Cherry Bomb (7 page)
Authors: J. A. Konrath
“She bought this phone in Gurnee, which is on the way to Milwaukee. Maybe we should start heading up there.”
“If she’s lying, we could be heading in the wrong direction.”
I chewed my lower lip.
“You need to bring in the troops on this, Jackie. They can send out a bulletin to other cop shops. Maybe even get his face on TV.”
Harry must have noticed my reaction, because he shook his head.
“We don’t have to give them the phone. Or even a clone of the phone. We can forward the pictures and texts to one of their phones. Send it to fatso. He’ll take care of it.”
“Fine.” I held out my hand. “Give me the card back.”
“Let me save this first. Resolution is for shit. Maybe I can tweak it, get a serial number on the pigstick. Can’t be that many of those out there.”
Harry opened up a photo program, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d met a few Explosive Ordnance Disposal cops. Serious, professional guys. A pigstick was a portable arm that held a shell or a high-pressure water jet, used to remotely detonate suspicious devices. Detonation wire, shock tube, and blasting caps were tools of the EOD. But they weren’t the only tools.
Most bomb squads had bigger, more dangerous devices.
If Alex had a pigstick, what else could she have?
T
HE JORDAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY,
located only a mile from the beach, has closed for the day. It’s dark and quiet.
Alex drives past the empty parking lot, over the grass, and pulls to a stop behind some fir trees. She kills the engine, grabs her army surplus duffel bag, and leaves the Honda, walking back toward the main building. The night has cooled off to the mid-forties. She tucks her hair under the hood and pulls the cords tight around her face. It’s doubtful anyone is watching, but it never hurts to be careful.
The M4 Sherman tank sits in front of the building on a dais of concrete, just like in the Web site pictures. Alex walks up to it, touches the cold green steel. It’s smaller than she expects, several yards shorter and half the weight of the MI Abrams. The 60mm gun on the turret is pointed east, poised to protect the shoreline from approaching enemy armadas. Metaphorically, of course, because the barrel is filled with concrete.
Alex rests the duffel bag on the front tread fender and sticks a mini Maglite in her teeth. Pointing downward, she tears the paper off a brick of PENO. The plastic explosive is gray, without odor, heavy for its size. Alex pulls off a fist-sized hunk and rolls it between her palms. It’s stickier, and slightly stiffer, than modeling clay. She forms it into a pyramid shape, then places the base against the frontal hull of the tank, which the Internet says is sixty-one millimeters thick.
Returning to the duffel bag, she removes a bridgewire detonator and loops the bag’s strap over her shoulder. The blasting cap is pushed into the tip of the pyramid, and Alex attaches a shock tube to that and plays line out of the spool until she’s fifty yards away, behind the side of the building. She crimps the detonation cord into an electric sparker and smiles her half smile.
“Fire in the hole.”
The explosion shakes the ground and momentarily deafens her. She remembers to open her mouth like she was taught, which equalizes the pressure on both sides of her ear drums. It still hurts, almost like getting struck in the head. The ringing continues as she approaches the tank, winding the now empty shock tube around her arm as she goes. There’s no fire, and the smoke has almost dissipated. Alex points her flashlight at the hull and sees a jagged twenty-inch hole where armor used to be. It smells like hot coals and melted iron.
“Perfect,” she says, but can’t hear herself say it. She stuffs the used tubing back into her duffel bag and heads for the car.
Phase one of the plan is finished. Time to start phase two.
“
Y
OU SHOULD TURN THE PHONE IN,
Jack.”
Herb Benedict. We’d been partners for over a de cade, and often played conscience for each other. But right now I needed an enabler.
“I have to see this through, Herb. Start with Milwaukee PD. See if anyone on their Bomb Squad is named Lance.”
“How do you expect to find her? Track her cell phone?”
“It can’t be tracked. Not directly. Long story.”
“Then how? She could be anywhere. You’re just going to sit around and wait for her to send you clues?”
“That’s all I can do right now. That and prepare for when I’ll have a shot at her. Does your cell accept pictures and text?”
“You’ve seen my cell. I think it’s the very first one. It uses rotary.”
I sat on Harry’s sofa, shivering, and switched the phone to my other ear. The leather under my butt was cold.
“I want to send you what Alex is sending me. I know you’re off the case too, but I’m hoping you can be my ears while I’m gone.”
I could picture Herb thinking, probably rubbing his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Bernice has one of those new Motorola phones, the kind that does everything except make you a sandwich. Send it to her.”
He gave me the number.
“Thanks, Herb. I owe you so many I’ll never pay them all back.”
“There’s this mail order steak place. Grade-A prime-cut Angus beef. Ships them to you frozen. Their number is 1-800-MEATS4U. The
4
is a number and the
U
is the letter
U
.”
“Consider it done.”
“I like rib-eyes. And T-bones. And New York strips. And filets. Basically I like everything. They also sell Turduckinlux. That’s a turkey breast, stuffed with a duck breast, stuffed with a chicken breast, stuffed with bacon-wrapped hamburger patties.”
“I’ll call them as soon as we get off the phone.” I swallowed, hating to say what came next. “Look, Herb, I know you’re being cautious, but Alex might take a shot at you. Or your wife.”
“I could have Bernice stay with her mother, come and help you out.”
“No way.”
“My leg’s not that bad, Jack. I can move fast if I have to.”
Herb was loyal, smart, and tough. But he could never be called fast. And with his injury, all he’d be doing was putting himself in danger.
“Stay with your wife and heal. That’s an order.”
“What if I had some psycho killer after me? Would you stay out of it?”
“My psycho killer, my rules. I need you to stay close to the investigation, Herb. Keep me in the loop. Besides, I have some help.”
“That idiot McGlade? He’s a card-carry ing asshole. I’m serious. He once showed me the card.”
I eyed Harry, who was squinting at porn on the computer screen.
“He’s not that bad,” I said.
“Please don’t tell me you’re with him in that stupid RV.”
“It has really good air-conditioning.”
“Want me to turn it up?” Harry asked, never taking his eyes off the screen. A gorilla had joined the party. No—just a guy in a gorilla suit. What ever happened to normal, old-fashioned porn?
“Jesus, Jack. How am I supposed to sleep knowing that bonehead has your back?”
“I’m getting more help.”
“Who? The criminal guy? Phineas something?”
“Troutt.”
“What makes you think he’ll help you?”
I got an image in my mind, of the last time I saw Phin. He had hugged me, holding it longer than our friendship warranted.
“He’ll help.”
Herb sighed, loud and dramatic.
“I want you to call me. Every eve ning at seven. If you don’t call, I’m coming after you.”
“Thanks, Herb. We’ll talk soon.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. At seven. Sooner if I hear anything. And tell that asshole McGlade to sit on his mechanical thumb and spin.”
Herb hung up, and I tucked the phone back into my purse.
“How’s the partner?” Harry asked. “Still fat?”
“He says hi. Can you send the picture and texts to him?”
I handed Bernice’s cell number to Harry.
“Sure. I got a program that can do it from the computer.”
“We also need to go to Wrigleyville. Joe’s Pool Hall, to see if Phin is there.”
“Check and roger.”
“And turn off the porn.”
Harry batted his eyelashes. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of Alex. “Take me to the nearest gun shop. I need to exercise my second amendment rights to bear arms.”
A
LEX SITS IN A BOOKSTORE CAFÉ,
dressed in her funeral best.
The WiFi is free, and her laptop is open. Her back is to the wall so no one can see her screen.
She uses a search engine to find her next victim. First the name. Then the town. It takes less than three minutes to get a phone number, and another two minutes to find the address.
Scary how easy it is to find someone
, Alex muses. People should pay closer attention to protecting their privacy.
The drive will take a few hours. Alex decides to wait until morning before leaving. She can’t go back to the Old Stone Inn, because her bed is currently occupied. She calls the cell phone using the computer program, and a window opens, showing her a live feed of Lance. The picture isn’t very good—even with all the lights on, the room is pretty dim. The camera phone is taped up to the wall, offering a wide angle. She presses some buttons, zooms in on Lance’s chest.
He’s asleep. Or unconscious. The burns have stopped bleeding, begun to scab over. It makes the symbols easier to see. She saves a picture of her laptop screen as a JPEG, crops it in Photoshop, and uploads it to her cell, viewing it from various angles, and judging it clue-worthy.
It’s all Greek to me,
Alex thinks.
Jack will get a copy later to night.
Alex hits the hibernate key, blanking out her screen, and lets her eyes prowl around.
The bookstore is one of those large chains, ten times bigger than the library in the town where she grew up. Alex’s father hated libraries. Believed that people only needed one book, the Bible, and that all others led to Satan. But according to Father, pretty much everything led to Satan. He blamed the dev il for his appetites. He should have learned to embrace them. Indulge them without remorse.
Like she does.
Alex yawns, stretches out her long legs, and leans back in the chair to scope out women.
One walks by, wiggling her hips, getting in line for coffee. The right build. Right age. She orders something called chai tea. Alex doesn’t know what that is. It would be a good thing to use as a way of introduction. But when Alex stands she notices how short the woman is, and doesn’t bother. She sits back down.
Another woman, tall enough, but too young. Some men, whom Alex barely glances at. Then, a brunette. Age and height fine. A big ass, but people can lose weight. Alex gets into line behind her.
The woman orders a large vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, neither of which will help narrow her gluteus maximus.
“Are the Danish good here?”
The woman glances over her shoulder.
Alex doesn’t smile behind the veil. She knows how it contorts her face, makes her look even more freakish. It’s a definite handicap. Smiles disarm people. Taking a smile away from a recreational killer is like taking a pinky from a major league pitcher.
“They’re pretty good. Not as good as the coffee place on Prospect.”
The woman faces the cashier again. She’s either in a hurry, not wanting to chat, or Alex’s veil has set off subconscious warning bells. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. People who hide their face are hiding something else.
Alex moves in a little closer, watches as the woman digs into her purse for a wallet. Though her clothes are decent, expensive, her handbag looks more like a backpack than an accessory. Alex catches glimpses of a tissue pack, some children’s Tylenol, and a large key ring attached to a Lucite-encased family photo.
No good. Alex returns to her table, and is surprised to find a little girl standing next to it. She’s blond, perhaps eight years old, and staring at Alex’s laptop screen.
“Is that man hurt?”
She points at the live feed of the hotel room. Lance has woken up, and he’s thrashing around on the bed like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
The child must have pressed a key, brought the computer back from hibernation mode.
Alex closes the cover, then looks around to make sure no one else saw anything.
“It’s a movie. He’s pretending to be hurt.”
“My favorite movie is
Toy Story
. Have you seen
Toy Story
? It’s about a cowboy named Woody, who is really named Tom Hanks. There’s also
Toy Story 2,
but we don’t have it anymore because it got stuck in the DVD player and Mommy threw it out.”
Alex stares at the girl. So small and fragile. Father would have liked her. Alex prefers adults to children. Nothing can induce a migraine like a little kid screaming hour after hour. Even gagged, the high pitch is piercing enough to call stray dogs.
“Melinda!”
A woman hurries over, her expression a mix of concern and disappointment. She’s tall, thin, pretty, platinum blond. Alex notices how she moves, in an easy, assured way. Athlete. Possibly a dancer.
“What have I told you about wandering off? You were supposed to stay by the picture books.”
“The lady has a computer like Daddy’s.”
Melinda points to Alex’s laptop.
“It is like Daddy’s, but that doesn’t mean you can go and touch things that aren’t yours.” Her blue eyes mea sure Alex. There’s no hesitation, no drop in confidence, even when she notices the veil. “I apologize. Melinda, she’s a curious little bug. I hope she didn’t disturb you or ruin anything.”
“You might want to keep her on a tighter leash.” Alex puts a bit of iron in her voice. “There are some pretty crazy people in the world.”
“Tell me about it. Look, it’s not my business, but is that blazer Dolce and Gabbana? It is freaking gorgeous.”
“Yes, it is.” Alex appraises the woman’s outfit, jeans and a red top. “Those jeans are Italian, aren’t they?”
The woman lights up. “Yes! You won’t ever guess what they’re called.”
“They’re called My Ass. I used to have a pair. The belt line in back dips down, like the top of a heart.”
The woman spins on her toes and lifts her shirt, revealing the divot, along with an intricate lower back tattoo. No visible thong or panty lines. Her heels are three inches, gold lamé. Alex amends her initial assessment from dancer to stripper. She’s the perfect height, and no wedding ring either.
“I used to love those jeans. I bet your husband does.”
“I’m not married.”
“My mistake. Melinda said
Daddy,
so I just assumed…”
“Daddy died,” Melinda chirped in, just as cheerful as when she was talking about
Toy Story
.
“We were never married,” the woman explained. “Her father died last year. Car accident.”
Alex’s interest rises several notches. She still isn’t sure about the woman’s sexual orientation, so she plays it coy.
“I’m new here, so I don’t know where any of the shops are. Where can a girl buy Louis Vuitton in this town?”
“I love Louis Vuitton! See?”
She holds up her brown purse, which Alex had spotted immediately after noticing her.
“It’s freaking gorgeous,” Alex says. “I’m Gracie, by the way.”
“Samantha. Sammy for short.”
Sammy offers her hand, smirks. Her touch is soft, and she tickles her index finger on the inside of Alex’s palm when she shakes.
“Look, Sammy, this may sound kind of forward, but I need someone to help me shop. I’ve been hiding from the world for a while. Car accident. Really messed up my face. This is the only outfit I feel I can wear in public. I haven’t been out of the house in months.”
“God, Gracie, that’s awful.”
“Are you and Melinda free now? We could hit a few shops, then I’d buy you guys dinner.”
“Shit, that would be fun. But my shift starts in an hour.”
“Is Sammy your stage name?”
Sammy grins wide, revealing perfect caps.
“Stage name is Princess. You used to be in the life? You’ve got the body for it.”
“I’ve worked a few poles in my day. Which club?”
“High Rollers. It’s uptown.”
“Long hours. Does Grandma watch Melinda while you dance?”
“Grandma is in heaven with Daddy,” Melinda says.
Sammy puts both arms around her daughter, cradling her face. “Our neighbor watches the bug. I only work four nights a week.”
“Money that good?”
“It’ll do till I get my business degree. I’m taking some classes during the day, when she’s in school.”
No husband, no mother, and a stripper to boot. She’s almost perfect.
“If to night isn’t good, maybe sometime later?”
“Definitely. Let’s trade numbers.”
Sammy digs a pen out of her purse, writes down Alex’s cell phone number on the back of a McDonald’s receipt. She rips the paper in half, and gives Alex her number.
“One more thing, Sammy. And this is embarrassing. When I was working, sometimes the customers would want a little extra attention, and I got busted. As a condition of my parole, I’m not allowed to associate with any known criminals. If you’ve got a record…”
Sammy shakes her head.
“I’m clean as a whistle. High Rollers gets stung all the time, under-cover cops coming in, trying to get the girls to do more than dance. Two of my friends got nailed, so I don’t do that. Not that I think it’s wrong or anything. Just can’t risk getting arrested when I’ve got Melinda to look after.”
“Cool. Good luck to night. Make some money.”
“I always do. Hopefully we can hook up soon, Gracie.”
Alex smiles her half smile and pats Melinda on the head.
“You can count on it.”