“Not according to the chief. He’s saying you’re a hero. And me, too.” He paused, then added, “I like the me part.”
Becker couldn’t help smiling. “Well, if the governor calls, you can talk to him.”
Becker could still hear the sound of sirens outside, though he couldn’t for the life of him think of a practical reason for it at this point, two hours after the fact. He finally decided the sirens were going simply because big things had been happening, and it was a shame to have a siren and let it go to waste on a night like this.
“He was setting it, wasn’t he?” Timmons said. “When we came in, I mean.”
Becker nodded tiredly. “Changing the settings, most likely. To give him time to get away.”
“So we were just lucky.”
“That’s right.”
After a brief silence Timmons said, “At least we stopped him, sarge. At least it didn’t go off tomorrow morning, like you said it might, and kill a thousand people.”
Becker shook his head. “I was wrong about that, Eddie. He never intended it to go off tomorrow morning.”
“But... what you said made sense. Max casualties—”
“Oh, he wanted casualties all right. He was just after a different kind.”
Timmons just stared at him, waiting.
“You saw me go over there and use that phone a while ago, right? To call in?”
Timmons nodded.
“I called the dispatcher,” Becker told him. “I got to thinking about what you said in the car, about the tipoff call. So I asked the guy at dispatch to replay the tape of the call while I listened in.” Becker paused long enough to touch a finger to the bandage over his left eye. He had taken a few minor cuts from the explosion.
“Remember the thumping noise they said they heard in the background?” Becker continued. “Well, as it turned out, I recognized it. It was a kind of a rough hum, with a whump and a rattle thrown in every now and then.”
Timmons looked a little puzzled, then blinked. “The air conditioner,” he said.
Becker nodded.
“You mean... the call came from here?”
“More than that.”
Timmons frowned again. After a moment his face cleared. “It was him,” he said, in an awed voice. “He was the one who called.”
“He had to be. It came from here, and he was here.”
“But... why?”
“He was reeling us in like we said before. First he called to tip us off, then he waited a bit and turned on the lights to make sure we got the message. He knew the bulk of the force was out tonight at the roast, and he knew that meant it’d take the police longer to get here and also longer, probably, to locate the bomb once we did get here. The idea of hiding it in the briefcase, by the way, was a nice touch.”
“I still don’t follow you,” Timmons said.
“I think he knew we’d think we had plenty of time to look for it. I think he set it, the first time, not for the morning rush but for right about now, give or take an hour, so he’d get as many cops as he could. Maybe even the bomb squad itself.”
“And then we showed up.”
“Right. And he figured he’d better move the schedule up a bit and reset it to give himself just enough time to get clear.”
Timmons shrugged. “Okay, so we saved a dozen people instead of a thousand. I’m not picky.”
Becker barely heard him. He realized he was about as tired as he had ever been in his life. As he looked around the lobby, he caught a glimpse of Ralph Hendrix talking into three microphones at the same time.
After a pause Timmons spoke up again. “That brings up one more question,” he said. “Why’d he get surprised in the first place? If he’d done all this planning, why’d he take so long to do what he was doing?”
Becker sighed. “I’ve been puzzling over that,” he agreed. “I think what happened was, he hid somewhere in the building until after everyone left, then went up the stairs to thirty-two and made the tipoff call from the receptionist’s desk. He waited a bit, cut the lights on, and went into a random office, where he planned to hide the briefcase and then get out again, fast, before the cavalry arrived. Which he could have — should have — been able to do, with no problem.”
“Except—”
“Except for the keys.”
Once again Timmons stared at him.
“Hendrix told us all the locks had recently been changed, remember? I don’t think the bomber knew that. I figure he had a master key that was old and would no longer work. When he found that out, it was too late — he was reduced to having to pick the lock, which took him a while. Meantime, enter Timmons and Becker.”
“And Spellman and Rice,” Timmons said quietly.
“Yeah.”
Timmons asked, frowning, “Why 3246?”
“What?”
“Why’d he pick that particular office? He was in a hurry, right? If he had a master key, and he could pick any room he wanted, why pick one at the opposite end of the hall from the phone and light switch?”
Becker frowned. That hadn’t occurred to him. “Go on,” he said.
“I don’t think he had a master key,” Timmons said, his brow furrowed. “You were right about the lock-change delaying him, but I think he had an office key. I think he had a key just for room 3246.”
“You mean he had an accomplice?” Becker could see his point. “That’s possible. We could check and see whose office that is—”
“Whose it was,” Timmons corrected. “Our theory is that the key didn’t work, remember? I’ll bet we’ll find that whoever used to be in 3246 was one of the people Hendrix said left the firm.”
Slowly Becker nodded. “Not bad, Eddie. Not bad at all.”
Timmons shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Well, we’d better have a few leads, right? I realize we’ve got a description and prints, which is more than we had before, but he did get away. And if he’s gone to ground...”
Becker nodded. “Then he could still be hard for you to catch.”
“You mean for us to catch.”
“No, I mean you, Eddie.” Becker fetched a sigh. “I’m getting too old for this. Come tomorrow, I’ll be back to being a desk sergeant, and—”
“Nobody’ll have to catch him, gentlemen,” a voice behind them said. They both turned to look at Chief Wellborn, who had walked up without their noticing him. “One of the firemen just found this, out back.” He held out a hand, and what they saw in his palm was a blue police nametag. It was blackened and warped, with almost an inch missing off one end, but the lettering on it was perfectly clear.
“Spellman,” Timmons murmured.
The chief nodded. “Your suspect ran, but he ran the wrong way. He must’ve gone out back and climbed down into the construction site, thinking he’d sit out the show at a safe distance and still have a good view, I guess. The body — what was left of it — was found hidden behind a bulldozer in a back corner of the pit.” The chief shook his head. “Talk about bad decisions...”
Becker swallowed, his eyes still riveted to the nameplate. He couldn’t quite believe it. The bomber was dead, killed by his own bomb. Maybe there was justice in the world after all.
After the chief had left them to report this latest news to the media, Becker stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and stretched. “Hold the fort, partner,” he said. “I need to get some air.”
“Not yet,” Timmons said, nodding toward the other side of the lobby. A young fellow in a business suit was hurrying toward them with a cell phone, his eyes fixed on Tom Becker. He looked excited.
“You Sergeant Becker?” the young man whispered, as he drew closer.
“That’s me,” Becker whispered back.
The young man thrust the phone at him, holding it with both hands like a sword. “It’s the governor,” he hissed.