maybe it would fit with the already assembled parts. Tedious work, but she was convinced the payoff would be worth the effort.
“You’re working late.” Payton as usual had arrived on silent feet, and Sam jumped at the sound of his voice.
“You scared the crap out of me.” Her words came out harsher than she’d meant them, but her heart was pounding and, quite honestly, she didn’t appreciate being interrupted.
“Occupational hazard.” He shrugged, not looking even the slightest bit apologetic. “You had anything to eat?”
“No time.” Sam shook her head, rotating the fragment to try and match it to another piece.
“That’s what I figured.” Payton produced a large paper bag that smelled of cumin and chili. Sam’s mouth watered and her stomach clenched in anticipation. Her brain might want to keep working, but the rest of her body was obviously in revolt.
“Harrison swears this is the best Mexican food in Austin.” He pulled out a plastic container and handed it to her, then pulled out another for himself. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I went for variety. Two Chuy’s Comida Deluxe plates at your service.”
