Good Day In Hell (18 page)

“Thank you, ma’am,” Clancy said. “We’ll also need your computer.”

That stopped her dead. “What?”

“Your computer. Or at least the hard drive, but it would be easier just to take the whole thing.”

Grace’s smile felt frozen on her face. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You received an e-mail with those pictures,” Gray piped up. “We need to analyze it to see if it provides us with information about these attacks.”

“And I’ll be glad to provide you with a copy,” Grace said. “But my computer…I’m sorry, that’s impossible.” She turned to Howard. “Howard, tell him this is ridiculous. I want to cooperate, but…”

Howard still wouldn’t look at her. “I told them they could expect our full cooperation, Grace.”

Her composure cracked. “Damn it, Howard, all my files are on there! I have names and addresses of confidential sources, stories, e-mails….” Oh God, she thought, e-mails. If they get those…

“Of course,” Clancy said, “We’ll do everything we can to safeguard your privacy and that of confidential sources. We’re only seeking information germane to our investigation.”

Germane? Grace thought. Who the fuck uses words like ‘germane’? “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she said. “I’ll have to speak to my personal attorney before…”

“It’s not your computer, Grace,” Howard said. “It belongs to the station. I told them they can have it.”

Grace stared at him for a moment. “I knew you were a dickless wonder, Howard,” she said evenly. “But I didn’t think you were this much of one.”

Howard’s face turned red with anger. “Far left row, third cubicle,” he told the agents. They nodded and walked toward the door. Grace didn’t move from in front of the door. They stopped short, looking confused.

“You’re not going to be able to get into the computer without my password,” she said. “And guess what? The password’s not my birthday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clancy said. “We’ll need you to give that password to us.”

“No,” Grace said. “Not without a court order. And maybe not even then.”

“Grace…” Howard said.

“Go fuck yourself, Howard,” she said.

“We can get a warrant, ma’am,” Clancy said. “And once we do, we can crack the password. Eventually. All you’re doing is obstructing a federal investigation.”

“If you think you can make that charge stick, Clancy, take your best shot,” Grace snapped. “I’ll see you on the eleven o’clock news.”

“You might get less traction from that story than you think, Ms. Tranh,” Clancy said. “After 9/11, people might not have a lot of sympathy for a person of, ah, foreign extraction hindering an antiterrorist investigation.”

“Foreign extraction?!” Grace yelled. “You little shitbird, I’m from New Jersey!”

“Calm down, Grace,” Howard said.

“Go fuck yourself twice, Howard!” she shot back. She turned on her heel and walked out. She took the short flight of stairs two at a time and headed toward her cubicle. She heard the two agents right behind her. Heads turned as she walked by. When she reached the doorway, she whirled on them.

“See if you can get your court order, Clancy,” she snarled. “I’ll have so many lawyers up your ass, your crap will come out pinstriped.” She snatched her purse and suit jacket from off the back of her chair and shoved past the two agents. As she walked out of the newsroom, she surreptitiously checked to confirm she still had her cell phone and that it was turned on.

Marie didn’t know what changed the driver’s mind at the last moment. He may have caught sight of the pistols pointed at him. He may have lost faith in his
vehicle’s ability to smash through the roadblock and keep going. But the tortured shriek of tires drowned out the engine roar as he slammed on the brakes and whipped the wheel to one side to try to avoid a collision. The car went sideways in the road, then began to roll. The air filled with the sound of crunching metal as the Impala flipped onto its back, then back onto its tires, then onto its back again. The vehicle’s forward momentum carried it up onto its side, where it teetered precariously for a moment before smashing back down onto all four tires again with a massive thud, a mere few feet away from Marie’s cruiser. The patrol car following had gone onto the shoulder to avoid crashing into its quarry. It slid to a stop in a spray of dirt and gravel.

The door of the Impala popped open and a man stumbled out. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched tight across his muscular back and chest. His hair was cut short in the “high and tight” military style.

Marie and Wardell started yelling at the man at the same time. “GET DOWN! ON THE GROUND! NOW! ON THE GROUND!” He gave them one panicked glance before bolting toward the woods.

“Aw, for the love of…” Wardell groaned. He pointed his weapon skyward and fired a warning shot. The only effect was to cause the running man to zig, then zag, then he was in the trees. Marie shoved her weapon into its holster and took off after him. She could hear Wardell behind her, yelling at the officer in Unit twenty-seven to call for more backup. Then she heard his heavy footfalls behind her as he followed. The woods were mostly pine trees struggling to compete with clumps of spindly blackjack oak and underbrush. She could hear rather than see her quarry crashing through the brush, uttering an occasional curse as he stumbled or ran into a low-hanging branch. She caught occasional glimpses of his white T-shirt through the foliage. Suddenly there was a louder crash, followed by the sound of something heavy falling into water. Marie burst through the underbrush to find herself on the banks of a shallow creek. The slow-moving water had meandered back and forth, cutting deep into the sandy soil, leaving a broad, deep gully. The man in the T-shirt was at the bottom of it, struggling to his feet in the muddied water. He began scrabbling up the far side of the gully. “FREEZE, GOD DAMN IT!” Marie yelled as she
jumped into the creek. The man turned on her, his eyes wild. He swung a wild haymaker at her head. Marie ducked and swung her arm up at the same time, deflecting the blow. She reached down with her other hand and yanked the canister of pepper spray off her belt. As the man reared back for another punch, Marie let him have it full in the face. He screamed and grabbed at his eyes as the fiery chemical blasted every nerve ending with pain. He fell to his knees, still screaming. Marie heard a huge splash next to her, then Wardell was there. He was panting with exertion, his uniform shirt soaked with sweat.

“Damn, girl, you must’ve been a track star in school,” he gasped as he pulled one of the man’s hands away from his face. The man’s skin was a violent red. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes and snot ran like a river from his nose as every mucous membrane erupted from the irritation of the spray.

“Soccer, actually,” Marie choked out as Wardell clipped a cuff on the man’s wrist. She had caught a whiff of the spray and it was making her gag.

“Must o’ been good at it,” Wardell said as he pulled at the man’s other wrist. “Come on, boy,” he grunted. “Don’t make Little Speedy here give you another dose o’ that spray.”

“My eyes,” the man groaned. “Oh, God, my eyes…”

“Oughta kick your ass for makin’ me run, boy,” Wardell grunted as he cuffed the man’s other wrist, fastening his arms behind him. “What’n the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t know what they were gonna do with the guns,” the man blubbered. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

“Who?” Wardell said. “Who’re you talkin’ about?”

“Hang on a sec, Sergeant,” Marie cut in. “Maybe we ought to read him his rights.”

Wardell scowled for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “You do the honors.”

“First off,” Marie said. “Are you Henry Garrett?” The man nodded. “You have the right to remain silent,” Marie began. When she was done Mirandizing the man, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently wiped his still-streaming nose.

“Thanks,” Garrett whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” she shot back. “All that snot was grossing me out. Now, what’s this about not knowing what they were going to do? Who’s they?”

Garrett gave her a look like a whipped dog suddenly shown an act of kindness: grateful and wary at the same time. “I think they were the people who shot up that church. And that diner.”

Wardell sounded disgusted. “And you sold them guns.”

Garrett nodded miserably.

“Boy,” Wardell said, “between the army, the feds, and what we’re about to charge you with …” He shook his head. “When they get done with you, they’re gonna store your sorry ass under the damn jail.” He grabbed the back of Garrett’s T-shirt and began pushing him up the embankment.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Keller pulled up to the ornately decorated wrought-iron gate and rolled down the window. The security guard in the gatehouse was young, skinny, with a weak chin and a brush cut that had been let go for too long. He looked over Keller’s vehicle, his eyes flickering over the balloons filling the backseat and the “Balloon Tyme” logo on the side. Keller had bought the balloons from a local party store. The logo was stuck onto a magnetic sign he had had made at a sign store a while back.

“Hep you?” the guard said.

Keller leaned out. “Got a delivery. The name is Marks?”

The guard looked suspicious. “Nobody tole me nothin’ about that.”

Keller shrugged. “Just ordered about a half hour ago. Maybe some guy forgot his old lady’s birthday or something.”

The guard scratched his chin. “I better call the house and check.”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Keller said. “The guy who called was real serious about that. But I tell you what, you can call my boss and confirm.” Keller pointed down to the magnetic sign. “Number’s right there.” The guard nodded and picked up the phone inside the gatehouse. Keller had called Angela just before pulling up and given her the heads up. The number on the magnetic sign was one of the phone lines for H & H Bail Bonds. He saw the guard talking, then nodding and reaching down. The iron gate swung open and Keller drove through. He waved as he passed by. The guard waved back.

The roads inside Dune Grove Country Club were a winding labyrinth. The street signs were tiny brown wood pointers with painted lettering that Keller supposed was supposed to look rustic. What they were mostly was hard to read. Keller had visited a local real estate office that heavily advertised sales of lots in Dune Grove. He had picked up a brochure advertising its golf course, tennis complex, horse stables, and spacious lots. It was the map of the club, however, that had most interested Keller. Even with the map, he took several wrong turns that led him down to the end of cul-de-sacs. Huge homes in a variety of styles, all expensive, sat on perfectly landscaped lots. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the emerald-green
grass of the golf course through the trees. Finally, he found his way to the Marks home. Like the others, it was a big place, split-level, with a half-circle of gravel drive in front. Keller parked and got out. He stood in the drive for a few moments and looked the place over, trying to reconcile this affluence with what he knew of Laurel Marks’s life.

The slow tolling of the doorbell chime reverberated inside the house. There was a sound of footsteps behind the door, then a pause. Keller assumed he was being surveyed through the peephole set into the door. He tried to look benign. After a moment, the door opened a crack. Half of a female face peered out at him past the still-fastened security chain. “Yes?” the woman said.

“Mrs. Marks?”

The one eye that Keller could see looked past him to Keller’s car parked near the door. “I didn’t order any balloons,” the woman said. Her voice was a low contralto with a hint of Southern accent.

“Mrs. Marks, my name’s Jack Keller. I need to ask you some questions about Laurel.”

The door closed. Keller was reaching for the doorbell again when he heard the rattle of the chain being removed. The door swung open. The woman who stood there appeared to be in her late forties. She was short, slender, dark-haired, and expensively dressed. She had been drinking; Keller could smell bourbon from where he stood. “I don’t know where Laurel is,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keller said. “But if I could come in and ask some questions…”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Why is a balloon deliveryman looking for my daughter?” she asked.

“I work for Laurel’s bail bondsman,” Keller said. He reached in his pocket and handed her a card. “We need to know where she is.” “Ahhh…” she said, taking the card. “And the balloons were to get you past the gate. Very clever.”

Drunk or sober, Keller realized, it would be a mistake to underestimate this woman.

“So, she’s in trouble again,” the woman said. She let out a short contemptuous laugh. “Figures.” She waved a hand in the air negligently and turned away. “Come on in,” she said. “Don’t know what I can tell you, but it beats watching Dr. Phil.”

Keller followed her into the house, down a hallway, into the living room. The room was bright with sunlight from an enormous picture window that looked out over a water hazard on the golf course. White leather-covered furniture was arranged on the dark hardwood floor facing a wide-screen TV.

“Nice house,” Keller said.

“Uh-huh,” the woman said. She plopped down on the sofa and turned the TV down with the remote. On the coffee table in front of the sofa was a bottle of Maker’s Mark, a bucket of ice, and an empty glass.