Carolyn peered up at the two men. She’d worked with Hank for years. He was not only a detective, but a sergeant in the crimes against persons division. At forty-five, he was slightly under six feet and about twenty pounds overweight, most of it in his midsection. He had thinning brown hair and a ruddy complexion.
The detective was a shrewd and highly esteemed investigator. He’d tracked down and apprehended the murderer in a case Carolyn had investigated several years before. In the process, he’d taken a bullet to the abdomen, one of the most painful places in the body to incur a gunshot wound. While handling the case, she was amazed that he’d been back at work in less than three weeks.
Officer White looked to be in his mid-twenties, and displayed the rigid demeanor of a soldier. He was probably a rookie, she thought. When a police officer made a point of trying to appear authoritative, he was generally covering up for lack of experience.
“Tell me what happened,” she said, pushing a button to elevate the head of the bed. “Was it a bomb?”
“Let’s call it an explosive device,” Hank told her. “Until our bomb squad completes their investigation, we can’t be certain.”
“How many people were injured?”
“You and a guy named Daniel Metroix. Records list Metroix as a recent parolee from Chino. He claims you’re his parole officer. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Carolyn said. “Where is he now?”
“The prisoner’s being booked at the jail,” Officer White said, resting his hand on the butt of his gun. Several inches shorter than his superior, White had closely cropped hair and small gray eyes.
Hank shot the officer a stern look. “Get me a cup of coffee,” he said, promptly putting the other man in his place. “And while you’re at it, get me a Snickers.” He reached in his pocket and tossed over a handful of quarters. White wasn’t quick enough to catch them, so he had to bend over and pick them up one by one off the floor.
Once the officer had left the room, the detective turned back to Carolyn. “Kids,” he said, scowling. “I’m getting too old for this training bullshit. What did my boy do wrong?”
“He volunteered information,” Carolyn said, not concerned about the personnel problems at the police department in light of what she’d heard. “Why did you arrest Metroix, Hank? He had nothing to do with what happened. I had to check out his living situation. I scheduled a visit at his motel room.”
“How did you get out before the place blew?”
“The phone rang as I was about to leave,” she said, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to remember the sequence of events prior to the explosion. “When I saw wires running across the ceiling, I knew something was wrong. Then I saw the same kind of wire coming out of the back of the phone. I told him we had to get out of the building. We almost made it to the stairway when Metroix stopped breathing. I administered CPR, and he came around.” She reached over and picked up a pitcher of water off the end table. He took it out of her hand and poured the water into a cup, handing it to her and waiting until she finished drinking it. “My throat, you know,” she said, hoarse.
“Smoke has a tendency to do that,” Hank told her. “I started out with the fire department. I’ve swallowed my share of that stuff.”
“What are you charging Metroix with?”
“At present,” he told her, “violation of parole. The DA may file attempted murder charges by tomorrow afternoon, depending on what kind of evidence we can produce. We’re hoping you can help us put this case together.”
“Metroix didn’t violate his parole, Hank,” Carolyn told him, placing the plastic drinking cup back on the end table. “The man almost died.”
The detective pulled on the lapels of his jacket, adjusting it on his shoulders. “You know what a suicide bomber is, Carolyn?”
“Of course,” she told him. “Daniel Metroix isn’t a suicide bomber.” She paused to think, listening to the patient behind the curtain next to her moaning. “Why weren’t there more injuries? What happened to the rest of the people staying at the motel? I was afraid the whole structure was going to collapse.”
“I’ll be honest,” Hank said. “We’ve got a peculiar situation on our hands. The motel wasn’t open for business. That’s why no one else was injured. The building was scheduled to be demolished this coming Monday. They stopped renting rooms over a month ago.”
“How were they going to demo it?”
“By implosion,” he told her. “There were several signs posted by the demolition company, Barrow and Kline. They even had a security guard patrolling the premises. We spoke to him earlier and he insisted the motel was vacant. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“No,” Carolyn said. “I was running late. There was a pickup truck near the office. I thought the place was in such bad shape, nobody wanted to stay there. When the phone rang, I asked Metroix if he’d given anyone the number. He said he hadn’t. After I saw the wires, I remembered the incident with the two FBI agents and freaked. Things didn’t feel right from the time I got there. I felt like someone was either watching me or following me.”
“Did you see this person?”
“No,” Carolyn told him. “If there was a security guard, why didn’t he realize Metroix was staying there? As soon as I drove into the parking lot, I saw him sitting in front of his window on the second floor. He had the lights on and the drapes open. Your security guard is lying.”
“Anything’s possible,” Hank said, glancing over his shoulder as White slipped back into the room, handing him his coffee and candy bar. “Maybe the guard went to get something to eat. What time did you arrive at the motel?”
“Around six,” Carolyn told them, giving a sympathetic glance toward the young officer the detective had intentionally humiliated. “I remember because I looked at my watch. I was late, like I said. I was supposed to meet Metroix at five-thirty. I was afraid he’d think I wasn’t coming and leave.”
“The security guard worked twelve to eight,” Hank said, placing the Snickers bar in his pocket and then taking a sip of his coffee. “He took his break around six. That explains why you didn’t see him. How long had this Metroix guy been squatting at the motel?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear. “He was paroled two weeks ago from Chino. He claimed he got into town Monday when I conducted the initial interview. I doubt if he was squatting at the motel, Hank. The man inherited seventy grand from his grandmother. Something else is going on here.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “I’m all ears.”
Carolyn turned away, her hands closing into fists. She had to be extremely cautious now. Although she felt certain Hank was an honest cop, he had to know who Daniel Metroix had been convicted of killing. Everything related to the motel could have been an elaborate setup to make certain the man who killed Charles Harrison’s son would go away forever. If so, this was worse than what she’d feared, as far too much planning had been involved. “Why would Metroix allow his probation officer to visit him if he’d illegally entered a building? I could have had him shipped back to prison to serve out a life sentence.”
Even if Daniel had seen the signs, Carolyn thought, he might not have read them. Discounting the fact that he was schizophrenic, this man lived in a different dimension than most people. Someone had obviously rented him the room, and under the circumstances, the only thing that made sense was that the room clerk was a plant.
“Whoever was behind this could have removed the signs on Monday when Metroix checked in,” Carolyn reasoned. “As for the security guard, you know about these guys, Hank. He may have been drunk or stoned.”
Daniel Metroix had claimed to have known her from the past. He’d seemed disappointed when Carolyn didn’t remember him. Did she have a connection with this man somewhere? On the other hand, she’d been making a lot of inquiries. Word would have gotten out that she was looking into the circumstances of Tim Harrison’s death. Could Charles Harrison have decided to use her as a means to ensure that if Met
roix didn’t die in the blast, a jury would sentence him to death for her murder? Too callous, she told herself. To step out of bounds to keep the individual responsible for your son’s death off the street was understandable, particularly if Harrison was convinced the two surviving men had told the truth. To want Daniel Metroix dead would be the ultimate revenge, but nowhere near as maniacal as taking a probation officer with him. Another fact to consider was that the kind of people who set off explosives didn’t care if innocent people were injured or killed.
Carolyn heard Hank speaking to White and turned to face the two officers, grimacing in pain as an excuse for her prolonged silence. “Why did they leave the electricity on if they were going to blow up the building next week?”
“Probably so the demo company could see what they were doing,” Hank said, crunching the empty Styrofoam cup in his hand. “The gas was turned off several days ago. Your buddy didn’t even have hot water. If he was paying good money to stay there, why didn’t he complain?”
Hank had a point. He also didn’t know Daniel Metroix. A schizophrenic might go weeks without showering. Now that she thought of it, he’d been wearing the same clothes he’d worn at the interview. “What do you think happened?”
“Not sure yet,” the detective said, tossing the pieces of the Styrofoam cup into the trash. “My guess is Metroix figured out how to detonate one of the explosive devices near the room where you met him. We checked his prison record. He was known at Chino as the Engineer. The wires were already in place, so a guy with Metroix’s type of expertise could have rigged the thing up pretty fast.”
“Your premise is shit,” Carolyn lashed out. “Metroix got a phone call right before the explosion. He swore he hadn’t told anyone else he was staying at the motel. If he blew the place, who called him?”
“Anyone can make a phone ring,” Hank told her, smiling smugly. “The motel switchboard was automated. All Metroix had to do was set up a wake-up call for a specific time. He could have been working with another ex-con, or even someone still serving time at Chino. Metroix’s a psycho. Nothing those people do makes sense.”
“You’re prejudging this man because he has a mental illness,” Carolyn said, annoyed at the detective’s narrow-mindedness.
“Maybe his voices told him you were the devil and he had to kill you.”
Seeing a young doctor speaking to a nurse outside in the corridor, Carolyn decided it was time to put an end to their conversation. Anyone connected with the Ventura police had to be considered a possible ally of Charles Harrison. By aligning herself with Daniel, however, she may have placed something far more valuable than her job at risk. She needed to get home to her children as quickly as possible.
“I don’t feel well,” she said, reaching for her stomach. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave now so I can speak to the doctor.”
“No problem,” Hank said. “Will you be at your office tomorrow in case we need to ask you a few more questions?”
“I’m not sure,” Carolyn said. “My office knows how to reach me.”
The detective moved closer to her bed. “You’re playing a dangerous game here, Carolyn,” he said, a look on his face that said he knew she was terminating the interview for reasons other than her injuries. “Daniel Metroix is a violent criminal. You were his intended victim. The phone call was probably a ruse to get him out of the room. When you saw the wires on the ceiling, he lost several minutes. This thing was timed to the second. He was going to leave you there to die.”
“Let’s say he did attempt to kill me,” Carolyn said. “What’s his motive?”
Officer White found the nerve to speak again. “Maybe he doesn’t like probation officers.”
The detective shook his head. “Was that a joke, idiot?”
“No, sir,” White said, his face blanching. “I thought…”
“After three months on the force,” Hank told him, “you don’t think, speak, or so much as take a piss without my consent. Listen, watch, and learn. Got it? If not, you’ll be looking for another job by next week.” He turned back to Carolyn. “Did anyone know you were going to be at that motel tonight?”
“Not that I know of,” she said, recalling the earlier conversations she’d had with John and her brother.
Hank Sawyer pointed to the door and White shuffled off in that direction. The detective lingered behind. “You’re a smart lady. Why are you standing up for a murderer?”
Carolyn held her breath until the detective had left. He was shrewd all right. She should have learned something when he’d come down so hard on the rookie officer. Never offer information unless it benefits you.
Was Hank’s wisdom worth contemplating? She’d been tough on Daniel, even though she’d only been doing her job. He wasn’t the same as other parolees, though. Would he have had enough time to set up something as complex as a timed explosion? Could her harsh demeanor have incited him to the point where he’d want to kill her? His clever inventions aside, Daniel Metroix was a convicted murderer. Was he also a devious psychopath?
Another chilling thought entered her mind. For all she knew, everything that Daniel had told her could have been either a lie or a delusion. The drawings and computations she’d seen in his room looked impressive, yet under closer examination, they could turn out to be meaningless.
Climbing out of the hospital bed, Carolyn yanked the I.V. out of her arm, found her clothes in a plastic bag taped to the foot of the bed, dressed, and walked out to find a pay phone to call a cab. When she realized she’d left her purse inside the motel room, she placed her hands over her face and cried.
Chapter 7
Wednesday morning, Rebecca leaned over and shook her mother by the shoulder. “I’m sorry to wake you, Mom,” the girl said. Her curly dark hair was parted in the middle and pinned back with barrettes. “John said there wasn’t anything to make for our lunches. You’ll have to give us some money.”
Carolyn sat up in the bed, peering up at her daughter through red and irritated eyes. She’d finally caught a ride home with a nurse, collapsing in her bed before dawn. Damn, she thought, doubting if she’d ever see her purse again. At least she hadn’t been carrying a lot of cash. Lately, she was lucky to keep a spare twenty on hand. In addition, her credit card was almost maxed out. Her salary paid the mortgage and put food on the table. Tapping it for tuition to law school had squeezed her dry. Now she’d have to go through the inconvenience of applying for a new driver’s license, ATM card, and MasterCard.
Getting out of bed and slipping into her robe, she staggered to her closet and rummaged in the bottoms of all her purses. She found a crumpled five-dollar bill, several ones, and a handful of change. “I think there’s eight dollars here,” she told her daughter, placing the money into the palm of her hand. “You take half and give John the rest.”
Rebecca was staring at the bandages on her mother’s elbows. Carolyn’s knees and legs had also been injured in her frantic escape down the concrete stairway, but the lower half of her body was hidden beneath her bathrobe.
“What happened?” the girl asked. “John said you were in some kind of accident. He wouldn’t tell me anything else because he said you’d get mad at him.”
Carolyn pulled the girl into her arms, inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. At least her son had kept his mouth shut this time. There was no reason to frighten his sister by telling her that her mother had almost been killed.
“I tripped and fell down a flight of stairs,” she said, her eyes meeting John’s across the room. “I’m fine, honey. Run along to school or you’ll be late.”
Rebecca seemed to be afraid to leave. “Will you be here when we get home?”
“I promise,” Carolyn told her, deciding the night before had earned her a day off. She could work on her cases without going to the office, and she didn’t have any scheduled appointments. Spouting off lies to Amy McFarland might have been tasteless, yet the four new cases Brad had claimed he’d assigned her had never materialized.
>
Carolyn was thankful that she’d left her briefcase in the car. If she’d taken it to the motel room with her, it would be lost as well. The only problem was getting her car back. She assumed it was in the parking lot of the Seagull Motel, unless the police had towed it.
She saw John standing in the doorway. “Paul Leighton helped me get the car home,” he said, tossing a set of keys onto the bed. “I thought you might need it.”
“Thanks,” Carolyn said, holding the front of her robe closed. “How did your friend manage to drive two cars?”
“Paul thought it would be okay if I drove the Infiniti,” he answered. “I knew you kept a spare set of keys in your drawer. It’s not like I don’t know how to drive, and it wasn’t that far. You’re not going to go off on me again, are you?”
“I thought I was supposed to call him professor,” his mother said. “And I wasn’t mad at you last night.”
“Fine,” John said, stuffing the bills his sister had handed him into his pocket. “We need to leave. I let you sleep as long as possible. You look awful, by the way. Try to get some rest, okay? I’ll fix dinner tonight.”
Rebecca hugged her mother and disappeared through the doorway with her brother. Carolyn returned to her bed, then grabbed the phone off the end table.
“I need to speak to Warden Lackner,” she said when a female voice answered. “I’m Daniel Metroix’s parole officer.”
“Hold on,” she said. “I’ll transfer you to Warden Lackner’s office.”
Carolyn ended up speaking to half of the warden’s staff before she finally reached his assistant, a man named Raphael Scribner. “How can I help you?” he asked politely.
“I’d prefer to discuss this with the warden,” she said. “Tell him it’s urgent. I spoke to him yesterday.”
The warden’s deep voice came on the phone. “This is Stephen Lackner.”
Carolyn gave him a rundown on the events of the night before, along with some of the things she’d uncovered related to the original crime.
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