Black Friday (16 page)

M
aggie hadn’t gotten far and her phone started to ring. She didn’t recognize the number. The area code was local. Could Patrick be calling from a pay phone? Or perhaps a friend’s?

“This is Maggie O’Dell.”

Silence.

Then a man’s gravelly voice said, “Special Agent Margaret O’Dell?”

That was what the television reports had called her. She shifted her weight, crossed her arms, exhaustion giving way to alarm. It was someone who had seen her infamous chase. Someone who could access her unlisted cell phone number.

“Who is this?” she asked, none too politely.

“I have some information about the incident…at the mall. What happened there.”

The caller sounded out of breath, fatigued, hesitant. Maggie guessed from his voice that he was older than the college-aged young men the news media said were responsible for the “incident.”

“Are you saying you saw what happened?”

“No.”

“But you were at the mall.”

“No…no, I wasn’t there.” He was getting frustrated. She needed to wait. People revealed more during silences than after questions. “I know things.”

Silence again.

“I’m listening,” she finally said when she thought she might lose him.

“I have information. That’s all that you need to know right now.” He was almost angry and definitely frustrated, physically exhausted. “Look, my wife just had surgery. I’m a little tired,” he said, not an apology, Maggie thought, so much as a way to calm himself down. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Only you. Nobody else. You’re the agent that saved that boy, right?”

Before she answered, he continued, “But you have to come to me. You have to come to where I say, so I know they won’t be listening.”

“Okay,” Maggie told him. Did he really have information? Or was he a conspiracy theory nut, trying to hone in on some attention for himself? And how did he get her cell phone number?

“They have my grandson,” he burst out without prompting. “That’s where the bastards crossed the line.”

She knew asking him who “they” were would get her nowhere. He wouldn’t even give his name. He told her exactly where he wanted them to meet. She had no problems with the locale or his laundry list of instructions, though she wasn’t sure how she would pull it off. Definitely not with A.D. Kunze’s help. But by the time the man had hung up Maggie realized she knew the one person who could make this happen. She started searching for the governor’s right-hand man.

She found David Ceimo in the restaurant’s kitchen, his cell phone pressed so hard against his face there was a red indentation on his cheek.

“I want to know where they got this information. Anonymous doesn’t cut it,” he yelled over the clanging of pots and pans. “I don’t care. Find out.”

Ceimo shrugged and attempted a smile when he saw her. She leaned against a steel rack to let the chef squeeze between them.

“Any luck?”

“The photos were e-mailed anonymously to someone at the TV station.” He raked a flap of his thick brown hair off his forehead only to have it fall back. His fingers made a second unsuccessful swipe. “They claim two sources confirmed.”

“Sources close to the investigation?”

“Not from what I’m hearing. Just ‘two independent sources.’” And he air-marked the quotes. “How did we get to this place where our news media only sensationalizes the news instead of reports it?”

They had to move out of the way again while a waiter tried to remove a tray from the refrigerator. The kitchen, though spotless, had little room for any extra personnel. Maggie moved to the other side of a narrow, long table, what looked like the kitchen’s more extensive version of that evening’s dessert tray.

“I just received an interesting phone call,” she told him, glancing down at the tiramisu and cheesecake that came between them. “With an interesting request.”

Ceimo’s eyes narrowed on her. He was better at blocking out the kitchen activity. Maggie’s training kept her eyes darting around, looking for anything and trying to catch everything. Her stomach, however, kept reminding her that they hadn’t had a chance to eat, drawing her eyes down to the desserts.

“And this request?” Ceimo was impatient.

“The caller claims he has information.”

“What kind of information?”

“He’ll only share it in person. And only with me.”

“He saw you on TV,” Ceimo said, surprising her. There was more to the governor’s aide than she expected. Nick Morrelli had introduced David Ceimo as an old football rival. His good looks and charm—not unlike Nick’s—had made her misjudge his intellect, just as she caught herself doing with Nick.

“What if he’s just some wacko?”

“Wackos are my specialty,” she said and started giving him the details.

N
ick wished he could find an excuse to stay in Ceimo’s SUV and tag along with him and Maggie. The two were obviously on some secret mission. He found himself a little jealous. That was ridiculous. Of course, he knew it was. Maggie asked Ceimo only because of his connections. Nick wondered if it had something to do with her stepbrother. He wanted to ask. Would have asked, but once again, he ended up in the wrong place, sandwiched between Yarden and Jamie in the back of the SUV.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he managed to say just as Ceimo dumped them out in front of the hotel.

Nick followed Yarden and Jamie down a hallway back to the command center. It hadn’t been that long ago that they had left. Charlie Wurth was still here and Kunze had returned.

Nick poured himself a cup of coffee and was dumping cream into it when Kunze said to him, “Wurth said O’Dell was with you.”

“She was.”

Kunze glanced at the door again.

“She went somewhere with Mr. Ceimo,” Yarden offered.

“Where exactly did they go?”

“They didn’t say.” Nick shrugged, sipped his coffee.

Kunze grumbled under his breath, digging his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He stomped across the room, punching in numbers just as Deputy Director Charlie Wurth asked everyone to take a seat.

Wurth started writing on a huge white dry-erase board at the front of the room.

“Here’s what we know so far about these guys. We haven’t had much time to dig. Everything’s still coming in. Feel free to chime in if you’ve got questions or information to add. No need for formalities.”

On the dry-erase board under POI (persons of interest) he listed the names of the three young men the news media had released:

CHAD HENDRICKS, age 19, St. Paul, Minnesota

TYLER BENNETT, age 19, St. Paul, Minnesota

PATRICK MURPHY, age 23, Green Bay, Wisconsin.

He drew a bracket that connected Chad and Tyler, then jotted, “roommates at UnivM.”

“We have two agents with a search warrant on their way to the dorm room these two men shared on campus. It looks like they also went to the same elementary school and high school.”

A.D. Kunze passed out copies with all three of the young men’s photos. He stopped at Nick and Yarden’s table.

“Can the surveillance video verify these three were the ones with the red backpacks?”

Both Nick and Yarden took a closer look. Nick didn’t like being put on the spot. Neither did Yarden.

“You saw the quality of the shots we had. It’s tough to tell,” Nick said. “Hendricks for sure.” He pointed at Chad’s photo. It was a head shot. Probably from a sports roster. He was definitely the kid in the Golden Gopher ball cap. They had looked at that video enough times to safely identify him. Yarden was doing his bobble-headed nod.

“This one could be Bennett.” He tapped Tyler’s photo. “But Patrick Murphy…I don’t think we have good enough video to identify him.” He wanted to get back to the surveillance room, back to the video. If he looked a bit harder he wondered if he would recognize the man Maggie said was her stepbrother.

“Definitely Hendricks and Bennett,” Yarden said, sounding confident. He wasn’t just backing Nick up. Yarden may be timid but he was good at his job. “We couldn’t get a good look at the third bomber or the two people he had with him. They all disappeared into the food court.”

“What do you mean disappeared?” A.D. Kunze asked.

“The food court doesn’t have any cameras.”

“None?”

“No, sir.”

Nick stopped himself from defending the antiquated security system that originally had been designed to track shoplifters, not terrorists.

“Mall security doesn’t extend to that area,” Yarden started to explain but Charlie Wurth stopped him.

“We never expected our shopping centers to be targets for terrorist attacks,” Wurth said. “Same reason mall security officers are not armed. There are changes that are long overdue.”

“Interesting that the TV station didn’t have the girl’s photo,” Nick said.

He had everyone’s attention now. Even A.D. Kunze stood quietly.

“So what does that mean?” Charlie Wurth asked.

“Could mean that whoever leaked those photos to the media didn’t know the girl ended up with one of the bombs.” A.D. Kunze crossed his arms over his chest.

“At least it wasn’t anyone from our group. Let’s make sure it stays that way.”

“Is there any evidence that the bombers died with the backpacks?” Wurth asked Jamie.

“Preliminary says yes to two of the three. The restroom bomb didn’t appear to have human remains mixed with it.”

“You can tell that?” Nick couldn’t imagine what it must be like to sift through and determine that conclusion.

“Without getting into the gory details—” Jamie must have read his mind “—yes, we can.”

“So there’s a chance that three of the five escaped?” A.D. Kunze said it like it was an outrage.

“Don’t forget the asshole with the remote,” Wurth reminded them. “He got away, too. I’d place all my bets on him being the one who leaked the photos to the media.”

A knock at the door stopped Wurth. Everyone twisted around to the door at the back of the room. Kunze was closest. Instead of just opening it and letting the intruder in, he stepped out. In seconds he was back. No one had moved, taking their cue from Wurth who waited.

“Morrelli, Yarden.” Kunze waved them over.

He didn’t give them any hints. He escorted them out the door without another word. On his way out to join them, he waved a hand at Wurth to continue.

Kunze led them to a couple waiting off to the side. The man wore a long cashmere overcoat. The woman’s was leather, no less expensive.

Jerry Yarden seemed to recognize them before Kunze began the introductions. His ears were red again, his eyes wide. Neither a good sign.

“The Chapmans arrived while you both were out. I asked them to stop back. Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, this is Nick Morrelli and Jerry Yarden from UAS, United Allied Security. The Chapmans are the majority owners of Mall of America.”

Nick relaxed. The well-dressed couple probably just wanted to give them commendations. He didn’t realize how wrong he was until Mrs. Chapman furrowed her brow and said, “What in the world went wrong?”

R
ebecca should have trusted her gut instinct.

Even before she got into Dixon’s car she knew something wasn’t quite right. He didn’t turn to look at her directly, and instead, kept the left side of his face out of her sight. Yet if she had seen his black eye she still would have gotten into the car. She would have been concerned and would’ve wanted to hear what had happened.

No, it wasn’t that he wouldn’t look her in the eyes. It was something else. A tension, a fear so palpable she had felt it.

However, her gut instinct could never have predicted a gunman crouched in the backseat. Nor would she have predicted that the woman from the van, the one who had called her Becky and offered her a ride, would be slamming her face down into the snow and binding her wrists with plastic ties.

Now all alone in what felt like a dark, cold hole with the smell of gasoline all around her, Rebecca’s mind raced. Who were these people? Why were they doing this? Had Dixon been involved in the mall bombing? Was Patrick? What did they want with her? She didn’t know anything. She hadn’t seen anything.

Her eyes started to adjust to the darkness. It was a cellar or a crawl space. Wood rafters for a ceiling that wasn’t even four feet from the floor. Not really a floor, just cold, hard concrete. The walls were concrete blocks. No windows. One small three-foot-by-three-foot door above. A trapdoor with no stairs. It didn’t fit tight or in the rush, was left askew. Light from above seeped in around the left side. They had flung her down and with her wrists tied together she landed hard on her wounded arm. She felt a trickle of blood and knew some of the sutures had ripped. The pain was secondary. Nothing could override her fear.

Up until now she had been with Dixon. They left his car in the long-term parking lot at the airport. It had still been snowing. Rebecca searched for signs of life, security vehicles, a shuttle bus, other motorists, passengers returning to their vehicles. There was no one. Even if she dared to scream no one would hear her.

The woman in the van had followed close behind. It was there, in between the vehicles of the parking lot, that the woman pulled Rebecca from the car and pushed her down into the snow, binding her wrists so tight Rebecca felt the plastic bite into her skin. They shoved Dixon and Rebecca into the back of the van. The gunman crawled up beside them.

Dixon wouldn’t meet her eyes. He looked awful. His lip was split on the same side as the black eye. His hair stuck up in places where it had been yanked. In the headlights of passing traffic she saw that his coat had been ripped and his jeans stained at the knees.

She wanted to ask him what was going on. She wanted to make him look at her and tell her whether he had anything to do with the bombing. But the panic had closed off her throat. It took all her effort to breathe, to keep from hyperventilating. Her arm throbbed.

They had parked in a long narrow alley, some place downtown. Again, there was no one to see them hustled from the van through the back entrance of a building, a brick building four—maybe five—stories high with long, dark corridors, institutional linoleum, blank sterile white walls. Rebecca tried to notice everything. Isn’t that what they did in the movies? Even blindfolded and gagged they’d remember how many railroad tracks the car had bumped over or the sound of water under a bridge. Noting and recording her surroundings made her concentrate on something other than the pounding of her heart.

Now she tried to do the same thing here, alone in the dark. It simmered her panic.

She could hear muffled voices. Thumping footsteps overhead. Not just footsteps. It sounded like they were moving furniture. In the room above, she remembered metal desks and rolling chairs, file cabinets and a shelf with electronic boxes. There were several computers left on, their screen savers the only illumination in the room when they first entered. Everything had looked new, the walls a freshly painted white, plain and sterile like the corridors. Oddly there had been nothing personal in the room. No coffee mugs, no jacket over a chair, no container with pens, no plaques or pictures. It looked almost as if someone had quickly put together a makeshift office that was meant to be temporary.

Her eyes stared at the trapdoor, first waiting for someone to reappear. As time passed she still watched, wondering if the door wasn’t closed properly and was out of line to cause that sliver of light, then maybe it wasn’t locked. Could she shove it open? A bit of hope fluttered until she realized that with her hands tied behind her back she’d never be able to push it open or climb out.

She started looking around the musty area for something sharp to rub the plastic tie against. There had to be something here. That’s when she noticed why the smell of gasoline was so strong. There were pools of it on the hard, cold concrete floor. She must have fallen in it because now she could smell the damp spots on her jeans and coat. Two cans marked gasoline sat on a shelf with their caps off. But they were set upright, not tipped over.

Rebecca realized this crawl space hadn’t been splattered with gasoline by accident. Someone intentionally poured it out all over the floor.