“Wayne, what do you have to say about killing innocent victims?”
“Sacrifices have to be made,” he called.
Simmons called, “But why these particular victims? What’s the message you’re trying to send?”
“That maybe bankers shouldn’t be throwing themselves fancy holiday parties with the money they’ve stolen from the working folk of this country. The financial industry’s been raping citizens for years. They claim—”
“Okay, hold it,” Dance snapped to the agents flanking Keplar, who literally jerked him to a stop.
Dance was pulling out a walkie-talkie. “Michael, it’s Kathryn, you read me?”
“Four by four. We’ve got six choppers and the entire peninsula com network standing by. You’re patched in to all emergency frequencies. What do you have?”
“The target’s a party—Christmas, I’d guess—involving bankers, or savings and loan people, bank regulators, something like that. It is a bomb and it’s under the stage in that room you texted me about.”
Wayne Keplar stared at her, awash in confusion.
A half dozen voices shot from her radio, variations of “Roger… Copy that… Checking motels with banquet rooms in the target zone, south of Moss Landing… Contacting all banks in the target zone.”
“What is this?” Keplar raged.
Everyone ignored him.
A long several minutes passed, Dance standing motionless, head down, listening to the intersecting voices through the radio. And then: “This is Major Rodriguez, CHP. We’ve got it! Central Coast Bankers’ Association, annual Christmas party, Monterey Bay Seaside Motel. They’re evacuating now.”
Wayne Keplar’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Dance. “But the bomb…” He glanced at Dance’s wrist and those of the other officers. They’d all removed their watches, so Keplar couldn’t see the real time. He turned to an agent and snapped, “What the hell time is it?”
“About ten to four,” replied Dan Simmons, the reporter.
He blurted to Dance, “The clock? In the interrogation room?”
“Oh,” she said, guiding him to the prisoner transport van. “It was fast.”
# # #
A half hour later Michael O’Neil arrived from the motel where the bankers’ party had been interrupted.
He explained that everyone got out safely, but there’d been no time to try to render the device safe. The explosion was quite impressive. The material was probably Semtex, Abbott Calderman had guessed, judging from the smell. The Forensic Services head explained to O’Neil that it was the only explosive ever to have its own FAQ on the Internet, which answered questions like: Was it named after an idyllic, pastoral village? (yes). Was it mass produced and shipped throughout the world, as the late President Vaclav Havel claimed? (no). And was Semtex the means by which its inventor committed suicide? (not exactly—yes, an employee at the plant did blow himself up intentionally, but he had not been one of the inventors).
Dance smiled as O’Neil recounted this trivia.
Steve Nichols of the FBI called and told her they were on the way to the CBI to deliver the other suspect, Gabe Paulson. He explained that since she’d broken the case, it made sense for her to process all the suspects. There would be federal charges—mostly related to the explosives—but those could be handled later.
As they waited in the parking lot for Nichols to arrive, O’Neil asked, “So, how’d you do it? All I know is you called me about three, I guess, and told me to get choppers and a communications team ready. You hoped to have some details about the location of the attack in about forty-five minutes. But you didn’t tell me what was going on.”
“I didn’t have much time,” Dance explained. “What happened was I found out, after wasting nearly an hour, that Keplar was kinesics proof. So I had to trick him. I took a break at three and talked to our technical department. Seems you can speed up analog clocks by changing the voltage and the frequency of the current in the wiring. They changed the current in that part of the building so the clock started running fast.”
O’Neil smiled. “That was the byword for this case, remember. You said it yourself.”
And remember: We have two and a half hours. We’ve got to move fast…
Dance continued, “I remembered when we got to CBI Keplar started lecturing Dan Simmons about his cause.”
“Oh, that obnoxious reporter and blogger?”
“Right. I called him and said that if he asked Keplar why he picked those particular victims, I’d give him an exclusive interview. And I called you to set up the search teams. Then I went back into the interrogation. I had to make sure Keplar didn’t notice the clock was running fast so I started debating philosophy with him.”
“Philosophy?”
“Well, Wikipedia Philosophy. Not the real stuff.”
“Probably real enough nowadays.”
She continued, “You and the crime scene people found out that it was probably a bomb and that it was planted in a large room with a stage. When the clock hit four in the interrogation room, I had Albert call me and pretend a bomb had gone off and killed people but the stage had absorbed a lot of the blast. That was just enough information so that Keplar believed it had really happened. Then all I had to do was perp walk him past Simmons, who asked why those particular victims. Keplar couldn’t keep himself from lecturing.
“Sure was close.”
True. Ten minutes meant the difference between life and death for two hundred people, though fate sometimes allowed for even more narrow margins.
One of the FBI’s black SUVs now eased to a stop beside Dance and O’Neil.
Steve Nichols and another agent climbed out and helped their shackled prisoner out. A large bandage covered much of his head and the side of his face. O’Neil stared at him silently.
The FBI agent said, “Kathryn, good luck with this fellow. Wish you the best but he’s the toughest I’ve ever seen—and I’ve been up against al-Qaeda and some of the Mexican cartel drug lords. They’re Chatty Cathy compared with him. Not a single word. Just sits and stares at you. He’s all yours.”
“I’ll do what I can, Steve. But I think there’s enough forensics to put everybody away for twenty years.”
The law enforcers said good-bye and the feds climbed into the Suburban, then sped out of the CBI lot.
Dance began to laugh.
So did the prisoner.
O’Neil asked, “So what’s going on?”
Dance stepped forward and undid the cuffs securing the wrists of her associate, TJ Scanlon. He removed the swaddling, revealing no injuries.
“Thanks, Boss. And by the way, those’re the first words I’ve said in three hours.”
Dance explained to O’Neil, “Gabe Paulson’s in a lot more serious condition than I let on. He was shot in the head during the takedown and’ll probably be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. Which might not be that long. I knew Nichols’d wanted to have a part of the case—and for all we knew at that point he had primary jurisdiction. I wanted to interrogate the only suspect we had—Keplar—so I needed to give Nichols someone. TJ volunteered to play Paulson.”
“So you just deceived the FBI.”
“Technically. I know Steve. He’s a brilliant agent. I’d trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this.”
“Three hours, Boss,” TJ said, rubbing his wrists. “Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That’s very hard for me.”
O’Neil asked, “Won’t he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?”
“He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I’ll deal with it then.”
“I thought I was going to be waterboarded.”