Fast and Loose

by Stuart Woods

  Swenson put on the latex gloves, set the steel blanket on top of the package, picked it up, and walked it to the alley behind the building, where the company cars were parked. He set the box in place and put the blanket beside it, then went back inside, got a roll of masking tape from his desk, and returned to the car, where he set it beside the box and closed the trunk, locking it.

  “You forgot this,” a voice said from behind him, causing him to jump. Jake was standing there holding an index card. “It’s the address. You might put it into your car’s GPS, but don’t forget to delete it after your mission is completed.”

  “Got it,” Swenson said, pocketing the card.

  —

  THAT NIGHT Stone had dinner alone in his study, then went up to his bedroom, undressed, got into bed, and switched on the TV. He found an interesting movie among those he had TiVoed for later viewing and switched it on. As the credits were rolling, he picked up his iPhone and checked his appointments for the following morning. Only one: Eliot Crenshaw, the new corporate counsel for the St. Clair company, was coming to drop off the company’s books and some other computer records at 9:30. He made a mental note to be at his desk by that time.

  —

  DAN SWENSON HAD a late dinner with Jake Herman, as part of his alibi for the evening, then returned to his apartment. He watched a little TV, put on some fresh clothes and a shoulder holster and his 9mm H&K semiautomatic, which he was licensed to carry in Virginia and D.C., and left his apartment at 10:30 for the drive to New York. He checked his fuel level—plenty for the drive up and back, no stopping for gas—then he started the car and entered the address of his target house into his onboard GPS. Shortly, he was on the interstate, driving toward New York.

  He left the tunnel at half past two, then drove to the address in his GPS. He stopped, got out of the car, looked around, then drove around the block again. He pulled to a halt on the uptown side of the street, immediately in front of the target address, then he got out of the car and went to the door, finding the promised brass plate.

  He went back to the car, opened the trunk, pulled on his latex gloves, then set the blanket on top of the package and carried it to the door. He had another look around, found the block deserted, then pulled the concrete flower box away from the wall, which was harder than he had thought it would be.

  He picked up the box, set it down behind the flower box, then unfolded the steel blanket and wrapped it around the three sides of the box and pushed the flower box back into place. He examined his work and thought it looked good.

  He went back to his car, opened the trunk, removed the masking tape, and knelt down to tape over his license plate. He had just finished when a set of headlights turned the corner and a car stopped behind his car, emitting a short blast on its whooper.

  Swenson stood up to face the two policemen getting out of their patrol car. “Good evening,” he said to them.

  “Yeah,” the driving cop said. “Tell me, how come you are obliterating your license plate with tape? Don’t you know it’s a serious misdemeanor to drive with an obliterated tag?”

  “I’m sorry, Officer,” Swenson said, but he didn’t have a story ready for this, and he was stuck.

  “Let me see your license, registration, and insurance card,” the cop said.

  “Of course, Officer,” Swenson said. “I’ll have to get it from the glove compartment.”

  “Go ahead, but keep your hands in sight.”

  Swenson felt a rising wave of panic. If the cops discovered the package, he would be in serious trouble, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was not licensed to carry in New York City. He turned to walk toward the driver’s door.

  “Hold it,” the cop said.

  Swenson stopped.

  “The glove compartment is on the other side of the car.”

  Swenson turned slightly to hide his right hand, then he drew the 9mm from his shoulder holster, turned, and fired a round each at the two cops. Both went down immediately.

  He turned to get into the driver’s seat when he heard and felt two shots in the middle of his back, and he fell into the gutter.

  52

  Stone was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a distant popping, sounding like gunshots. He listened for a moment more, then drifted off again.

  —

  THE PHONE RANG. Stone opened an eye and glanced at the bedside clock: 6:10 AM. He reached for the phone. “Barrington,” he croaked.

  “It’s Dino. How come you’re still asleep? Don’t you know what happened?”

  “No, because I’m still asleep.”

  “There was a police shooting in front of your house about three AM.”

  “Why?” Stone asked, still foggy.

  “Why? Who the hell knows why? A patrol car rumbled some guy who was putting tape on his license plate. They asked for his paperwork, and he shot both of them, then both of them shot him.”

  Stone was awake now. “Anybody dead?”

  “Not yet. The cops were wearing vests, and the shooter drilled them both dead center, so he was no amateur.”

  “What about the shooter?”

  “He’s in Bellevue, still unconscious. I’ve got detectives standing by to question him when he wakes up.”

  “I can’t think of any reason why any of that might have happened in front of my house,” Stone said.

  “I figured.”

  “Then you could have called me in another hour, and I could have slept on.”

  Dino hung up.

  It was too early for breakfast to come up in the dumbwaiter, so Stone switched on the TV and surfed the morning shows. He got half a report from a local station about the shooting, but no new information. He called Dino on his cell.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “Anything new from the shooter in Bellevue?”

  “He’s still unconscious. I told you I’d call you when I know something. Oh, the shooter’s car is registered to an Arlington, Virginia, company, EMServices. Guess who that is?” Dino hung up.

  —

  AT SEVEN THE dumbwaiter rang; breakfast arrived with the Times, and Stone began his day all over again. He remembered he had a 9:30 appointment, so he was sitting at his desk on time. He finished the crossword and buzzed Joan. “Any sign of Eliot Crenshaw?”

  “He called to say he was running late.”

  “Thanks.” Stone finished the crossword. He glanced at his watch: 9:52. Bob, who was sitting at his feet, suddenly sat up and barked once.

  “What is it, Bob?”

  Bob barked again, then, surprisingly, he got an answer from outside. That set off a cascade of barking both indoors and out.

  Stone got up and went to Joan’s office. “What’s going on? Bob’s going nuts.”

  “So is a dog outside.”

  Stone went to the door and opened it. Outside, Eliot Crenshaw stood, his briefcase in one hand and Bessie’s leash in the other. “What’s happening, Eliot?”

  “Bessie is locked onto your flower box,” the lawyer said.

  “Inside, quick,” Stone said.

  Joan appeared in the doorway. “What’s happening?”

  “Joan,” Stone said, “take Eliot and his dog, Bessie, and go sit in the garden.”

  “The garden?”

  “Right now, please!” She finally obeyed him, and the barking moved inside. Stone went to the flower box and saw the object behind it. There was a steel blanket, like those at construction sites, hiding something. He tugged at it, exposing a cardboard box, taped shut. He took a penknife from his pocket and slit the tape, then opened the box and brushed away some foam peanuts.

  Inside the box, a digital timer was counting down from fifty-nine seconds. Foolishly, he turned over the box and emptied the contents: two blocks of plastique. “Oh, shit,” he said aloud. He followed the wires from the timer to the detonators and pulled them out of the explosive, then he threw the timer with the detonators still attached onto the sidewalk. Almost immediately, the detonators exploded, like
two cherry bombs, knocking him backward. His cell phone started ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino. The shooter at Bellevue is awake, and he told my detectives that he planted a bomb outside your house. The bomb squad is on their way.”

  “Tell them they’re a little late, but to come ahead anyway.”

  “The bomb went off?”

  “The two detonators did. Fortunately, I had separated them from the two blocks of plastic explosives.”

  “Two blocks?”

  “About a kilo each, I’d estimate.”

  “Well, get the fuck away from it! It could still go off.”

  Stone went inside and walked through his office and the kitchen to the rear garden. The two dogs were dancing around each other, making dog noises.

  “I heard shots,” Eliot said.

  “Not shots, detonators,” Stone replied.

  “Not again,” Eliot said.

  “Again,” Stone replied.

  —

  LIEUTENANT MARCONI of the bomb squad came into Stone’s office. “You’re all clear,” he said. “You’re becoming our best customer, you know.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Stone said. “I’d prefer not to be.”

  “That was high-quality stuff,” Marconi said. “Just like last time. It would have done serious damage to your house and both sides of the street, and that concrete flower box would have become very dangerous shrapnel.”

  Stone held up a hand. “Don’t tell me any more, I won’t sleep tonight.”

  “As you wish. Good morning.” Marconi left, and a moment later Dino joined them. “How you feeling?” Dino asked.

  “Still scared.”

  Bob and Bessie went to greet Dino.

  “Dino, this is Eliot Crenshaw, a lawyer for St. Clair. This is his second bomb scare with me, and his dog, Bessie, saved our asses again, with a little help from Bob.”

  “Good dog,” Dino said, patting her. “Our shooter at Bellevue is talking,” he said.

  “Did he implicate Macher?”

  Dino shook his head. “Not Macher, but Jake Herman, his guy. He’s the one who briefed the bomber, whose name is Daniel Swenson, ex-Army special forces. He’s being charged with two counts of attempted murder of a police officer—and, of course, for the bomb. The Arlington cops are on their way to pick up Herman now.”

  “Jesus, Dino, offer this Swenson whatever you have to to get him to implicate Macher. Let’s put them both away.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” Dino said, “but Macher never spoke a word to Swenson about this. Herman did all the talking. Still, Arlington is getting a warrant to search Macher’s offices.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  53

  Erik Macher was on his way to the office, listening to satellite news, when he heard the report.

  “Last night in New York City, in the wee hours, an NYPD patrol car came across a man in the East Forties putting tape over his license plate. When the two officers questioned him, the man drew a pistol and shot them both, then was shot in return by the two officers. A police spokesman said that both officers were wearing ballistic vests and are not seriously injured, and the shooter is at Bellevue Hospital and talking to officers. He is expected to recover.”

  Macher called Jake Herman on his cell.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you heard the news?”

  “Barrington is dead?”

  “No, but Swenson is in Bellevue with two gunshot wounds, and he’s talking.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “You’d better not come to work, and don’t go home, either.”

  “I’m at home now.”

  “Well, get out of there and call me at mid-morning. I’ll deal with the police.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Go get some breakfast or something, just go!” Macher hung up. He drove to his office and parked out back, then let himself into the building and ran to his office. He opened his safe, pulled on some latex gloves, and put his timers and detonators into the box containing the remainder of his explosives, then took it out of the safe and into the alley. He walked fifty yards away and put the box carefully into a neighbor’s dumpster, then returned to his office and had a good look around for any trace of the explosives. He went to Jake’s office and did the same, then he went back to his desk and sat down.

  —

  THE POLICE ARRIVED around 8:30. They hammered on the front door, and he raced to open it before they crashed in.

  “Good morning,” he said to the four armed and suited men and two detectives. “Can I help you?”

  “Mind if we come in?” a detective asked.

  He led them to his office and sat down. “Now,” he said, “what’s this all about?”

  “Have you listened to the news this morning?”

  “I’m afraid not. Is there something I should know about?”

  “Do you have two employees named Jacob Herman and Daniel Swenson?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t in yet. I usually get in before anyone else.”

  “Do you know their whereabouts?”

  Macher glanced at his watch. “I suppose they’re on their way to work. You’re welcome to wait for them. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks, but while we’re waiting, let me serve you with this warrant to search the premises.” He handed Macher the document.

  Macher dropped it, unread, on his desk and spread his hands. “Please help yourself,” he said. “You don’t need a warrant, I’m happy to help.”

  “Where are your two employees’ offices?”

  “Mr. Herman’s is to your left at the end of the hall. Mr. Swenson is to your right at the other end.”

  He turned to his men. “Okay, two of you in each office, we’ll take this room.” He turned back to Macher. “Stand up.”

  Macher stood up, backed away from his desk, and leaned against the wall. “Let me know if I can help.”

  The two detectives went methodically through his desk and filing cabinets and asked him to open the safe. “I’m happy to do so. When do I get to know what this is all about?” He worked the combination.

  One detective started on the safe. “You have permits for all these weapons?”

  “In the box on the right-side shelf, along with my business license,” Macher replied.

  “It’s like this,” the other detective said, “last night in New York City a patrol car came across your employee Swenson putting tape over his license plate.”

  “Swenson isn’t supposed to be in New York,” Macher said. “He’s due here for work, like always.”

  “Well, he’s in Bellevue Hospital, instead, with two bullets in him.”

  “Why would they shoot him?”

  “Because he shot them first. Luckily, they were wearing protective gear.”

  “This is crazy!” Macher said, giving his best performance. “Swenson is a good man, a decorated veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Well, now he’s charged with two counts of attempted murder.”

  “This is insane. What does Swenson have to say?”

  A uniform came back. “The offices are clean of anything that could be of use to us.”

  “Listen,” Macher said, “it sounds like Swenson went off his rocker. He’s had problems with post-traumatic stress disorder, going back to his army days. I can’t think of any other reason he’d go to New York, shoot two policemen.”

  “We don’t know. We were hoping to find some answers here. When did you last speak to Mr. Herman?”

  “Yesterday when he left work. I called him on the way to work this morning but got his voice mail. He should have been at work an hour and a half ago.”

  The detective gave him a card. “When you hear from Herman, give us a call, and tell him not to go anywhere until we’ve talked to him.”

  Macher took the card. “I hope you’ll ask your colleagues in New York to treat Dan Swenson like a wounded veteran, in
stead of a criminal suspect.”

  “We’ll pass along the information.” The detectives thanked him for his cooperation and left.

  Another fifteen minutes passed before Jake Herman called.

  “Where are you, Jake?”

  “Down the street in a diner. You know the one.”

  “The cops have already been here and torn the place apart, but they didn’t find anything.”

  “I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Jake said. “We need to meet.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, someplace they’d never look for me.”

  “I can think of a place,” Macher said. “It belongs to Ed Rawls, but he’s at his house in Maine. It’s an hour, hour and a half from here.” He gave him directions. “If you get there before I do, break in, but disable the alarm first. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  “Okay.”

  Macher’s secretary walked in. “This place is a mess,” she said.

  “I have to go out,” Macher said. “Please tidy up. Jake and Dan won’t be in today.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow, the next day, maybe. We’ve got a new client.”

  Macher went into the alley, removed the explosives from the neighbor’s dumpster, and put them in the trunk of his car. He chose weapons from the safe, then got the car started and headed south.

  54

  Jake Herman got to the house first. He found the junction box for the alarm system and disconnected it, then he picked the lock on the back door, went in, unlocked the other doors, and made himself some coffee in the kitchen. The phone rang, but it soon stopped.

  He liked the house, particularly the study, and he made himself at home in there with the Washington Post and the New York Times, which he had picked up at the diner.

  —

  MACHER, USING A burner phone, called Jake’s cell from the road.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the house. Pretty nice.”

  “I thought you’d been there before. We had the place under surveillance for a few days a while back.”

  “Nope. I didn’t get that duty.”

  “Did you disconnect the alarm?”

  “I did.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Reading the papers and having some of our host’s coffee. There’s no food in the house, so if you’re planning to be here for a while, you’d better pick up some groceries.”