by P. J. Tracy
“How fast are you going, Ben?”
“I ‒ I’m going the speed limit, like you said. I have it on cruise control.”
“That’s good.” The poor kid was drenched in sweat and his hands were shaking on the wheel. Gus was sorry for what he’d put him through and was still putting him through. He could smell the rank odor of urine in the car, emanating from the dark patch on the front of the boy’s jeans. He’d pissed himself the second he saw the gun.
Ben needed to relax. Ben needed to trust him. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise you that.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, in a wobbly voice.
“You’re polite, that’s a rare thing nowadays. What do you do with yourself when you’re not working at the Hitching Post?”
“I … Well, I’m in school part-time. To be an electrician.”
“That’s smart. It’s good to have a trade. Like I told you, I work construction and do some mechanics on the side. A little electronics, too,” he added modestly. “There’s always work if you have a trade.”
“That’s ‒ that’s what my dad says.”
“Your dad’s a smart man. Listen to him.”
“Do you want me to drop you off somewhere, sir?”
“That’s a nice idea, except the second you do, you’ll call the cops. And I understand that, I really do.”
“No, I promise I won’t. Or … you could just drop me off and take my car.”
“And you’ll still call the cops. The outcome is the same either way, so it’s best we stick together for now. But we need a different car.”
“Why?”
“The cops are looking for yours right now, Ben, I guarantee it. Do you know where we can find another?”
He shook his head and started crying. “No. Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Ben. I already said I wasn’t going to hurt you and I meant it. How about we take the next exit and drive the back roads for a while?”
He sniffled and nodded. “Somebody might have a car for sale at the end of their driveway. You see that a lot up here.”
“That would be good. I have cash to pay for it. And you can keep your car, Ben.”
“Thank you.”
“No thanks required. It’s yours, and you need some wheels to get you back and forth to work and school. I want you to succeed, I really do. Tell me more about school.”
Ben gave him a brief, panicked glance, then returned his eyes to the road. “It’s ‒ hard. But I like it. The challenge.”
“It must be pretty expensive if you’re only going part-time.”
“It is. That’s why I work at the Hitching Post. It helps with the bills.”
Gus pulled two five-thousand-dollar bundles out of the duffel bag at his feet and ruffled them casually. “This might help you go full-time so you can finish up and get yourself into the workforce.”
Ben eyed the money in disbelief. “What did you do? Rob a bank or something? Is that why the cops are chasing you?”
“I didn’t rob anybody. I would never do that. What I did was make things right, but only when it could never happen any other way. You know the saying that Lady Justice is blind?”
He swallowed hard and nodded.
“Well, I don’t think that’s true. I think Lady Justice sees just as well as you and I and chooses to be blind when it suits her.”
“I guess … well, I guess I don’t know …”
Gus sighed. “Guys like you and me, Ben? We’re nothing, just small fry struggling in a stream, trying to stay alive. The bigger fish eat us. That’s the way it is. But we can still make a difference.” He tossed the money onto Ben’s urine-stained lap. “Take this and get a head-start on your life. I want you to have that chance. My sister never did. Neither did her baby.”
CHAPTER
56
EATON FREEDMAN STARTLED Gino and Magozzi with a loud shout from the other side of the room. “We got a bead on Riskin-Holst. TCG Construction confirmed Holst as an employee at one-eleven Wash.”
They felt as much as heard his heavy footfalls as he made his way to their cubicle. Then his colossal presence filled their realm. “We got a car, too. The construction supe told me he drove an old silver Hyundai rust bucket with a smashed rear bumper. Johnny’s putting out a BOLO right now.”
Gino nodded. “Good work. What else do you know?”
“Riskin didn’t show for work this morning, but he clocked in on-site yesterday at seven a.m. sharp and punched out when his shift was over at two.”
Magozzi pinched his eyes shut while he worked a timeline. “That doesn’t synch with Norwood’s death. Riskin was at work when he was killed.”
“It’s no alibi for Norwood’s murder,” Freedman said. “Riskin was a runner, spent as much time off the job site as he did on.”
Gino was staring at the ceiling, gnawing on his lower lip. “So he offs Norwood, offs Gerald Stenson, runs the body out to William O’Brien, which is a two-hour round trip from the city, and nobody misses him? It doesn’t add up.”
Magozzi scowled, as a roulette wheel of possible scenarios spun through his mind. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, minus the hour he’d caught at Grace’s, so he wasn’t expecting a blinding moment of lucidity, but what Gino had just said cleared the mist a little. “We always assumed Riskin was working alone, but as it stands now, we’re still looking at him for Norwood, Stenson, Jim Beam and Lloyd Nasif. That’s four people yesterday. If we’re right, no way he’s solo unless he’s got a doppelgänger.”
“Unless he didn’t do them all.”
Magozzi’s phone rang and he scattered papers on his desk, looking for it. He found it buried under a copy of the last report they’d sent Malcherson about forty years ago. Or maybe it was just yesterday. “Hang tight, guys, it’s Jimmy Grimm, listen in. Hey, Jimmy,” he answered. “I’ve got you on speaker. What’s up?”
“Nothing good.”
Magozzi didn’t like the darkness he heard in his voice; neither did anyone else, judging by their expressions. “Go ahead.”
“We’re just sorting and processing all the crap from Milo Parr’s trailer. Jesus, that place was a nightmare. Haz-Mat was there all night and we were all chewing our nails down to our finger bones, just waiting for the place to blow. Praise Jesus it didn’t, because Milo Parr wasn’t just cooking meth in there, he was cooking bombs.”
Magozzi felt his throat tighten. “What?”
“Yeah. Haz-Mat found some empty containers of precursor chemicals and IED components. I won’t get into the details, but there’s no mistaking a meth operation for a bomb operation, and those guys know their way around both. The bad news is, there aren’t any bombs there, just evidence that they were getting put together.”
“Jesus Christ,” Gino muttered. “Are the feds there?”
“Crawling all over the place now. Not our problem, we’ve got our own jobs to do, right? So I’m doing mine, and guess what? That guy you’re chasing down, August Riskin? His fingerprints showed up again, all over that damn trailer. Looks like you’ve got a domestic terrorist on your hands. For the first time in your lives, be thankful the feds are involved. They’re putting the screws to Milo Parr right now.”
There were times when cases were solved slowly and methodically, with little fanfare; other times evidence and information coalesced into a burst of sudden revelation; but this was the first time in Magozzi’s career that a slow-motion movie of the past twenty-four hours stuttered through his mind in blinding clarity until it reached a horrifying, impossible conclusion.
Norwood, Zeller, Aspen, Clara Riskin, Lloyd, Jim Beam, Milo Parr, Gustav Holst, terrorists in Roseville, bombs, one-eleven Washington Avenue. And then there was Gino’s voice saying just a few minutes ago, “He was there, Leo. Maybe he saw something. Maybe something that didn’t make sense when he was ten, but makes sense now.”
He looked up at the wall clock again. It was eight seventeen. “I think he’s after Zeller. Riskin co
uldn’t get close to him because he lives in a fortress, but he could bomb his office. One-eleven Washington Avenue is under renovations. He was working it. It’s the perfect set-up.”
Freedman gaped at him. “You want to tell me how you got there in the past two seconds, Magozzi?”
Maybe it had been only two seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. “No time. Grace is there now,” he said, in a strange, strangled voice that didn’t belong to him, that had never belonged to him until now, and suddenly he was on his feet, sprinting.
“You and McLaren call Dahl and tell him what you know!” Gino barked, as he ran after Magozzi.
CHAPTER
57
GRACE WAS SIPPING mineral water in an inauspicious waiting room outside Dahl’s office. She’d only been to 111 Washington Avenue once before to visit the feds and, if anything, the dreary environment had deteriorated. She imagined the other floors of the office building that housed architects, accountants and law firms held substantially more charm. She supposed it was some consolation that a federal agency supported by taxpayer dollars wasn’t wasting money on décor.
Harley was sitting next to her, reading a copy of National Academy Associates while he gulped coffee, courtesy of an apologetic assistant. Neither Dahl nor Shafer had arrived at the meeting yet, called or texted, but after the events of last night, that was no surprise. They had bigger things to deal with than a discussion about potential software upgrades. That could be handled later. There was no point in waiting any longer.
“I don’t think we’re going to see Dahl or Shafer today, Harley. They have their hands full.”
“I think you’re right. Let me send Dahl a text and tell him to reschedule when things cool down. Then we can blow this place and get some real coffee. And breakfast. We can bring Gino and Magozzi donuts or something.”
Grace stood up and felt a sudden, sharp cramping in her stomach that flashed stars in her eyes and doubled her over. The first contractions of early labor—she’d spent a lot of time reading up on what to expect ‒ this was just a preview before the main attraction, which would be much worse. But, damn, it still hurt.
Harley’s expression was half panic, half glee. “Holy shit, is it happening, Grace?”
If she hadn’t been in so much pain, she would have laughed. “It’s just starting, not happening.”
“I got you, sweetie,” Harley said, hugging her against him and helping her toward the door. “I’ll get you to the hospital.”
“It’s not time yet, don’t worry. Just distract me. Walk me around, take me out to breakfast. This could go on for hours. I’ll let you know when it’s time to go.”
“I’m going to call Leo.”
Grace nodded, then cried out when another sharp pain racked her body. For all the research she’d done, she really had no idea what to expect, and neither did the experts. All they could do was give you guidelines, make far more educated guesses than she could, guided by experience, and they could diagnostically determine if things weren’t right. Was this right? Was this normal?
Something’s not right.
She took some deep breaths and tried to relax, sagging into Harley’s calming bulk as he rubbed her back.
“Grace, forgive me, but you’re going to the hospital right now, end of story.”
She let Harley guide her toward the elevators outside Dahl’s office. He jabbed the call button mercilessly while she leaned against him, like a boneless puppet, floppy and weak from the pain.
“Are you okay, Grace?” he asked frantically. “Can you wait for the elevator or do you want me to carry you down the stairs?”
“I’m okay, Harley,” she tried not to wince, “and I definitely don’t want you carrying me down the stairs.”
His breathing was heavy and fast and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Okay, okay, just stay calm, don’t panic.”
“I might say the same thing to you.” Grace simultaneously heard sirens wailing in the distance and her phone ringing in her pocket, as if the two were connected, which, of course, they weren’t. She reached for it, but Harley had already grabbed it. “I’ll take it, Grace, you just relax. Talk about great timing, it’s Leo. Leo!” he answered. “I’m taking Grace to the hospital. She’s having contractions. Hennepin County is closest … Not yet, we’re waiting for the elevator … Yeah, outside Dahl’s office.”
As she got through another spasm of pain, she heard Magozzi’s voice shouting so loudly, she thought it would shatter the phone’s speaker.
“GET OUT OF THAT BUILDING RIGHT NOW! DON’T TAKE THE ELEVATOR, TAKE THE STAIRS!”
* * *
Magozzi felt fire in his lungs and in his legs as he ran toward Washington Avenue, dodging and swerving to avoid people, cars, bikes. His heart and his feet pounded in equal, crazed rhythm as he raced past emergency vehicles angrily blatting their horns as they tried to navigate the snarl of morning rush-hour traffic. He’d probably beat them all, which was why he was on foot. Gino was somewhere behind him in a car, probably stuck in traffic, like everybody else on four wheels.
The sirens were deafening, amplified by the echo chamber the downtown buildings created, but the pounding of his heart was louder, thudding in his ears in a steady but manic cadence. He barely registered other ambient sounds ‒ shouts, car horns, and a scream as he careened against the side of a building and re-launched his flight, knocking a woman to the ground. He’d feel bad about that later, but not now.
He veered onto Washington Avenue, his legs pumping harder, fueled not by any physical ability but by sheer adrenaline. The building was in sight now, just a few blocks up. He was going to make it, Grace and Harley would be safely outside, and this was probably just some crazy false alarm his sleep-deprived brain had manufactured. Nothing bad was going to happen.
His thoughts splintered as the violent concussion of an explosion rocked the ground beneath his feet and sent him stumbling, falling to his knees. Within seconds, screaming, crying people were running toward him against the sinister backdrop of an angry fireball, writhing in columns of black smoke, as if the earth had opened up and let Hell in.
CHAPTER
58
MCLAREN AND FREEDMAN instinctively dropped to the floor and covered their heads when the explosion rocked City Hall. They waited breathlessly, listening to shouts and screams, sirens and phones ringing all at once in hysterical concert, which meant the 911 call centers were already inundated; cell coverage would soon be jammed by overload and down for the foreseeable future, if it wasn’t already. There would be an immediate city-wide call-out that would drain law-enforcement personnel, and probably a state-wide one soon. Depending on how bad things were, it would extend far beyond Minnesota. A terror attack was the worst, most crippling thing that could happen to a city, and it had finally happened here, in pretty, peaceful, law-abiding Minneapolis in the heart of flyover country.
When the building didn’t come crashing down on them, they finally got up and looked around—it was no worse for wear than it had been a few minutes earlier. Freedman gave his partner a dark, worried look. “I don’t think we got hit, Johnny. But I think one-eleven Washington Avenue just did. It’s only a few blocks away.”
“Magozzi was right. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Pray to God Grace and Harley got out.”
“I’m doing that right now.”
Gloria ran into Homicide, her platform heels pounding the floor. She looked bewildered and frightened, not emotions McLaren or anybody else who knew her had ever expected to see on the face of their tough girl. “What happened? What’s happening?” she asked breathlessly.
“A terror attack is what happened.”
“But not here?”
“No.” Malcherson’s voice and sudden appearance made them all jump. “I just got confirmation from the FBI that the attack was on their building at one-eleven Washington Avenue.”
“Oh, my God,” Gloria whispered, covering her mouth.
McLaren reached out and bravely touched her
arm—he took it as a good sign that she didn’t slug him. “Are you okay, Gloria?”
She swallowed, then shook her head. “My sister works in that building.” She pulled her cell phone from a pocket in her blinding yellow dress and started dialing frenetically.
“Gloria, the circuits are already jammed,” Malcherson said gently. “You won’t be able to get through. There’s nothing we can do right now except stay here and provide support and logistical help.”
McLaren elevated his diminutive stature by puffing out his chest and standing up to his full height. “I’ll take you there, Gloria. We’ll find her.”
“Give space to the first responders, Detective McLaren.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. “It’s their job to save lives and they’re the victims’ best chance.”
“The chief is right,” Gloria said quietly. Her lower lip was trembling.
McLaren conceded with a miserable nod and helped her to his chair. “It’s going to be okay, Gloria, I promise. Chief, we need to tell you what’s going on.”
CHAPTER
59
GRACE SLOWLY REGAINED consciousness sense by sense. She registered the metallic taste of blood; smelled smoke, acrid and foul; saw the faint red glow of an exit sign punctuating darkness; felt concrete and steel that should have been cold but were hot, and an all-encompassing, throbbing pain that radiated so completely through her body, she couldn’t identify a source. But she heard nothing, nothing at all, not even the moan she felt rising in her throat. The only thing that was loud and clear were her thoughts, and Magozzi’s voice.
GET OUT OF THAT BUILDING RIGHT NOW! DON’T TAKE THE ELEVATOR, TAKE THE STAIRS!