“I have no idea. But he was here earlier today, and now he’s here again. It’s not a coincidence.”
“Look, I know you think that getting Panikos is the key to everything, but don’t forget that somebody hired him, and I’m thinking it’s Jonah.”
“You find out something new?”
“Just what my gut tells me, that’s all. There’s something off about that slimy bastard.”
“Something beyond a fifty-million-dollar motive?”
“Yeah. I think so. I think he’s way too smiley, way too cool.”
“Maybe it’s just the charming Spalter gene pool.”
Hardwick produced a phlegmy laugh. “Not a pool I’d want to swim in.”
Gurney was getting antsy to check in with Kyle, antsy to start looking for Panikos. “Okay, Jack. Hurry up. Call me when you get here.”
As he was ending the call, he heard the first explosion.
Chapter 58. Ashes, Ashes
He’d recognized the sound as the muffled whump of a small incendiary device.
As soon as he reached the scene, two concourses over, his impression was confirmed. A small booth was engulfed in flames and smoke, but already two men with FAIR SECURITY armbands were hurrying toward it with fire extinguishers and shouting at the onlookers to step back out of the way. Two female security people arrived and began working their way around to the rear of the booth, repeatedly calling out, “Anyone inside? Anyone inside?” An emergency vehicle with lights flashing and siren blaring was making its way down the middle of the concourse.
Seeing there was no immediate contribution he could make to the effort, Gurney focused instead on the crowd within sight of the fire. Arsonists have a well-known proclivity for observing their handiwork, but whatever hope he might have had of spotting someone matching even the most general description of Peter Pan soon evaporated. But then he noticed something else. The half-burnt sign above the booth said WALNUT CROSSING FLOOD RELIEF. And amid the debris the explosion had scattered onto the concourse were charred bouquets of rust-red mums.
It seemed that Panikos had a love-hate relationship with chrysanthemums, or maybe with all flowers, or with anything that reminded him of Florencia. But that alone couldn’t explain his presence at the fair. There was another possibility, of course. A more frightening one. Major public events were attractive venues for the making of memorable statements.
Was it conceivable that the purpose of Panikos’s earlier visit to the fair that day was to lay the groundwork for such a statement? Specifically, might he have mined the place with explosives? Was the destruction of the flower stand only the opening sentence of his message?
Was this possible scenario something Gurney needed to share immediately with Fair Security? With the Walnut Crossing PD? With BCI? Or would an attempt to explain such a scenario take more time than it was worth? After all, if it was true, if that was the reality they were facing, by the time the story was told and believed, it would be too late to stop the event.
As crazy as the conclusion seemed, Gurney decided that going it alone was the only feasible route. It was a route that depended on the successful identification of Peter Pan—a task that he realized was close to impossible. But there were no other options on the table.
So he started doing the only thing he could do. He started making his way through the crowd, using height as the first screen, weight as the second, facial structure as the third.
As he made his way through the next concourse, checking not only the individuals in the flowing crowd but also the customers at each booth and each exhibitor’s tent, an ironic thought came to mind: The upside of the worst-case scenario—that Peter Pan had come to the fair to blow it up piece by piece—was that he’d be there for a while. And as long as he was there, it was possible to catch him. Before Gurney could wrestle with the edgy moral question of how much human and material destruction he’d be willing to trade to get his hands on Peter Pan, Hardwick called—announcing that he’d arrived at the main gate and asking where they should get together.
“We don’t need to get together,” said Gurney. “We can cover more ground separately.”
“Fine. So what do I do—just start searching for the midget?”
“As best you can, based on your memory of the images on the security videos. You might want to pay special attention to groups of kids.”
“The purpose being …?”
“He’d want to be as inconspicuous as possible. A five-foot-tall male adult is attention-getting, but a kid that size isn’t, so there’s a good chance he’s made himself look like a kid. Facial skin can be an age giveaway, so I’d expect he’d find a way to obscure that. A lot of kids tonight have their faces painted, and that would be an obvious solution.”
“I get that, but why would he be in a group?”
“Again, inconspicuousness. A kid alone attracts more attention than one with other kids.”
Hardwick uttered a sigh, making it sound like the ultimate expression of skepticism. “Sounds like a lot of guesswork to me.”
“I won’t argue with that. One more thing. Assume that he’s armed, and don’t underestimate him. Remember, he’s alive and well, and a hell of a lot of people who crossed paths with him are dead.”
“What’s the drill if I think I have him ID’d?”
“Keep him in sight and call me. I’ll do the same. That’s the point when we need to back each other up. By the way, he blew up a flower stand here right after your last call.”
“Blew it up?”
“Sounded like a low-impact incendiary. Probably like the ones at Cooperstown.”
“Why a flower stand?”
“I’m not a psychoanalyst, Jack, but flowers—especially mums—seem to mean something to him.”
“You know ‘mum’ is the Brit word for ‘mom,’ right?”
“Sure, but—”
A series of rapid-fire explosions cut off his reply—propelling him down into an instinctive crouch. He sensed that the blasts had come from somewhere above him.
Quickly scanning the area around him, he got the phone back up to his ear in time to hear Hardwick yell, “Christ! What did he blow up now?”
The answer came in a second series of similar explosions—with geometric lines of light and bursts of colored sparks streaking across the night sky. Gurney’s tension was released in a sharp single-syllable laugh. “Fireworks! It’s just the summer-fair fireworks.”
“Fireworks? What the fuck for? Fourth of July was a month ago.”
“Who the hell knows? It’s a tradition at the fair. They do it every year.”
A third series went off—louder and gaudier.
“Assholes,” muttered Hardwick.
“Right. Anyway. We have work to do.”
Hardwick was silent for a few seconds, then switched directions abruptly. “So what do you think about Jonah? You didn’t react when I brought it up. You think I’m right?”
“Right about him being the mastermind behind Carl’s murder?”
“It’s all to his advantage. All of it. And you gotta admit, he’s one oily operator.”
“Where does Esti come out on this? She agree with you?”
“Hell, no. She’s all zeroed in on Alyssa. She’s convinced the whole thing was payback for Carl raping her—even though there was no real evidence for that. It was all hearsay, through Klemper. Which reminds me, I have to let her know about Mick the Dick’s demise. I guarantee she’ll do a happy dance.”
It took Gurney a few seconds to get that image out of his mind. “Okay, Jack, we need to get to the job at hand. Panikos is here. With us. Within reach. Let’s go find him.” As he ended the call, a final deafening display of fireworks lit up the sky. It made him think, for the twelfth time in the past two days, of the case of the exploding car. That made him think of the events in the alley shooting described by Esti. Which made him wonder yet again what revealing element they might have in common with the Spalter case. As important as that question seemed, however, he couldn’t let it divert his attention now.