Another half hour passed as they studied the videos in silence. The only noise was a low belch from Guppo and the occasional hum of the printer when they found a clip of someone filling a portable tank. When Maggie did long video review sessions alone, she usually played Aerosmith, which kept her adrenaline pumping late into the night. But Guppo, like Stride and Serena, was a country music fan, and Maggie categorically refused to listen to country. The only compromise that worked between them was no music at all.
“So what’s up with you and Troy?” Guppo asked as he dipped a rippled potato chip into a tub of Dean’s onion dip. “Are you guys serious?”
“Did Stride ask you to grill me about that? Or Serena?”
“Both.”
Maggie chuckled. “Troy and I are taking it one day at a time.”
“Hey, if you’re eating donuts and pancakes together, that sounds pretty serious, for you,” Guppo said.
“Yeah, but the man refuses to try a McRib sandwich. I don’t know what the deal is with that. He may have some kind of serious character flaw.”
“Hey, Maggie?” Guppo said.
“I’m not saying I didn’t think the whole pickle-and-onion thing on the ribs was weird,” she went on as if Guppo hadn’t said a word, “but you have to have faith in Mickey D’s. It works.”
“Hey, Maggie?” Guppo said again.
She noticed the change in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Check this out.”
Maggie got up from her chair and went around to Guppo’s side of the table. He froze the video on the monitor and rolled the footage back. She found herself staring at an open rear door of a white van. A tall man had his back to the camera as he filled a red plastic gas tank on the pavement. He wore sweats, a red T-shirt, and a baseball cap planted backward on his head.
“What am I looking at?” Maggie asked.
Guppo paused the camera feed as the man replaced the pump. He tried to zoom in on the image, but the resolution was blurred.
“Look inside the back of the van,” Guppo said. “I know it’s not very clear, but does that look like the edge of another gas can behind the van door?”
Maggie squinted. “Hard to say.”
Guppo rolled the feed a few more clicks. “How about now?”
“Maybe.”
“The shape looks right,” he said. “I think it’s another gas can.”
Maggie watched the man slide the full tank into the back of the van and slam the door. “Is that the only can he fills?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see his face?” she asked.
“Just a quick profile. The rest of the van gets blocked by an SUV as he’s driving away. I’ll run the plate and see what we get.”
“What’s the time stamp on the footage?”
“7:03 p.m.”
“Is this still the Spur on Central Entrance?”
Guppo nodded.
“Well, if he’s our guy, it looks like he’s only filling one tank at a time to avoid suspicion,” Maggie said. “So maybe he went straight from there to a different station to fill another tank. Or maybe he was coming to the Spur from somewhere else. Let’s take the two closest gas stations nearby and see if we spot him again.”
Maggie found the flash drives they’d collected from a SuperAmerica station on Miller Hill. She booted up the video for the evening feed and scrolled forward until the time stamp showed 6:30 p.m. She ran the video in quick mode, hunting for a white van. When the time stamp rolled to 7:10 p.m., she said, “Bingo. I got him.”
Guppo squeezed out of the chair and lumbered closer. His breath smelled of onion dip as he leaned behind her. “That’s him, all right, and he’s filling another red gas can. Think this is our guy?”
Maggie studied the face of the man filling the tank. Unlike in the other feed, she could see him clearly. He had long brown hair and a piercing in his lower lip. He was tall, good-looking in a bad-boy way, and built like an ox, with tattoos covering both arms.
She could see the logo on the truck, too.
The Bug Zappers.
“Yeah, I think that’s our guy,” Maggie said, “and I know who he is.”
* * *
“Serena thinks the bomb was in place four days before the marathon?” Durkin asked.
“That’s her theory,” Stride said.
The two of them stood outside the ruins of the Duluth Outdoor Company shop in Canal Park. The store was taped off, and the broken windows had been sealed with plywood. The rest of the street was open again, but tourists had been slow to return. Everyone knew the bomber was still on the loose. No one felt comfortable on the city streets.
Durkin studied the large gaps in the brick wall where the store windows had been. “No way. Someone would have spotted it.”
“Not necessarily. I called Drew Olson, who owns the store. He told me that the display windows only get overhauled every few weeks. Backpacks in the window are typically stuffed with paper to make them look full. So another backpack in the window—with a bomb—wouldn’t stand out.”
“You really believe this idea?” Durkin asked.
“I didn’t until we found Eagle’s body, but now I think Serena may be on to something. She’s with the marathon people now, trying to isolate street-level photos from Tuesday evening, to see if we can spot Eagle and his partner.”
Durkin didn’t hide the skepticism on her face. She shoved her hands into her pockets and wandered across the street, and Stride stayed with her. They crossed between two of the hotels and headed to the boardwalk that fronted the lake. Durkin sat on a bench, and Stride sat beside her. They heard the horn of the lift bridge and saw a giant red freighter taking aim at the narrow ship canal to make its way into the harbor.
“I miss it here,” Durkin said. “Although I think I mostly miss being a kid up here.”
“It’s a great place to grow up,” Stride said.
“You never wanted to leave?”
“No. Whenever I’ve left, it hasn’t worked out well, so I always came back. Besides, Duluth grounds me. I have a place to call home. I know I’m lucky.”
“You are lucky,” Durkin said. “You have a beautiful wife, too.”
“Thanks.”
“Living together and working together must be hard, though. Are you married to each other or to the job?”
“To each other, but some days it doesn’t feel that way. We didn’t even get to take a real honeymoon. Not yet, anyway. Maybe we can get away this winter.”
“My job is my life, too,” Durkin agreed, “so I get it. It is what it is.”
She said it matter-of-factly, not as if she was complaining, but there was a loneliness about Agent Durkin, beyond the intensity she showed the world. He also knew that the FBI culture wasn’t easy for female agents.
“I was sorry to hear about Ahdia Rashid and her son,” Durkin said. “I hate to see the violence spreading. Things are getting out of hand.”
Stride nodded. “That’s the way some people want it.”
“Dawn Basch?” Durkin asked.
“Right.”
“Yeah, she’s not helping. Look, Stride, I may come across as a hard-ass, but I hope you know I don’t support vigilantes.”
“I never said you did,” he told her.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not angry, because I am.”
“We’re all angry, Durkin.”
The FBI agent hesitated. “To be totally honest, I’ve always had a certain amount of sympathy for what Basch says. And not just because of Ron.”
“She knows what buttons to push,” Stride acknowledged. “That’s what makes her so dangerous. If there wasn’t a kernel of truth in what she’s saying, no one would listen to her. Even so, don’t believe the hype. Dawn Basch isn’t a martyr. She’s a narcissist who loves attention, and she’s making a volatile situation worse. I’m afraid that unless we solve this case soon, Basch is going to get exactly what she wants.”
“Which is?”
“War,” Stride
said.
39
Serena climbed the stairs to the Duluth Marathon headquarters in Canal Park. Inside, she found a somber mood among the handful of staff who managed the race operations. The days following the marathon would normally be a time for celebration, but the tragedy had cast a pall over this year’s event. Even so, in typical Duluth fashion, the group had already set their sights on the future. On a chalkboard in the crowded main office, someone had scrawled in huge letters:
WE WILL BE BACK
BIGGER and BETTER!
Serena didn’t doubt it for a minute. Nothing kept Duluth or Duluthians down. If they could survive the winters, they could survive anything. That was one of the things she loved about the character of her adopted hometown.
Most of the police knew the staff at the marathon, because they worked closely together on the race every year. There were no tears among any of them, just fierce determination, and that was true of the marathon runners, too. The race director, Lorena Baylor, told her that inquiries about entering next year’s race were already up 30 percent.
In the conference room at the back, Serena found the man she was looking for: Troy Grange. Maggie’s boyfriend.
Troy’s full-time day job was as the senior health and safety manager for the Duluth port, but he’d coordinated safety issues for the marathon as a volunteer for years. Like Stride, he was a Duluth lifer, one of those solid, decent men who made the city work. Troy got up to shake her hand, and Serena, in her heels, towered over him. He had a shiny bald skull, cheekbones like pink golf balls, and a deceptively heavy physique. He was as round as Max Guppo, but Troy was a muscleman who could bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds without breaking a sweat.
“Detective Stride,” he greeted her formally, even though they were friends. He added with a smile, “I like calling you Stride, you know. It fits you.”
“I like hearing it,” Serena replied. “You know, Maggie nearly choked when I told her I was changing my name, but I never had much of an attachment to Dial. It came with a lot of baggage.”
“I understand. Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
Troy poured her a cup from a silver Thermos on the shelf near the window. She could see the back-alley parking lot behind the marathon building. The coffee was lukewarm and not very good, but she drank it, anyway.
“Speaking of Maggie, there’s a little less bark in her snark these days,” Serena said. “Do we have you to thank for that?”
Troy laughed. He had a big Santa Claus laugh. “Well, I try to keep her smiling, but she does like to blow off steam. When she’s mad at me, wow. She can be like a ninja with that tongue of hers.”
“I’ve had the pleasure,” Serena said, grinning.
“You should see her with my girls, though. She’s amazing. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“You know, I actually would,” Serena said.
Troy leaned across the conference table with his big hands folded together. His brow knitted into wrinkles. “So, what’s the latest? How can I help?”
Serena gave Troy the background about Eagle’s murder and explained her theory about the placement of the bomb. When he heard it, Troy rocked back in his chair and stroked his multiple chins.
“You think the bomb was there before the race began?” he murmured. “Intriguing idea. That would explain a lot of things. I was honestly puzzled by how this guy could have gotten a bomb past the dogs.”
“Me, too.”
“So I assume you want to check our photo records from Tuesday night?” Troy asked. “To see if you can identify the guy that Eagle was working with?”
Serena smiled. Troy was smart. “Exactly. If we can spot Eagle, I’m betting our bomber isn’t far behind. Even if he wore some kind of disguise, it would be helpful to get eyes on this guy.”
“When exactly did this happen?”
“According to the 911 call, the incident happened at 8:35 p.m. last Tuesday. That’s less than half an hour before the store closed. Some of the staff had already clocked out, which I assume wasn’t an accident. This guy must have checked out the store multiple times to pick the optimum time to make the drop.”
Troy pushed himself out of the chair. He was nimble despite his heft. “Okay, let’s check our feed. We archive the photo records on a computer in the main office. The FBI already has copies of everything from Friday and Saturday, of course.”
“The camera itself is mounted on the roof, right?” Serena asked.
“Right.”
Troy shouldered through the office, and Serena followed. He had an open-toed, muscle-bound walk, and his footsteps were heavy. He found an empty cubicle near the office door and squeezed himself onto the three-legged stool in front of the computer. His thick fingers manipulated the keyboard like a pro.
“This is from thirty seconds ago,” he said, pulling up a photo aimed toward the boardwalk beyond the Inn on Lake Superior. “The camera shoots every few seconds, shifts angles, and shoots again. We get 180-degree coverage along Canal Park Drive. It’s always on.”
“How’s the resolution?” Serena asked.
Troy zoomed using the computer mouse. He enlarged the photo, focusing on a Chevy pickup in the hotel parking lot across the street, until the license plate of the truck was crisp and clear.
“Pretty darn good,” he said, smiling.
Serena felt a rush of adrenaline. She wanted to see the bomber’s face. “Let’s go back to last Tuesday.”
“Sure.”
Troy called up files in a subdirectory, and he scrolled down, hunting for the photo archives from Tuesday evening. As he did, Serena saw his face take on a darker cast. He reviewed the list three times, and then he opened up the directory of deleted files. When he didn’t find anything, he pushed away from the desk and bumped his right fist against his chin.
“What’s up?” Serena asked.
“The files from Tuesday night are missing,” Troy told her.
“Missing? Were they erased?”
“It doesn’t look that way. They just don’t exist. We have photos up to Tuesday afternoon, and then nothing again until Thursday morning.”
“How does something like that happen?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Troy called out in a booming voice. “Hey, Decker? You here? Where are you?”
A young man who couldn’t be more than twenty years old popped his head around the side of the cubicle. He had bushy blond hair and an equally bushy beard. “What’s up, Troy?”
“Serena, Arlin Decker. He’s our PR and marketing intern. Arlin, Serena’s with the DPD.”
“Nice to meet you,” Decker said. He wore a marathon T-shirt and jean shorts, and he leaned against the cubicle wall. “What do you need, Troy?”
“The photo files from Tuesday are missing,” Troy said.
Decker’s face fell. “Oh, yeah. Shit, sorry, I kept meaning to tell you about that. We got it fixed before race day, so I figured, no big deal.”
“Got what fixed?”
“The camera feed went down last Tuesday, but nobody even noticed it until Thursday, when we started testing everything. You know what it’s like in those last few days before the race. Everybody’s crazed. As soon as we realized the camera was down, we got the video people in to check it out and get it up and running again.”
“What was the problem?” Serena asked.
“The cable was unplugged. Stupid, huh? Thing just came loose from the computer here, and somebody must have stepped on it, because the prongs were bent. Had to have the company bring a new one. The camera was working fine, but we lost all the data.”
Serena looked at Troy, who waved Decker away. When they were alone, she murmured, “Somebody sabotaged that cable.”
“Looks that way,” Troy agreed.
“Is there a way of pulling together a list of people who were in the office on Tuesday afternoon? I need to track them all down.”
Troy groaned
. “Four days before the race? We had people in and out of here all day long.”
“Like who?”
“Oh, man. The chaos is pretty much twenty-four hours a day at that point. You want a few examples just off the top of my head? We had meetings with the advance teams for the bands who were performing on Friday and Saturday nights. We had a VIP tasting for the spaghetti dinner, and believe me, nobody misses that. We finalized arrangements for transport and housing of the elite runners and several of the specialty runner groups from various charities and religious organizations. We had reps from the health care group sponsoring the fitness expo having a meltdown about the map for the booths, because two participants dropped out at the last minute. We had a mouse in Lorena’s office, so she was going nuts about that. We had the bus company CEO warning us about a possible drivers’ strike, which never materialized. Do you want me to go on? Because that’s just scraping the surface, Serena.”
“No, I get it. It was a zoo.”
“Always is,” Troy said.
“I’m sorry, but I still need the list,” she told him. “Make it as complete as possible. Have every person on staff write down all the people that they can remember being in the office on Tuesday. I want copies of everyone’s calendar for that day, too, as well as incoming and outgoing e-mails and phone records. I need to go through all of it. Someone pulled the plug on that camera. Someone was here, inside the marathon office. Either it was the bomber himself, or it was somebody who got paid to do the job.”
Troy saluted. “Okay. I’m here to help. I’ll get it all to you this evening.”
“Thanks.”
“Mind if I walk you out?” Troy added, and Serena knew from the look on his face that Troy had something else to tell her that he didn’t want to say in front of the others in the office.
They descended the stairs to the outer door that led to Canal Park Drive. Beside them was a storage area where the race staff kept everything from bottled water to T-shirts to boxes of lanyards. It was dark, with the light off, but Troy unlocked the door and beckoned Serena inside. He closed the door, and they were alone in the warm space.
“Did you want to tell me something?” Serena asked.
Marathon Page 24