Justin wondered why Abbas had picked the specific spot he’d chosen in the restaurant to unleash the explosive. He remembered Billings telling him about the kill ratio-the range in which a bomb is certain to destroy whatever is in its path. If that were the rationale, then Abbas would have chosen the center of the restaurant, wouldn’t he? That’s where the damage would be sure to be greatest. It didn’t make sense.
Hell, Justin thought. Nothing made sense. Not anymore.
He turned to the Times front page, began to read through their coverage. At the jump, on page eighteen, there was a box that listed, in alphabetical order, the victims of the La Cucina explosion. His eyes quickly ran down the list. It was habit. Cops always looked for the dead.
About a third of the way through he stopped scanning and froze, staring at one name. For a moment he thought he was rattled and disoriented because he’d just discovered the death of a friend. But although he recognized the name, he quickly realized that this man who’d been killed in the La Cucina explosion was no friend.
Martin Heffernan.
That was the name on the victim list.
The FAA agent. The guy who’d boarded the downed plane in East End Harbor, stolen the pilot’s identification and wiped his fingerprints clean. The man who told Ray Lockhardt the result of the FAA investigation-before any investigating had begun.
Justin ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his eyes, trying to ease away the headache he could feel starting to swell up inside. What the hell was going on? A coincidence? A cruel twist of fate? This asshole does his best to sabotage a murder investigation and he winds up randomly blown to bits?
Or was it something else?
Justin’s father had said that what things boiled down to, always, every time, was money. Follow the money, he’d said, and everything will fall into place.
Okay, Justin thought. To follow the money, you have to know the players. There ain’t no stakes if nobody sits down at the table. In his mind, he ran down the list of names that seemed to be in play.
Bradford Collins. The CEO of EGenco.
Hutchinson Cooke, the pilot of the small plane.
Chuck Billings, the FBI agent investigating the first bombing.
And now Martin Heffernan.
Justin felt a stream of bile rise up through his throat. What was the connection between those four men? Other than the fact that they were all dead. Was there a connection?
Yes. Now he was fairly sure that there was. Cop instinct: what he wasn’t sure about was whether or not he wanted to know what that connection was.
Justin walked into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of coffee. He sipped it slowly, letting the too-hot liquid quickly scald his lip, then slide down his throat. He wanted a whiskey instead of black coffee. He wanted another shower, to have jets of hot water wash away the slime that suddenly seemed to be building up all around him. He wanted to get into his bed and stroke the smooth neck and warm, naked back of the woman still lying there, wanted to kiss the tattoo on her shoulder blade, watch her eyes open, see her smile when she saw him. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.
He wanted a lot of things.
And not one of them was the thing he was about to do.
Justin forced himself to walk calmly over to the phone, dial a number, and wait until a sleepy Gary Jenkins answered on the fourth ring.
“Gary.”
“Whazzit,” the young cop mumbled.
“Your little brother, is he still hacking away?”
“Jay?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, Chief?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Listen, I want to hire your brother. What the hell’s his name? Ken?”
“Ben.”
“Tell Ben he can name his price, same as last time, but he’s got to do this thing for me now. Can you reach him?”
Gary cleared his throat again, came awake. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I guess. He probably hasn’t left for school yet. I’ll call him right away.”
“Write him a note for his teacher if you have to. If he’s already left, go get him and take him out of class. And if need be, let him use a computer at the station. But I want it done now, got it?”
“Got it. What do you want him to do?”
“I want him to see if he can hack into the computer setup that stores the reservations at La Cucina.”
“The place that got blown up? What do you-”
“I don’t have time to explain. The FBI found similar information in the Harper’s computer. I need to know if someone named Martin Heffernan had a reservation. And if he did, I need to know what table he was sitting at. If the kid can get me a seating chart showing me where all the tables are, I’d particularly like that, too.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
Justin hung up the phone, exhaled for what seemed like the first time in minutes. He needed some more coffee.
“What’s going on?”
He looked up, surprised. Reggie was standing on the bottom stair, still half asleep, peering into the living room. She was wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts. That’s all she was wearing. Her bare legs curled to lean in against the railing.
“I thought women only did that in the movies,” Justin said. “Put on the guy’s shirt and look so sexy.”
She smiled. “I thought about just putting on your pants, but it didn’t seem quite right. Thought you might not be able to handle it.” She shook her head, trying to wake herself up a bit more. “What’s happening? Are you working?”
“It’s probably nothing,” he told her, making himself sound unconcerned. “I might be turning into one of those conspiracy nuts.”
“Is there a conspiracy against getting a cup of coffee?”
“It’s made. I’ll get it.”
But before he could move, the phone rang and he jumped for it. He waved in the direction of the kitchen, pointing her toward her own cup of coffee.
“Yeah,” Justin said into the phone.
“Okay, I talked to Ben,” Gary said. “He’s sure he can do it if the info exists. Or if the restaurant computer wasn’t damaged.”
“The one it was entered into probably was. But if it’s like the Harper’s setup, it was probably fed into a second computer somewhere else. That one might be okay.”
“He wants an iPod. The little mini one. He says it’s nonnegotiable.”
“Okay. When I get the info, he’ll get an iPod.”
“The mini one.”
“He wants mini, he’s got mini.”
“I’ll call him back.”
Justin watched as Reggie walked back into the living room. She didn’t slink or slither. She walked. Kind of heavily. He liked it. The way it was so unaffected and unself-conscious. She started to ask him if he wanted more coffee, but he quickly put his finger to his lips.
“Thanks, Gary. I’ll be at the station in about half an hour.”
“Ben said he’d have the info in about five minutes. If he can get it at all.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, he’s good.”
“If he doesn’t go to prison by the time he’s sixteen, he’s definitely got a future ahead of him.”
“I’ll give him your number, tell him to call you directly. Is that okay?”
“It’s perfect,” Justin said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
He went and finally poured himself that second cup. In the living room, he sat down next to Reggie. As soon as he was settled in, he realized the close proximity made her uncomfortable. She didn’t move but he could feel her tense up. He waited a few seconds, stretched as if his back was stiff, stood and stepped over to the chair a few feet away. He could see her instantly relax.