“What’s your theory?” Gil asked.
“Maybe what the dogs found aren’t any part of the bombs. Maybe those chemicals were put into the planters to keep us all busy.”
Charlie took her seat while the others stewed on the notion. Around the table, eyes grew wide as the plausibility began to set in.
“Damn,” Mandy finally said. “A diversion.”
“I think you’re onto something, Mack,” Don said.
“Think about the timing,” Charlie said. “Heinrich had tonight’s schedule. He knew the bomb sweeps wouldn’t occur until the preview parties were done, and he was aware there’d be fewer security patrols. He took a chance he wouldn’t raise much suspicion by moving about the public areas while VIPs were in the building.”
Gil picked up the theory. “And then, while we all flocked to the areas where he planted the chemicals, and ATF was frantically taking chemical samples, Heinrich was off . . . doing what?”
“Being killed,” Tony said wryly.
“Maybe Dudiyn is the one who was to place the real bombs all along,” Gil said.
“We should get this picture to the facilities staff,” Calhoun said.
“Right,” Don said, and turned to Hoyt. “And let’s get copies of his picture to all the patrols.”
“Tell them he’s armed and dangerous,” Tony said. “In addition to killing Heinrich, it’s likely he killed the food services employee, Chenglei, and maybe your friend Josh.”
“He was also the one who beat up Lin Fong,” Charlie said with anger.
Dudiyn moved slowly, purposefully, along the perimeter of the second level. His objective was to place the pipe bombs in as many of the recyclable containers as he could access. So far, he’d positioned ten of the units. The bombs were powerful enough to cause structural damage, and serious injury or death to anyone within a twenty-foot radius. A few areas were cordoned off with police tape where ATF bomb teams, wearing what looked like green space suits, were still sifting through planters.
As patrols rode by, they gave Dudiyn a cursory glance. When they did, he shook open a garbage bag, making sure his wristband was visible. His only close call was an encounter at a restroom where an actual member of the Cobo cleaning crew was working.
“How’s it going? You got this area too?” The man eyed Dudiyn curiously.
“How’s it going?” Dudiyn repeated. He felt the man’s stare, but kept his head down so the bill of his cap would cover his face. He lifted a PVC section out of his cart, making sure the dead rodent sticker was in full view. “Doing pest control. Damn rats are everywhere,” Dudiyn mumbled.
“I hate rats,” the man said, swiftly pushing his mop and bucket into the restroom.
Dudiyn placed a bomb into the bottom of the recyclable box, then pushed one of the thick black bags in next to conceal the device, and stretched the ends over the corners of the box. He gave a quick look around and studied the schedule. Some workers were on scaffolding in the ceiling, changing lightbulbs and adjusting spotlights. Others were still polishing the concourse escalators. Ahead he could see another box next to a vendor stand. Dudiyn pulled the baseball cap firmly down on his head and moved slowly along the corridor.
“Where’d you find Heinrich’s body?” Charlie asked Tony.
“In one of the alcoves off the loading dock. He’d been shot, three times. Want to take a look?”
They walked the hall of level one. Cobo staff, delayed by the activities of the bomb sweeps, were hanging some of the auto show signs. Using hydraulic lifts, they worked from buckets a hundred feet high, affixing the flexible signs with cable. Sign erection had become less and less important in recent years as sophisticated computer-operated LED displays had replaced the old-fashioned banners. But there was still something very impressive about a gigantic banner, spanning the width of the concourse, welcoming visitors to the most well-attended auto show in the world.
When Charlie and Tony reached the corridor to the loading dock, they saw Calhoun moving some of the heavy machinery in the hallway.
“How’s it going?” Charlie asked.
“Okay. But our maintenance schedule has pretty much gone to hell. A bunch of police are in the dock area, taking photographs and asking a lot of questions. I told them the same thing I told you, Ms. Mack. My guys didn’t see nothing. Heinrich came in here and watched us work for a few minutes and then left. But I remembered something I forgot to tell you.”
“What?” Charlie asked.
“When I first noticed him, he was standing by my desk and had opened the drawer. I think he was looking for the wristbands. You know, the security bracelets. I caught him at it. I showed him where they were, and he picked up a few of them, then put ’em back.”
“Where are your bands?” Charlie asked.
“In the desk. I’ll show you.”
Calhoun climbed down from the John Deere lifter and trudged in heavy work boots into the storage room. His desk was covered with blueprints, various tools, clipboards, and a coffee-stained calendar. He reached into the top drawer and laid a manila folder on top.
“They’re in here.”
Charlie dumped the contents of the envelope onto the desk. Five yellow bands fell onto the calendar.
“Is this all you have?”
“Yep. Those are left for the guys coming in at four to do the vacuuming. That’s the last thing we do before we open the doors.”
Calhoun picked up one of the clipboards. His brows furrowed and he dropped the clipboard onto the desk. He looked up at Charlie with a mix of concern and embarrassment. “Only thing is, there should be six of those bands, not five.”
A white cotton sheet was draped over Heinrich’s body. The police and FBI agents conferred in a tight circle on the far end of the dock. The coroner and his assistants were packing up samples and tools. Tony identified himself and introduced Charlie to the medical examiner, then leaned over the stretcher to lift a corner of the sheet. Heinrich’s face was a stony mask, his mouth contorted in a teeth-baring grimace.
“Shot at close range,” the coroner said. “A small-caliber pistol. Possibly a 32. Missed the carotid artery by a half inch. That’s why there’s not much bleeding.”
“Time of death?” Charlie asked.
“Two hours ago.”
“Pull the sheet all the way off, Tony,” Charlie said.
Tony drew the sheet from Heinrich’s body down to his Italian loafers. Charlie leaned over to examine his wrists.
“No security band,” she said.
“He probably got it for Dudiyn, so he could blend in,” Tony said.
“Blend in as what?”
“Could be anything. A valet parking guy, a security guard . . .”
Charlie interrupted Tony and pressed the talk button on her radio. “Our person of interest may have a security band,” she said into the mouthpiece.
Don, Mandy, Hoyt, and Tyson replied to her transmission with questions. The squawking radio got the attention of the Detroit police commander on duty. He was the one in charge of the Chenglei murder investigation, and the one Charlie had met with when Josh was killed. The veteran cop was African-American, probably six-foot-five, and, so far, a survivor in the investigations of police misconduct within the city administration. He ambled over to Tony and Charlie with a countenance of irritation.
“Another body, and here you are again, Ms. Mack.”
“Hello, Commander.”
“And this time it’s the head of Cobo’s security.” The officer’s stare of accusation took in both Tony and Charlie. “Can you tell me anything about what’s going on here?”
“Not really,” Charlie said. “I’m as surprised as you about Heinrich. You know Tony Canterra of Homeland Security,” Charlie deflected.
“Yes. I remember,” he said, looking down at Tony. “We got a terrorist situation here, Canterra?”
“Very likely. But I think we’re on top of it.”
The lieutenant’s scowl showed his complete disbelief. He lo
oked at Charlie and smirked.
“If you call three bodies in three weeks being on top of it, who am I to argue,” he said, sucking his teeth and turning away.
“We appreciate MPD’s help with the canine units,” Tony shouted to the man’s massive back. The commander gave a dismissive wave as he exited.
“I need to get back to the office,” Charlie said.
Charlie thumbed through Dudiyn’s folder again and found the note she’d seen earlier.
“Carter. I have a question for you,” she shouted toward the outer office.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Mack?” Carter said, entering the conference room.
“Did you get the additional information on Dudiyn that you mentioned?”
“I’ve been so focused on looking at the security footage, I haven’t checked my email in a while. I’ll check now.”
“I’m interested in this note about multiple passports. That’s been verified?”
“Yes, it has.”
“Can we get photocopies?”
“That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
It was 2 a.m. One of the few times in the last twelve hours that Charlie had been alone to do her thinking exercise. Her eyes burned and her concentration was shot. She turned to the white board. She removed the Where is Heinrich note, then wrote and placed a new green note onto the middle of the board. It read: What is Dudiyn up to? The question stared back at her.
“What do you think his next move will be?” Hartwell startled her. He was leaning on the door jamb, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up.
“I’m not sure.”
Hartwell took the seat next to Charlie. They both gazed at the board for a full minute in silence.
“Cynthia and I decided it was best not to tell the Spectrum staff that Heinrich is dead.”
“I think that makes sense. Despite what Tony says, there could be another accomplice we don’t know about,” Charlie replied.
“This is quite the system you have,” Hartwell said, pointing to the board.
“It usually works well for me.”
“And this time?”
“In this case, we started with more questions than facts. Facts that would be at the very core of most of the investigations I take on.”
“We’re very grateful to you, Ms. Mack.”
“You might as well call me Charlie, since we might die together tonight.”
Hartwell recognized the black humor and chuckled. The anxiety that came with the unknown had stripped the others of calmness, but he was more casual than ever. He popped up from the table to pour coffee.
“Can I get you another cup?” he asked.
“No. Caffeine stopped having any effect on me hours ago.”
“You’ve done a good job, Ms. Mack. Uh, Charlie.”
“How can you tell? I sure can’t.”
“Cynthia’s been giving me regular reports.”
“She’s been a huge help to us,” Charlie responded with a weak smile.
“Believe me, you and your partners were the right people for this job. We know all the ambiguity has been a hindrance, but we didn’t know any other way to handle things.” Hartwell shifted in his seat. “But the bottom line is, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t hired Heinrich.”
The two sat in silence. Hartwell was looking to Charlie for a response. Since there was none, he hung his head.
“You fucked up, all right.”
Hartwell’s eyes were large as he looked up, startled by Charlie’s frankness and profanity. She offered a tired smile.
“Feel better now?”
Carter and Judy stepped into the conference room with gloomy faces, Carter carrying a handful of papers. Hartwell was still recovering from Charlie’s tough love.
“We’ve got another problem,” Judy said.
“Come on in. What is it?”
“These are photocopies of three other passports used by Dudiyn. He has a few different aliases,” Carter said.
“That’s not so unusual, is it?” Charlie asked.
“No. But this is.” Carter put four photographs in front of her.
Charlie and Hartwell leaned over the documents. Each showed a different person, with only the barest resemblance to the man they knew as Dudiyn.
“Are you telling me, all four of these photos are of Bernard Dudiyn?” Hartwell asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Carter replied. “The photo you distributed earlier may not be what he looks like.”
“Don, where are you?” Charlie said into the walkie-talkie.
After a few minutes, Don responded. “We’re on the rooftop. ATF is just about finished with their sweep.”
“I need you back down here. Bring Gil, Hoyt, and Mandy with you.”
“What’s up, Mack?”
“You’ve got to see for yourself.”
Dudiyn had been monitoring the radio and was aware the color-coded security band no longer gave him a free pass. The patrols came by every thirty to forty minutes, but they were looking for something unusual or out of place, and the janitor disguise continued to give him invisibility. It also helped that he wasn’t alone in the corridors of Cobo. Scores of workers were polishing glass windows, hanging drapery, erecting signs, installing carpet, replacing light fixtures, and cleaning the various surfaces of the building. But his task was taking longer than he’d expected.
He’d completed placing twenty-five pipe bombs in the recyclable boxes on level two, fewer than planned, because many areas were still blocked off. He was heading next to level three where, according to the radio chatter, the ATF had completed their bomb sweeps. He’d take a break after that, and sometime around 6-8 a.m., he’d plant the last bombs near the level one exhibits.
Dudiyn became alert as a patrol team approached. He’d transferred his gun to the tray on the mop cart where he could easily reach it. As he’d done before, he stopped and lifted his dripping mop to scrub away at the nearest baseboard. As the patrol vehicle passed, he looked up from his fake chore. The pair glanced at him. The male driver quickly looked away, but the woman shifted in her seat toward him as they passed. It was Heinrich’s redhead. He continued his scrubbing and, for effect, whipped a rag from his back pocket, stooping to dry the water-splashed wall. He rode a service elevator up to the third level and moved deliberately to the nearest restroom. His cart was getting lighter as he removed another of the five-pound units from the bag. The detonations tomorrow on multiple levels of Cobo within minutes of each other would create a whirlwind of chaos and carnage.
Amy had dressed quickly in the dark. She understood Lin’s need to demonstrate loyalty. That’s what she’d felt when she offered to stay at Cobo. She wanted to help Mr. Kwong. He was in trouble, even if she didn’t know what kind of trouble it was. She disarmed the security panel and closed the front door gently. Her parents were asleep on the other side of their sprawling home, and the live-in housekeeper was also likely asleep in the small cottage attached to the rear of the house. When she reached the car port, she rearmed the house with her remote fob. Her father had all kinds of security gadgets, cameras, alarms, motion detector lights. Even now, he might be watching on his mobile phone as she started her car and backed out of the driveway with the lights out.
At 2:15 a.m., Amy picked up Lin outside of the downtown condo building, where last night’s snow coated the curbs or had been windswept against the corners of the building. Lin made a long silhouette in front of the well-lit lobby window as he shivered in a thin gray hoodie and a knit cap. He carried a laptop in his ungloved hands.
“It’s cold,” he noted as he slid his lean torso into the front seat.
“This is Detroit. You need to wear a coat,” Amy chastised, then followed with, “Sorry.”
“I like it that you care about me,” Lin said with a sideways glance and a grin.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I just can’t stop channeling my mother when it comes to dealing with people who need help.”
“Seriously, Amy, th
anks for coming to get me.”
“I think we’re both making a mistake.”
“Both?”
“Yes. I’m going back with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Why not? Because I’m a female?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can be brave, too.”
“I knew you were brave when you walked into that warehouse to save me.”
“I wasn’t there to save you, remember?”
“I know, but most girls wouldn’t even have opened that door and stepped into a dark room. And when you saw me handcuffed to a chair, you could have left me there.”
Amy made a U-turn on Jefferson Avenue and headed to Cobo. At the front drive, a police car with flashing lights blocked the passenger drop-off lane. Two armored cars with ATF markings idled at the curb. At this time of night, they’d need to go to the employee entrance near the Civic Drive security station to be buzzed in by the guard. Amy drove to the Larned Garage and used her access card, lifting the gate. The garage was empty, except for the last row against the wall where staff cars and restaurant trucks were parked. Amy pulled to the end of the line of cars and turned off the engine. She removed her keys from the ignition, then turned to Lin, leaned over, and pressed her lips against his mouth. Lin was momentarily unable to move, but it took only a few seconds before he returned the passion of Amy’s kiss. A strange noise gave them a start, and together they stared through the windshield as a man pushed a cart with a mop toward the other end of the lot.
“Come on, let’s walk around to the front,” Amy said, grabbing for the door handle.
“No. Wait. Don’t open that door,” Lin said in a panicked whisper.
“Why? What’s wrong, Lin?” Amy said, looking into his terrified eyes.
“The way he walks and moves. I know that’s him. That’s Baldy.”
The group around the table peered at the photo montage Judy had mocked up. Tony had returned, and Cynthia and Hartwell stood against the wall. The photo array showed Dudiyn dressed as a businessman with a three-piece suit and a neatly trimmed mustache; in athletic wear, with long hair and a backpack; as a beardless, bespectacled geek; and in the uniform of a law-enforcement officer, complete with a cap and aviator glasses.
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