At ten minutes to seven, Stephanie came out of the front door, followed by Rhonda. Rhonda had her keys and was walking toward the small parking lot across the street. Stephanie walked with her. Rhonda hit the automatic locks and the lights and horn briefly went on in her dark blue BMW.
Then Rhonda and Stephanie both got in the car.
33
It wasn’t normal procedure to drive a client anywhere. In fact, it was against the rules because it supposedly meant developing inappropriate boundaries. I had driven clients places and even got written up by the Michelin Woman once for doing it. I found it hard to believe that Rhonda was ignoring the rules; she was an administrator and seemed too much like Claudia to be doing something human.
I waited at that corner down the street from Bowerman’s town house for an hour. The Yanks were in the middle of a home stand with the Mariners and it was the top of the third and they were already down five to nothing. Announcer Suzyn Waldman was going on about the merits of the aluminum bat used at the collegiate level and somehow that broke into a discussion of steroid use in the major leagues. John Sterling brought up the fact that just because Barry Bonds’s head was the size of a sixteen-pound medicine ball, it didn’t necessarily mean that he was doing anything unnatural.
Waldman was about to use an eleven-syllable word to keep the conversation going when the national news broke in with a special report.
“We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for this special report from NBC. We take you now, live to our New York studios and Brian Williams.”
Ever since I was a kid, the sound of a special report scared the shit out of me. It wasn’t like they ever interrupted things to bring you good news.
“Good evening. In Crawford, New York, a city fifty miles north of New York City, four Pakistani nationals were arrested an hour ago. They had in their possession several hundred pounds of explosives and an undisclosed quantity of cesium 147. Cesium 147 is a radioactive isotope used in the treatment of special types of cancers. If combined with explosives, it can disperse large quantities of radioactive material while also rendering damage from the conventional force of the bomb.
“The four arrested are all employees of the Crawford Medical Center. They are Afu Mohammed, an oncology nurse, Faid Ru Abdul, a nurse’s aid, Said Farook, and Nasseem Abdul, both facilities services workers.
“Details are still coming in, but Special Agent Carlisle of the FBI was quoted as saying, ‘The suspects are in custody and the radioactive material is accounted for. The situation is under control.’”
The report continued on but it was mostly interviews with the usual experts talking and debating about the seriousness of a “dirty bomb” and the ability of the four to have been able to carry out their plans. They also went to great lengths explaining how the wind currents in Crawford are ideal for the terrorists’ plans and that it showed that the terrorists had done their homework.
Nothing was going on outside of Bowerman’s house, so I got Rudy on the cell phone.
“Yeah, this is Rudy,” he said.
“Did you hear the news?” I said.
“I’m at the hospital now,” he said. “Everyone is, there are all sorts of mandatory meetings and debriefings.”
“Is Gabbibb there?”
“No, but he phoned in. The FBI is saying it was these four guys and they are directly connected to some sleeper cell of Al-something. It wasn’t Al-Qaeda, but it was something like that.”
“Does that mean Gabbibb is off the hook?” I said.
“It certainly looks like it, Duff.” Rudy exhaled loudly. “Thank God we didn’t do anything rash.”
“The guy’s still a creep,” I said.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make him a terrorist. Look, I got to run. Why don’t you cool your secret-agent-man hijinks for a while?”
I let Rudy go and breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t happy that Gabbibb wasn’t arrested, but I started to come around to the fact that just because a guy is an all-around douchebag, it doesn’t mean he’s involved in all things that are evil. Perhaps I had overreacted to what I saw on the hospital computer. Either way, I had to save Shony.
Around ten o’clock, the lights went out inside Bowerman’s house and I figured the two of them had turned in for the night. I suppose it could have been nothing more than a little over-involvement on Bowerman’s case, but I doubted it. I didn’t see the use in hanging around all night, so I headed back to AJ’s. I was back there by eleven and I was happy to see that not only was Jerry Number Two and the rest of the Foursome there, but so was Kelley.
“The fact that you could see her bush was what got to DiMaggio,” Rocco said.
“I thought it was because JFK was seeing her bush,” Jerry Number One said.
“Wasn’t Bush the head of the CIA during that period?” TC asked.
“Jackass,” Rocco said. “We’re talking about Marilyn Monroe in the Seven Year Itch,” Rocco said.
“I know, but didn’t J. Edgar Hoover eventually buy that dress?” TC said.
“Shut up,” Rocco said. “DiMaggio got pissed when that fan blew up Marilyn’s dress and because of the bright lights you could see the bush through her panties.”
“I never trusted Bush,” said Jerry Number Two. “Not any of ’em.”
I sat next to Jerry Number Two. There’s no point in waiting for a polite break when the Foursome is at it. So I broke in between Bush segments.
“Jer, did you find anything out about the pickup?”
“Hey Duff. Yeah.”
Jerry foraged around in his pockets and got a wrinkled piece of lined paper.
“The pickup license plate is LMQ-56 and it is registered to a Daniel Dunston. Dunston’s last address was 3A Rd. #2 in Crocketsville,” Jerry read the information from a neatly typed memo. “Some more digging around also brought up that this guy has spent at least three-quarters of his adult life behind bars. Various assaults, drug charges, and a pretty serious manslaughter. He did eight years in Attica for his involvement in the bombing of that federal office building in Manhattan.”
“What bombing?”
“It was foiled-it had to do with some extremist group.”
“Charming,” I said.
“That’s not all, Duff. He killed a guy in prison. They ruled it self-defense. The guy’s throat was slit from ear to ear.”
“Oh good. Anything on the black guy?”
“Duff-all I know is that he’s a black guy with the name Tyrone,” Jerry sipped his Cosmo. “Most search engines don’t turn up a lot of good information with that query,” Jerry said.
He was right, of course, but after working with Jerry on computer stuff, I think I kind of believed he could find out anything.
“Jerry, one more thing. Can you find out as much as you can about a Rhonda Bowerman, the director of the Jewish Unified Services in Eagle Heights?” I gave Jerry the address.
“You got a social security number?”
“No.”
“All right, but it will take a bit of time.”
“As fast as possible, if you could. Anything on exactly when the webcast is going down?”
“No, just the same sick shit advertising.”
I thanked Jerry and sat for a moment with my Schlitz. I had to go ask Kelley questions that he wouldn’t like, and though I wasn’t looking forward to it, I copied the information down Jerry gave me. Kelley was watching ESPN Classic’s ABA feature. The Kentucky Colonels were up against the Virginia Squires and even though Ticky Burden had thirty-six points, his Squires were still down by eighteen. I sat next to Kelley, but if he saw me, he didn’t acknowledge my presence.
“Kel?”
“Hey Duff.”
“Anything about the website and the child porn stuff?”
“The sergeant told me to stop trying to be a hero and just do my job. He said he’d turn it over to the sex crime task force.”
“Here’s some information Jerry got on the pickup and the bald guy.”