Blast

“I’ve never heard of a crew like that. There’s been no buzz on the street about anyone out there about to hit the jackpot, nothing. And I’ve been on the street for fifteen years.”

“They don’t seem like some new guys in town.” After a pause, Brown decided to try another angle: “Hash, I’m moving to another city. If the gang continues to operate, the Feds will come in, and the cops will shake up the whole city to find these suckers. Businesses like yours will suffer. But I won’t be around, you’ll have no one to cover for you. So it’s in your interests too.”

“I’ll give it a try,” said Hash reluctantly.

“Get me the information, and you’ll be completely clean before the law. I’ll destroy all your files. Does that sound like a good deal to you?”

Grinning and slapping Hash on the shoulder, Brown got behind the wheel and started the engine. But he couldn’t resist saying, before driving off:

“And tell those three sleeping beauties of yours that a reconnaissance detail should stand watch on the perimeter, not smack in the middle of the neighborhood. Your pusher noticed me before they did. You are getting too soft, man.”

The explosives expert in the city Police Department’s forensic laboratory was a cheerful fellow by the name of Holtz. Despite his rather advanced age, Holtz adored gadgets and gizmos. That’s why he had stayed late in the lab. He was almost ecstatic.

“Just look at this! A hollow aluminum tube two inches thick. It had compartments separated by a partition. So far I’ve counted ten segments. A portion of the explosives was in each of them.”

Fragments of the explosive were lying on Holtz’s table: blackened bits of aluminum, burnt-out wiring, a scorched chip, and other bits and pieces of the device. Brown picked up one of them, trying to figure out what it was. “What kind of explosive?

“Plastic, C—4.”

“You sure?” Brown frowned.

“One hundred percent, Troy. Although I haven’t seen any C—4 for 10 years. Where did someone get an explosive like that in our sleepy town? And the most interesting thing is that they weren’t exactly stingy: There was about a pound of C—4 in the collar.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Let’s just say this collar would be the envy of any suicide bomber. If the explosion had occurred in a crowd, our morgue would have had nowhere to put all the corpses.”

“That’s just great,” Brown commented glumly. “Have you figured out how it worked?”

“Oh, that’s the most interesting part of all. Hell, it’s a real gem! These guys knew their business, Troy. Look here.” Holtz took one of the fragments of aluminum with partitions. “A web camera is attached to the front of the segmented tube packed with C—4, and there’s a cell phone on the side. This is a chip you see here, from the phone. The phone was for transmission. And the camera on the front transmitted the image in front of it to the phone and from there it went to someone on the other end, via a wifi connection. That is, the criminals saw everything that was happening to the victim and around him. What he did, where he was going, what he picked up – everything.”

“Now I see,” Brown nodded. “That’s why Pickman didn’t even try to call the police. He just did what they wanted. He gave them the money. But they still pushed the button.”

“In all the years I’ve worked in the police force, Troy, I’ve never seen anything like this! Don’t hold back,” said Holtz cheerfully. “This case is going straight into the textbook!”

Brown has already started to think along the same lines, but with much less enthusiasm.

The story of the explosion on the outskirts of the city got top billing on the 10:00 evening news. Half of the split screen image showed a picture taken by a cameraman at the crime scene: the cordon, a hearse from the city morgue, patrolmen. The anchorwoman, looking at the audience from the other side of the screen, announced:

“According to the Police Department, the victim, Eric Pickman, was the owner of Plate Build Construction. The criminals made off with $100,000 which was in the construction company office.”

But in the Browns” apartment, nobody was looking at the TV screen. Shelley, combing her hair in front of the mirror, indignantly snapped at her husband:

“I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

“I wonder how you knew, if even I didn’t,” muttered Brown in reply, flopping on the bed with a bottle of beer in his hand.

“Oh, don’t give me that!! You and I made an agreement!”

“What can I do about it? I’m the head of the homicide division, not a traveling salesman. They ordered me to do it, so I’m doing it.”

“You’ve been making such excuses your whole life!”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s an oath!”

“Oh yes, of course!”

Carol appeared in the doorway, with interest and timid hope in her eyes.

“Mom, we’re not going?”

“We’re going! Carol, go to your room. Or go look at cartoons, whatever!”

Not accustomed to people raising their voices, Carol ran off.

And immediately, as was usual with her, Shelley was ashamed. Sighing deeply, she went over to Brown and put her arms around his shoulders. “We had agreed on everything. On Monday they’re expecting me at my new job. They’re also waiting for you at the department in Perte. Don’t forget that in a couple of years the captain there will be retiring, and there are no candidates to replace him. Troy, that means a career for you.”

“Don’t worry.” Brown hugged his wife and drew her close. “There’s almost a week to go. I’ll do what I can, and on Friday I’ll turn in my badge. And on the weekend we’ll be setting up our new house.”

“Promise?”

Brown wanted to believe it, but to avoid answering, he raised the bottle: “How about a beer?”

But at the morning briefing, Brown realized that they were almost at an impasse. Porras had checked out the employees at Plate Build Construction, but a full day’s work had yielded nothing. No suspicious phone calls or suspicious conflicts with Pickman or suspicious movements in their bank accounts.

“The key thing is the cash,” Porras added. “So they can keep the money to themselves. But all the banks have been warned. If someone brings in a large sum for deposit, we will be immediately notified.”

The company that paid Pickman for the motel was clean, according to both the police and the IRS. Detectives visited Rentier Bank, but with no results there either. The branch of the bank where the accountant of Plate Build Construction cashed the check employed about 30 people.

“And what about the Feds?”

“Nothing about any explosives, Troy,” said Chambers. “Or they just don’t want to share it.”

“This case sucks, big time,” Brown admitted. “If Tierney finds out that we have no leads, he will rip me apart. So let’s do something.”

“I suggest we go through the archives and files,” said DiMaggio, after some hesitation.

“Archives and agents – that’s all that we’ve got. Go talk to your informants. You can offer a reward, more than usual, for any information; if need be, we’ll get more money. And then get on the databases. We’re interested in all extortionists, arms dealers, people recently released from prison – any clues at all.”

Brown’s cell phone rang. “Brown here,” he barked in his usual brusque manner. He heard Hash’s voice:

“Under the overpass in an hour.”

Between the pillars of the overpass, there was a vacant lot that served as a nighttime refuge for junkies looking to shoot up. It was one of Hash’s and Brown’s regular meeting places. Hash never asked Brown to come to his own neighborhood, so as not to scare away potential customers with the type of person that every addict, with an unerring instinct, recognized as a cop. After the briefing with the detectives, Brown dropped in on Captain Tierney, assuring him that the investigation was moving ahead, and then went to the rendezvous. Hash arrived with what was, for him, amazing punctuality. He was accompanied by Bosso, who stayed in the car.

“Last night I was at the club at Nash,” said the informant. “I chatted with a couple of guys about this little thing of ours. Both said pretty much the same thing. Deuce.”

“King,” Brown parried. “What are we playing?”