“You remembered our warning,” Nora filled in.
“That’s right. I took it out and—it wasn’t my cell phone.” Shudders ran through the woman. “He’d replaced it with another one. I was holding it right in my hand. That bomb.” Her horrified gaze strayed to the devastation in front of the hospital.
The Trigger must have realized in advance that he wouldn’t have time to tinker with Fran’s phone, Nora thought, so he’d exchanged it. “He’s desperate to make sure your husband doesn’t talk.”
Fran hugged herself. “I was scared enough already!”
“You used your head,” Sam said. “You should be proud. You saved your life and your husband’s.”
“He won’t stop,” the witness said. “How long will this go on?”
“The fact that he’s stepping up the pace means he’s more likely to make a mistake,” Max observed. “Today he risked making contact with you. Someone could have recognized him. Next time, maybe they will.”
Fran shuddered. “I hope there won’t be a next time.”
Nora searched for some new angle, some way that today’s blast might help lead them to the Trigger. “You don’t happen to have a locator in your phone, do you?” Many newer cellular appliances came equipped with Global Positioning Satellite technology. If the killer still had the phone, they might be able to find him.
“I don’t think so. It’s an older model.”
Another slim chance shot down. Nora wasn’t ready to give up, though. “Could I get the number anyway? It’s worth calling to see if someone answers.”
When Sam’s jaw worked, she thought for a moment he might argue with her. To her surprise, he merely seconded her suggestion. “If the bomber discarded the phone, perhaps whoever found it could provide some information,” he told Fran. “The location could tip us off to his habits. Maybe someone spotted him discarding it.”
Fran gave them the number. “I hope it helps.”
“I’d like you to come down to headquarters and work with an artist,” Max said. “Maybe you’ll remember enough for someone to make an ID.”
“I’ll try.” Fran got to her feet. “First I want to see Carl.”
“Of course.” The chief stood up. “I’ll escort you in.”
“The paramedics ought to take a look at her first,” Nora said. Although the woman appeared in control, Nora had seen people collapse from the effects of delayed shock.
“I’ll see that they do,” Max assured her. “Then after she visits her husband, I’ll drive her to headquarters.”
“Thanks, Chief.” Nora saw Grant Corbin making his way through the welter of emergency vehicles. She’d almost forgotten about him and the forensics team examining Carl’s plane. “Here’s someone else we need to talk to.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Max said, and escorted Mrs. Garcola away.
Grant reached them a moment later. “Are you guys all right? I heard this thing blow halfway across town.”
“We’re fine.” Sam sounded impatient that anyone would question his resilience. To Nora it seemed a typical macho reaction, but perhaps it was a masculine way of rejecting the notion of weakness. “Did you finish searching the plane already?”
“Unless we want to dismantle it, yes,” Grant said. “You told me not to do any damage.”
“That’s right.” Nora intended to keep her promise to Fran. “What did you find?”
“Nothing significant,” the detective said. “We’ll be running tests, but unless we discover a trace of drugs or something unexpected, the thing looks clean.”
After a few more questions, she and Sam decided to wait and read Grant’s report the following day. If he’d found nothing worth pursuing, they would trust his judgment. She hadn’t really believed Carl to be involved in smuggling, anyway.
“Well, I guess it’s time we try to have a conversation with a killer, or whoever found his phone,” she said.
“We should get it on tape,” Sam said.
“Right.” She took out her pocket recorder and hooked it up to her cell. “Listen for ringing, in case he’s around here.”
The Trigger might have decided to blend into the crowd and enjoy the sight of the devastation he’d wreaked. It wouldn’t be unusual for a bomber to offer to help bystanders, smugly accepting the thanks of the very people he’d injured.
Grant and Sam separated, stationing themselves some distance off. When both made eye contact with her and nodded, Nora dialed the number Fran had provided.
It buzzed three times. Neither Sam nor Grant signaled that they’d registered a phone ringing in the crowd.
Just when she thought no one was going to answer, the sound stopped abruptly. Nora caught her breath. “Hello?”
The rasp of breathing filled her ear.
She decided to feign ignorance in the hope of hearing a voice. “Fran, is that you?”
In the background, a siren blared. The connection cut off.
Nora could hardly believe it. That might have been the Trigger, right there at the end of the connection. Despite the tantalizing contact, however, she doubted she’d learned anything useful.
“I think I reached him,” she said when the men approached. “He or she didn’t speak, though.”
“Did you hear anything in the background?” Sam asked. Standing close by, his body creating a barrier to passersby, he watched Nora intently.
“A siren. He must still be in the downtown area.”
“Not too close,” Grant observed.
Sure enough, now that Grant pointed it out, Nora realized that the only sirens were coming from some distance away. So many fire and police workers had already been on site before the detonation that there hadn’t been the normal clamor of emergency vehicles afterward.
Frustrated, Nora unloosed a couple of curse words. She’d been so close. She’d actually heard the Trigger breathing, had experienced a link to him, and yet nothing had come of it.
Time to return to good old-fashioned police work. Digging, probing, inspecting and testing. Sam ought to be thrilled.
After Grant left, they spent the rest of the afternoon combing the scene of the bombing and interviewing anyone who might have seen the Trigger before or after he approached Mrs. Garcola. No one recalled a large man with sunglasses and a baseball cap. No one recognized the logo, either.
To eliminate one possible suspect, Sam made a series of calls and tracked the witnesses cited by Bethany’s husband. They confirmed that Andrew Peters had been in Houston all day Tuesday.
As she stood there observing Sam’s collected manner, Nora wondered how long it would take him to concede that she’d been right about pursuing the Garcola case while it was fresh. Probably as long as it would take her to confess that she appreciated having a partner who knew his job, she thought in silent amusement.
Sam hung up. “He checks out. The guy has my sympathy. Here he is caught up in a murder investigation and all because he has a cheating wife.”
“It’s sad when people trample on those who care about them.” Realizing her comment might apply to Sam’s relationship with Elaine, Nora dropped the subject, even though he had no idea she knew his ex-girlfriend.
Nora remembered the comforting sensation of being held against him after the explosion. Sam’s naturally protective manner had a certain appeal, she conceded, but only a fool would take it personally.
Around five o’clock, Max stopped by to distribute the artist’s sketch based on Fran’s recollection. Unlike many chiefs, Max took an active interest in the day-to-day work of his officers, particularly in view of the numerous deaths and near-deaths during the past year.
Nora examined the sketch, fascinated to “meet” her enemy face to face. It showed a middle-aged man with a broad face and weathered skin. Thanks to the sunglasses obscuring his eyes and the cap covering his head, the only other features evident were his mouth and nose, neither especially distinctive.
The artist had produced a couple of other sketches showing how the man m
ight look with longish hair. Nothing rang a bell.
Sam indicated the busy area surrounding them. “He could be half the men here.”
“Still, if we assume the Trigger’s working alone, we can downplay the likelihood that we’re seeking a woman,” Nora noted. “The description also eliminates anyone very young or old or short.”
“It’s a start,” Max agreed. “Well, I want to go pass these around. Let me know if you come up with anything new.”
“You bet,” Nora said.
Sam studied the flyer. “This might fit me,” he commented after the chief departed.
“I can vouch for your whereabouts,” Nora joked. “Besides, I wouldn’t call you beefy.”
He spared a wry smile for his flat stomach. “I hope not.”
The forensics unit was hauling off bags of evidence. However, unless the Trigger had dropped his wallet or made some other uncharacteristically bonehead mistake, Nora wasn’t optimistic about coming up with new clues. Besides, her body ached from hours spent searching the scene.
“We never did get around to reviewing the other unsolved murders,” she reminded her partner.
“Why don’t we break for dinner to clear our heads and go over everything this evening?” Sam said. “In fact, if you’re willing to haul the files over to my house, I volunteer to cook.”
A little voice in Nora’s head warned that they ought to stick to neutral territory. But they wouldn’t be able to spread out their papers in a restaurant, and she didn’t fancy spending a long evening in a desk chair plowing through reports.
“Since you made such a point about your culinary skills, I’ll let you prove it,” she responded.
“No problem.”
They drove to the police station. As they exited the car, Sam wrote his address on a pad and handed it to her. “I need to run by my office and stop at the supermarket. Give me an hour.”
“Make it an hour and a half.” Nora indicated smudges on her clothing and face. Except for removing a few stray bits of glass, she hadn’t taken time to clean up. “I need to change.”
“Fine.” He reached over and plucked a fragment from her hair. As he lifted it away, the pad of his thumb traced a gentle trail along her temple. “You missed something.”
Nora relished the warmth of his touch, and scolded herself for her foolishness. “What is it?”
He examined his trophy. “Dead bug.”
“Sam!”
“I’m not kidding. It’s a ladybug.” He extended his finger so she could see. As he did so, the little creature righted itself, wobbled indignantly and popped into the air. “Not so dead, I guess.”
“Fly away home,” Nora murmured, remembering the children’s rhyme.
“Good advice,” said Sam. Without so much as a farewell, he turned and strolled across the pavement toward the fire department.
The man had a gift for hip action, Nora mused, watching shamelessly. Not to mention great buns. And he could cook, too.
Now all he had to do was help her catch a murderer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THREE YEARS AGO, Sam had nearly bought a small, older home in his childhood neighborhood. Then he’d noticed a housing development rising nearby and watched with fascination the daily progress from open field to graded earth. Each time he drove by, something new caught his eye: the curve of a road, the laying of foundations, the completed framework.
It reminded him of a garden growing from seed to mature plants. When the dust settled, he’d stopped by to preview the model homes out of curiosity.
His spirit had expanded at the sight of the high ceilings and arched doorways, the sunny tiled kitchens and expansive master suites. Although the prices might be steep, a little research convinced him that property values were likely to increase in that area, so a three-bedroom home made a good investment.
Since moving into his house, Sam had spent his spare time establishing a garden, furnishing the place and outfitting the garage with a workshop. He’d imagined himself settling down with a wife and raising children to join the kids riding their tricycles and skateboards along the sidewalks.
He didn’t know what had gone wrong with Elaine. He’d enjoyed her company and she’d have fitted easily into his life plans, but he’d felt something akin to panic when he realized where they might be heading. Maybe he hadn’t loved her enough to get married. Maybe he wasn’t capable of loving anyone that much. Or maybe he’d rather not take the risk.
He’d read once that when a man married and had children, he gave hostages to fate. As a firefighter, Sam had seen too often the shattering effects of people suffering unbearable losses. With his father’s death, he’d experienced it himself.
Maybe when he met the right woman, he wouldn’t worry about such things. In the meantime, he appreciated finding an excuse to cook for someone else tonight. At least with Nora, he didn’t have to worry about romance becoming an issue. Attractive as he found her, she had too many sharp edges and way too sharp a tongue.
On his swing by the supermarket, he decided to keep things simple. Throw a couple of steaks on the grill along with some fresh corn, add a gourmet salad—fresh out of the bag—on the side, and you had a dinner as good as any restaurant cuisine. He picked up a dozen fresh-baked cookies at the bakery counter for the perfect climax to the meal.
Whoa. Poor word choice, Sam told himself as he carried the sack of groceries in from the garage. Nobody was going to be doing any climaxing here tonight!
If only the scent of Nora’s hair, which he’d inhaled while holding her outside the hospital, didn’t keep tickling his memory. He’d been seized by an instinctive desire to keep her from harm’s way. Later, when she’d called the Trigger, it had disturbed him to think of her having direct contact with a murderer.
Heck, that was her job. And Nora Keyes could take care of herself; nobody knew that better than Sam. Still, he didn’t like the idea of her being connected, even by phone, with a killer.
He went outside to fire up the grill. Soon the cooking aromas replaced any lingering romanticism with sheer hunger.
Sam checked his watch, growing impatient when the appointed time came and went. He liked punctuality in a woman. Besides, he wanted to eat.
When the doorbell finally rang, he reined in his impatience. Being tired and hungry didn’t excuse a bad temper, he lectured himself, and put on his most sociable manner as he went to the door.
Nora had traded her pantsuit for jeans and a black knit top that contrasted with the rich mahogany of her hair. Even carrying a briefcase stuffed with files, she radiated sensuality.
Trying to concentrate on something other than her shape, Sam blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Is that color natural?”
“You mean my hair?”
“What else would I mean?” Well, that was hardly polite, he reflected with regret.
She marched into the living room and dropped her briefcase on the coffee table. “It’s no secret that I dye it. Nature gave me a boring mouse brown.”
“I like it,” Sam said quickly. “But then, I’m partial to weird colors.” Oh, great. That sounded even worse. “I mean, unusual colors, like those.” He indicated his mantel, where the selection of pottery shapes ranged from squatty to cylindrical and the glazes included Indian black, Chinese red and celadon green. He’d collected them on vacation trips to New Mexico and Arizona.
“Those are beautiful.” Nora didn’t spend much time gazing at them, however. Apparently décor wasn’t her favorite subject. “Whatever you’re cooking, the smell lives up to its billing.”
“I decided to barbecue.”
After giving the air one more appreciative sniff, she invited herself through the kitchen and onto the back patio. “Typical fireman. You get home and can’t wait to light some charcoal.”
He followed her out. “What does an explosives expert do when she gets home, make popcorn?”
“You bet.” Nora took a moment to study the yard. “You’ve got quite a spread here.�
��
“Glad you like it.” Sam had invested many hours of hard work nurturing the emerald lawn. He’d also designed and installed the meandering flowerbeds, with annual blooms interspersed among ferns and bright-leafed perennials. Geraniums and chrysanthemums in pots that could be moved around as needed provided accents.
A plastic storage shed hid the less aesthetic accessories: feeding dishes and water bowls for the neighborhood stray cats. Fond as he was of the little creatures, Sam didn’t want them rubbing his ankles while he entertained. Even now, a curious tabby peered at them from behind the shed.
“You’ve done a great job with the yard,” Nora said.
“Thanks.”
If he’d been hoping for further praise, she quickly disabused him of that notion. “But I think it’s kind of strange.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re nesting. The house, the yard—you’ve created a cocoon.”
“What’s wrong with a nice safe place to come home to?” Sam demanded. The few other women he’d brought here had exclaimed in delight.
“Nothing.” She chewed thoughtfully on a stray wisp of hair before brushing it away. “Okay, tell me, where does a woman fit in? You’ve got the house decorated and the yard landscaped down to the Johnny Jump-Ups tucked picturesquely in the corners. There’s zero room left for anyone else’s taste.”
Sam bristled. “I take pride in my home. Some people find that admirable.”
“So you don’t consider yourself controlling?”
“If you’re afraid of strong men, that’s your issue, not mine,” he said. “Besides, I hardly think my personal life is any of your business.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
“Good.” Sam didn’t understand why she’d become so heated about the issue. “How do you like your steak?”
“Not burned.” Casting a dubious glance at the barbecue, Nora went inside.
To his dismay, he saw that the steaks verged on being charred. Swearing to himself, he transferred them to plates, along with the corn.
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