10
• • •
The next morning, Starkey was the first detective in the office as usual. She figured that Mueller probably didn’t get into his office at six A.M., so she killed time with paperwork. Hooker arrived at five after seven, Marzik drifting in about twenty minutes later. Marzik had Starbucks.
Marzik was stowing her briefcase when she glanced over.
“How’d the big meeting with the A-chief go?”
“He told me to keep the case moving forward. That was his contribution.”
Marzik dropped into her seat, sipping the coffee. Starkey smelled chocolate. Mocha.
“I hear Dick Leyton saved your ass in there.”
Starkey frowned, wondering what Marzik had heard.
“What does that mean? What did you hear?”
Marzik pried the lid from her cup, blew to cool the coffee.
“Kelso told Giadonna. He said you floated some notion about Silver Lake being a copycat. I’m kinda curious when you were planning on telling me and Hooker about it.”
Starkey was pissed off that Kelso would say anything, and pissed that Marzik thought she’d been keeping something from them. She explained about the Miami device and the difference she had found in the direction of the tape.
“It’s not the big headline you’re making it sound. I wanted to talk it over with you guys today. I didn’t get a chance yesterday.”
“Well, whatever. Maybe you were too busy thinking about Pell.”
“What does that mean?”
“Hey, he’s a good-looking guy. For a fed.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“He got you in on that Claudius thing, right? All I’m saying is when a guy does you a turn like that, you should think about paying him back. Give the man a blow job.”
Hooker lurched to his feet and walked away. Marzik laughed.
“Jorge is such a goddamned tightass.”
Starkey was irritated.
“No, Beth. He’s a gentleman. You, you’re trailer trash.”
Marzik wheeled her chair closer and lowered her voice.
“Now I’m being serious, okay? It’s pretty obvious you’re attracted to him.”
“Bullshit.”
“Every time somebody mentions the guy, you look like you’re scared to death. And it’s not because he might take the case.”
“Beth? When’s the last time you were choked out?”
Marzik arched her eyebrows knowingly, then rolled her chair back to her desk.
Starkey went for more coffee, ignoring Marzik, who sat on her fat ass with a smugfuckingsmile. Hooker, still embarrassed by Marzik’s remark, lingered on the far side of the squad room, too humiliated to meet Starkey’s eye.
Starkey went back to her desk, scooped up the phone, and dialed Mueller. It was still early, but it was either call Mueller or shoot Marzik between the eyes.
When Mueller came on the line, he sounded rushed.
“I gotta get movin’ here, Starkey. Some turd put a hand grenade in a mailbox.”
“I just have a couple of questions, Sergeant. I spoke with Tennant, and now I need to follow up a few things with you.”
“He’s a real piece of work, ain’t he? He loses any more fingers, pretty soon he’ll be countin’ on his toes.”
Starkey didn’t think it was funny.
“Tennant still denies that he had a shop.”
Mueller interrupted her, annoyed because she was wasting his time.
“Waitaminute. We talked about this, didn’t we?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s nothing new to cover. If he’s got a shop, we couldn’t find it. I been thinking about this since you called. I’ve got to tell you I think the guy is probably telling the truth. A pissant like this wouldn’t have the balls to hold out when he could trade for time.”
She didn’t bother pointing out that for a pissant like Tennant, his shop would be the most important thing in the world.
Instead, she told him that she had reason to believe that Tennant had a shop and more RDX, also. This time when he spoke, his voice was stiff.
“What reason?”
“Tennant told us the same thing he told you, that he salvaged the RDX from a case of Raytheon GMX antipersonnel mines. That’s six mines.”
“Yeah. That’s what I remember.”
“Okay. I looked up the GMX in our spec book down here. It says that each GMX carries a charge of 1.8 pounds of RDX, which means he would have had a little over ten pounds. Now, I’m looking at the pictures of these three cars you sent. They’re fairly light-bodied vehicles, but most of the damage seems to be from fire. I ran an energy calc on the RDX, and it seems to me that if he had used a third of his load on each car, the damage would’ve been much greater than it is here.”
Mueller didn’t answer.
“Then I saw here in your interview notes with Robert Castillo that Tennant asked him to steal a fourth car. That implies to me that Tennant had more RDX.”
When Mueller finally spoke, his tone was defensive.
“We searched that rathole he was living in. We searched every damned box and cubbyhole in the place. We had his car impounded for three months and even stripped the damned rocker panels. We searched the old lady’s house, and her garage, and I even had the Feebs bring out a goddamned dog for the flower bed, so don’t try to make out that I fucked up.”
Starkey felt her voice harden and regretted it.
“I’m not trying to make out anything, Mueller. Only reason I called is that there aren’t many notes here from your interviews with his landlady or employer.”
“There was nothing to write. The old bat didn’t want to talk to us. All she gave a shit about was us not tromping on her flower beds.”
“What about his employer?”
“He said what they all say, how surprised he was, how Dallas was such a normal guy. We wear cowboy boots up here, Starkey, but we’re not stupid. You just remember. That sonofabitch is sitting in Atascadero because of me. I made my case. When you make yours, call me again.”
He hung up before she could answer, and Starkey slammed down her phone. When she looked up, Marzik was staring at her.
“Smooth.”
“Fuck him.”
“You’re really pissed off today. What got up your ass?”
“Beth. Just leave it alone.”
Starkey shuffled through the casework again. Tennant’s landlady had been an elderly woman named Estelle Reager. His employer had been a man named Bradley Ferman, owner of a hobby shop called Robbie’s Hobbies. She found their phone numbers and called both, learning that Robbie’s Hobbies was out of business. Estelle Reager agreed to speak with her.
Starkey gathered her purse, and stood.
“Come on, Beth. We’re going up there to talk to this woman.”
“I don’t want to go to Bakersfield. Take Hooker.”
“Hooker’s busy with the tapes.”
“So am I. I’m still talking to the laundry people.”
“Get your shit together and put your ass in the car. We’re taking the drive.”
Starkey left without waiting.
The Golden State Freeway ran north out of Los Angeles, splitting the state through the great, flat plain of the Central Valley. Starkey believed it to be the finest driving road in California, or anywhere; long, straight, wide, and flat. You could set the cruise control at eighty, put your brain on hold, and make San Francisco in five hours. Bakersfield was less than ninety minutes.
Marzik sulked, bound up tight on the passenger side with her arms and legs crossed like a pouting teenager. Starkey wasn’t sure why she had made Marzik come, regretting it even as they left Spring Street. Neither of them spoke for the first half hour until they crested the Newhall Pass at the top of the San Fernando Valley, the great roller coasters and spires of the Magic Mountain amusement park appearing on their left.
Marzik shifted uncomfortably. It was Marzik who spoke first.
“My kids want to go to that place. I keep putting them off because it costs so much, but, Jesus, they see these damned commercials, these people on the roller coasters. The commercials never say how much it costs.”
Starkey glanced over, expecting Marzik to look angry and resentful, but she didn’t. She looked tired and miserable.
“Beth, I want to ask you something. What you said about me and Pell, is it really that obvious?”
Marzik shrugged.
“I don’t know. I was just saying that.”
“Okay.”
“You never talk about your life. I just kinda figured you don’t have one.”
Marzik looked over at her.
“Now can I ask you something?”
Starkey felt uncomfortable with that, but told Marzik she could ask whatever she wanted.
“When’s the last time you had a man?”
“That’s a terrible thing to ask.”
“You said I could ask. If you don’t want to talk about it, fine.”
Starkey realized that she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. She took a breath, forcing herself to relax. She grudgingly admitted that she wanted to talk about this, even though she didn’t know how. Maybe that was why she had made Marzik come with her.
“It’s been a long time.”
“What are you waiting for? You think you’re getting younger? You think your ass is getting smaller?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know what you want because we never talk. Here we are, the only two women in the section, and we never talk about anything but the goddamned job. Here’s what I’m saying, Carol, you do this damned job, but you need something else, because this job is shit. It takes, but it doesn’t give you a goddamned thing. It’s just shit.”
Starkey glanced over. Marzik’s eyes were wet and she was blinking. Starkey realized that suddenly everything had turned; they were talking about Marzik, not Starkey.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I want. I want to get married. I want someone to talk to who’s taller than me. I want someone else in that house even if he spends all his time on the couch, and I have to bring him the beer and listen to him fart at three in the morning. I am sick of being alone, with no one for company but two kids eating crackers. Shit, I want to be married so bad they see me coming a mile away and run.”
Starkey didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, Beth. You’re dating, right? You’ll find someone.”
“You don’t know shit about it. I hate this fucking job. I hate my rotten life. I hate these two kids. Isn’t that the most horrible thing you’ve ever heard? I hate these two kids, and I don’t know how I’m gonna get them up here to Magic Mountain.”
Marzik ran out of gas and lapsed into silence. Starkey drove on, feeling uncomfortable. She thought that Marzik must want something for having said all that, but didn’t know what. She felt that she was letting Marzik down.
“Beth, listen?”
Marzik shook her head, not looking over, clearly embarrassed. Starkey was embarrassed, too.
“I’m not very good at girl talk. I’m sorry.”
They lapsed into silence then, each of them lost in her own thoughts as they followed the freeway down from the mountains into the great Central Valley. When Bakersfield appeared on the flat, empty plain, Marzik finally spoke again.
“I didn’t mean that about my kids.”
“I know.”
They left the freeway a short time later, following directions that Estelle Reager had given until they came to a prewar stucco home between the railroad transfer station south of Bakersfield, and the airport. Mrs. Reager answered the door wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and work gloves. She bore the lined, leathery skin of a woman who had spent much of her life in the sun. Starkey guessed that Mueller had come in like a cowboy, thinking he could ride roughshod over the old woman, who had gotten her back up. Once up, she would be hard to win over.
Starkey introduced herself and Marzik.
Reager eyed them.
“A couple of women, huh? I guess none of the lazy men down there wanted to drive up.”
Marzik laughed. When Starkey saw the twinkle that came to Estelle Reager’s eye, she knew they were home free.
Mrs. Reager showed them through the house and out the back door to a small patio covered by a translucent green awning. The awning caught the sun, washing everything with a green glow. The driveway ran along the side of the house to a garage, behind which sat a small, neat guest house. A well-maintained vegetable garden filled the length of the yard between the patio and the guest house.
“We appreciate your seeing us like this, Mrs. Reager.”
“Well, I’m happy to help. I don’t know what I can tell you, though. Nothing I ain’t already said before.”
Marzik went to the edge of the patio to look at the guest house.
“Is that where he lived?”
“Oh, yes. He lived there for four years, and you couldn’t ask for a better young man. I guess that sounds strange, considering what we know about him now, but Dallas was always very considerate and paid his rent on time.”
“It looks empty. Is anyone living there now?”
“I had a young man last year, but he married a teacher and they needed a bigger place. It’s so hard to find quality people in this price range, you know. May I ask what it is you’re hoping to find?”
Starkey explained her belief that Tennant still had a store of bomb components.
“Well, you won’t find anything like that here. The police searched high and low, let me tell you that. They were all in my garden. I was happy to help, but they weren’t very nice about it.”
Starkey knew that her guess about Mueller had been right.
“If you want to look through his things, you can help yourself. They’re all right there in the garage.”
Marzik turned back, glancing at Starkey.
“You’ve still got Tennant’s things?”
“Well, he asked me to keep them, you know, since he was in jail.”
Starkey looked at the garage, then at Mrs. Reager.
“These were things that were here when the police searched?”
“Oh, yes. I got’m in the garage, if you want to look.”
She explained that Tennant had continued to pay rent on his guest house for the first year that he was in prison, but that he had finally written to her, apologizing that he would have to stop and asked if she would be willing to store his things. There weren’t very many. Only a few boxes.
Starkey asked the older woman to excuse them, and walked with Marzik to the garage.
“If she says we can go into the garage, we’re okay with that because it’s her property. But if we go into his boxes and find anything, we could have a problem with that.”
“You think we need a search warrant?”
“Of course we need a search warrant.”
They would need a search warrant, but they were also out of their operating area, Los Angeles police in the city of Bakersfield. The easist thing to do would be to call Mueller and have him come out with a request for a telephonic warrant.
Starkey went back to Mrs. Reager.
“Mrs. Reager, I want to be clear on something. These things in your garage, they are things that the police have already looked at?”
“Well, they were in the guest house when the police came. I would guess they looked.”
“All right. Now, you said that Tennant asked you to store his things. Did you pack them?”
“That’s right. He didn’t have very much, just clothes and some of those adult movies. I didn’t pack those. I threw them away when I found them. The furniture was mine. I rented it furnished in those days.”
Starkey decided that there was nothing to be gained by searching the boxes. Her real hope was in identifying people with whom Tennant might have stored his components well before the time of his arrest.
“Did you know any of his friends or acquaintances?”
“No one ever came here, if that’s what you’re asking. Well, I take that back. One young man did come by a few times, but that was long before Dallas was arrested. They worked together, I think. At that hobby shop.”
“How long before?”
“Oh, a long time. At least a year. I think they were watching those movies, you know?”
Marzik took out the three suspect sketches.
“Do any of these look like the man?”
“Oh, Lord, that was so long ago and I didn’t pay attention. I don’t think so.”
Starkey let it go, thinking that she was probably right.
Marzik said, “That was Tennant’s only job, the hobby shop?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he have any girlfriends?”
“No. None that I knew.”
“What about family?”
“Well, all I knew of was his mother. I know she died, though. Tennant came into my house and told me that. He was heartbroken, you know. We had coffee, and the poor boy just cried.”
Starkey wasn’t thinking about the mother. Something about the boxes bothered her.
“Tennant continued paying rent to you for a year, even after he was in prison?”
“That’s right. He thought he might be released, you know, and wanted to come back. He didn’t want me to rent the house to anyone else.”
Marzik raised her eyebrows.
“Imagine that. Is anyone renting it from you now?”
“No. I haven’t had a guest in there since my last young man.”
Starkey glanced over, and Marzik nodded. They were both thinking the same thing, wondering why Tennant didn’t want to give up his apartment even when he had no use for it. If Tennant wasn’t paying rent now and wasn’t the occupant of record, they could legally enter and search the premises with the owner’s permission.
“Mrs. Reager, would you give us permission to look inside?”
“I don’t know why not.”
The guest house was musty and hot, revealing one large main room, a kitchenette, bath, and bedroom. The furniture had long since been removed, except for a simple dinette table and chairs. The linoleum floor was discolored and dingy. Starkey couldn’t remember the last time she had seen linoleum. Mrs. Reager stood in the open door, explaining that her husband had used the building as an office, while Starkey and Marzik went through the rooms, checking the flooring and baseboards for secret cubbyholes.
Mrs. Reager watched with mild amusement.
“You think he had a secret hiding place?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Those police who were here, they looked for that, too. They tried looking under the floor, but we’re on a slab. There’s no attic, either.”
After ten minutes of poking and prodding, both Starkey and Marzik agreed that there was nothing to find. Starkey felt disappointed. It looked as if the drive up to Bakersfield was a waste, and her trail backwards to the RDX was at an end.
Marzik said, “You know, this is a pretty nice guest house, Mrs. Reager. You think I could send my two kids up here to live with you? We could put iron bars on the windows.”
The older woman laughed.
Starkey said, “Beth, can you think of anything else?”
Marzik shook her head. They had covered everything.
Something about Tennant continuing to pay rent still bothered Starkey, but she couldn’t decide what. After thanking Mrs. Reager for her cooperation, Starkey and Marzik were walking through the gate when it came to her. She stopped at the gate.
Marzik said, “What?”
“Here’s a guy who worked at a hobby shop. He couldn’t have made very much money. How do you figure he could afford paying rent while he was in prison?”
They went back around the side of the house to the back door. When Mrs. Reager reappeared, they asked her that question.
“Well, I don’t know. His mother died just the year before all that mess came up. Maybe he got a little money.”
Starkey and Marzik went back to their car. Starkey started the engine, letting the air conditioner blow. She recalled that Mueller had noted that Tennant’s parents were deceased, but nothing more had been written about it.
“Well, that was a bust.”
“I don’t know. I’m having a thought here, Beth.”
“Uh-oh. Everyone stand back.”
“No, listen. When Tennant’s mother died, he could have inherited property, or used some of the money to rent another place.”
“When my mother died, I didn’t get shit.”
“That’s you, but say Tennant got something. I’ll bet you ten dollars that Mueller didn’t run a title search.”
It would take a day or two to run the title check, but they could have a city prosecutor arrange it through the Bakersfield district attorney’s office. If something was identified, Bakersfield would handle the warrant.
Starkey felt better as they drove back to Los Angeles, believing that she had something that kept her investigation alive. The A-chief had told her to keep the case moving forward; now, if Kelso asked, she could point to a direction. If she and Pell could turn a second lead through Claudius, fine, but now they didn’t need it.
By the time they reached Spring Street, Starkey had decided to call Pell. She told herself that it was because she had to arrange a time for visiting Claudius tonight, but she finally realized that she wanted to apologize for the way she had acted last night. Then she thought, no, she didn’t want to apologize, she wanted another chance to show him that she was human. Another chance at a life. Maybe talking with Marzik had helped, even though they had mostly talked about Marzik.
Starkey saw the manila envelope waiting on her desk all the way from the door. It was like a beacon there, hooking her eye and pulling her toward it. Giant letters on the mailing label read KROK-TV.
Starkey felt her stomach knot. She could tell by the way the envelope bulged that it was a videocassette. After ordering it, she had put it out of her mind. She had refused to think of it. Now, here it was.
Starkey tore open the envelope and lifted out the cassette. A date was written on the label. Nothing else, just the date three years ago on which she died. The noise of her breathing was loud and rasping, her skin cold, and getting colder.
“Carol?”
It took her forever to look over.
Marzik was next to her, her expression awkward. She must have seen the date, recognized it.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Starkey would have spoken, but couldn’t find her voice.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Her voice came from a million miles away.
“I’m going to watch it.”
Marzik touched her arm.
“Do you want someone with you?”
Starkey couldn’t take her eyes from the cassette.
“No.”
Driving home from Spring Street, the tape was a presence in Starkey’s car. It sat on the passenger seat like a body brought back from the dead, breathing so deeply to fill long-empty lungs that it threatened to draw all the air from the car and suffocate her. When traffic forced her to stop, she looked at it. The tape seemed to be looking back. She covered it with her briefcase.
Starkey did not drive directly home. She stopped at a coffee shop, bought a large black coffee, and drank it leaning on a little counter that looked out toward the street. Her neck and shoulders were wound tight as metal bands; her head ached so badly that her eyes felt as if they were being crushed. She thought about the bad stools at Barrigan’s and how a double gin would ease the pressure on her eyes, but she refused to do that. She told herself no; she would see this tape sober. She would witness the events of that moment and her final time with Sugar Boudreaux sober. No matter how terribly it hurt, or how difficult it was. She was sober on that day. She would be sober now.
Starkey decided that the way to play it was not to race home and throw herself into the tape, but to act as if her life were normal. She would pace herself. She would be a mechanical woman feeling mechanical emotions. She was an investigator; this was the investigation of herself. She was a police detective; you do your job, leave it at the office, go home and live your life.
Starkey stopped at the Ralphs market. There was no food in the house, so she decided this was the time to stock up. She pushed the buggy up and down the aisles, filling it with things she had never eaten and probably would never eat. Canned salmon. Creamed corn. Brussels sprouts. Standing in the check-out line, she lost her appetite, but bought the food anyway. What in hell would she do with creamed corn?
Starkey fought an overpowering urge for a drink as soon as she stepped through the door. She told herself it was a habit, a learned pattern. You get home, you have a drink. In her case, several.
She said, “After.”
Starkey brought her briefcase and three bags of groceries into the kitchen. She noticed that there were two messages on her answering machine. The first was from Pell, asking why he hadn’t heard from her and leaving his pager number. She shut him out of her thoughts; she couldn’t have him there now. The second call was from Marzik.
“Ah, Carol, it’s me. Listen, ah, I was just, ah, calling to see if you were okay. Well. Okay. Ah, see ya.”
Starkey listened to it twice, deeply moved. She and Beth Marzik had never been friends, or even had much to do with each other in a personal way. She thought that she might phone Marzik later and thank her. After.
Starkey set the cassette on the kitchen table, then went about putting away the groceries. She had a glass of water, eyeing the cassette as she drank, then washed the glass and put it on the counter. When the last of the groceries were away, she picked up the cassette, brought it into the living room, and put it into her VCR. Marzik’s offer to be with her flashed through her head. She reconsidered, but knew this was just another ploy to avoid watching the tape.
She pressed the “play” button.
Color bars appeared on the screen.
Starkey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her television. She was still wearing her suit; hadn’t taken off the jacket or removed her shoes. Starkey had no recollection of when KROK arrived on the scene; when they had started taping or for how long. They might have gotten everything or they might only have the end. She recalled that the cameraman had been on top of their van. That was all. The camera was on top of the van and had a view of everything.
The tape began.
She was pulling the straps tight on Sugar’s armor suit. She was already strapped in, except for the helmet. Buck Daggett and another sergeant-supervisor, Win Bryant, who was now retired, moved at the back of the truck, helping them. Starkey hadn’t worn the suit since that day, but now felt the weight of it, the heavy density and the heat. As soon as you put the damned thing on, it turned your body’s heat back at you, cooking you. Starkey, tall and athletic, had weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds; the suit weighed ninety-five pounds. It was a load. Starkey’s first thought: Why do I look so grim? Her expression was somber, almost scowling; wearing her game face. Sugar, naturally, was smiling his movie star smile. Once, not long after they had begun sleeping together, she confessed to him that she was never scared when she was working a bomb. It sounded so much like macho horseshit that she had to work up her courage to say it, but it was true. She used to think that something was wrong with her because she felt that way. Sugar, in turn, had confessed that he was so terrified that as soon as they received a call-out he would pop an Imodium so he wouldn’t crap in the suit. Watching the tape, Starkey thought how relaxed Sugar looked, and that it was she who looked scared. Funny, how what you see isn’t always what’s there.
They were talking. Though the tape had sound, she could hear only the ambient noise around the microphone. Whatever she and Sugar were saying to each other was too far away for the mike to pick up. Sugar must have said something funny; she saw herself smile.
Daggett and Bryant helped them on with their helmets, then handed the Real Time to Sugar. Sugar smacked her helmet, she smacked his, then they lumbered toward the trailer like a couple of spacewalking astronauts.
The field of view gave her the full length of the trailer, the overhanging trees, and a prime view of the thick azaleas that made a thready, matted wall around the trailer. Sugar had cut away part of the bushes on an earlier trip out, leaving a bare spot to work through. As she now watched, they each pointed at different parts of the bush, deciding how to approach the device. The plan was for Starkey to hold the limbs aside so that Sugar could get the snaps with the Real Time.
Starkey watched the events with a sense of detachment she found surprising.
Sugar had less than thirty seconds to live.
She leaned into the bush first, using the weight of the suit to help her shove the limbs aside. She watched herself step away, then move in again for a better position. She didn’t recall that, and marveled at it. In her memory, she had not made that second move. Sugar leaned past her with the Real Time, and that’s when the camera bounced from the earthquake, not a big one, a pretty damned small one by L.A. standards, 3.2 centered just north of them in Newhall. The picture bounced, and she heard the cameraman mutter.
“Hey, was that—?”
The sound of the bomb going off covered his words. On television, it was a sharp crack! like a gunshot.
It happened so fast that all Starkey saw was a flash of light and the Real Time spinning lazily end around end through the air. She and Sugar were down. There were shouts and frantic cries from behind the camera.
“You gotta get this! Don’t fuck up! Keep rolling!”
The picture was small and far away. It was like watching someone else.
Daggett and Bryant ran to them, Daggett to her, Bryant to Sugar, Buck dragging her away from the trailer. One of the things they drilled into you at Bomb School was to fear a secondary explosion. When there was one explosion, there might be another, so you had to clear the wounded from the area. Starkey had never known that she had been moved. She was dead when it happened.
The tape ran for another nine minutes as the paramedics raced forward, stripped away the armor suits, and worked to resuscitate them. In the dreams, Starkey was beneath a canopy of branches and leaves that covered her like lace, but now she saw that there was nothing above her. In the dreams, she was close enough to Sugar to reach out and touch him. Now, she saw that they were ten yards apart, crumpled like broken dolls, separated by a wall of sweating, cursing EMTs desperate to save them. There was no beauty in this moment. The tape ended abruptly as an ambulance was turning into the shot.
Starkey rewound the tape to a point where she and Sugar were both on the ground and pressed the “pause” button. She touched the screen where Sugar lay.
“You poor baby. You poor, poor baby.”
After a while, she rewound the tape, ejected it from the VCR, then turned off her television.
Twice during the evening, the phone rang again. Both times the caller left a message. She didn’t bother to check.
She went to bed without having a drink, slept deeply, and did not dream.
Manifest Destiny
“And you are?”
“Alexander Waverly, attorney at law. I phoned about Dallas Tennant.”
The guard inspected the California State Bar card and the driver’s license, then handed them back, making a note in his log.
“Right. You’re Tennant’s new attorney.”
“Yes, sir. I phoned to arrange the interview.”
“Have you seen clients here at Atascadero before, Mr. Waverly?”
“No. I’ve never been to a facility like this before. My specialty is medical malpractice and pyschiatric disorders.”
The guard smiled.
“We call this ‘facility’ a prison. But it’s more like a country club, if you ask me. You gonna talk to Tennant about why he’s crazy?”
“Well, something like that, but I shouldn’t discuss that with you, should I?”
“No, I guess not. Okay, what you do is sign here and here in the register. I’ll have to inspect your briefcase, and then you come around here through the metal detector, okay?”
“All right.”
“Do you have any weapons or metal objects on you?”
“Not today.”
“A cell phone?”
“Yes. Can’t I bring my cell phone?”
“No, sir. Your pager is okay, but not the cell. We’ll have to hang on to it here. What about a tape recorder?”
“Yes. I have this little tape recorder. It’s okay to have this, isn’t it? I’m the worst at taking notes.”
“The tape recorder’s okay. I just need to look at it, is all.”
“Well, all right, but about my phone. What if I’m paged and need to make a call? I have an associate in court.”
“You let us know and we’ll get you to a phone. Won’t be a problem.”
He signed the register where instructed, careful to use his own pen, careful not to touch the counter or logbook or anything else that might be successfully lasered for a fingerprint. He didn’t bother to watch as the guard inspected his briefcase and tape recorder. Instead, he passed through the metal detector, smiling at the guard who waited on the other side. He traded the cell phone for the briefcase and recorder, then followed the second guard through double glass doors and along a sidewalk to another building. He was aware that a security camera had recorded him. The videotape would be studied and his picture reproduced, but he had a high level of confidence in his disguise. They would never be able to recognize his true self.
John Michael Fowles was delivered to a small interview room where Dallas Tennant was already waiting. Tennant was seated at a table, his good hand covering his damaged hand as if he was embarrassed by it. Tennant smiled shyly, then forgot himself and rested the good hand on a thick scrapbook.
The guard said, “You’ve got him for thirty minutes, Mr. Waverly. You need anything, I’ll be at the desk down the hall. Just stick out your head and give a shout.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
John waited until the door was closed, then set his briefcase on the table. He gave Tennant the big smile, spreading his hands.
“Tah-DAH! Mr. Red, at your service.”
Tennant slowly stood.
“This is … an honor. That’s what it is, an honor. There’s no other way to describe it.”
“I know. This world is an amazing place, isn’t it, Dallas?”
Tennant offered his hand, but John didn’t take it. He found Tennant’s personal hygiene lacking.
“I don’t shake hands, m’man. For all I know, you were just playing with your pecker, toying with your tool, commingling with your cockster, know what I mean?”
When Tennant realized that John wasn’t going to shake hands, he pushed the heavy book across the table. His awkward, shuffling manner made John want to kick him.
“I’d like to show you my book. You’re in here, you know?”
John ignored the book. He slipped off his suit coat, folded it over the back of the chair, then unbuckled his belt. He moved the chair with his toe.
“We’ll get to the book, but first you have to tell me about the RDX.”
Tennant watched John like a dog waiting for his master to spoon out the kibble.
“Did you bring it? What we talked about, did you bring it?”
“You don’t have to stand there drooling, Dallas. You think I’m taking off my clothes because I want to flash my pecker?”
“No. No, I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Red is a man of his word. You just remember that. I expect that you’ll be a man of his word, too, Dallas. That’s very important to me, and to our future relationship. You’re not gonna get carried away and brag to anyone that Mr. Red came to see you, now, are you?”
“No. Oh, no, never.”
“You do that, Dallas, and there’ll be hell to pay. I’m just warning you, okay? I want that to be clear between us.”
“I understand. If I told, then you couldn’t come see me again.”
“That’s right.”
John smiled, absolutely certain that Dallas Tennant couldn’t go the week without telling someone of their encounter. John had planned for that.
“The police were already here, and, you know, they might come back. I don’t want you to find out and think I told them anything. I can’t help it that they came.”
“That’s fine, Dallas. Don’t you worry about it.”
“They came about the RDX. I didn’t tell them anything.”
“Good.”
“One of them was a woman. Her name was Carol Starkey. She’s in my book, too. She was a bomb technician.”
Tennant pushed the book across the table, desperate for John to look.
“She wasn’t alone. She brought an ATF agent named Pell or Tell or something like that.”
“Jack Pell.”
Tennant looked surprised.
“You know him?”
“You might say that.”
“He was mean. He grabbed my hand. He hurt me.”
“Well, you just forget about them. We got our own little business here, you and me.”
John dropped his trousers, pulled down his shorts, and un-taped two plastic bags from his groin. One contained a thin gray paste, the other a fine yellow powder. John placed them on top of Tennant’s book.
“This oughta wake’m up out in the vegetable garden, you set it off.”
Tennant massaged each bag, inspecting the contents through the clear plastic.
“What is it?”
“Right now, just a couple of chemicals in bags. You mix’m together with a little ammonia like I’m gonna tell ya, Dallas, and you’re going to end up with what we in the trade call a very dangerous explosive: ammonium picrate.”
Tennant held the two bags together as if he could imagine them mixing. John watched him closely, looking for signs that Tennant knew what he held in his hands. He figured that Tennant had heard of ammonium picrate, but probably had no experience with it. He was counting on that.
“Isn’t that what they call Explosive D?”
“Yeah. Nice and stable, but powerful as hell. You ever work with D before?”
Dallas considered the chemicals again, then put the bags aside.
“No. How do I detonate it?”
John smiled widely, pleased with Tennant’s ignorance.
“Easy as striking a match, Dallas. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”
“I won’t tell where I got it. I promise. I won’t tell.”
“I ain’t worried about that, Dallas. Not even a little bit. Now, you tell me who has the RDX, then I’ll tell you how to mix these things.”
“I won’t forget this, Mr. Red. I’ll help you out any way I can. I mean that.”
“I know you do, Dallas. Now you just tell me about the RDX, and I am going to give you the power of life and death, right there in those little bags.”
Dallas Tennant stuffed both bags down the front of his pants, then told Mr. Red who had the RDX.
Later, John took his time signing out, but once he was in his car and past the security gate, he pushed hard toward the freeway. He had made Tennant promise not to mix the components for at least two days, but he didn’t trust in that any more than he trusted Tennant not to tell anyone about his visit. He knew that Dallas would mix the damned stuff as soon as possible; a goof like Tennant couldn’t help himself. John was counting on that, too, because he had lied about what the chemicals were, and how they would react.
They weren’t Explosive D, and they were anything but stable.
It was the only way he had to make sure that Tennant kept his mouth shut.