“It might be, but it doesn’t matter. Those are our friends there, Sherlock.”
“We’ll both go. And we’ll keep our eyes open. Graciella, we’ll be back when we can.”
They heard Graciella yell from behind them, “Be careful!”
They heard the sirens two blocks from Houtton Street, a “border” neighborhood five years before, now slowly gentrifying.
Emergency lights flashed, lighting the sky like Bat signals. They saw fire trucks parked sideways on the street and up on the sidewalks, firemen running toward the club, hoses and axes in hand. A media van screeched to a stop close to the police cars and fire trucks, hoping the cops wouldn’t have time to order them out. Houtton Street was blocked off, as well as the side streets. The first line of police was trying to hold back gawkers, reporters, and cameramen. Behind them, others were helping patrons streaming out of the club, stumbling, dirty, coughing, yelling for their boyfriends, their wives, whomever. Reporters stuck microphones in any face that came close enough. They blurted out their questions, happy and eager to ask about the disaster, maybe get their spot on the late news. There were a good hundred people jostling about, many of them dressed for a Friday night at the club, many of them bystanders who had gathered to look or to help. Savich pulled the Porsche directly in front of the club, where six cops had kept a space clear, probably for the chief of police, or maybe some politician who’d called ahead to do a sound bite showing his interest in and compassion for this largely black area. Before the cops could yell at him to move, Savich jumped out and flipped out his shield. “Agent Dillon Savich. What’s happening?”
Officer Greenberg, one meaty fist aimed at a reporter who’d managed to break through his line, panted,
“An explosion of some kind in the club. Not a big one, I don’t think, but there’s lots of thick black smoke, which helped feed the panic. You know what happens when folks try to stampede out of a club like this. So far I’ve counted maybe a dozen injured. Almost everyone is out, but there’s still the fire to contend with and making sure no one is trapped in all that poisonous smoke. Hey, get that guy with the microphone back! Sorry. It’s taking a while, Agent Savich, but we’re getting things under control. I know it still looks like pandemonium but you should have been here ten minutes ago. Stay back!” he yelled at three reporters who’d seen Savich and were trying to get to him.
“Blowhard sharks,” he added when their flashes went off. “You’ll probably be on the news, Agent Savich, everyone knows who you are. You need to talk to Detective Millbray. He’s in charge along with Detective Fortnoy. I’ll get you to him, otherwise you’ll never find him.”
“Savich!”
Agent James Quinlan ran to him, grabbed his arm. He was filthy, his suit jacket ripped, and he had a small cut over his eye. “Glad you got here so fast. I shouldn’t have scared you. It’s not as bad as I first thought. More smoke than anything else. But that explosion was so bloody loud, it shook the whole building. Ms. Lilly’s all right, frothing at the mouth about the club, as you can imagine, and about her white dress. Fuzz the bartender is okay, just inhaled some smoke. He’s helping get people out. An ambulance took Marvin the bouncer to the hospital. I think he went down in the panic to get out of the club. The paramedic said he’ll be all right.”
“Where’s Ms. Lilly?”
“I saw her and a fireman hauling out boxes, probably her records and accounts. There she is, over by the firemen, telling them what to do.” He grinned, his teeth very white against his smoke-blackened face. Savich almost didn’t recognize Ms. Lilly. Her beautiful white satin dress was ruined. But she was yelling, and that was a huge relief. He waved to Officer Greenberg. “Hold on a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hands and pulled her close so she could hear him. “I want you to hang back, keep your eyes open for Moses and Claudia. Maybe we’re being paranoid, but you know what I think about coincidences. I’m going to ask the detective to have three officers surround you, just in case. If you spot Moses and Claudia, yell at the top of your lungs, okay?”
She nodded. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being trampled trying to get through the throngs of people. He left her leaning against the driver’s side of the Porsche, her SIG held loosely at her side, looking through the jostling crowd. She watched Officer Greenberg lead Dillon and James Quinlan through the hordes of clubgoers, cops, and firemen to where a bull of a man was closely studying a device in his big hands, his back to the chaos. He was wearing a long wool coat, one of those big Russian fur caps on his head.
Savich tapped Detective Millbray on the shoulder. He turned quickly, started when he saw Savich, then studied his shield. He looked faintly puzzled, then, “Hey, I know who you are, Agent Savich. Ben Raven’
s worked with you, right? He’s around here somewhere. That girlfriend of his, the reporter with the Post, she’s been bugging everybody. At least she got some blood on her, pulled somebody out from under a chair. I’m Ralph Millbray.”
Savich introduced Detective Millbray to Agent James Quinlan. “Quinlan isn’t just an FBI agent. He performs here one night a week on his saxophone.”
“That’s some combination, Agent Quinlan.”
Savich said immediately, “Please send a few of your guys over to guard that redheaded woman standing against the Porsche at the curb. It’s critical. I’ll explain later.”
Quinlan and Savich watched Detective Millbray quickly assemble four cops and dispatch them to surround Sherlock.
“Thank you, Detective. What have you got?”
Detective Millbray handed Savich the device. “Would you take a gander at this harmless-looking little gadget. It’s a piece of a cell phone, used as a homemade detonator. It’s a pretty popular item in the Middle East, as you probably know. Turns out the blast didn’t cause all that much damage, but it created enough of a rumble and spewed out enough thick black smoke to scare the crap out of everybody. Whoever went to the trouble and tossed the bomb could have put a much bigger charge on it. It was just enough to set off the mad stampede. It almost looks like some kind of sick stunt, like someone wanted to close the place down.”
“It wasn’t about closing this business, Detective,” Savich said. “When Agent Quinlan called me, I knew it could have been Moses Grace. He knows I perform here on occasion and am friends with Ms. Lilly. That’s why I asked for protection for Agent Sherlock. She’s my wife.”
Detective Millbray grew very still. “You mean that crazy old guy every cop in the city is looking for? And that teenage girl?”
Savich nodded.
Detective Millbray shouted for his sergeant and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he said,
“I’ve told him to tell everyone the perpetrators might still be here. And I’ve told him who it might be. If he knew this place, knew the owner was important to you, then why did he just flirt with this pissant little bomb and not make it a full-bore disaster?”
Another plainclothes detective stepped up. “I’m Detective Jim Fortnoy. I’ve called for more police. We’
re going to do a sweep for those two.”
Savich nodded, then turned back to Detective Millbray. “You asked me—”
He heard Sherlock yell. She was swinging her SIG upward, to a point beyond his right shoulder. She yelled, “Dillon, get down!”
She fired off two shots as she ran toward him, the four cops running behind her, their guns out, firing up at the two-story building.
But Savich wasn’t looking over his shoulder, he was looking at his Porsche. He thought of the bomb Moses had left at Hooter’s Motel. There were a dozen people milling around the Porsche, and he knew as surely as he knew his name what Moses had planned. He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelled as loud as he could, “Run! Get away from the Porsche! There’s a bomb! Run!”