“Where?” Almanzo asked.
“Iraq, Afghanistan, Kenya, Tanzania, England.”
“England?” said Almanzo. “Really?”
“London, two thousand and five,” said Stahl. “I was part of an EOD team that flew out of Germany whenever a big one happened. We’d work a scene until there was no point in working anymore.”
“And then you decided to become a cop?”
“It made sense at the time. The pay was better than army pay, and I hadn’t been at home much. The department Bomb Squad needed somebody who was already trained, and at that time I was one of the guys who trained people at Eglin.”
Almanzo nodded. “You mind if I ask why you left the department after only a few years?”
“It took a couple of years to hire and train a bunch of guys like Watkins and Del Castillo, guys who had the temperament and minds for the work. Then there were a couple of years taking black powder letter bombs out of mailboxes in the suburbs and blowing up a lot of empty suitcases left on the sidewalk at LAX. I got restless. By then we had plenty of guys who could handle just about anything.”
Almanzo nodded. “I’m sorry we lost those guys. I know it hurts.”
“It hurt worst in the first couple of hours, but it still hurts. I wake up at night thinking about them. And I get mad.”
“I wish we had a breakthrough to tell you about, Dick. We’re trying hard, following up on everything we have. We’ve got detectives working on the car he rigged. It was stolen, of course. But we’ve got the car’s history, backgrounds of the owners, the maintenance records. The crime scene people are examining every single thing on it from the prints to the road dust. We’ve set up a hotline, and the city council is offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward. Within a week it’ll be half a million. We’re getting video of the route he must have taken after he stole the car, and more of the routes he could have taken to tow the rigged car to the gas station a day later. The FBI is interviewing the best bombers in federal custody to see if any of them ever gave anyone lessons. We’ve got other detectives following up on calls and tips. Eventually we’ll get him. It’s early yet.”
Stahl glanced at his watch. “But tonight, it’s getting late. I’d better get going.”
“I’m going home soon too. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
Dick Stahl pulled into the entrance of the driveway to his building but stopped there until he pressed the remote control button and the iron gate opened. He pressed the second button to open the garage door, and he was about to pull in when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Diane Hines arrive on foot at the edge of the driveway.
He rolled down his window and she stepped close.
“Hi,” he said. “Where’s your car?”
“I parked right over there.”
“Get it and follow me in. I’ll wait.”
She turned and walked off, and in a moment he saw her Camry appear behind his car. He drove ahead, turned to the right, and coasted down the ramp into the cavernous parking garage beneath the building and into his space. She pulled into the space beside him because they both had the number 3 painted above them on the wall.
Stahl got out of his car and opened her door. “I’m a little late. I’m sorry.”
“I know you have a job,” she said. “I have one too. This just gave me a little longer to clean up and change. It was good timing. I didn’t dare think I’d be invited over the drawbridge and under the portcullis and down here to the dungeon.” She got out and looked around. “Actually, this is pretty nice,” she said.
“Yeah. It keeps your car clean and your radio inside it,” he said. “You have anything I can carry?”
She pulled a leather bag off the passenger seat and let him take it. This one was unambiguously an overnight bag. He took it and led her up a flight of stairs to a door marked with the number 3, then unlocked the door to the small foyer.
Stahl unlocked an inner door and held it open for her. She paused to give him a peck on the cheek and went past him into the kitchen.
“You said you designed the security, right?” she said. “I have to wonder why you need this much. Lots of tall iron and impervious concrete, with straight lines of sight and no hiding places.”
“I have a crappy personality.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a philosopher-king. I’d vote for you to be class president.”
“I appreciate your support. What happened was that a developer hired my company for a security job and liked my work. About a year later they asked me to design the security for a new building they were planning. They said they wanted to rent to people who didn’t like to be visible to the public. I have a few security issues of my own, so I said okay, but that I wanted a deal on a condo for myself. They seemed relieved that I didn’t want actual money. So here we are. I anticipated they’d sell to celebrities, but so far there seem to be more rich people who don’t want to be kidnapped for ransom.”
“Does that happen often?”
“More often than you’d think,” he said. He took her into his arms and held her there for a few seconds. “I’m really glad to see you.”
“I heard that joke in middle school,” she said.
“I didn’t mean it like the joke. What time is it?”
“It’s after nine.”
He glanced at his watch. “No wonder I’m hungry. Want to go out for dinner?”
“Of course I do, but we can’t. You remember Police Regulation 271.”
“You’re the one who said the regulation was—”
“I’m not worried about breaking it, just about getting caught.” She leaned back in his arms. “You seem to like my cooking. If you’ve got anything that’s nontoxic in your refrigerator I can make something edible out of it.”
“Thanks, but I know a few places we could go without being noticed. I’ll call one and see if they’ve got a table for two at the last minute. What do you like? Oversize freshly murdered steaks? Snobby French? Dark and wine-cellary Italian? Slippery creatures from the ocean?”
She shrugged. “If you want to impress me, you’ll have a leg up with snobby French.”
“Well, let’s see.” He used his thumb to slide through a series of phone numbers on his phone, then hit one. “Hello. This is Dick Stahl. Is it possible to speak with Roland?”
A moment later he said, “Hi, Roland. Look, I have a beautiful woman here with me, and I’d love to impress her. Would you do me a—” He grinned. “Thank you. When can we come? Wonderful. See you in a few minutes.” He pocketed his phone. He saw the odd expression on her face — a skeptical squint. “What?”
“That’s not the Roland, right?”
“Gallimard.”
“You have Roland Gallimard in your phone.”
“You wanted to be impressed.” He took her hand to get her moving, and then guided her toward the door to the garage.
“I had butterflies when you said ‘beautiful woman.’ Now I’m weak in the knees. I’m such a pushover for your bullshit I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Weak in the knees?” he said. “It’s probably just hunger.”
“No, it’s being in the power of a manipulator.”
“The compliments never stop. Roland is a friend. He’ll take care of us and make sure we’re not noticed.”
She looked in the mirror of his car. “Gallimard,” she repeated. “Do I look all right?”
Her long, dark hair was silky and shone in the light, and her very simple blue dress made her eyes look a deep sapphire. “You don’t look like a cop. Get in.”
She got into the passenger seat and he shut the door on his way to the driver’s side. He drove back up the ramp, pressed the buttons on his remote control unit, and went under the rising garage door, past the opening gate, and out to the street.