Warning Signs

by Stephen White

  The only problem with Sam's plan was that at ten-thirty on Saturday morning the restaurant where we were supposed to meet, the Fourteenth Street Grill on the eastern end of the outdoor Downtown Mall, was closed. I stood for a minute cursing my friend, and had just pulled my cell phone from my pocket to call him when I heard a silky smooth, slightly husky "Thanks for coming."

  The voice had no trace of Sam's Minnesota Iron Range accent.

  I turned and found myself looking directly into Lucy Tanner's amber eyes. With whatever she was wearing on her feet, she was almost exactly my height. "Lucy," I said, "what a surprise."

  "I thought if I called, you'd refuse to meet me, or you'd argue with me or something. Sam said he loved to play around with your head, and he volunteered to make the call."

  I was wondering why she thought I would be so resistant to talking with her, when a gust of wind strong enough to cause us both to lean erupted from the north. "Want to get in my car?" I asked. "It's right across the street."

  "How about we go someplace and sit down. There's a juice place a couple of doors down from here-it's kind of funky-and there's a Starbucks around the corner. You choose, Alan."

  I noted that she hadn't included The Cheesecake Factory, which was right across the street, on her list of possible destinations. I did recall that the Starbucks near the east end of the Mall was the one where Paul Bigg was a barista.

  "Starbucks," I said. I hoped there would be someone named Paul behind the counter. I wanted to see if Paul Bigg fit my mental image of the Boulder adolescent Starbucks tender.

  Lucy hooked her arm in mine and led me down Pearl Street. Before we made it into the canyon created by the buildings, the wind almost lifted us off our feet. In between gusts, she said, "I'd like a seat that lets me sit with my back to the room, okay? People have been recognizing me."

  I led Lucy to a table by the fireplace. She chose the chair facing the wall. "What can I get you?" I asked.

  "Chai."

  Sometimes I thought I was the last person in Boulder to taste chai-or, considering that Sam Purdy lived in Boulder, too, maybe the second to last. So, although I had no real interest in buying one for myself, I was intrigued at the prospect of at least getting to order one and watch it made. But I was disappointed to see that the baristas at the counter were both young women. One pierced eyebrow and three visible tattoos between the two of them. Impossibly filthy green aprons. No Paul Bigg in sight.

  Chai looked to me to be a lot like hot tea and milk. The menu mentioned spices, too. I withheld judgment.

  After I paid, I returned to the table with our drinks.

  Lucy was staring at her hands. Her fingers were long but her nails were trimmed short, and if they were polished, the polish was clear. She looked up and mouthed, "Thank you."

  "Why did you think I'd be reluctant to meet with you?" I asked.

  She glanced at the occupants of the adjacent tables and leaned into the space between us before she answered. "Sam told me that you were the one who knew about the bomb at Royal's house."

  I said, "Shit."

  "That's why I thought you'd be reluctant to meet with me."

  I shook my head to express my disappointment with Sam. "He shouldn't have told you."

  She sat back, narrowed her eyes a little, and she shrugged. "That's one point of view."

  "It's mine," I said.

  "Is it? You made a decision to tell Sam about the explosives. Are you suggesting that telling one person is okay, but telling two people makes you unprofessional? Sorry, I'm not sure it's a point of view that you can easily defend."

  She was right, of course. Pushing Humpty-Dumpty off the wall a second time doesn't make a whole lot of difference to Humpty. It's the first plop that does the irrevocable damage.

  "As you can probably guess, Lucy, I can't talk to you about how I suspected that there might be explosives."

  Without hesitation she said, "I can help you."

  I was taken aback. I expected Lucy to ask for my assistance, not the other way around. "What do you mean? How can you help me?"

  "Sam thinks you've painted yourself into a corner. You know something you'd rather not know. But he says you're someone who can't walk away from what you know. He called it a 'character defect,' by the way." She smiled at me and sipped some of her milky tea. "But he also knows that your problem and my problem may be able to be resolved simultaneously."

  "Go ahead."

  She lowered her voice to a bedroom whisper. "Whoever planted that bomb probably killed Royal, right?"

  "It's likely," I acknowledged.

  "I don't think you know who that is. Sam doesn't either. He says you wouldn't leave somebody like that on the street. To me that means only one thing: that you know somebody who may know who planted that bomb. Well, I can help you find the bomber. That's how I can help. Don't forget, I'm a detective, Alan, and right now I have lots and lots of free time on my hands."

  "It won't work, Lucy. For you to help me, I'd have to tell you things that I'm not permitted to tell you."

  She was prepared for my argument. "And if you don't tell me? Are you ready to live with the consequences of that? People who build explosives don't usually build just one and stop. So what if the one at Royal's house isn't the only bomb? What about that? And what about my situation? Are you ready to sit back and watch me go to jail? Cozy thinks that I'll be arrested within the week."

  I didn't answer.

  Lucy sat back on her chair and said, "I think you're going to let me help you. Want to know why that is?"

  "Sure."

  "Because, besides Sam, you're the only one who doesn't look at me like they're wondering whether or not I really did it. Even Cozy's not convinced I didn't kill Royal. Your wife-she's very sweet, Alan-but she's not sure about me, either. I can tell. But you seem to be confident that I didn't do it. And that's why I think you're going to let me help you."

  I shifted my gaze outside. A plastic trash can was whistling down the Mall, doing, I guessed, about thirty. Way over the speed limit for rubbish containers.

  My espresso cup was empty. I tilted it up to my lips anyway and pondered ordering myself a chai. I said, "Let's go someplace else, Lucy. We shouldn't be talking about this here."

  CHAPTER 20

  L ucy's place wasn't an option. The media was keeping too close an eye on it. My house wasn't an option, either. Neither Lucy nor I wanted Lauren, and therefore Cozy, to know what we were up to.

  We were loitering outside Starbucks trying on alternatives when Lucy said, "We could go to Sam's house."

  I considered it. "We shouldn't involve him, Lucy. His position is awkward enough as it is."

  "You're right. Can we go to your office?"

  "I guess that's okay. You know where it is?" She nodded. I'd forgotten that she'd responded to an emergency there with Sam years before. "There's a back door that opens onto the yard. Why don't you come in that way?"

  She shifted her blond hair from her face, held it back with one hand, and smiled at me. "How about… I'll park my car around the corner and then I'll come in through the yard, and then come in the back door." She laughed. "That's always kept me out of trouble in the past."

  I was impressed by her ability to find irony in her situation.

  Lucy and I would be alone at my office. Diane Estevez, my friend and partner, was as likely to be working on Saturday as Boulder was to establish a sister-city relationship with Colorado Springs.

  I drove the half-dozen blocks to Walnut Street and parked in back as I always did. I let myself in the French door that opened onto the yard, quieted the alarm system, and waited for Lucy to arrive.

  She tapped on one of the glass panels a few minutes later.

  "Nice," she said, looking at my office as though she were seeing it for the first time.

  "Have a seat, Lucy. I can heat some water for tea, if you'd like. No chai here, I'm afraid."

  "No, thank you, I've had enough." She touched the chair. "Is this where your
patients sit?"

  "There or on the couch."

  Lucy was wearing a suede jacket. She took a moment to remove it and lay it on the sofa. Beneath it she was wearing a blue pinstripe shirt that was open halfway to her navel. Beneath that was a thin cotton something.

  "Where do we start?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I should tell you I'm not comfortable with the position I'm in right now, Lucy."

  "I can appreciate that, Alan. I'm not totally comfortable with the position I'm in right now, either."

  "Some people-maybe most people-would argue that what I'm about to do is highly unethical."

  She sat erect, her hands on her knees. The tendons in her neck had stark definition. For the first time that morning, I got the impression that I was talking with a cop. She said, "Something I've learned working with Sam for so many years is that ethical codes should be written in pencil. Frequently they need revising. When people find new ways to be crooked, that's when it's time to rewrite the rulebook."

  The thought sounded like Sam's. The translation was definitely Lucy's. "Maybe that's true, but I've never considered it my job to be the one to do those revisions. I've always been most comfortable with the guidelines that I could read in a book that's already been written."

  "But somebody has to rewrite the book. I suspect that none of the authors ever really volunteered. In situations like the one you and I are in, fate determines the authors. Given the predicament, I think you'd have to agree that I'm the lesser of two evils. I'm going to be more discreet with whatever information you give me than the police would be if you called them."

  "Lucy, you are the police."

  "You know what I mean."

  "I've considered going to the police, you know," I said. "Just telling them what I suspect. But realistically, what could they do? Sam might humor me. Maybe he'd go talk to some people. But the people would deny any involvement and say I'm absolutely crazy. I know they would. Nothing would be gained and my professional life would be over for violating confidentiality. That's the only thing that's for sure."

  "There are worse things than your professional life being over. Trust me, I know."

  I was trying hard not to view Lucy as a cop who was pressuring me to reveal privileged information. "I know that, Lucy. On Friday, I rationalized telling Sam to go look for a bomb at Royal's house. It was highly unlikely that anyone could ever trace that information back to one of my patients. But no matter what I do, I can't think of a way to rationalize what I'm about to tell you."

  "Other than that it's the right thing to do?"

  "Yeah, other than that." I sighed and said, "There's a guy named Ramp. He lives in Denver. I think he's the key to all of this."

  "Ramp? R-a-m-p? Is that what you said?"

  "I think that's the spelling. But I don't really know. My experience is that my patients tend to get suspicious when I press them about spelling."

  Lucy flashed a grin. "Is that a first name or a last name?"

  "Don't know that either."

  "What do you know about him?"

  "Not much. He's around twenty-one or so, give or take a few years. Like I said, he lives in Denver-city or metro, I don't know-and he's active on the Internet. He's angry at the criminal justice system because his mother was murdered by somebody who was on probation after an earlier homicide conviction. He apparently talks openly about seeking revenge. He likes explosives. He occasionally hangs out with a high school kid here in Boulder who he met on the Net. The local kid's in a similar situation: feels screwed by the criminal justice system and has all kinds of fantasies about getting even."

  "Name of the local kid?"

  I hesitated. There was no way around it; I was about to reveal the name of someone I had learned about in psychotherapy, someone whom, maybe, Lucy could track down by checking names in the phone book. "His name is Paul Bigg. He's the one who has the direct beef with Royal Peterson."

  Lucy seemed to hesitate a second or two before she asked, "And what do you know about him?"

  "He's a senior at Fairview. Actually, he works at that Starbucks we were at this morning, but he wasn't there. From a psychological point of view, he meets just about every one of the criteria the FBI has developed to predict violent acting out by adolescents. These two-Ramp and Paul-have apparently developed a hit list of all the people in the justice system that they feel are responsible for what happened to their families.

  "They play this mind game, this 'wouldn't-it-be-cool' game." I explained the game to Lucy in more detail, focusing on the way that Ramp and Paul's game had almost predicted the presence of the bomb in the Peterson home. "Obviously, I concluded that Royal Peterson was definitely on the list of people that these two wanted to harm; that's why I told Sam to figure out a way to search his home for explosives. My problem is that I still don't know who else might be on the wouldn't-it-be-cool list." I thought about what I'd just said and concluded, "Unfortunately, that's about all I've learned."

  "This Paul Bigg? Is he related to Leo Bigg? That whole mess from a few years ago?"

  "Yes. Were you and Sam involved in the original rape investigation? Was it your case?"

  Lucy shook her head. "No. But it was one of those cases where the police totally disagreed with the DA's office about the plea. I don't mean we didn't like the plea bargain, I mean we hated it. Everyone who knew anything about the case was convinced that the evidence supported a trial on the charges, or at least a tougher plea bargain. Then when the girl's father ended up doing more time than the rapist… Lord. It sucked, what can I say?"

  My heart rate was accelerating and my palms were sweaty. I didn't like saying any of this out loud. I forced myself to go on. "There's something else, Lucy. Lauren was involved with the Marin Bigg prosecution. She was helping Nora with the sex crimes unit back then."

  Lucy recognized the implication instantly. "Oh, Alan. Oh dear. You haven't told her, have you?"

  "No. I keep going back and forth on that. I'm not sure she's on the list. I'm not sure there really is a list. Her health isn't great right now. I was hoping to learn more from my patient before I brought Lauren in on this."

  "And I thought I was the one who was most vulnerable in this situation." Lucy leaned forward, closing the distance between us. She took one of my hands between both of hers. "So Nora's almost definitely on the list. And, maybe, so is Lauren. Who else do you think these two assholes might be targeting?"

  "Cozy defended the rapist."

  "Great. I take it you haven't said anything to him, either?"

  "No. Keep in mind that I don't really know anything, Lucy. I keep weighing the damage I'll do by talking against the damage I'll do by keeping my suspicions to myself. My patient keeps alluding to the Klebolds and the Harrises. Whether they should have known what their kids were up to. Whether they should have talked to the police. That's her big issue. Deciding what her responsibility is. She wants to believe that the kids aren't really planning anything, that this is all just a big fantasy. And they haven't really made any threats that she's heard. Certainly none that I've heard."

  Lucy's voice became derisive. "Of course the Klebolds and the Harrises should have known. And they should have talked to the police. There's no doubt about either of those things."

  "But at what stage does someone really know enough, Lucy? At what stage do I know enough? Remember, I still haven't heard any threats. Nothing overt. This is all conjecture."

  "The bomb they found yesterday at the Peterson house wasn't conjecture. That was a real bomb, and it was real dangerous. The rest of the people on the hit list are vulnerable, Alan."

  "You're right, they are. The problem is that I don't really know the identity of anyone on the list-I'm just guessing at the identity of the people these two might be targeting. I would think it's likely that the list includes the judge who approved the plea agreement. That makes sense, right, that they'd include the judge? But I don't even know who that was."

  "That's easy. I'll find out."
/>   I said, "I've given this a lot of thought and I can't think of anyone else who might be targeted in Boulder because of the Bigg case, but I may be missing someone. Ramp apparently has his own list of people who were involved in whatever the situation was with his family in Denver, or wherever it was. I know nothing about that, nothing at all. I think it was his mother's murder. But I don't know the details of the case, where it occurred, even what year it happened."

  "That's something I can work on," Lucy said.

  I went on. "I am suspicious that the bomb that went off in that car yesterday morning was one of Ramp's. The target doesn't make sense, though. From what I've heard on the news and read in the paper, the woman who was killed in the car bomb has no contact with the criminal justice system. She worked in a children's bookstore. Volunteered at a hospital. She coached her kid's soccer team."

  "What about her husband, her family?"

  "Her husband works in some store in Larimer Square. Sells some western kitsch or something. Mostly tourist crap." I stood up, walked to the window, and watched the wind whip the last of the beautiful pink flowers from the frail redbud.

  "The person who's telling you all of this? Your client? Are you still in touch with that person?"

  "Yes."

  "So you might learn more?"

  "It's possible."

  "Let's hope so," Lucy said. "Let's hope so. Tell me who it is, Alan. Who's your client?"

  I had a patient once, a man, who routinely visited prostitutes when he was out of town on business trips. He rationalized his trysts as being inconsequential because he never kissed the women. If he actually kissed the prostitutes, he maintained, then the contacts would have been intimate.

  I thought of him as I said, "Giving you that name won't help you. I don't want to tell you the name right now. Let's just say it's someone who doesn't want to believe that what they're seeing is true."

  Not telling Lucy my patient's name was my way of rationalizing my betrayal of Naomi's confidence. It was my equivalent of not kissing the whore.