by Pamela Clare
“You got any proof of that?” McBride asked.
“No,” she admitted. “But stay with me for a minute, okay?”
“I’m listening.”
As Laura went on, Javier felt himself growing more impressed with her intel abilities. None of the evidence she presented was the obvious sort that would have jumped out at investigators. It required some thought. Like the fact that the kid’s browser had recorded searches pertaining only to explosives, jihad, and terrorism—no T&A, no music, no sports, nothing about Laura or Al-Nassar. And the fact that Ali had visited some of the sites for only a handful of seconds—just long enough for the page to load—before he’d apparently moved on.
“I read fast,” Laura said, “but even I can’t absorb the content of a web page in a single glance.”
McBride was still playing devil’s advocate, but it was clear to Javier that he saw where she was going with this. “Maybe he was downloading the pages to a flash drive that we haven’t found. Or maybe he was printing them. There could easily be a logical explanation.”
“If you find one, let me know.” Laura looked down at her notes again. “As I see it, there are two possibilities. Either his uncle is lying and Ali wasn’t at the store when he was supposed to be, or someone else was using his computer during hours when no one in the family was home, creating an Internet history to make him seem guilty.”
“You’re forgetting that the explosives were found in his car, along with his body,” McBride added.
“True.” She frowned and seemed to mull this over. “What if that setup was just another part of the plot to leave the blame at Ali’s feet? Investigators found no trace of explosives at the Al Zahrani home. If he’d actually built the bomb, wouldn’t they have found something? And don’t forget that he’d been dead for hours before the explosion. Someone might have set him up to look guilty and then murdered him to put both him and his car at the center of the crime. What better way to hide a motive than to make it look like the explosion was the result of Al-Nassar’s call to kill me?”
The hair stood up on Javier’s neck, his instincts telling him she was right. “What you’re saying is that the kid might not have had anything to do with this.”
Laura nodded. “When I realized that he couldn’t have been responsible for those Internet searches, I began to wonder. Now that we have Edwards here, I’m almost certain.”
“I don’t often find myself in the position of defending the FBI,” McBride said, “but don’t you think they’ve checked into some of this?”
“I have no idea.” Laura shrugged. “Why would they? A VBIED goes off outside the newspaper near my window a short time after Al-Nassar called on his followers to kill me. A young Muslim man is found in the car, making the blast look like a suicide bombing. The suspect’s computer reveals a browsing history of do-it-yourself bomb and terrorism sites. In other words, investigators found exactly what they expected to find. Why dig any further?”
McBride seemed to consider this.
Laura went on. “They have a dead body, a car packed with explosives, and these Internet searches. But they don’t know where the ANFO was mixed. They can’t find any ties between Ali and any known terrorist elements. They can’t explain why he was shot before the bomb went off or find the man who killed him and detonated the explosives. They’re ignoring the missing and contradictory evidence because the rest of it fits together so nicely.”
Javier’s gaze dropped from Laura to the photo of the man he’d killed yesterday, Laura’s theory opening up all kinds of new possibilities. “Maybe this has nothing to do with Al-Nassar at all.”
For a moment, there was silence.
McBride chuckled. “I can’t wait to see Agent Petras’s face when I go over this with him. I can’t stand that son of a bitch.”
Neither could Javier. “That makes two of us, bro.”
“So you’ll take this to the task force?” Laura asked.
“You’ve painted a compelling picture. I’m impressed. Yesterday’s shooting adds weight to your theory. You bet I’m taking it to the task force.”
“Do you think they’ll listen?”
McBride grinned. “I’m the chief deputy U.S. Marshal for the Colorado territory. They have no choice but to listen.”
* * *
THE MEETING WITH Zach had left Laura on edge. It wasn’t just the revelation that a man she’d exposed five years ago had tried to kill Javier and might have been behind the plot to kill her, too. It was also the investigation of Ali Al Zahrani. Her mind kept drifting back to the boy—and the horrible thought that he might have been murdered just to serve as a kind of decoy.
She did her best to focus on her work, answering a few e-mails from Tom and Syd and reviewing her questions for her interview with the regional VA director. The interview itself turned out to be as unrevealing as it was brief. She’d just hung up the phone when Javier came up behind her, his big hands resting on her shoulders.
“How did it go?”
“Short and uninformative.” Laura swiveled her chair and stood, sliding into his embrace. “He basically read me a press release over the phone and then declined to say anything else. I might as well have interviewed a rock.”
“I’ve got some news that will cheer you up.” He smiled down at her. “You’ve got company.”
She found Sophie, Matt, Alex, Kat, Joaquin, Holly, and Megan whispering together in the living room, carryout Thai food spread out in containers across her coffee table.
“Surprise!” Sophie gave Laura a bright smile. “We brought lunch for you both.”
Laura felt a swell of happiness to see them, even Alex.
Javier leaned down and spoke for Laura’s ears alone. “You have a good time with your friends. Mind if I borrow your computer to catch up on e-mail?”
“Feel free. The browser should be open.”
He thanked Sophie and the others for the food, then disappeared down the hallway. Laura soon found herself enjoying panang curry with chicken, spring rolls, and rice—and catching up with her coworkers about events at the paper.
Repairs had been completed so that no one could tell there’d ever been a car bomb. The cafeteria’s new healthier lunch menu had everyone in an uproar—everyone except Holly, who said she no longer had to feel jealous of what the others were eating. Matt and Tom had gotten into a blowout in the newsroom over a headline. Alex had been roughed up by a few members of a prison gang who were living on the outside and hadn’t appreciated his questions. Kat and Gabe would be leaving for two weeks on the Navajo reservation to help with the kinaalda, or coming-of-age ceremony, of one of Kat’s nieces. Joaquin had put together a photo spread of some of the working girls from Candy’s, but the publisher and Tom were fighting over whether the package could run, given what the women did for a living.
“It’s bullshit, man.” Joaquin was clearly furious. “Since when is our job only to pass on G-rated news?”
This led to a long discussion about editorial autonomy.
Then Megan announced that she’d been accepted into law school.
Laura felt a rush of joy for her. “Oh, that’s wonderful! When do classes start?”
“They start in August, but I’ve got a reading list that I’m going to work through this spring and summer.”
Megan talked a bit about her plans after graduating, how she planned to open a resource center that provided guidance and support to women who were being released on parole in hopes that fewer of them would wind up behind bars again.
Laura was struck by Megan’s courage, her moral fiber. “What a beautiful way to turn your own suffering into something positive.”
“How are you doing, Laura?” Sophie asked. “We all know what happened to Javier yesterday. I’m so glad he wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Alex stood. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She didn’t want to think about that.
“Do they have any idea why this guy tried to shoot him?” Matt asked. “It must be related to the attacks on you, right?”
And Laura remembered that her friends were reporters.
She answered carefully. “We assume so, but we don’t know anything for sure.”
Holly leaned forward, looking gorgeous in a blue and white Prada print suit. “So have you and your sexy SEAL reconnected?”
“Holly!” Sophie rolled her eyes.
Kat looked up from her lunch. “That’s your business, Laura, not ours. Please don’t feel you need to answer.”
Then Laura heard Javier’s voice.
“Hey, get the hell out of here. Are you wearing a wire, man?”
She set her plate on the coffee table and hurried down the hallway to find Javier standing face-to-face with Alex in the doorway to her office, his fists clenched.
“What’s going on?”
“I was sitting at your computer, and he walks in, starts asking questions about the shooting, pretending to give a shit. I look up to find him looking over my shoulder at the files on your desk, and I start asking myself whether he’s just talking to me because he’s your friend or whether he’s trying to grab a quote.”
Laura took one look at Alex, and she knew that was exactly what he’d been doing. She touched a hand to Javier’s arm. “Javier can’t give interviews. You know that. Give me the recorder. Give it to me!”
Javier moved closer, crowding Alex. “You’d better do what the lady asks.”
Alex drew a digital recorder out of his pocket and handed it over. “This is bullshit, Laura. I’m just doing my job.”
It was one thing to wear a digital recorder in an interview. It was another to wear it into someone’s home when no interview was taking place in hopes of stealing a quote or two in the guise of casual conversation.
She scrolled back, deleted the file, then handed it back to him. “I thought you were a friend coming into my home, Alex, not a journalist working a story. I guess I was wrong. You need to leave. Now.”
Alex walked off, muttering profanity.
Laura turned to find the others standing down at the end of the hallway, watching, looks of astonishment on their faces.
“I guess it’s time for us to go,” Alex said.
Sophie glared at him, crossed her arms over her chest. “No, just you.”
Joaquin glared at him. “What the hell were you thinking, man?”
And Laura felt a rush of relief to know that the rest of her friends from the paper hadn’t been a part of Alex’s scheme.
* * *
JAVIER AND LAURA had a quiet dinner, did the dishes together, then settled on the couch, Laura’s head resting on Javier’s lap.
“I’m sorry Alex was such a jerk today. In the I-Team meeting this morning he implied that I was keeping information from him—which I suppose I am. I didn’t think he’d join us for lunch only as a pretext to snoop in my office or to try to steal a quote from you. That’s low.”
Javier stroked her hair, the feel of it like silk, being close to her making it impossible for him to feel angry. “The stupid cabrón is lucky I didn’t give him another black eye to match the one he already has.”
“Can you imagine what might have happened if you hadn’t been in my office? He would have been free to look around and read everything. He might have found the FBI file. What would I tell Zach then?”
“Why aren’t you like that? I always say that I can’t stand the media. You’re part of the media, but you’re not like him or that pendejo Gary Chapin.”
“Gary and to some degree Alex live to break a story. It’s not the content of the story that matters to them. It’s the thrill of being first, of winning that race to make news. For me, journalism is about people. It’s about the human element.”
“I guess that’s what sets you apart, why you’re so good at what you do.”
“When I was a new reporter straight out of college, I was sent with a cameraman to a house where a father had just run over and killed his own eighteen-month-old daughter. He’d been pulling out of the driveway on his way to work and didn’t know that she’d gotten outside. She died before they reached the hospital. My job was to stake out the house and try to get an interview with him or the child’s mother.
“When I got there, the place was already surrounded by reporters and photographers. They stood in the driveway, on the sidewalk in front of the house, and spilled into the street. After a few hours, the parents returned from the hospital to find that they couldn’t even get into their own driveway. They ended up having to park down the street and walk through a media gauntlet to their own front door.
“The mother was so grief-stricken she could barely walk. And the reporters—they didn’t seem to care. They kept shouting questions. ‘When did you realize you’d run over your daughter?’ ‘Where were you in the house when you heard that your husband had run over your daughter?’ ‘Did your little girl scream or cry out?’ ‘Was she alive when you discovered her under your vehicle?’
“I was so sick to my stomach, so disgusted, that I didn’t ask a single question. I got back to the station with nothing. I almost got fired that day, but I didn’t care. I made up my mind that night never to accept an assignment that I felt compromised my integrity.”
He ran his knuckles over her cheek, wondering what he’d done to deserve this time with her. “I’ve never known anyone like you, bella.”
His cell phone buzzed.
“Hey, McBride, what’s up?”
“Tower has regained consciousness. You said you wanted to be there when we questioned him. I can have Childers there in ten to watch over Laura if you want to come along.”
“I’ll be ready.”
* * *
LIGHT, PAIN, AND noise seemed to crash in on Derek all at once—a steady beep, a mechanical sound like breathing, and voices.
A sea of women’s faces. Were they nurses?
“Is your pain under control?”
“This IV has started to infiltrate. We’re going to insert a new one in your other arm, okay? You’ll feel a little prick.”
“If you don’t stop thrashing, we’re going to have to sedate you!”
He was in the hospital, but he had no idea why. He couldn’t speak, could barely open his eyes. He drifted in and out, lost somewhere between oblivion and a world of clashing sounds and bright, blazing lights.
And then there were other voices, men’s voices.
“I’m Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach MacBride, and I need to ask you a few questions about the shooting that put you in this bed. Can you understand me?”
So Derek had been shot. That explained a few things. It must have been bad for him to be in this kind of shape.
He nodded.
“Can you write your name for us?”
He felt a pencil in his hand. He spelled it out—D-E-R-E-K.
He opened his eyes, men’s faces swimming in and out of focus. He thought he recognized them, but he couldn’t remember.
“Can you remember who shot you?”
So he had been shot. Yes, he’d been shot. They’d just told him that.
What was the last thing he remembered before this place?
He’d been waiting. Yes, he’d been waiting in his car. He’d been waiting for someone . . . He’d waited for a long time. He’d had to get there early because he’d wanted to be in position in case anyone showed up.
“Mr. Tower, can you remember who shot you? It’s very important that you try.”
Images slid through his mind. A parki
ng garage. The sky. A building down below. The weapon in his hand.
“Why were you at the parking garage, Mr. Tower?”
A parking garage. Yes, he’d been at a parking garage. He’d been waiting.
“He’s completely out of it. We’re not going to get a damned thing from him.”
“We’ve got to try. In a few minutes, they’re going to send us away. Try to remember, Tower. Remember who shot you, and spell his name.”
Spell his name?
D-E-R-E-K.
“Hey, Tower.” This one sounded angry. “Who tried to kill Laura Nilsson?”
Laura Nilsson.
He felt a spark of adrenaline, his eyes coming open.
The little bitch had refused to meet with him. He’d needed to speak with her about her abduction, to find out whom she’d had contact with in the weeks prior. But she’d gotten a restraining order. She’d thought he was trying to kill her, but it wasn’t him. He needed her. He needed her alive, and so he’d gone to the parking garage.
One second it seemed to make sense, and the next . . .
A man with short, dark hair and angry brown eyes was leaning over him, his hand giving Derek’s an impatient squeeze. “Who tried to kill Laura Nilsson? Spell his name. That same person shot you, man.”
But Derek didn’t know the shooter’s name. He couldn’t even remember his face. So he spelled the first thing that came into his mind.
F-U-C-K Y-O-U.
CHAPTER
26
LAURA KNEW THINGS hadn’t gone well with Derek the moment she saw Javier’s face. “He wouldn’t tell you anything.”
Javier shook his head. “Either he’s still too out of it, or he doesn’t want to cooperate. He managed to write his own name twice and then spelled fuck you.”
The little bubble of hope that Laura had carried inside her since Zach’s call popped. She wanted so much for this to be over. By answering their questions, Tower could have made that happen. “Maybe he’ll be more alert tomorrow.”