“In order to detonate the second bomb at the right time,” Roper said, “the bomber would have had to be close by. My client was one hundred kilometres away. We have witnesses.”
Buck looked at Roper. “Have you got a card?”
Roper fished a business card from his pocket. Buck took it. “I’ll get back to you.”
“What is RC fuel used for?” Lane thought aloud. He and Keely sat in their office with the door closed.
“You don’t think Stockwell tried to kill us?” Keely sat next to Lane behind her desk.
“No. At least, my gut tells me that. And the fact that he admitted to painting your garage door. That wasn’t mentioned in the first interview. The problem is, we need more evidence to back that up.”
“He was just trying to scare me?” Keely hesitated for a moment. “And he’s not capable of being a killer?”
“He’s definitely capable. I’ve seen him kill. But if he was going to kill you, why not kill you with the first bomb? All he had to do was wait for you to get into the car.” Lane checked the interdepartmental phone list on the computer. He reached for his cellphone. “I want to check one thing.” He dialed. “Yes. It’s Detective Lane. I have a question about explosives.” He waited. He covered the mouthpiece and raised his eyebrows. “I’m on hold.”
Lori came to the door and handed a folder to Keely. “From The Hague.” Keely opened the folder.
Lane took his hand away from the phone. “I have a question about the fuel used to power remote control models. Does it act like diesel fuel when mixed with fertilizer that’s high in nitrogen?”
Keely read the information from the folder.
Lane hung up. “That fuel Zacki bought yesterday at the hobby shop.”
Keely looked up. “Yes.”
“Bigger bang. The explosives expert thinks that RC fuel was used in the second bomb. He said it’s more powerful than diesel fuel mixed with fertilizer.” Lane looked at the folder. “What have you got?”
“There’s very little information on the woman who fought with the Tarantulas, but there is another picture.” Keely handed it over to Lane.
He studied the photo. Men holding automatic rifles and wearing combat fatigues posed around the front of a tank. A man and a woman sat on the turret. Lane looked at Keely.
“The girl sure looks a lot like Zacki,” Keely said as she flipped through a second document. “And it says here that the remains of Andelko Branimir were found in a mass grave a month ago.”
“So Goran stole Branimir’s identity?” Lane asked.
Keely nodded. “Definitely a possibility.”
“We need to talk with Mladen.” Lane stood up and tapped his pocket to make sure he had the truck keys.
“Do we need to show him this picture?”
“Yes.”
“We’d better hurry. You’ve got an appointment, remember?” After that, Keely was quiet until she aimed the pickup down Eleventh Avenue. “Harper said this would happen.”
“What did Harper say?”
“He said at some point you’d start to figure it all out. You’d put all of the pieces together, and I should watch how you do it.” Keely pulled the seat belt away from her chest.
“Harper told you that?”
“Of course. He told Simpson that you and I should work together. Let me in on what you’re thinking, will you?”
“If Stockwell didn’t detonate the last bomb, and if Mladen isn’t involved, then we’d better be very careful with Jelena. She’s getting her daughter to stock up on fuel.” He looked at his watch. “If Jelena is buying fertilizer and components for a detonator on the way home from work, we’re in trouble. She’s obviously had some military training and appears to have the survival instincts.”
Keely looked at the dresses in the windows of several bridal shops along Eleventh Avenue. “So how do you do this?”
“Do what?”
Keely shoulder-checked. “Put it all together.”
“Information. Gather as much of it as possible, then…” Lane looked ahead without seeing the traffic.
“Then?” Keely asked.
“It comes together.”
“Very scientific.” Keely looked out the windshield. “Jelena is very protective of her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Mothers can get pretty ferocious when it comes to protecting their children.”
There was no parking in front of the photo shop where Mladen worked, so Keely pulled into the alley at the back.
Mladen was sitting in a lawn chair with his eyes closed. He held a can of pop. He opened his eyes when the detectives opened the doors of their truck.
“Coffee break?” Keely asked.
Mladen nodded. He sat up straighter.
“Would you look at another picture for us?” Lane asked.
“Tarantulas?” Mladen’s voice was filled with what sounded like inevitability.
Keely offered the picture. Mladen took it, but waited before examining it. When he finally looked back at the detectives, it was as if he had aged a decade.
“The girl in the picture?” Lane asked.
“She was the one with Goran. A sniper. The Tarantulas killed up close. She killed from a distance.” He handed the picture to Keely.
“How old was she at the time?” Lane asked.
Mladen shrugged. “Sixteen, seventeen.”
“Can you remember anything else about her? Anything she said?” Lane asked.
Mladen looked down the alley, into the past. “‘It is war.’ While she kept her rifle aimed at us, she kept saying, ‘It is war.’ It was if she was saying that we should accept what was happening to us, because we were in a war and someone else had control over life and death. That it was the war which was responsible, not her.”
“Would you be able to identify her if we asked?” Keely slipped the picture back into a manila envelope.
Mladen nodded.
Lane handed him a card. “If you remember anything else, please call.”
Mladen took the card and stared at the detective. Lane began to leave, then turned back to Mladen. “When’s your next performance?”
What might have been a smile under different circumstances appeared on Mladen’s lips. “Saturday. Eau Claire.”
Dr. Alexandre sat with her hands in her lap. She crossed her left leg over her right and smoothed the crease in her red slacks. “Who was the person who told you that you don’t deserve to live?”
The doctor’s question hit Lane with a combination of surprise and shock. Delay! Lane thought. “Do you mean who said those exact words?”
Alexandre waited for an answer.
“My mother.”
“How old were you?” The doctor picked up her coffee and drank.
Lane was struck by the casual tension. “Thirteen, I think.” How did Alexandre suspect?
The doctor’s tone remained relentlessly calm. “And since then?”
“As recently as a week or two. My sister-in-law alluded to it.” Lane set his cup down, put his feet flat on the floor, and measured the distance to the door. He put his hands on the arm of the chair.
“When was your first suicide attempt?”
Lane glared at the doctor. What the hell? “I was nineteen.”
“Describe the circumstances, please.” Alexandre leaned a centimetre or two to her left and placed her elbow on the arm of the chair.
“I was driving down a hill. There was a bridge at the bottom. I accelerated and aimed the car at one of the bridge supports. Then I turned away.”
“And after that?”
“I planned it out once or twice but never got that close again.”
The doctor shook her head. “I think you’re not being totally honest with me.”
“Who gives a shit what you think?” Lane stood up, half out of surprise at his reaction and half out of a desire to flee.
“Sit down.”
Lane sat.
“Your job involves observing human behaviour and drawing conclusions. Now your behaviours are being observed.” The doctor uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “When you saved Cameron Harper’s life, there was a man behind the door who was threatening you with a hunting rifle.”