Truth Beat

by Brenda Buchanan

  “How could this guy have known Ryan was the bomber?”

  “I don’t know. Ryan suspected someone who works at the library might have been monitoring his computer activity.”

  “I don’t think the library staff is inclined to do that, even if it had the capability,” Barb said.

  “Maybe someone else who was using a computer at the library looked over his shoulder,” Theo said. “He told me he cleared the history every time he finished working, but maybe he forgot one time and somebody saw he’d been reading about making bombs.”

  “You’re sure Ryan didn’t give in to the urge to boast, maybe tell a few close friends?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but you’ll have to ask him.” Tears filled Theo eyes. “I don’t want to get him in trouble. But that guy has another bomb, and if he sets it off inside a building again, somebody could be killed.”

  “You’re sure Ryan built him two bombs?”

  Theo nodded.

  “When did he deliver them?”

  “Early Sunday morning. A little before 4 a.m. Ryan climbed out his window and met the guy a few blocks from his house.”

  “Did he describe the man?”

  “It was pitch dark. He was in a car. Ryan said the guy didn’t turn off the engine or get out. He just pulled up next to Ryan, put the window down, took the bombs—he was wearing gloves, Ry noticed that—put the window back up and drove away. Didn’t say a word.”

  “Did Ryan say what kind of car it was?’

  “He might have noticed, but he didn’t tell me.”

  “And the guy contacted Ryan on his cell phone?”

  “Right, so Ry’s phone would have captured his number.”

  Barb went into my kitchen and called Wrecker Rigoletti. My house is small and open in its layout, so I had no difficulty overhearing her tense, quick outline of what Theo had said, and the verbal wrestle for control of the situation.

  “We’ll be at the Riverside PD in a half an hour,” she said. “You can meet us there for a formal interview. I’m sending someone to pick up the other boy.”

  Next she called her chief detective, directing him to go to the McCarty residence and bring Ryan and his parents to the station. She said there was no basis yet to detain the boy, but the detective should inform the McCarty kid’s parents charges were likely to follow.

  “I’ve known Pete McCarty since high school,” she said. “He’s going to want to lawyer up.”

  Until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that before calling Barb, we should have arranged for a lawyer to be present to represent Theo. When the chief came back into the living room Christie was talking quietly to her son, who was wiping his eyes again. I nodded Barb back to the kitchen and asked in a low voice whether charges would be brought against Theo.

  “Not if he’s telling the truth,” she said.

  “Does he need a lawyer?”

  She shrugged.

  “If he was your son, would you get him a lawyer?”

  She looked back through the archway at Christie and Theo, sitting close on the couch.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I would. Just in case.”

  When Theo asked to use the bathroom I took Christie aside and made the lawyer suggestion.

  “I know someone I can call,” she said. “If she doesn’t do juvenile law, she’ll know who does.”

  My lungs chose that inopportune moment to erupt into a prolonged coughing jag. By the time I was finished, Christie was pulling on her jacket.

  “Hang on. I’m coming with you to the PD.”

  “This is a parent thing,” she said. “I need to do it alone.”

  I tried to act unsurprised but could feel my ears redden at the rejection of my presumption. Christie did not appear to notice. All her attention was on Theo.

  Watching the two-car procession leave for the police station put a lump in my throat. I shook it off, reminded myself that I had a journalistic duty to do. I called the Chronicle, certain no other media outlet and none of the Twitter or Facebook gabbers would be aware there was a breakthrough in the bombing case. But Leah had an unhappy response when I briefed her on the situation.

  “Once again, you’re personally in the middle of a big story,” she said. “Earlier today I endured another Jack Salisbury diatribe. He’s upset that you went into the church last night and wound up in the ER. I assured him you knew the line between covering the story and becoming part of it.”

  “I’m not trying to insinuate myself into the middle of it, I just am. With this new development, a person I happen to know very well is up to his eyeballs in it, and he came to me.”

  “Right, then you facilitated him talking to the cops.”

  “C’mon Leah. Theo is practically family to me. What would you have done?”

  “I don’t know. But Jack’s not going to be happy.”

  I related the necessary facts to Roz so she could get a story up on the web saying that the police were questioning “persons of interest” in regard to the Riverside bombings. She said she’d call me back as soon as she finished writing.

  Ryan was a juvenile, so his name wouldn’t be published even if he was arrested, at least not unless felony charges were brought. But the anonymous guy who blackmailed the kid into building him a pair of bombs would know it was Ryan talking to the police. More frightening from my standpoint? If the guy figured out Ryan was the bomber, he probably also knew Theo was Ryan’s best friend.

  I said as much to Roz—being careful not to mention Ryan’s name—when she called me back as soon as the story hit the web.

  “I can’t believe your girlfriend’s son’s in the middle of this. Jesus, Joe.”

  “Theo didn’t set off any bombs. He figured out that his buddy set off the first two, and tried to get him stop.”

  “What’d he do? Try to talk some sense into him? Teenage boys have no sense.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, but I understand where Theo’s coming from. Your friends are everything when you’re sixteen. Theo’s a grounded kid. He understood the danger. He thought he’d persuaded his friend to stop. Then it went to the next level, and he didn’t know what to do.”

  “Leah told me the name of the other kid, so you don’t have to dance around it.”

  “You know the McCartys?”

  “Not the mother, just the father.” There was a pause. “He works in bank security. Met him once when I was doing a story about identity theft.”

  “What’s your read on him?”

  “Surface charm. A hard man under the surface. I understand why his son might be screwed up.”

  “At least you know him. That increases the chances he’ll give you a comment.”

  “He won’t take a call from me,” Roz said. “Like I said, Ryan’s mother doesn’t know me, but she knows my name.”

  “You telling me you had a thing with McCarty?”

  Her sigh was audible through the phone. “He told me he was separated. The second time he took me out to dinner I realized he was full of shit. The nice-guy veneer was as thin as a coat of paint.”

  “So it wasn’t an actual affair.”

  “No, thank God. I realized he was a control freak right out of the gate.”

  “But the wife knew you were having dinner with him?”

  “I believe she looked at texts on his phone, saw a flirty one to me. She sent me a text message of her own telling me to keep my hands off her man, but by then I’d already decided to steer clear.”

  Somebody interrupted on her end with a question about the story. When she came back to the phone she asked if I was still hacking up smoke.

  “Sort of, but tomorrow I’m coming back to work. Jack Salisbury can scream all he wants.”

  “He’s going to say you have a conflict on the bombing
story now. I’ll be happy take that over. You can jump back in on the investigation into Pat’s murder,” Roz said. “If the guy who put Ryan McCarty up to building him some bombs is Bozco, I think we’ll find the two stories will intersect.”

  That’s when it dawned on me that Bozco might have been looking for Theo when he showed up at Christie’s house Saturday afternoon. The football field bombing had happened three nights earlier. Had Bozco been slinking around in the dark and spotted Theo acting as Ryan’s lookout?

  “Is your Bangor detective friend Booth telling you something I need to know?”

  Roz didn’t answer for a couple of beats.

  “I heard a whisper today that they’ve flipped one of Bozco’s boys, turned him into an informant. Hard to say how long it will take for that tree to start bearing fruit.”

  * * *

  I was restless until Christie called. Preliminary questioning had wrapped up, she said. Both boys were released to the custody of their parents on the provision they return at 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday.

  “It was comforting to have a lawyer, so thank you for making that suggestion,” she said. “She met with me and Theo first, then with the cops, then sat next to Theo during the first round of interrogation.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s okay. Sad and scared. Worried about Ryan, who’s in big trouble and apparently has one hell of an overbearing father.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  There was a pause.

  “Part of me wants to say yes, but Theo and I still have some talking to do. Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.

  She hung up before I could tell her I loved her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It had been my intention to head into the newsroom early on Tuesday, but when I woke at dawn I found it impossible to haul myself out of bed. Coughing fits had kept me awake much of the night and my whole body hurt. I let myself collapse back into sleep, and didn’t wake up again until ten thirty.

  After a hot shower I felt like a new man. I rummaged around in my pantry for something edible, knowing Christie wouldn’t be at the Rambler and that it would be gossip central, not in a good way. Peggy McGillicuddy called my cell when I was snarfing a toasted peanut butter sandwich, following up on her promise to hook me up with her friend who claimed to have information relevant to Patrick’s murder.

  “Is three o’clock good?”

  “Tell me the place and I’ll be there.”

  “Not yet. I’ll call you at two thirty with that detail.”

  I told her I was on my way to the Chronicle’s newsroom, and would have my cell phone in hand.

  “This is well worth your attention, Joe. You can trust me on that.”

  I suspected Peggy planned to introduce me to a mutual friend from her early days in Riverside, someone who used to hang out at The Lighthouse, where she’d met Patrick. Or maybe it was one of the church-closing protest gang. Whoever it was, I hoped Peggy’s sense of what counted as news was on target. I didn’t have the energy to listen to someone’s armchair theories about what happened to Patrick.

  I was halfway to Portland when my phone rang. It was Barb Wyatt, unaware I wasn’t covering the bombing story anymore.

  “This is off the record, in gratitude for calling me last night. Our questioning of the boys wrapped up a few minutes ago. We got only sketchy details about the guy who asked Ryan to build two bombs, but we’re convinced he’s telling the truth. Based on what he gave us, we’re putting together a lineup. The bullhorn man will be included.”

  So Bozco finally was being brought in for questioning. I hoped Ryan had seen his face clearly enough in the middle-of-the-night gloom to identify him as the man to whom he’d handed off the church bomb.

  Barb said Christie and Theo had left the station moments ago.

  “Is Theo going to be looking at charges?”

  “Hell no. He’s the hero of the day.”

  I’d been trying to convince myself that would be outcome, but Barb’s confirmation had me grinning like a fool. I was hungry to hear the relief in Christie’s voice, but decided to text first, wary of overstepping the invisible line I’d scuffed the previous night.

  better day today than ystdy?

  o yeah, she texted back.

  R U able 2 talk?

  Sure

  Theo had gone directly to bed when they got home, she said, beat from a night without a wink of sleep.

  “How ’bout you?”

  “I got maybe an hour last night. Hour and a half. But we’ll both sleep tonight. The chief explicitly told Theo he wouldn’t be facing any charges, told him a half-dozen times he’d probably saved lives.”

  “He able to take it in?”

  “Not yet. Ryan sent him a couple of angry texts yesterday afternoon and posted a nasty comment about Theo on social media. It took me an hour to get him to admit why he was upset. He finally let me read it on his phone.

  “What’d it say?”

  “That Theo was a momma’s boy, bails out on his friends when the shit hits the fan.”

  “That’ll lose its sting when everyone figures out that Ryan was the bomber.”

  “True, but for the moment it means Theo feels like a snitch, not a hero. And he’s no momma’s boy.”

  “His friends know that. Ryan’s in a heap of trouble with both the law and his father. It’s no surprise he’s lashing out at Theo.”

  “It’s hard to watch,” Christie said. “Harder still not to keep telling him he was right to do what he did, and hugging him whenever he’s within arm’s reach.”

  “Because you are that good boy’s momma.”

  “And proud of it.”

  * * *

  Assuming my Peggy-and-informant meeting would be in Portland, I slouched low over my desk in the back of the newsroom while I waited for the call. When Jack Salisbury marched in at 2:25, I knew I had to get out of there, pronto. If he spotted me I’d be captive when Peggy called, and she’d been emphatic that I could not tell anyone—not even my editor—about my impending interview with her friend. Maybe the meeting would be a bust, but in case the source had something to say, I didn’t want to blow it by not being available at the appointed hour.

  I slid my keys and cell phone into my pockets and walked casually to the corridor fifteen feet from my desk, leaving my jacket on the back of my chair so anyone watching would think I was headed for the john. As soon as I turned the corner that put me out of sight, I bolted down the hall and ran down the stairs to the building’s back door. I jogged the entire two blocks to my car, which left me wheezing like an old dog on a hot day when my cell phone finally rang.

  “Come to St. Jerome’s rectory,” Peggy said.

  She hung up before I could say a word.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It had been a week since Pat was killed, and Rufe had spent almost none of that time working. He’d finished the sprinkler work over at the Saccarappa. He’d written up estimates for a couple of residential jobs. Otherwise he’d immersed himself in the real-life drama playing out in Riverside.

  Rufe envied Joe sometimes. The reporter gig didn’t pay well and the Chronicle was on the skids, but Joe’s job was a hell of a lot more interesting than installing commercial kitchens and replacing leaky pipes.

  As much as he knew he ought to stop dubbing around, Rufe couldn’t motivate himself to put on his coveralls, or even spend the afternoon returning customer phone calls. Instead he climbed into his truck and drove around as aimlessly as a teenager desperate to be out of the house, the soundtrack of West Side Story filling the cab.

  He was at a stoplight, singing along to “Tonight,” when he glanced at the car idling on his right and saw Father Michael DiAngelo. The priest’s handsome profile was unmistakable. He was alo
ne in the car, eyes focused on the Jeep in front of him.

  Was Joe right? Had DiAngelo come back to pick up Kathleen?

  Rufe flicked off the music and took his time accelerating when the light turned green. He eased into the right lane and followed the gray sedan. A mile up the road DiAngelo took a left into a self-storage place. Rufe drove past the entrance, made a U-turn at the next side road and cruised back.

  In Maine, there are a hundred big black pickups on any given road at any given time. Had Rufe tailed him into the storage area, DiAngelo might have caught on. But three minutes later, coming in from the opposite direction, Rufe would look like just another guy renting a place to stash the stuff he couldn’t fit in his garage.

  Still, Rufe fished a faded Red Sox cap out of the console at his right elbow. Paired with his sunglasses it was a decent enough disguise, especially because DiAngelo had no expectation of seeing Rufe at a self-storage facility on the edge of town.

  He drove along the perimeter of the fenced complex, glancing up and down the rows of low-slung concrete and metal structures until he spotted the gray Ford. It was facing west, near the end of a row. Rufe turned into the same alley and stopped short of the halfway point, pulling his truck next to an oversized unit. DiAngelo was parked in front of a five-foot-wide overhead door, the narrowest size in the place.

  Looked like ol’ Mike might have been in on the theft thing, too. Maybe there was some church booty in the storage unit, stuff they didn’t fence.

  Rufe pulled out his phone and speed dialed Joe. Got voicemail.

  He must have turned off his phone so he could get some sleep, Rufe thought. Seeing how he’s on the DL, I’ll gather some more pieces of the puzzle for him.

  He turned off the engine but kept the phone to his ear, ready to mime an animated discussion if need be. He suppressed the urge to jump out of the truck and stroll past the open door. Better to watch DiAngelo remove whatever he’d come to retrieve, then follow him to his destination.