5
• • •
The next morning, Marzik walked through CCS like a shy student handing back test papers, passing out copies of the suspect likeness that had been created from Lester Ybarra’s description. Kelso, the last to get one, scowled as if it were his daughter’s failing exam.
“There’s nothing here we can use. Your wit was a waste of time.”
Marzik, clearly disappointed, was stung by Kelso’s words.
“Well, it’s not my fault. I don’t think Lester really saw anything. Not the face, anyway.”
Starkey was at her desk when Kelso approached with the picture. She kept her eyes averted, hoping that neither he nor Marzik wouldn’t notice their redness. She was sure the gin was bleeding through her pores and tried not to blow in their faces when she commented on the likeness.
“It’s a ghost.”
Marzik nodded glumly, agreeing.
“Casper all the way.”
The portrait showed a white male approximately forty years of age with a rectangular face hidden by dark glasses and a baseball cap. His nose was undistinguished in shape and size, as were his lips, ears, and jaw. It worked out that way more times than not. If a wit saw no identifying characteristics, the portrait ended up looking like every other person on the street. The detectives called them “ghosts” because there was nothing to see.
Kelso scowled at the portrait some more, then shook his head and sighed deeply. Starkey thought he was being an ass.
“It’s nobody’s fault, Barry. We’re still interviewing people who were in the laundry at about the same time. The portrait is going to develop.”
Marzik nodded, encouraged by Starkey’s support, but Kelso didn’t look impressed.
“I got a call from Assistant Chief Morgan last night. He asked how you were doing as the lead, Carol. He’s going to want a report soon.”
Starkey’s head throbbed.
“I’ll go see him whenever he wants. That’s not a problem.”
“He won’t just want to look at you, Carol; he’ll want facts, as in progress.”
Starkey felt her temper starting to fray.
“What do you want me to do, Barry, pull the perp out of my ass?”
Kelso’s jaw knotted and unwound like he was chewing marbles.
“That might help. He suggested that we could forestall the ATF taking over this case if we had something to show for our efforts. Think about it.”
Kelso stalked away and disappeared into his office.
Starkey’s head throbbed worse. She had gotten so drunk last night that she scared herself and had spent most of the morning worried that her drinking was finally out of hand. She woke angry and embarrassed that Pell had once more been in her dreams, though she dismissed it as a sign of stress. She had taken two aspirin and two Tagamet, then pressed into the office, hoping to find a kickback on the RDX. She hadn’t. Now this.
Marzik said, “Kelso’s a turd. Do you think he talks to us like that because we’re women?”
“I don’t know, Beth. Listen, don’t sweat the picture. Pell has three other likenesses that he’s going to deliver. We can show those to Lester. Maybe something will click.”
Marzik didn’t leave. Starkey was certain that she needed another breath mint, but wouldn’t take one with Marzik standing over her.
“Even though Lester didn’t get a face, he’s solid on the cap and long-sleeved shirt.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve got him set up to come in this afternoon to look at the tapes. You see anything last night?”
Starkey leaned back to stay as far from Marzik as possible.
“Not on the wide shots. Everything is so murky you can’t really see. I think we need to have them enhanced, see if that won’t give us a better view.”
“I could take care of that, you want.”
“I already talked to Hooker about it. He’s had tapes enhanced before when he was working Divisional Robbery over in Hollenbeck. Listen, I need to check the NLETS, okay? We’ll talk later.”
Marzik nodded, still not moving. She looked like she wanted to say something.
“What, Beth?”
“Carol, listen. I want to apologize for yesterday. I was a bitch.”
“Forget it. Thanks for saying so, but it’s okay.”
“I felt bad all night and I wanted to apologize.”
“Okay. Thanks. Thank you. Don’t sweat the picture.”
“Yeah. Kelso’s such a turd.”
Marzik took her portrait and went back to her desk. Starkey stared after her. Sometimes Marzik surprised her.
When Marzik wasn’t looking, Starkey popped a fresh Altoid, then went for the coffee. When she checked the NLETS system on the way back to her desk, this time something was waiting.
Starkey had expected one or two hits on the RDX, but nothing like what she found.
The California State Sheriffs reported that Dallas Tennant, a thirty-two-year-old white male, was currently serving time in the California State Correctional Facility in Atascadero, a facility for prisoners receiving treatment for mental disorders. On three separate occasions two years ago, Tennant had exploded devices made with RDX. Starkey smiled when she saw it was three devices. RDX was rare; three devices meant that Tennant had had access to a lot of it. Starkey printed off the computer report, noting that the case had been made by a Sheriff’s Bomb and Arson sergeant-investigator named Warren Mueller out of the Central Valley office in Bakersfield. Back at her desk, she looked up the phone number in her State Law Enforcement Directory, then called the Central Valley number, asking for the Bomb and Arson Unit.
“B and A. Hennessey.”
“Warren Mueller, please.”
“Yeah, he’s here. Stand by.”
When Mueller came on, Starkey identified herself as a Los Angeles police officer. Mueller had an easy male voice with a twang of the Central Valley at the edges. Starkey thought he had probably grown up downwind of one of the meatpacking plants up there.
“I’m calling about a perp you collared named Dallas Tennant.”
“Oh, sure. He’s enjoying a lease in Atascadero these days.”
“That’s right. Reason I’m calling is I got a kicker saying that he set off three devices using RDX. That’s a lot of RDX.”
“Three we know of, yeah. Coulda been more. He was buying stolen cars from some kids up here, hundred bucks, no questions, then driving’m out into the desert to blow’m up. He’d soak’m in gas first so they’d burn, you know? Crazy fool just wanted to see’m come apart, I guess. He blew up four or five trees, too, but he used TNT for that.”
“It’s the RDX that interests me. You know where he got it?”
“Well, he claimed that he bought a case of stolen antipersonnel mines from a guy he met at a bar. You believe that, I got some desert land up here I’ll sell you. My guess is that he bought it off one of these meth-dealing biker assholes, but he never copped, so I couldn’t tell you.”
Starkey knew that the vast majority of bombings were the result of drug wars between rival methamphetamine dealers, many of whom were white bikers. Meth labs were chemical bombs waiting to happen. So when a meth dealer wanted to eliminate a rival, he often just blew apart his Airstream. Starkey had rolled out on almost a hundred meth labs when she was a bomb tech. Bomb Squad would roll even for a warrant service.
“So you think you could still have a guy up there with RDX to sell?”
“Well, that’s possible, but you never know. We didn’t have a suspect at the time, and we don’t have one now. All we had was Dallas, blowing up his goddamned cars. The guy’s your classic no-life, loner bomb crank. But the guy stood up, though, I’ll give’m that. Wherever he got it, he didn’t roll.”
“Did he have any more RDX in his possession at the time of his arrest?”
“Never found any of his works. Said he made everything at home, but there was no evidence of it. He had this shithole apartment over here out past the meat plant, but we didn’t find so much as a firecracker. We couldn’t find any evidence of these mines he claimed to have bought, either.”
Starkey considered that. Building bombs for bomb cranks like Dallas Tennant was a way of life. It was their passion, and they inevitably had a place where they built their bombs, in the same way that hobbyists had hobby rooms. Might be a closet or a room or a place in their garage, but they had a place to store their supplies and practice their craft. Such places were called “shops.”
“Seems like he would’ve had a shop.”
“Well, my personal feeling is that he was butt-buddies with the same guy sold him the RDX, and that guy packed up when Dallas was tagged, but like I say, that’s just my feeling.”
Starkey put that in her notes, but didn’t think much of Mueller’s theory. As Mueller had already pointed out, bomb cranks were introverted loners, usually of low self-esteem and feelings of inadequacy. They were often extremely shy and almost never had relationships with women. Sharing their toys didn’t fit with the profile. Starkey suspected that if Tennant didn’t cop to his shop, it was because he didn’t want to lose his toys. Like all chronics, he would see explosions in his dreams, and probably spent much of every day fantasizing about the bombs he would build as soon as he was released.
Starkey closed her pad.
“Okay, Sergeant, I think that about does it. I appreciate your time.”
“Anytime. Could I ask you something, Starkey?”
“I’ve asked you plenty.”
He hesitated. She knew in that moment what was coming, and felt her stomach knot.
“You being down there in L.A. and all, you the same Starkey got blown up?”
“Yeah. That was me. Listen, all I’ve got here is what the Sheriffs put out on the kicker. Could you fax your casework on Tennant to give me a little more?”
“This about that thing happened down there in Silver Lake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure. It’s only a few pages. I can get to it right away.”
“Thanks.”
Starkey gave him the fax number and hung up before Mueller could say any more. It was always like that, even more so from the bomb techs and bomb investigators, from the people who lived so close to the edge but never looked over, in a kind of awe that she had.
Starkey refilled her coffee and brought it into the stairwell where she stood smoking with three Fugitive Section detectives. They were young, athletic guys with short hair and thick mustaches. They were still enthusiastic about the job and hadn’t yet let themselves go, the way most cops did when they realized that the job was bureaucratic bullshit that served no purpose and did no good. These guys would bag their day at two in the afternoon, then head over to Chavez Ravine to work out at the Police Academy. Starkey could see it in their tight jeans and forearms. They smiled; she nodded back. They went on with their discussion without including her. They had made a collar that morning in Eagle Rock, a veterano gang member with a rep as a hard guy who was wanted for armed robbery and mayhem. The mayhem charge meant he’d bitten off a nose or an ear during one of the assaults. The three Fugitive cops had found him hiding under a blanket in a garage when they made the pinch. The tough veterano had pissed his pants so badly that they wouldn’t put him in the car until they’d found a plastic trash bag for him to sit on. Starkey listened to the three young cops relive their story, then crushed out her cigarette and went back to the fax machine. Another cop story. One of thousands. They always ended well unless a cop took a bullet or got bagged in an unlawful act.
When Starkey got back to the fax machine, Mueller’s casework was waiting in the tray.
Starkey read it back at her desk. Tennant had an arrest history of fire starting and explosives that went back to the age of eighteen and had twice received court-mandated psychiatric counseling. Starkey knew that the arrests had probably started even earlier, but weren’t reflected in the case file because juvenile records were sealed. She also knew this because Mueller’s notes indicated that Tennant was missing two fingers from his left hand, an explosives-related injury that occurred while he was a teenager.
Mueller’s case involved interviewing a young car thief named Robert Castillo, who had stolen two of the three cars that Tennant destroyed, along with photographs of the demolished cars. Mueller had been summoned to the Bakersfield Puritan Hospital Emergency Room by patrol officers, where he found Castillo with a windshield wiper blade through his cheek. Castillo, having delivered a late-model Nissan Stanza to Tennant, had apparently stood too close when Tennant destroyed it, caught the blade through his face, and had been rushed to the hospital by his friends. Starkey read Mueller’s interview notes several times before she caught something in the Castillo interview that reinforced her belief that Tennant still maintained his shop. She decided that she wanted to speak with him.
Starkey looked up the phone number for Atascadero, called, and asked for the law enforcement liaison officer. Police officers couldn’t just walk in off the street to speak with prisoners; the prisoner had the right to have counsel present and could refuse to speak with you. Atascadero was a long way to drive just to be told to fuck off.
“You have an inmate up there named Dallas Tennant. I’m working an active case here in Los Angeles that he might have information relating to. Would you see if he’d talk to me without counsel?”
“Would you still want to see him if he demands counsel?”
“Yes. But if he wants to play it that way, I’ll need the name of his attorney.”
“All right.”
She could tell by the way the man paused that he was writing. Soft music played behind him.
“When would you want to see him, Detective?”
Starkey glanced at the clock on the wall and thought about Pell. “Later today. Ah, say about two this afternoon.”
“All right. He’s going to want to know what it’s about.”
“The availability of an explosive called RDX.”
The liaison officer took her number and told her he’d call back as soon as possible.
After she hung up, Starkey got a fresh cup of coffee, then went back to her desk, thinking about what to do. LAPD policy required detectives to always work in pairs, but Marzik had interviews and Hooker was going to see about the tape. Starkey thought about Pell. There was no reason to call him, no reason to tell him any of this until it was over and she had something to say.
She found his card in her purse and paged him.
Starkey completed the evidence transfer request, which she faxed to the ATF regional office in Miami, then waited for Pell in the lobby. The drive from downtown L.A. to Atascadero was going to be just over three hours. She had thought that Pell would want to drive, because men always wanted to drive, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ll use the time to read Tennant’s case file, then we can work out a game plan.”
There he was with the game plan again.
She gave him the report, then maneuvered out of the city and up the coast along the Ventura Freeway. He read without comment, seeming to take forever to get through the six pages. She found his silence irritating.
“How long is it going to take you to read that, Pell?”
“I’m reading it more than once. This is good stuff, Starkey. We can use this. Searching for the RDX paid off.”
“I wanted to mention that to you. I want to make sure we don’t get off on the wrong foot here.”
Pell looked at her.
“What wrong foot?”
“I know you think you were advising me, but I don’t need it. You come in, start telling me what to do and how to do it, and expect me to hop to it. It doesn’t work that way.”
“It was just a suggestion. You did it anyway.”
“I just want to get things straight. Don’t expect that I’ll get coffee for you.”
Pell stared at her, then glanced back at the pages.
“You spoke with the arresting officer?”
“Yeah. Mueller.”
“Can I ask you to tell me what he said, or is that too much like asking you for a mocha?”
“I’m not trying to fight with you. I just wanted to set the ground rules.”
She went through her conversation with Mueller, recounting pretty much everything that had been said. Pell stared at the passing scenery, so silent that she wondered if he was even listening. But when she finished, he glanced through the pages again, then shook his head.
“Mueller dropped the ball about Tennant not having a shop. According to this, Tennant was buying stolen cars to destroy them. Three cars, three explosions. The car thief —”
“Robert Castillo.”
“Yeah, Castillo. Castillo said that Tennant had asked him to steal a fourth car. He wouldn’t need another car if he didn’t have more RDX to destroy it or knew how to get more.”
Starkey’s grip tightened on the wheel.
“That’s what I figured.”
Pell shrugged and put the pages aside.
It sounded so lame. That was exactly what Starkey had reasoned, and now she wished that she had said it before Pell. Now it looked like he was the one who’d found the hole in Tennant’s denials.
“You said you had a suspect likeness coming from Miami. Did you get it for me?”
“Yeah. That, and the first two we have.”
He slipped them from his jacket and unfolded them for her.
“Can you see?”
“There were enough people in the library to put together a pretty good composite. Our guy shows to be six feet, one-eighty or so, but he’s probably wearing lifts and padding. The wits from the earlier sightings made him at five ten. He had a square jaw, bright red hair, sideburns. That doesn’t square with the earlier sightings, either.”
Starkey glanced at the three sheets as she drove. Pell was right, none of the three looked very much alike, and none of them looked like the man Lester Ybarra described. The Miami likeness was as Pell said, the second likeness showed a balding, professorial-looking man with glasses, and the third, which was the first description that the feds had, showed a much heavier man with woolly Rasta braids, sunglasses, and a beard.
She handed them back to Pell.
“This last one looks like you in drag, Pell.”
Pell put the sheets away.
“What about your guy? He match any of these?”
Starkey told him to open her briefcase, which was on the backseat. When Pell had it, he shook his head.
“How old is this guy supposed to be?”
“Forty, but our wit isn’t dependable.”
“So he might’ve made himself up to look older.”
“Maybe. If we’re talking about the same guy.”
“Mr. Red is in his late twenties, early thirties. That’s about all we know for sure. That, and him being white. He lets himself be seen, Starkey. He changes his look to fuck with us. That’s how he gets off, fucking with us.”
After that, they drove in silence for a while, Starkey thinking about how she was going to approach Tennant. She happened to glance over and found Pell staring at her.
“What?”
“You said you had gotten videotapes from the Silver Lake event. Did you look at them yet?”
Starkey put her eyes on the road. They had passed Santa Barbara; the freeway was curving inland toward Santa Maria.
“Yeah. I looked at them last night.”
“Anything?”
Starkey shrugged.
“I’ve gotta have them enhanced.”
“That must’ve been hard for you.”
“What?”
“Looking at what happened. It must’ve been hard. It would be for me.”
Pell met her eyes, then went back to staring out the window. She thought he might be pitying her and felt herself flush with anger.
“Pell, one more thing.”
“What?”
“When we get there with Tennant, it’s my show. I’m the lead here.”
Pell nodded without expression, without looking at her.
“I’m just along for the ride.”
Starkey drove the remaining two hours in silence, pissed off that she had invited him along.
The Atascadero Minimum Security Correctional Facility was a village of brown brick buildings set in the broad open expanse of what used to be almond groves in the arid ranch-land south of Paso Robles. There were no walls, no guard towers; just a ten-foot chain-link fence and a single front gate with two bored guards who had to slide a motorized gate out of the way.
Atascadero was used to house nonviolent felons who the court deemed unsuitable for the general prison population: ex-police officers, white-collar criminals convicted of one-shot paper crimes, and vacationing celebrities who’d wrung out the eight or nine chances the courts inevitably gave them on drug charges. No one ever got knifed or gang-raped at Atascadero, though the inmates did have to maintain a three-acre truck garden. The worst that could happen was heatstroke.
Starkey said, “They’re going to make us check our guns. Be faster with the paperwork if we leave’m in the car.”
“You going to leave yours?”
“It’s already in my briefcase. I never carry the damned thing.”
Pell glanced over, then pulled an enormous Smith 10mm autoloader and slipped it under the seat.
“Jesus, Pell, why do you need a monster like that?”
“No one gets a second shot.”
Starkey badged the gate guards, who directed her to the reception area. They left the car in a small, unshaded parking lot, then went inside to find the law enforcement liaison officer, a man named Larry Olsen, waiting for them.
“Detective Starkey?”
“Carol Starkey. This is Special Agent Pell, with the ATF. Thanks for setting this up.”
Olsen asked for identification and had them sign the log. He was a bored man who walked as if his legs hurt. He led them out the rear through double glass doors and along a walk toward another building. From back here, Starkey could see the truck garden and two basketball courts. Several inmates were playing basketball with their shirts off, laughing and enjoying themselves. They missed easy shots and handled the ball poorly. All of them except one were white.
Olsen said, “I should tell you that Tennant is currently being medicated. These are court-mandated therapies. Xanax for anxiety and Anafranil to help regulate his obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’s required to take them.”
“Is that going to give us a problem with him agreeing to have no lawyer present?”
“Not at all. They don’t affect his judgment, just his compulsions. He was off the meds for a while, but we had a problem recently and had to resume the treatment.”
Pell said, “What kind of problem?”
“Tennant used cleaning products and some iodine he stole from the infirmary to create an explosive. He lost his left thumb.”
Pell shook his head.
“What an asshole.”
“Well, this is a minimum-security installation, you know. The inmates have a great deal of freedom.”
Dallas Tennant was an overweight man with pale skin and large eyes. He was sitting at a clean Formica table that had been pushed against the wall, but stood when Olsen showed them into the interview room. His left hand was bandaged, strangely narrow without its thumb. Tennant’s eyes locked on Starkey and stayed there. He barely glanced at Pell. The index and middle fingers of his right hand were missing at the second joint, the caps of scar old and worn. This was the injury that Starkey had read about in Mueller’s case file.
Tennant said, “Hello, Mr. Olsen. Is this Detective Starkey?”
Olsen introduced them, Tennant offering his hand, but neither Starkey nor Pell taking it. You never shook their hand. Shaking hands put you on an equal basis, and you weren’t equals. They were in prison; you weren’t. They were weak; you were strong. Starkey had learned that it was a game of power when she was still in uniform. Assholes in prison thought of a friend as someone it was easy to manipulate.
Olsen put his clipboard on the table and opened a felt-tipped pen.
“Tennant, this form says that you have been advised of your right to have an attorney present for this interview, but that you have declined that right. You have to sign it here on this line, and I will witness.”
As Tennant signed the forms, Starkey noticed a thick plastic book on the corner of the table. Two screw-thread hasps kept it fastened at the spine; the cover was of a tropical island at sunset with script letters that read My Happy Memories. It was the kind of inexpensive photo album you could buy at any dime store.
When Starkey glanced up, Tennant was staring at her. He smiled shyly.
“That’s my book.”
Olsen tapped the form.
“Your signature right here, Detective.”
Starkey forced her eyes away from Tennant and signed. Olsen signed beneath her signature, dated the page, then explained that a guard would be outside the room to remove Tennant when they were finished. After that, he left.
Starkey directed Tennant where to sit. She wanted to be across from him, and she wanted Pell at his side so that Tennant would have to look at one or the other, but not both. Tennant slid his scrapbook across the table when he changed seats to keep it near him.
“First off, Dallas, I want to tell you that we’re not investigating you. We’re not looking to bring charges against you. We’re going to overlook any crimes you admit to, as long as they don’t include crimes against persons.”
Tennant nodded.
“There won’t be any of that. I never hurt anyone.”
“Fine. Then let’s get started.”
“Can I show you something first? I think it might help you.”
“Let’s not get sidetracked, Dallas. Let’s stay with the reason we’re here.”
He turned his book for her to see, ignoring her objection.
“It won’t take long, and it’s very important to me. I wasn’t going to see you at first, but then I remembered your name.”
He had marked a place in the book with a strip of toilet tissue. He opened to the marked page.
The newspaper clip was yellow from being smothered by the plastic for three years, but the below-the-fold two-column headline was still readable. Starkey felt her skin grow cold.
OFFICER KILLED IN BOMB BLAST;
SECOND OFFICER CRITICAL
It was an L.A. Times article about the trailer park bombing that had killed Sugar and wounded Starkey. Above the headline was a grainy black-and-white picture that showed the two EMT teams, one team working on Sugar, the other on Starkey, as firefighters hosed the flaming trailer behind them. She had never read the article or the three follow-up articles that followed. A friend of Starkey’s named Marion Tyson had saved them and brought them to Starkey in the week after her release from the hospital. Starkey had thrown them away and had never spoken to Marion Tyson again.
Starkey took a moment to make sure her voice would not waver, that she wouldn’t give away her feelings.
“Are all the articles in this book bomb-related?”
Tennant flipped the pages for her to see, revealing flashes of death and devastated buildings, crumpled cars, and medical text photographs of severed limbs and disrupted bodies.
“I’ve collected these since I was a child. I wasn’t going to talk to you, but then I remembered who you are. I remember watching the news the day you were killed, and what an impression that made on me. I was hoping I could get you to autograph it.”
Before she could respond, Pell reached across the table and closed the book.
“Not today, you piece of shit.”
Pell pulled the book close and laid his arm across it.
“Today, you’re going to tell us where you got the RDX.”
“That’s mine. You can’t take that. Mr. Olsen will make you give it back.”
Starkey was inwardly livid with Pell for intruding, but she kept her manner calm. The change in Pell was dramatic; in the car, he’d seemed distant and thoughtful; this Pell was poised in his chair like a leopard anxious to pounce.
“I’m not going to sign your book, Dallas. Maybe if you tell us where you got the RDX and how we could get some, maybe then I might sign it. But not now.”
“I want my book. Mr. Olsen is going to make you give it back.”
“Give it back, Pell.”
Starkey eased the book away from Pell and slid it across the table. Tennant pulled the book close again and covered it with his hands.
“You won’t sign it?”
“Maybe if you help us.”
“I bought some mines from a man I didn’t know. Raytheons. I don’t remember the model number.”
“How many mines?”
He had told Mueller that he’d bought a case, which, she knew because she had phoned Raytheon, contained six mines.
“A case. There were six in the case.”
Starkey smiled; Tennant smiled back at her.
Pell said, “What was this man’s name?”
“Clint Eastwood. I know, I know, but that was how he identified himself.”
Starkey took out a cigarette and lit up.
“How could we find Clint?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you find Clint?”
“You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
“Mr. Olsen gave me special permission. How did you find Clint? If we let you out today and you wanted more RDX, how would you reach him?”
“I met him in a bar. That’s all there was to it. Like I told them when they arrested me. He had a case of antipersonnel mines, I bought it, and then he was gone. I didn’t want mines; I mean, I wasn’t going to put them out in a field and watch cows walk on them or anything. I bought them to scavenge the RDX.”
Starkey believed that Tennant was telling the truth about salvaging his RDX from stolen mines; high-order explosives were almost always acquired that way, from mortar shells or hand grenades or other military gear. But she also believed that his source wasn’t some nameless yahoo in a roadhouse. Bomb cranks like Tennant were low self-esteem loners; you wouldn’t find “Plays well with others” on his report cards. Starkey knew that, as with arsonists, Tennant’s obsession with explosives was a sublimated sexuality. He would be awkward with women, sexually inexperienced in the normal sense, and find his release in a large pornography collection devoted to deviant practices such as sadomasochism and torture. He would avoid face-to-face confrontations of any kind. He would lurk in hobby shops like the one where he had been employed and swap meets; he would be far too afraid to connect in a biker bar. Starkey decided to change her approach and come at him from a different direction. She took out the photographs of the three cars and the interview pages from Mueller’s case file. The same things that Pell had read and understood on the drive up.
“All right, Dallas. I can buy that. Now tell me this, how much RDX do you have left?”
Tennant hesitated, and Starkey knew that Mueller had never asked that.
“I don’t have any left. I used it all.”
“Sure you do, Dallas. You only blew up three cars. I can look at these pictures and tell that you didn’t use all the RDX. We can calculate things like that, you know? Start with the damage, then work backwards to estimate the amount of the charge. It’s called an energy comparison.”
Tennant blinked his eyes blandly.
“That’s all I had.”
“You bought the cars from a young man named Robert Castillo. Mr. Castillo said that you asked him for a fourth car. Why would you need a fourth car if you only had enough pop for three?”
Tennant wet his lips and made the shy smile. He shrugged.
“I had some dynamite. You soak the interior with enough gasoline, they go fine even with the dynamite. Not as good as with the RDX, but that’s special.”
Starkey knew he was lying, and Tennant knew she knew. He averted his eyes and shrugged.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing to say.”
“Sure there is. Tell us where we can find your shop.”
Starkey was certain that if they could find his shop, they would find evidence that would lead to his source of the RDX or to other people with similar sources.
“I didn’t have a shop. I kept everything in the trunk of my car.”
“Nothing was found in the trunk of your car except a few clips and wire.”
“They kept asking me about that, but there was nothing to say. I’m a very neat person. They even offered to reduce my time and give me outpatient status, but I had nothing to trade. Don’t you think I would have made a deal if I could?”
Pell leaned forward and put his hands close to Tennant’s book.
“I think you jerk off every night about using the rest of your stuff when you get out of here, but you’re here on a mental. That’s a one-way ride until the headshrinkers decide that you’re sane, which figures to be never. Does a sane man blow off his own thumb?”
Tennant flushed.
“I represent the United States Government. Detective Starkey here represents the Los Angeles Police Department. Together, with a little cooperation from you, we might be able to help get your time reduced. Then you won’t have to mess around popping off fingers with window cleaner, you can go for the whole hand, maybe even an arm.”
Starkey stared at Tennant, waiting.
“I never hurt anybody. It’s not fair they keep me here.”
“Tell that to the kid with the windshield wiper through his face.”
Starkey could see that Tennant was thinking. She didn’t want to give him much time, so she stepped in, trying to appear sympathetic.
“That’s right, Dallas. You didn’t intend to hurt that boy, you even tried in your own way to keep him safe.”
“I told him to take cover. Some people just won’t listen.”
“I believe that, Dallas, but the thing is, you see, this is why we’re here, we’ve got someone out there who doesn’t care about people the way you do. This person is trying to hurt people.”
Tennant nodded.
“You’re here because of the officer who was killed. Officer Riggio.”
“How do you know about Riggio?”
“We have television here, and the Internet. Several of the inmates are wealthy people, bankers and lawyers. If you have to be in prison, this is the place to be.”
Pell snorted.
“Officer Riggio was killed with RDX?”
“RDX was a component. The charge was something called Modex Hybrid.”
Tennant leaned back and laced his fingers. The missing thumb must have hurt because he winced and drew back his hand.
Pell came out of his chair so suddenly that Starkey jumped.
“How do you know about Mr. Red?”
Tennant glanced nervously from Starkey to Pell.
“I don’t, really. People gossip. People share news, and lies. I don’t even know that Mr. Red is real.”
Pell reached across the table and gripped Tennant’s wrist above his bandaged hand.
“Who, Tennant? Who’s talking about Mr. Red?”
Starkey was growing uncomfortable with Pell’s manner. She was willing to let him play bad guy to her good guy, but she didn’t like it that he was touching Tennant, and she didn’t like the intensity she saw in his eyes.
“Pell.”
“What do they say, Tennant?”
Tennant’s eyes grew larger and he tried to twist away.
“Nothing. He’s a myth, he’s someone who makes wonderful elegant explosions.”
“He kills people, you sick fuck.”
Starkey pushed out of her chair.
“Leave go of him, Pell.”
Pell’s face was bright with anger. He didn’t leave go.
“He knows that Red uses Modex, Starkey. We’ve never released that information to the public. How does he know?”
Pell gripped Tennant’s bandaged hand. Tennant went white and gasped.
“Tell me, you sonofabitch. How do you know about Mr. Red? What do you know about him?”
Starkey shoved Pell hard, trying to move him away, but couldn’t. She was terrified that the guard would hear and burst in.
“Damnit, Pell, leave go! Step away from him!”
Tennant slapped at Pell without effect, then fell backward out of the chair.
“They talk about him on Claudius. That’s how I know! They talk about the bombs he builds, and what he’s like, and why he’s doing these things. I saw it on Claudius.”
“Who the fuck is Claudius?”
“Goddamn you, Pell. Get back.”
Starkey shoved at Pell again, and this time he moved. It was like pushing a house.
Pell was breathing hard, but he seemed in control again. He stared at Tennant in a way that Starkey read with certainty that if Pell had his gun, he would be holding it to the man’s head.
“Tell me about Claudius. Tell me how you know about Mr. Red.”
Tennant whimpered from the floor, cradling his hand.
“It’s an Internet site. There’s a chat room for people … like me. We talk about bombs and the different bombers and things like that. They say that Mr. Red even lurks there, reading what they say about him.”
Starkey turned away from Pell, staring at Tennant.
“Have you had contact with Mr. Red?”
“No. I don’t know. It’s just a rumor, or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. If he’s there, he uses a different name. All I’m saying is what the others say. They said the Unabomber used to come around, too, but I don’t know if that was true.”
Starkey helped Tennant to his feet and put him in the chair. A red flower blossomed on the bandage; his wound was seeping.
“You okay, Tennant? You all right?”
“It hurts. Goddamn, it hurts. You bastard.”
“You want me to get the guard? You want the doctor?”
Tennant glanced at her and picked up his book with his good hand.
“I want you to sign.”
Starkey signed Tennant’s book, and then she called the guard and got Pell out of there. Tennant seemed fine when they left, but she wasn’t sure what he might say once they were gone.
Pell moved like an automaton, stalking out ahead of her, stiff with tension. Starkey had to walk hard to keep up, growing angrier and angrier. Her face felt like a ceramic mask, so brittle that if he stopped walking before they reached the car, it might shatter, and, with it, her control.
She wanted to kill him.
When they reached the parking lot, Starkey followed him to his side of the car and shoved him again. She caught him from behind, and this time he wasn’t ready. He stumbled into the fender.
“You crazy bastard, what was that all about? Do you know what you did in there? Do you know what kind of trouble we could be in?”
If she had her Asp from her uniform days, she would happily beat him stupid.
Pell glared at her darkly.
“He gave us something, Starkey. This Claudius thing.”
“I don’t give a shit what he gave us! You touched a prisoner in there! You tortured him! If he files a complaint, it’s over for me. I don’t know about the motherfucking ATF, but let me tell you something, Pell, LAPD will have my hide on the barn! That was wrong, what you did in there. That was wrong.”
She was so angry that she wanted to throttle him. All he did was stand there, and that made her feel even angrier.
Pell took a deep breath, spread his hands, and looked away as if whatever had driven him inside was leaching away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s great, Pell, thanks. You’re sorry.”
She walked away from him, shaking her head. She could still feel last night’s drunk, and suddenly she realized that she was already thinking about getting there again, blasting back a couple of quick shots to kill the knots in her neck. She was so damned angry that she didn’t trust herself to speak.
That’s when Pell said, “Starkey.”
Starkey turned back just in time to see Pell stagger against the car. He caught himself on the fender, then collapsed to one knee.
Starkey ran to him.
“Pell, what’s wrong?”
He was as pale as milk. He closed his eyes, hanging his head like a tired dog. Starkey thought he was having a heart attack.
“I’m going to get someone. You hang on, okay?”
Pell caught her arm, holding tight.
“Wait.”
His eyes were clenched shut. He opened them, blinked, then closed them again. His grip on her was so strong that it hurt.
“I’m okay, Starkey. I get these pains sometimes. It’s a migraine, that’s all. Like that.” He wasn’t letting go of her.
“You look like shit, Pell. I’d better get someone. Please.”
“Just give me a minute.”
He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. Starkey had the frantic thought that he was dying right here in the damned parking lot.
“Pell?”
“I’m okay.”
“Let go of me, Pell, or I might have to smack you again.”
He held her with a grip like pliers, but when she said it, his face softened, and he let go. Color began to return to his face.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He looked at her then. She was very close to him. His closeness embarrassed her, and she scooted away.
“Let me just sit here for a second. They can’t see us, right?”
She had to stand to peer over the car at the reception building.
“Not unless they can see through the car. If they saw what happened, they probably think we’re down here making out.”
Starkey flushed, surprised that she’d said something like that. Pell seemed not to notice.
“You don’t look okay. Just sit here for a minute.”
“I’m okay.”
He stood, balancing himself against the car, then used the door for support as he climbed in. By the time she went around the other side and got behind the wheel, he had more color.
“Are you okay?”
“Close enough. Let’s go.”
“You really fucked us up in there.”
“I didn’t fuck us up. He gave us Claudius. That’s something we didn’t have before.”
“If he files a complaint, you can use that to explain to Internal Affairs why they shouldn’t bring me up on charges.”
Pell reached across the seat and touched her thigh. His expression surprised her; his eyes were deepened with regret.
“I’m sorry. If he files a complaint, I’ll take the bullet. It wasn’t you in there, Starkey, it was me. I’ll tell them that. Just drive, would you, please? That isn’t an order; it’s a request. It’s a long ride home.”
She stared at him a moment longer, then she started the car and pulled away, her leg feeling the weight of his hand as if it were still there.