A Danger to Himself and Others: Bomb Squad NYC Incident 1 (11 page)

Manis removed his masterpiece from the backpack and set it down gently on the rug in front of the toilet. He lifted Littel’s prosthetic arm off of the towel and just for a moment attempted to judge whether he’d gotten the weight right. It had taken many measurements of the photos and many calculations in order to estimate the weight of Littel’s arm and replicate it within a fraction of a gram. Now, weighing it in his palm, Manis felt proud of his accomplishment.

But wait!
There was a smudge of dirt around the collar where the mechanism attached to the remainder of Littel’s real arm. Manis was prepared for this, too. He quickly extracted some grease pencils from his pocket, carefully judged the color of the stain, and replicated it precisely on the new arm.

Now he was ready to go. Listening for Littel one more time and still hearing his snoring, he placed the original arm in his backpack and set the replacement arm on the towel just as he’d found it.

He paused in the bathroom doorway only for a moment. That arm had been such a feat that he almost felt sorry to see it go.

EARLY IN HIS CAREER AS
a police officer, Detective Second Grade Peter Hernandez came across a dirty cop. It happened in a bowling alley far from home and far from where Hernandez then walked the beat. That night—an all-important third date—the woman with Hernandez had broken a fingernail in the third frame of the first game and never got over it, which perhaps the gods meant as a sign for Hernandez to cut his losses.

If so, he missed the sign. Instead of taking her off for a more nail-friendly evening, he convinced her to stay and at least bowl a couple of games—they’d already paid for an hour. She whined most of the rest of the night, and pretty soon Hernandez realized the relationship had no future. As a consequence, his attention began to wander.

He made three trips to the bar, returning with beer and pretzels and hot dogs, trying to make the most of things, and on each trip he happened to look down the line and see a bunch of greasers partaking of their sleazy fun. He knew they had to be up to no good. But what the hey, Hernandez was off duty and more concerned with salvaging his night than projecting himself onto a situation in someone else’s precinct.

Then a guy he knew from police academy walked through the door. He was also out of uniform, and Hernandez quickly turned away.

Big mistake there, he later reasoned. Seeing a fellow cop would’ve surely forced the other guy to abandon his bad intentions for the night. Instead, the cop made a beeline for the sleaze in the corner and proceeded to undertake a rather blatant transaction involving cash and some small waxy envelopes—Hernandez guessed crystal meth.

It might’ve ended with that, but Hernandez tossed and turned on it for a month, wondering whether to report the other cop to Internal Affairs. He convinced himself that he hadn’t seen enough evidence to be definitive—didn’t get a close look at those envelopes, after all—so he chose at long last to do nothing. But a few months later, the cop turned up dead, and Hernandez felt of two minds about that. First: Good riddance. Second: If he’d acted maybe he could’ve prevented a tragedy.

This was the prism through which he fretted about the case of Manny Diaz. Driving home to Rockland past midnight, he wondered:
What the hell is a guy in the squad doing out on the parkway, tempting fate?
This was unstable behavior, and instability in a Bomb Squad tech was about as welcome as a taut tripwire beside an IED.

Hernandez kissed his sleeping kids and climbed into bed with his wife, who was down with the flu. She had a skyline of sodas on her night table and a basketful of used tissues on the floor next to the bed. He turned his back on her and pulled the sheet over his shoulder, thinking that he didn’t want to bust on Diaz, but he also didn’t like the feeling he got from the sight of Diaz on the parkway.

All in all, it made for a lousy night’s sleep.

TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK

5.

DAY THREE—Light

BEFORE A RAY OF SUNSHINE
had filtered through the drawn shades, the cordless phone on Capobianco’s nightstand roused him from congested sleep. Eyes still closed, he reached across the bed to feel nothing but crumpled sheets. Jill was in the shower. He picked up the phone, reflexively barked, “Cap here!”

“You sound like you swallowed a frog,” Gowen said. “Am I calling at a bad time?”

“I feel like I swallowed a
pond
full a frogs, tell you the truth.”

“You going to the precinct today?”

“I doubt it.”

“But you’re in the loop, right?”

Capobianco hated this. The police radio was off and Kahn hadn’t called him all night. He could only presume that nothing broke while he slept, but he didn’t know for sure. “In the loop, yes,” he said, “if you mean my squad. What do you know, Hank?”

“The mayor feels anxious and the chief feels anxious.”

“So now it’s my turn.”

“Precisely. It flows downstream. Can’t repeal the laws of physics. So how can you help make them feel better?”

“Hold on.” Capobianco sat up, ran a hand through his sticky hair and took a few gulps of water. The change of position made his head pound, but at least he didn’t have to run to the bathroom for the four hundredth time. He put on his reading glasses and scanned his cell phone for new texts and emails. Nothing earth shattering.

“I reported everything I know to the assistant chief yesterday,” he said.

“That was yesterday. This morning, the press is all over City Hall. They want a sign of progress, some reassurance that we’re not sitting on a powder keg.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.” Pause. “Well, the press probably doesn’t care. They just want a story. We know that. Maybe a powder keg is an even better story. But the best story of all is the mayor sitting on a powder keg and his minions too stupid to realize it. You and I both know they’ll eat that for lunch.”

“I can’t predict the future, but nothing we have now points in the direction of a wave of violence.” He gave Gowen a fill on the evidence—at least as much as he knew from Kahn yesterday. “I have our best man on it,” he concluded.

“Agree with you there,” Gowen said. He’d been the one to recommend that Kahn apply for the squad years ago. “I don’t suppose you’d think it wise for the chief to go public with the serial number thing?”

“A guy named Gowen once told me that information is neither good nor bad, but leaking makes it so. The one who has it controls the game. So why broadcast anything to the world right now?”

Cap heard Gowen breathing, thinking. He threw off the covers, feeling warm and stuffy. “We have very little, at this point, to suggest motive. But Kahn tells me that O’Shea of A and E says the man was in a fragile emotional state for weeks before he blew himself up. That doesn’t sound like a terrorist cell to me. You?”

“No. So why’d he choose the recruiting station?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The sorry bastard lost his legs in Iraq. Does the press have that?”

“I don’t think so. The administration hasn’t even released the suspect’s name.”

“Let the chief give that to them—the name and his status as a disabled vet. They’re bound to find out soon, anyway.”

“Better just to release the name. Let them dig up the leg thing on their own. Give them something to do.”

“Good call, Hank.”

“Listen, I know the hardest thing is when your only suspect lies dead. What’s your instinct on this?”

Capobianco already knew, but he paused for effect. “Last act of a lonely desperate man.”

“Yeah, me too, if it means anything to you.”

“Sure, it does. You’re the master. But make sure City Hall knows that we can’t prove anything just yet. We’re still working it from all quarters.”

“Commander of A and E says the same.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Feel better, Cap.”

“Yeah, thanks. Stay safe and keep your ass covered.”

“Hah!” Gowen laughed. “Always do.”

KAHN BARELY HAD HALF HIS
coffee and egg sandwich down when Patti Morris patched through a call he hated to take: Andy Stoltz of ATF. He grabbed another bite of the sandwich before picking up. Let Stoltz know he was interrupting breakfast, as if the dolt could read a clue.

“Kahn—Stoltz here.”

“What’s up, Andy,” Kahn mumbled through the kaiser roll.

“Thirty-six hours and no one called me, that’s what.”

Kahn chewed and swallowed, immediately tore off another bite of his sandwich. “Called you about what?”

“You know
what,
Kahn. We were still part of the Task Force, last I checked. Why didn’t you notify me?”

Because you’re a dickhead,
Kahn wanted to say. Instead he said, “I got enough bureaucracy to satisfy within my department without getting involved with more initials. You’re on the JTTF, you should already know what’s going on. FBI’s your source by the book, aren’t they? Call Burbette if you want to bust balls.”

“Well, what’s going on?”

“We got a vet who lost his legs twice. For my money, it’s a lone nut, shouldn’t involve the whole federal government.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“Didn’t say it was, but I got work to do. You need anything else, Andy?”

“That’s all you have?”

“What else do you want? If I come across some guns for your Mexican drug lord friends, I’ll let you know. Deal?”

“Fuck you, Kahn.” He hung up to get the last word and Kahn gave a smug grin to no one in particular.

He finished his sandwich and chuckled to himself. Stoltz was the kind of guy who showed up at a championship game in the ninth inning, last into the stadium but first into the picture when they hoisted the trophy. No doubt Burbette felt the same way about him, which is probably why he forgot to call him accidentally on purpose. That was a mark in the FBI’s favor, so far as Kahn was concerned.

He picked up the phone and called Capobianco.

Jill answered. She passed it to Cap and Kahn heard her say, “Five minutes.” Protective of the lieutenant.

When he came on, Kahn said, “ATF was just poking around.”

“That’s all they ever do. Beats real work. Don’t worry about it.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Anything since last night?”

Kahn looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s not even nine a.m., Cap.”

“So?”

“It was quiet, from what I hear.”

“They’re pressing us down at City Hall now.”

“What for?”

“Because their boss is an elected official and must appear to be in charge at all times. Do I have to tell you? And—part and parcel of that—they want to know there isn’t another bomb out there.”

“There’s always another bomb out there…eventually.”

“Cut the crap, Sandy. You got anything reassuring?”

“Since what I told you last night, no. But a couple guys are on the board this morning who haven’t been seen for a while. Maybe the flu epidemic’s receding. You coming in soon?”

“I wish. My wife’s got me chained to the bed.”

“I’ll call if I get anything new. I promise.”

Capobianco started to say something, but instead gave a cough and kept coughing. By the end it sounded like he’d hacked up a lung.

“You all right, boss?”

“Shut up, Kahn.”

NO SOONER HAD KAHN HUNG
up the phone than he saw Peter Hernandez cross the room in a cardigan sweater and faded jeans.

“You look positively grandfatherly, Pedro. What are you—undercover or something?”

“I’m not on duty till four, came in special to speak with you.”

“Oh?”

“Diaz around?”

“He’s due but I haven’t set eyes on him yet.”

“Mind if we take a walk? I don’t want—”

Kahn held up a hand, getting that this was sensitive. “I don’t have time for a stroll just now,” he said. “We can use Cap’s office.”

Hernandez slipped his hands into his pockets, looking hesitant.

“We can close the door, pull the blinds.”

“Someone might see us come out.”

“That bad?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Aw, hell. Let’s go get a bagel at that place on Hudson. I’ve only had one breakfast so far this morning.”

They didn’t make it to the bagel store, though. In front of a veterinarian’s office, Hernandez stopped and pulled Kahn aside. There were beautiful black-and-white pictures of dogs in the window.

“That golden lab in the picture, you think it’s one of ours?”

“Popular breed. Had one of them as a boy.”

“Never been much for animals myself. But I’d bet you wouldn’t let one get into trouble, would you? I mean without doing anything about it?”

“Course not. What the hell’s this about, Hernandez? I’m short on patience this week.”

“It’s Diaz.”

“You said.”

Hernandez told him what he’d seen on the parkway last night. “Weird—risky behavior like that. What’s the word—gratuitous. Like we don’t have enough danger in this job every day.”

“Hmm.” Kahn bit a lip.

“Anyway, I thought you should know, Sarge—being kind of his partner and the most senior guy in the room, what with the lieutenant out.”

Kahn rubbed his chin.
Diaz playing in traffic? The guy must be coming unhinged.
But it wasn’t his place to share these concerns with one of the detective’s peers. “Thanks for telling me,” he said with as little emotion as possible. “You did the right thing.”

Hernandez nodded and let out a sigh, clearly relieved to have it off his chest. “That bagel,” he said. “I’ll buy.”

“Never mind. I don’t need it.”

“You’ll keep this between us? Diaz won’t know?”

Kahn rested his hands on his hips. “I can hardly do that if I have to act on your information, can I? It was direct contact, after all. You said you got out of the car and everything.”

“I had to make sure he was all right.”

“Admirable enough. But if I have to discuss it with him, I can hardly say a little birdie told me.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe don’t say anything after all.”