But the question still remained: How was I going to get inside?
I went back to the front and tried one of the steel doors, just so I wouldn’t feel like an idiot when I found out later it was unlocked. It was locked. I tried each of the others, and they were all locked too. Okay, no surprise.
The overhead door was padlocked. I climbed the rusty stepladder to the concrete pier and unzipped my gym bag.
Inside were some basic tools I’d picked up at Home Depot on the way over, including a MagLite flashlight and a fourteen-inch pair of tungsten-carbide bolt cutters, which Graham had assured me would cut through just about any padlock like butter. I bent over to take a closer look at the padlock, and suddenly I was blinded by a bright light.
I looked up.
A high-powered flashlight was pointing at me from about twenty feet away. I felt a jolt of fear, a shot of adrenaline.
I was dead meat.
Shielding my eyes with a hand, I got to my feet. Something had kicked in, some hindbrain survival instinct. “Hey, where the hell were you?” I shouted.
“Who are you?” A man’s voice, a Middle Eastern accent. The voice sounded familiar.
“Didn’t you guys hear me?” I went on. “Didn’t you get the message?”
“What’s your name?” the Middle Easterner demanded.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “Are you Abdul or something?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
I sauntered down the stepladder, the gym bag on my shoulder. “Kurt didn’t tell you I was coming by? He didn’t tell you Kenny was stopping by tonight to get stuff from his storage locker?”
I thought quickly, tried to remember Willkie’s first name. It came to me immediately-how could I forget “Jeremiah”?
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “I thought Kurt and Jeremiah had this all worked out.”
“Had what worked out?” The flashlight was no longer in my eyes, but down on the ground. He came closer.
“Shit, let me use your phone. And your john, if you don’t mind. I got way too many beers in me tonight.”
“Bathroom’s out front,” Abdul said. “Did Kurt talk to Jeremiah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Show me to the john first, or my bladder’s going to burst.”
He led the way over to the front building, took out a big ring of keys, and unlocked the back door. “Straight down the hall, on your right.”
I used the urinal, then took out a pen and Kurt’s business card from my wallet. On the back of Kurt’s card I wrote, in Kurt’s precise handwriting, all capital letters, “WILLKIE AUTO BODY” and the address. Then, “Abdul will meet you out back.” And: “If they give you a hard time, call me. Thanks!”
I put the card in my pocket, flushed the urinal, and came out.
“Aaah,” I said. “Thanks. Okay, now I can think straight. I forgot I have my cell on me-I don’t need your phone. Hold on.” I pulled out my cell phone, switched it back on, then called my office number.
“I’m here,” I said to my outgoing message. “Okay, so when are you going to get out?…But you left a message here, right? All right. All right. Later.” And I disconnected the call, then turned off the phone.
I reached into my pocket, took out Kurt’s business card, and handed it to Abdul. “Is this you?” I asked. “On the back?”
He flipped it over. Read the handwriting. “You should have just gone to the front office,” he said.
Along the back wall of the warehouse was a row of storage units, ten feet wide and high and twenty feet deep. Some of them were open and vacant, and a few of them were locked with old steel chain snaked through iron hasps and then through big old chrome padlocks. Abdul took out his key ring again and unlocked one of the padlocks.
“If you need anything, come get me,” he said, and he left me alone.
I pulled the iron door open and saw everything there, in neat stacks, in cartons and crates.
Much more, even, than I’d seen that day in his apartment. More than just his antique rifles and replica handguns. An entire pilfered armory.
Colorful spools labeled PRIMACORD DETONATING CORD, in festive orange and yellow, the color of kids’ soft drink mix. A box of M60 Fuse Igniters. A box marked CAP, BLASTING ELECTRIC M6.
A pile of blocks about ten inches long by two inches wide and an inch and a half thick, wrapped in olive drab Mylar film. Each one had printing on the top that said, CHARGE DEMOLITION M112 (1.25 LBS COMP C4).
I knew what that was. C-4 plastic explosive.
Kurt’s auto tools were there, too, in two tool chests, but I ignored them.
I found a tray containing several small tubes labeled LIQUID METAL EMBRITTLEMENT AGENT (LME)-MERCURY/INDIUM AMALGAM.
I took one of the tubes. My evidence.
Then I stopped and looked over the whole stash and realized there were some other things I could take.
59
When I was more than halfway to Boston, I pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and called Sergeant Kenyon on his cell.
“I have all the evidence you need to arrest him,” I said after filling him in briefly. “Enough to tie him to the murders of Allard and Gleason.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe? You’re the one who told me if I got the tube of LME that would do it.”
“I did. And maybe it will. And maybe not.”
“For Christ’s sake,” I said. “You’re the cop. Not me. Why don’t you send some guys over to Willkie Auto Body right now? There’s a storage locker out back where Kurt’s got enough explosives and munitions to take down the John Hancock Building.”
“Your hearsay isn’t enough.”
“Oh, really?” I shot back. “Think of it this way, Kenyon. If you don’t do anything about this little tip from me, you’re going to be in a world of shit. It’ll be a career-ending mistake. Maybe you’d prefer me to just call the FBI, tell them the Massachusetts State Police weren’t interested in following up on my report of stolen army munitions? After 9/11, I have a feeling they’re not going to get too hung up on procedure.”
Kenyon paused. I heard a rush of static on the line. “I can send some guys over there,” he said.
“That would be a wise move.”
“Is it provably Semko’s storage locker?”
“Talk to Abdul,” I said. “Squeeze his nuts. Ask for his green card. Maybe ask him about his cell of Arab terrorists. You might be surprised at how cooperative he gets.”
My cell phone beeped. Call-waiting. I glanced at the readout, saw it wasn’t Graham; it said KURT.
“Let me call you back,” I said.
I clicked over to Kurt’s call, said, “Yeah?”
Raucous bar noise in the background. Loud voices and laughter.
“Hey there, bro. I just got a call from Abdul. You know Abdul.”
My stomach seized up. I didn’t reply.
“And I thought you were starting to get with the program.”
“Kurt,” I began.
“And the funniest thing happened tonight during the game. Some guy broke into my apartment.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Friend of yours.”
“Not that I know.”
“Hmm. Graham something. Runkel?” Casual, almost airy. “Had your phone number programmed into his cell. Gotta be a friend.”
I felt a chill. He knew Graham’s name, knew about the connection. Knew what was on his cell phone.
“Last number he called on his cell was yours. That who you were talking to at the game?”
“News to me,” I said.
“Nosy bastard. Made the mistake of looking in my footlocker. Hundred and ten volts wired to the lock on that baby, my little security measure. Knocked him right out.”