Black Friday (15 page)

N
ick scooted into the tall leather-backed booth behind David Ceimo. He wanted to kick himself. He’d hesitated. Overcompensated. He didn’t want to look obvious about wanting to sit next to Maggie and now Yarden beat him to it. Not only that but Yarden had managed to fit himself right in between Maggie and Jamie while David Ceimo and Nick took up the other side of the huge corner booth. Deputy Director Charlie Wurth was supposed to join them later. Nick figured he should have invited A.D. Kunze, too, but he couldn’t find the FBI guy. He’d left the briefing early and no one seemed to know where he had gone.

Nick was relieved to be away from the scene, even if it would be for an hour or two. As a county sheriff and then a prosecutor, he’d been to plenty of crime scenes. But nothing this massive and never this many fatalities. He had gained a new respect for those left behind still sifting and walking the grids around the craters.

On a busy Friday evening, The Rose and Crown was packed. The English-style pub had a lobby full of guests waiting, but Ceimo’s older brother Chris owned the place. He had escorted the five of them personally to the quieter of two rooms. Now he came back with place settings, handing them oversized menus and taking their drink orders himself.

“On the house,” Chris told them.

“No,” David insisted. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I’m not letting any first responders pay tonight.” The older Ceimo was shorter than his brother, handsome with a quick smile but serious dark eyes. “We all make our livings, in part, because of the mall and the airport. Something like this happens, we have to pitch in somehow. It’s the least I can do.”

They watched him leave then David said, “His partner brought over a bunch of food to the scene. I had to get him cleared through security. They almost wouldn’t allow it till Chief Merrick noticed a pastrami on rye.” He smiled, obviously proud of his older brother. “Must have brought four or five dozen sandwiches.”

“Yeah, that was nice,” Jamie said. “People don’t usually think about us needing to eat. My boyfriend always thinks it’s gross that we’d even want to, but after six or seven hours you get hungry.”

“You want, I can have Chris shut off this television.” David pointed to one of the many screens suspended throughout the pub. This one was off to their side about ten feet away, just over Nick’s right shoulder. The volume had been muted and closed captions ran along the bottom of the screen.

Nick found himself looking to Maggie. David did, too. Even as they waited for an answer the video footage of the now infamous chase was being played.

“It’s okay,” she said after it took a second or two for her to realize they were allowing her to make the decision. “If there’s an update or a break in the case, where better to find out?”

They all laughed. Nick realized every one of them probably had a story to tell of the news media preempting one of the cases they’d worked on. However, he doubted that any of them had been preempted by a journalist in their own family. His sister, Christine, had done it to him twice in the past. Once even compromising her son, Timmy’s safety. He thought she’d learned her lesson, but he didn’t trust her. It was almost as if she couldn’t help it. Like a drug addict. Even now he avoided returning her calls. Was she concerned or looking for a scoop?

Briefly he realized her calls might concern their dad, but Christine would say so, wouldn’t she? His dad’s health had been deteriorating the past several months, bad to worse with no hope of recovery. The stroke he’d suffered four years ago had reduced him to a shadow of the man Antonio Morrelli had once been. But some things never changed and Nick thought the old man was stubborn enough to stick around just out of spite and to ruin Christmas for all the rest of them. Maybe deep down that’s what Nick hoped. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he wasn’t quite ready for his father’s departure, for him to be gone completely and forever from his life.

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw and rubbed at his eyes. When he looked up he found Maggie watching him from across the table. The others were talking about food, their attention buried in the large menu placards. But not Maggie. She had one elbow on the ridge that separated the booth from the wall. Her cheek rested against her hand. David Ceimo sat directly across from her, Yarden right next to her and yet, she was watching Nick from clear across the diagonal of the table.

At first he glanced away. But her eyes were still there when he looked up again and this time he met them despite the flutter they stirred in his gut. She looked tired, but she smiled, just a little. Her eyes were still serious with an intensity he recognized. From the first time he met Maggie O’Dell he felt like those eyes could examine anyone deeply, and he knew they missed nothing.

Their drinks came at that moment. Before Chris finished setting them down, Yarden was pointing at the television screen, waving his arms to get their attention.

“Holy crap,” Yarden blurted as he tried to stand up for a better look. “They have the bombers.”

Nick had to look over his shoulder. Three photos of three young men were displayed in the middle of the screen. Names appeared beneath them and on the CC crawl at the bottom of the screen.

Chris reached up and turned the volume on:

“…were last seen. Two unnamed sources have verified the identity of three men allegedly involved in the bombing at Mall of America. All three are college students, two at the University of Minnesota and one at the University of New Haven in Connecticut. Again, the three young men are, Chad Hendricks of St. Paul, Minnesota; Tyler Bennett also of St. Paul, Minnesota and Patrick Murphy of Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

“Son of a bitch.” Ceimo was the first to speak. “What sources? Where the hell did they get photos and names?” He was pulling his smartphone from his jacket pocket, as he slid across the booth’s bench. Nick barely got out of the bench and out of his way.

Nick glanced around the table as he sat back down. Both Yarden and Jamie’s eyes were still glued to the television screen. Maggie’s face had gone white and she was digging for her own cell phone.

“What is it?” Nick asked her. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Patrick Murphy.”

He noticed her fingers had a slight tremble as she punched at her cell phone’s menu. He could see she was searching for a number.

She glanced back up at him. He thought he saw a glimpse of panic before she looked back down. Without giving him her eyes again, she said, “Patrick Murphy is my stepbrother.”

M
aggie excused herself, suddenly feeling claustrophobic up against the wall. Yarden and the bomb expert named Jamie couldn’t move quick enough to release her from the corner of the booth. She needed to get out of the noise and the crowd and the prying concern of Nick Morrelli’s eyes. She escaped to the restroom, only to find a long line waiting for the stalls. But it was quiet here if you didn’t count the cell phone conversations.

On her own phone she searched the queue for Patrick’s number. She had called him a week ago—ten days at most—to invite him to Thanksgiving. He already had plans. He was going out of town with friends to spend the long holiday with them. She pretended like it was no big deal.

Maggie blamed herself. She was the adult, twelve years older and yet, she had no idea how to take on the role of the decision-maker, the family planner. No idea how to be or act like a big sister. Hell, she had no idea how to act like a family.

Now as she searched her phone’s menu she wondered why she hadn’t memorized his phone number. She was good with numbers and details. Even as she jotted things down while viewing the videotapes she knew she didn’t need the notes. The discovery of Patrick two years ago had brought with it a whole storm, not just about having a brother but all her preconceptions about her father. The parent she loved and missed and remembered with adoration had actually led a secret life. And for two decades her mother continued to keep his secret. Patrick reminded Maggie of that every single time she saw him or talked to him. It was crazy and she needed to find a way around it if she ever intended to have a relationship with him. But not having his phone number was another reminder that she evidently wasn’t ready. Now here she was hoping Patrick’s number was in her phone’s call history.

Her fingers kept hitting more than the arrow buttons. She had to focus, to concentrate despite the flushing toilets and the nagging little girl who wanted to go into the stall by herself. Even from behind the stalls there were conversations. People on their phones. Couldn’t they go to the restroom without talking about their day? Though tonight’s conversations were sprinkled with excitement and concern about the bombing and the newly released suspects.

Finally, Maggie found the number. She started to hit “return call” then glanced around again and stopped. How exactly was she going to do this? She moved away from the line, back into another corner by a sink that had an Out of Order sign posted on the mirror in front of it.

She hit the button, closed her eyes and waited. It didn’t need to ring twice.

“Becca?” It was Patrick, anxious and out of breath. She had no idea who Becca was. Of course not. She had no idea who any of her brother’s friends were. “It’s Maggie, Patrick.”

The silence lasted so long she was afraid he had hung up.

“Patrick, are you involved in this?”

She wished he’d ask what? Maybe even pretend he had no idea what she was talking about.

“I wasn’t with Chad and Tyler, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Maggie leaned against the tiled wall. God! He knew who they were. If he hadn’t known them, he wouldn’t call them by name. They’d only be the other two suspects.

“You know them?”

“They were friends of one of the friends I was with.” He let out a long sigh. “That sounds lame, doesn’t it?”

He sounded so young. Had she ever been that young, that naïve? She noted that he said “were.” Past tense. Did he know the two young men were dead?

“You’re wanted for questioning,” she told him and hated that she sounded entirely like an FBI agent and not at all like a sister. Why could she not get a hang of this?

“Yeah, I just saw.”

“Where are you?”

Silence.

“Patrick, you’re going to have to trust me or I can’t help you.”

“Let me think about it.”

She was pacing as much as the corner allowed, getting frustrated. What was there to think about? Letting her help him or trusting her?

“I’ll let you know,” he said in what sounded like a rush. And then he was gone. Silence.

“Damn it!”

Her anger surprised her and drew looks. Even a couple of stall conversations came to a halt. Maggie pretended to ignore it all and she stomped toward the door. This time the line parted for her long before she had to ask or squeeze through.

A
sante finished the cheeseburger and fries, leaving a reasonable tip. An ordinary meal that wouldn’t stand out and an ordinary tip that wouldn’t leave a negative or overly positive impression. Ordinary, he had learned long ago, was the key to being invisible.

As he headed back to his gate he noticed groups of people at all the other gates amassed under the television monitors. He stopped, as did the others walking in front and behind him even though he already knew what the commotion was. The local television station had finally decided to release the photos his crew had anonymously submitted. He watched for a while then continued through the terminal, turning his head as he passed other televisions. He had to, at least, pretend to be interested and surprised and appropriately disgusted.

The waiting area for his gate was full, not a single seat available. The regulars who raced to board first were already standing near the door, their oversized carry-ons left in the way, making it impossible for anyone to overtake their position or even pass by.

Asante had always hated airport travel. In recent years it had become only worse. There were no longer manners or etiquette. People treated the waiting areas like their living rooms, tossing coats and bags on seats that should be left for other passengers. They gobbled down fast food while talking on their cell phones, carrying on conversations that others shouldn’t have to listen to. They let their kids scream and crawl and run around. It was almost as bad as a mall. And yes, though he treated each of his projects as professional assignments, it had brought him a slight pleasure to blow up the largest shopping mall in America. Likewise it would give him considerable pleasure to blow up one of the busiest airports during the busiest travel day of the year.

As he drew near the information desk he was pleased to see he wouldn’t have to ask any questions or depend on eavesdropping on others as they questioned the airline clerk. Posted below their flight number and destination was now a departure time. He still had an hour wait, but the posted time meant the plane had left—or at least been cleared to leave—Chicago.

He settled close to one of the television monitors. It was only an hour. He could pretend to be interested in the calamity for an hour.

P
atrick shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. His cell phone stayed buried in his fist. How could he trust Maggie? He barely knew her. It hadn’t been that long ago that he discovered she existed. That they shared a father. She got the legal version. He got the illegitimate one. Both their mothers kept them from knowing about each other, some twisted pact Patrick’s mother said was “a profound mistake.” Of course she called it that only after the secret had been found out.

Now Patrick stood under the awning of a restaurant adjacent to the mall. He had walked into the place hoping to finally get out of the cold, sit down and have something to eat. The restaurant was packed, but he had found an empty bar stool in the lounge and ordered a Sam Adams. He was taking the first sips while he looked over a menu. That’s when the news alert came on.

The television monitors were back behind the bar, high up, and everyone was watching or pointing.

Patrick almost choked. He still couldn’t believe it was his picture, his name. He had just taken a drink of the beer. Could barely swallow. Why did the police think he had something to do with the bombing? And now Maggie did, too. He didn’t even know Chad and Tyler. Had never met them. Dixon pointed them out at the mall this morning. That was it.

Now here Patrick was out in the cold, again, shivering, teeth chattering. Soaking wet from his head to his toes. He made his way back to the hotel, avoided making eye contact with anyone, keeping his head down. Though he honestly wondered if anyone could recognize him in his present condition.

By now he figured he knew the hotel better than anywhere else. If he needed to hide, it seemed the best place. He took the stairwell to the fourth floor, knowing from his previous search that this was one of the quieter floors. He waited to make sure no one was in the laundry room before he went in. Helped himself to enough towels to dry himself off. He even found a pair of work coveralls.

He peeled out of his wet clothes, rolled them up in some towels and threw them into one of the dryers. The coveralls were a size too big. He had to turn up the cuffs. But they were dry and warm. He decided to take off his wet high-tops and his socks and threw them into the dryer, too. If any of the maids caught him he knew enough Spanish to make up a good story. At this time of night he didn’t expect to see much housekeeping staff.

From the laundry room, he heard the freight elevator. It was stopping at the fourth floor. He recognized the screech of the doors sliding open. He looked into the hallway but ducked back into the laundry room just as he caught a glimpse of the man stepping out. A huge man in a blue uniform. Patrick’s stomach did a flip as he pressed himself against the inside wall, hidden partially by the racks of folded towels, and held his breath.

He didn’t think he could fool the security guard named Frank a second time tonight.