by Cleo Coyle
I was no expert, but I knew I was staring at a bomb.
The digital alarm clock displayed the time at seventeen minutes to midnight. The alarm was set to go off at twelve. Quick calculation: I’d been missing for nearly three hours, and I had seventeen minutes to live.
I fought down a panicked urge to tear the bomb to pieces, and studied the device instead. Three wires led from the clock to a little black box. The box was connected by more wires to a bunch of green bottles filled with clear liquid.
In the movies the bomb defuser always cuts a wire. But it is always the right wire, and I had nothing to cut with, anyway.
I blew on my cold hands, thought about putting on my coat and gloves—
Gloves! Oh, thank God. I have my glove phone!
My gloves were still in my coat pocket, and I slipped the left over my trembling hand, then put it to my ear. “Miss Phone?”
For a chilling second I thought I might be out of range.
“Hello, Clare. Would you like to make a call?”
“You bet I would.”
Lieutenant Dennis DeFasio answered after the first ring.
“Where the hell are you?” he yelled. “Mike Quinn has been tearing up the docks looking for you! He said you were set up?”
“I was!”
“We’ve got FBI, Homeland Security, even the freaking Coast Guard crawling all over this town. How could you do this to me, Clare? You know how I feel about Feds—”
“I sympathize with your plight, Dennis, but right now I need to defuse a bomb.”
“What!” DeFasio muttered a particularly nasty obscenity. “Talk to me—”
In fifty words or less, I explained my dilemma. Once or twice DeFasio interrupted me to talk to someone on his end. I heard words like triangulation, signal strength, and Coast Guard.
“Describe the bomb,” DeFasio abruptly commanded.
“There’s an alarm clock connected by three wires to a black box, which is connected to nine little green bottles containing some kind of liquid. Is this a firebomb like the one that blew up Charley?”
“Unfortunately, no,” DeFasio replied. “Our boy graduated to the big leagues.”
“Our boy?”
“Darren Engle. I’ll tell you more after you follow my instructions. Tell me, do you have any flexible rubber on you?”
“You mean—”
“I mean a condom. You know, like some ladies carry in their purses in case they get lucky on a—”
“No! I do not have a condom!”
“Okay, how about non-conductive cloth—”
“My dress is silk, and I have a wool coat and scarf.”
“Won’t work. We’re trying to avoid a spark. Even static electricity could set off the nitroglycerine.”
“Nitroglycerine?!”
“How about cotton. Honey, are your undies made of cotton?”
“Yes,” I reluctantly replied.
“Great. I want you to take them off—”
Oh, good grief. “Condoms, panties—this call’s starting to sound like Bomb Squad phone sex.”
“Cut the wisecracks and take off your panties!”
“Oh, all right . . .”
I reached under my dress, slipped off my pantyhose, then my cotton panties. Yes, it was embarrassing (and chilly), but I had less than eight minutes before the ka-bloom, so I threw modesty to the wind.
“Now what?”
“Tear your panties into strips. Enough to cover all three wires leading from the clock to that nasty black box, which is the detonator. That’s what you’re going to do, wrap each wire in cotton so there is no possibility that their ends will touch when you pull the wires out.”
“Use one hand, one finger if you can, and work carefully. You want to avoid a spark, and you don’t want to jar those wires too much, either.”
“I’ll wrap with my right hand, and talk to you with my left. Now, please distract me by telling me more about Darren Engle.”
“Engle built the bomb that killed Charley and framed Nate Sumner. The investigators found evidence that the sneaky little punk attended Solar Flare meetings, and after each one he collected Sumner’s discarded iced tea cans, with the professor’s fingerprints all over them. Darren used those cans to build his bomb.”
While DeFasio spoke, I covered one wire and I started working on the second. I had six minutes left.
“You said Darren graduated to the big leagues?”
“He used his rocket-building skills to construct his first bomb. Two iced tea cans filled with liquids that combine to produce a flammable explosive in a third can. It’s just like a rocket engine, but it’s meant to explode, not propel. The little bastard even used compressed air capsules to push the liquids into the mixing chamber. Really ingenious—”
“Can we focus on my bomb, Lieutenant?”
“I’m getting to your bomb. We found traces of nitroglycerine in Darren’s apartment. We think that’s where he built the device you are defusing right now.”
“Darren’s dead. I wonder what this bomb was supposed to be used for . . .”
DeFasio paused to listen to someone on his end.
“Good news!” he cried. “We’ve pinpointed your signal. A Coast Guard helicopter has been dispatched to your position, and a boat is on the way. They should both arrive in five minutes—”
“Which is two minutes after this bomb goes off.”
“We’re not going to let that happen, Clare.”
“I hope you’re right, Dennis.”
“I better be. I’ve got a whole squad waiting for more fudge.”
I took a breath. “I’ve covered all the wires. What do you want me to do now?”
“You’re going to pull those wires out of that black box in one clean yank. I want you to place your left hand on top of the box, and tug the wires free with your right. Pull it real hard. I’ll talk to you when it’s over.”
I paused. “Dennis?”
“Yes?”
“If I don’t do this right, I want you to tell my daughter that I love her and want her to be happy. And please tell Mike Quinn that I loved him, with all my heart. And tell my ex-husband that I never—”
“You tell them, Clare. You have less than two minutes.”
I got into position, and closed my eyes. Trembling now, I held my breath and yanked the wires as hard as I could.
Cautiously, I opened one eye, then the other. The clock dangled from the wires in my hand. I heard lapping water, the sound of a distant helicopter, and no explosion!
Brrrrring! The alarm clock loudly jangled.
I screamed and smashed it against the bulkhead. Then I steadied myself, and gave DeFasio the good news.
I heard cheers erupt around him.
Never knew a bunch of guys so excited about getting Irish Cream fudge.
Outside the night was rocked by the blast of a boat horn. Through the portal I spied a white hulled speedboat pulling up beside BLUE ROSES. Then footsteps pounded on the deck. Thirty seconds later, something heavy slammed against the cabin door.
“I’m here!” I screamed. “The bomb is defused. Please get me out!”
Another crash, and the door sagged. A final kick smashed it open, and a familiar silhouette filled the doorway.
“Mike!”
“Clare . . .” For a nanosecond, he stood staring, the look of fear still on his face. Then he opened his arms, and I couldn’t run into them fast enough.
Seventy-two
“MACBETH,” I said, lying in bed the next morning. “That’s what it all comes down to—the struggle over control of a crown.”
Mike yawned. “I buy that theory . . .”
“Of course, that crown turned out to be one of THORN.”
“Ouch.”
“I hope that’s exactly what Garth Hendricks said when they arrested him.”
“I’m sure he said a lot more—and then clammed up. It won’t help. You’re still alive, and are now the star witness against him.”
&n
bsp; “You bet your sweet nitroglycerine knapsack I am.”
“And I’m sure they’ll find plenty of physical evidence on Eden Thorner’s body . . .”
The cops found her corpse under a tarp near the stern. Garth had planned to blow her up with me—continuing his frame job on Eric’s sister.
Garth’s so-called “pact” with Eden Thorner had ended the day she acted on her own (with Darren’s help) and tried to electrocute me at Appland—unsuccessfully.
Garth knew Eden had blown it then. And when she and Darren continued their bumbling, trying to frame Minnow (again, unsuccessfully), the Metis Man knew what he had to do: frame Eden Thorner for everything and then kill her to make sure she never talked.
“That nitro-packed knapsack I defused was built by Darren,” I noted, “but he was already dead, which is why I think Garth and Eden were planning an even more sinister crime.”
“I can guess exactly what they were planning.”
“When Eric disappeared with me and Matt on that world coffee tour, they must have panicked. They’d lost control of Eric yet again—over a woman. So they decided to cut through all of their problems with the most elegant solution of all.”
Mike nodded. “They decided to kill the boy billionaire. With a nitro pack that size, they were probably going to blow him up in his plane or that yacht.
“Boom, no more headaches trying to control him.”
Mike grunted. “Without a wife or children, Eden would inherit the company and all the money.”
“Garth was her partner in crime, and likely the bedroom, so he would run the company, which he clearly thought he was better at than Eric, anyway. And Darren was the kid they were going to frame—and kill—after they’d assassinated the young King of Appland.”
“You’re right.” Mike stretched and rolled toward me. “It does sound Shakespearean.”
“Except for the sliding boards.”
He nuzzled my neck. “Well, I for one am glad you had cotton panties . . .”
“And I’m glad the first thing you did when you got out of that committee hearing was check your text messages . . .”
Mike had been on Capitol Hill when I’d replied to his text message about meeting him at Dynasty Pier. The hearing was top secret, the room secured from external signals. By the time he got out, I’d already been tranked by Nanook of the North.
When Mike couldn’t reach me, he confirmed my “plan to meet him at the pier” with Joy—and went absolutely nuts. He’d been in law enforcement long enough to know a setup when he saw it.
In my own defense, my guard was down for a simple reason. I thought the bad guy was gone . . . or rather, the bad girl. And she was gone. Garth had sent her to an early grave; I simply didn’t realize that the infamous “they” Joe Polaski had tried to warn me about weren’t Eden and Darren. It was Eden and Garth Hendricks.
“So . . .” Mike said, between delicious little kisses, “are you done with world coffee tours, South Beach yachts, and forbidden plantations?”
“For the time being. Are you done with top secret conferences?”
“For the time being.”
“Then how about we take some time for ourselves and make the most of it?”
“Billionaires and bosses be damned?”
“Exactly.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve got a deal.”
Epilogue
“IN honor of the work he has done to improve our island nation, I present Mr. Eric Thorner with the Gold Cross of Costa Gravas!”
Behind the podium, a grinning Eric accepted his award from the island’s ambassador. After a short speech, Eric departed the embassy’s stage to enthusiastic applause.
Matt, Madame, and I watched the presentation from the front row. Mike Quinn was beside me, my oh-so-handsome G-man date, looking dashing in his formalwear. (I was back in Madame’s vintage beaded Chanel—and happy to say Mike couldn’t take his eyes off me.)
After the presentation, we all moved to the reception room.
Another round of applause greeted Eric when he entered, Wilhelmina Tork on his arm.
Wearing a blue velvet dress that elegantly showed off her lush figure, Minnow drew many appreciative stares. Even Matt did a double take, astonished at the girl’s Cinderella-like transformation from techie tomboy to self-confident princess.
Anton Alonzo appeared, bearing champagne for me and Mike. The three of us toasted the couple.
“You know I had that gown made for you, Clare Cosi,” Anton informed me.
“It suits Wilhelmina much better,” I said, glancing uneasily at Mike. “She looks so amazing. Eric can’t take his eyes off of her. And . . . am I right to suspect there’s a Barbie among all those lonely Ken dolls now?”
“It’s true,” Anton said, then shook his head. “But though Wilhelmina has her virtues, she is still very inexperienced and unsophisticated. Minnow has much to learn.”
I touched his champagne flute with mine. “She’ll find no better teacher than you, Anton.”
“But when will I find time for tutoring?” Anton complained. “Eric’s gaming division is now merging with Grayson Braddock’s publishing group, so Minnow has a host of new properties to manage. Did you know Eric’s promoting her to lead the entire Braddock-Thorner digital gaming unit?”
“You’ll both manage. I expect great things from Minnow, and from you.”
Anton took my hand and bowed over it before excusing himself. “I do hope we meet again, Ms. Cosi.”
“Me too, Anton. Me too . . .”
Minutes later, Mike pointed out another lovely couple: Nate Sumner with Madame at his side. The head of Solar Flare had been invited to attend the afternoon reception by the group’s new corporate sponsor, THORN, Inc.
Though Eric insisted that Nate’s organization would remain an independent advocacy group, Matt rather cynically reminded me of Michael Corleone’s famous maxim: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
Nate Sumner was certainly in a better place than Garth Hendricks, the man who tried to frame him and kill me.
Garth was now officially charged with multiple murders. Of course, he hired the best criminal defense lawyer in the business. But he’d been denied bail because he was a flight risk, and the evidence against him was overwhelming. This morning’s Washington Post reported a plea deal was imminent, one that would likely put Garth away for a very long time—enough time to write more books, no doubt, although I didn’t think anyone would be listening to his business philosophies. After all, he didn’t get away with anything. Maybe he’d try his hand at crime fiction.
By now, I’d finished my champagne, and Mike headed to the bar to get us refills. He’d barely stepped away before a glass brimming with bubbly appeared in front of me, courtesy of Eric Thorner.
“You’re always giving me things. It’s a bad habit. Spoil Minnow from now on.”
Eric laughed. “I just gave her the whole gaming division.”
“And the lifestyle apps?”
“I’m still in charge. The Billionaire Blend debuts at the potluck, and we’re releasing the exclusive billionaire lifestyle app that same week. The Billionaire Blend will be the very first product we offer.”
It was hard to believe, but after an astonishing amount of money, and untold hours of experimentation, our Billionaire Blend was finally going on sale. It was the most monstrously expensive coffee on the planet. That’s what Eric wanted, because he knew his consumers.
Only the wealthiest portion of the human race could afford to sip a cup of it, which didn’t sit all that well with me. But I took comfort in the knowledge that the farmers who grew those special, select cherries would ultimately benefit more than the billionaire connoisseurs who consumed it.
“Of course, being in charge these days doesn’t mean I’m stuck at corporate headquarters,” Eric continued. “I’m building a digital infrastructure on Costa Gravas and I’ll be spending a lot of time there, so I decided to buy a fallow plantation to cultivate Ambros
ia beans.”
“Freed from the tyranny of the sliding board, eh?”
Eric laughed. “I’m free from a lot of things, thanks to you. I would have never known about Minnow if—”
“Propinquity and intensity, Eric. You and Minnow worked side by side for years. It would have happened someday.”
“Not with Garth around . . .” He fell silent a long moment, and I knew the blackness of Garth’s crimes—and his sister’s, too—were still weighing heavily on him. “I didn’t see it coming,” he said softly. “Not from that direction.”
“Neither did I—but it’s over now, and you can start over with Minnow by your side. She deeply loves you, Eric. And she’s the kind of girl you can truly count on to watch your back.”
“Like you, Clare Cosi.”
“Well, we were both Girl Scouts.”
“I know.” Eric arched an eyebrow. “It’s in my file.”
“Speaking of that file—the one you have on me? Did it happen to include reports of my past amateur sleuthing activities?”
Ever the player, Eric shrugged. “Could be.”
“That wouldn’t be the real reason you chose my coffeehouse to create your Billionaire Blend, would it?”
“Let’s just say . . . it was a contributing factor.”
Members of the press were finally admitted, and they ringed Eric, peppering him with questions.
I wandered off, searching for Mike and found him by the bar, speaking with a stunning woman in her thirties.
She was tall and lithe in a shimmering gray sheath. Her skin was alabaster, her long strawberry blond hair coiled into a twist. When Mike saw me approach, he paused and smiled.
“Michael?” snapped the woman, realizing she lost his attention.
“Give me a minute,” he replied.
The woman’s steel gray eyes stared daggers at me as Mike bussed my cheek. “You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart, did I tell you that?”
“Yes. Who is that woman, Mike?”
“My boss.”
“That’s Katerina Lacey? You told me she was a battle-ax!”
“She is.”
“She’s gorgeous—and young!”