Demolition Angel Read online

  “I was at Glendale.”

  She decided that she didn’t have time to tell them about the Miami bomb. They could hear it when she went over it for Kelso.

  “Is Morgan here yet?”

  “In there with Kelso. Dick Leyton’s in there, too.”

  “Why are you guys still out here?”

  Marzik looked miffed.

  “Kelso asked us not to attend.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “The prick. He probably thinks his office will look smaller with too many bodies in there.”

  Starkey thought Marzik’s guess was probably true. She saw that she still had a minute, so she asked Marzik and Santos if they had anything new. Marzik reported that the Silver Lake interviews were still a bust, but Santos had spoken with the postproduction facility and had some good news.

  He said, “Between all the tapes, we’ve got pretty much of a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the area around the parking lot. If our caller is there, we should be able to see him.”

  “When can we have the tape?”

  “Day after tomorrow at the latest. We’re going to have to go see the tape on their machine for the best possible clarity, but they say it’s looking pretty good.”

  “Okay. That’s something.”

  Marzik came closer to her, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear.

  “I want to warn you about something.”

  “You’re always hearing these things you warn me about.”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard, all right. Morgan’s thinking about turning over the investigation to Robbery-Homicide.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? A man died. It’s a murder. You have Homicide investigate. Look, I’m just telling you what I heard, is all. I don’t want to lose this investigation any more than you.”

  Starkey could tell by Santos’s expression that he took it seriously, too.

  “Okay, Beth. Thanks.”

  Starkey checked her watch again. All this time she’d been worried about losing the case to a federal task force, and now this. She decided not to think about it because there was nothing that she could say. She would either convince Morgan that she was on top of the case or she wouldn’t. She popped an Altoid and a Tagamet, then steeled herself and knocked on Kelso’s door exactly at one o’clock.

  Kelso answered with his smarmiest smile, putting on a show for the A-chief. Dick Leyton smiled as he greeted her.

  “Hi, Carol. How you doing?”

  “Fine, Lieutenant. Thanks.”

  Her palms were wet when she shook his hand. He held onto her an extra moment, giving her hand a squeeze to show his support.

  Kelso introduced her to Assistant Chief of Police Christopher Morgan, an intense, slender man sporting a charcoal suit. Like most officers, Starkey had never met Morgan, or any of the other six assistant chiefs, though she knew them by reputation. Morgan was reputed to be a demanding executive who micromanaged his domain with a violent temper. He had run in twelve consecutive Los Angeles City Marathons, and he demanded that his staff run, also. None of them smoked, drank, or were overweight. Like Morgan, all of them were immaculately groomed, wore charcoal suits, and, outside the office, identical military-issue sunglasses. Officers in the lower ranks called Morgan and his staff the Men in Black.

  Morgan shook her hand without emotion, bypassing pleasantries by asking her to bring him up to date.

  Leyton said, “Carol, why don’t you start by describing the device, since your investigation stems from there?”

  Starkey briefed Morgan on the Silver Lake bomb’s configuration, how it had been detonated, and how they knew that the builder had been on the scene within one hundred yards. She used these descriptions to brief him on Mr. Red. When she was explaining his use of radio detonation and why they believed he had been within one hundred yards of the bomb, Morgan interupted.

  “The TV stations can help you with that. They can provide videotape.”

  Starkey told him that she had already acquired the tapes and was currently having them enhanced. Morgan seemed pleased with that, though it was hard to tell because his expression never changed.

  It took her less than five minutes to describe everything that had been done, including their development of Claudius as a possible source of information about RDX and Mr. Red. All in all, she felt that she had done a pretty good job.

  “This bomb couldn’t have been placed in Silver Lake as a threat to one of the businesses there?”

  “No, sir. Detectives from the OC Bureau and Rampart did background checks on all the businesses in the mall, and the people who work in them. Nothing like that came up. No one was threatened, and, so far, no one has taken credit for the bombing.”

  “So what’s the line of your investigation?”

  “The components. Modex Hybrid is an elite explosive, but it’s not complicated to make if you have the components. TNT and ammonium picrate are easy to come by, but RDX is rare. The idea now is to use the RDX as a way to backtrack to whoever built the bomb.”

  Morgan seemed to consider her.

  “What does that mean, ‘whoever’? I thought it was understood that Mr. Red built the bomb.”

  “Well, we’re working under the assumption that he did, but we also have to consider that it might have been built by someone else, too.”

  Dick Leyton shifted on the couch, and Kelso frowned.

  “What are you talking about, Starkey?”

  Starkey described comparing the joint tape from both end caps of the Miami device and the surviving end cap from the Silver Lake device.

  “Each of the bombs that has been linked to Mr. Red has been designed and constructed the same way. Even the way he binds the wire to the bullet connectors, three clockwise twists. Same way every time. He’s a craftsman, he probably even thinks of himself as an artist. There’s something different about the Silver Lake bomb. It’s small, but people like this are creatures of habit.”

  Dick Leyton appeared thoughtful.

  “Was that noted in the seven earlier bombs?”

  “I called Rockville and asked about it. No one thought to check the direction of the wrapping before.”

  Morgan crossed his arms.

  “But you did?”

  Starkey met his eyes.

  “You have to check everything, Chief. That’s the way it works. I’m not saying we have a copycat; the security around the Mr. Red investigation has been tight. All I’m saying is that I found this difference. That bears consideration.”

  Starkey wished that she’d never brought it up. Morgan was frowning, and Kelso looked irritated. She felt like she was digging a hole for herself. Dick Leyton was the only one in the room who seemed interested.

  “Carol, if this were the work of a copycat, how would that affect your investigation?”

  “It expands. If you assume that this bomb wasn’t built by Mr. Red, you have to ask who did build it? Who knows enough about Mr. Red to duplicate his bombs, and how would they get the components? Then you start to wonder, why? Why copycat Mr. Red? Why kill a bomb tech, or anyone else, especially if you’re not taking credit for it?”

  Morgan heard her out, his face an impenetrable mask. When she was done, he glanced at his watch, then at Kelso.

  “This sounds like a Homicide investigation. Barry, I’m thinking we should let Robbery-Homicide take over. They have the experience.”

  There it was. Even with Marzik’s warning, Starkey’s breath caught. They were going to lose the case to the Homicide Bureau.

  Kelso wasn’t happy with that.

  “Well, I don’t know, Chief.”

  Dick Leyton said, “Chief, I think that would be a mistake.”

  His statement surprised her.

  Leyton spread his hands reasonably, looking for all the world like the calm, assured professional.

  “The way to get to this guy is through a bomb investigation. Following the RDX, just as Detective Stark
ey is doing. It takes a bomb investigator to do that, not a homicide cop. Starkey’s doing a good job with that. As for this difference she’s found, we have to recognize it, but not get carried away with it. Serial offenders like Mr. Red undergo evolutions. Yes, they’re creatures of habit, but they also learn, and they change. We can’t know what’s in his mind.”

  Starkey stared at him, feeling a warmth that embarrassed her.

  Morgan seemed thoughtful, then checked his watch again and nodded.

  “All right. We’ve got a cop killer out there, Detective Starkey.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re going to find him. I am going to clear this case.”

  “I hope so. Those are all fine questions you raise. I’m sure you could spend a very long time finding answers for them. But, considering what we know, it seems like a long shot. Long shots are enormous time wasters. All the evidence seems to point to Mr. Red.”

  “The tape was just something that didn’t fit, that’s all.”

  Her voice came out defensive and whiny. Starkey hated herself for saying it.

  Morgan glanced at Kelso.

  “Well, as long as we don’t get sidetracked chasing theories that don’t pan out. That’s my advice to you, Detective. Listen to Lieutenant Leyton. Keep your investigation moving forward. Investigations are like sharks. If they stop moving forward, they sink.”

  Kelso nodded.

  “It will move forward, Chief. We’re going to lock down this sonofabitch. We’re going to get Mr. Red.”

  Morgan thanked everyone for the fine jobs they were doing, then glanced at his watch again and left. Dick Leyton winked at her, then followed Morgan out. Starkey wanted to run after him and kiss him, but Kelso stopped her.

  Kelso waited until Morgan and Leyton were gone, then closed the door.

  “Carol, forget this copycat business. You were doing fine until you said that. It sounds like nonsense.”

  “It was only an observation, Barry. Did you want me to ignore it?”

  “It made you sound like an amateur.”

  Southern Comfort

  John Michael Fowles bought the 1969 Chevelle SS 396 from a place called Dago Red’s Used Cars in Metairie, Louisiana. The SS 396 sported a jacked-up rear end, big-assed Goodyear radials with raised letters, and rust rot along the fenders and rocker panels. The rust rot was extra; John bought it because the damned thing was red. A red car from Dago Red’s for Mr. Red. John Michael Fowles thought that was a riot.

  He used the Miami money, paying cash with a false Louisiana driver’s license that gave his name as Clare Fontenot, then drove to a nearby mall where he bought new clothes and a brand-new Apple iBook, also for cash. He got the one colored tangerine.

  He drove across Lake Pontchartrain to Slidell, Louisiana, where he ate lunch at a diner called Irma’s Qwik Stop. He had seafood gumbo, but didn’t like it. The shrimp were small and shriveled because they’d been simmering all day. This was the first time John Michael Fowles had been to Louisiana. He didn’t think much of the place. It was as humid as Florida, but not nearly so pretty. Most of the people were fat and looked retarded. Too much deep-fried food.

  Irma’s Qwik Stop was across a narrow two-lane road from a titty bar called Irma’s Club Parisienne. John was going to meet a man there at eight that night who called himself Peter Willy, Peter Willy being a play on Willy Peter, military slang for white phosphorous explosive. Peter Willy claimed to have four Claymore antipersonnel mines to sell. If this was true, John would buy the mines for one thousand dollars each in order to recover the half pound of RDX housed in them. RDX, which he needed for the Modex Hybrid he used in his bombs, was harder than hell to find, so it was worth the effort to come to Louisiana for it, even though Peter Willy was probably full of shit.

  John had “met” Peter Willy, as with many of his contacts, in an Internet chat room. Peter Willy purported to be a death-dealing ex-Ranger and former biker who now worked the offshore oil platforms for Exxon, two weeks on, two weeks off, and occasionally spent his off time hiring out as a mercenary in South America. John knew this was bullshit. Using what was known as a “Creeper” program, John had backtraced Peter Willy’s screen name to an Earthlink member named George Parsons and to the Visa card number with which Parsons paid for his account. Once John had the Visa number, it was easy to establish Parsons’s true identity as an FAA flight controller employed at New Orleans International Airport. Parsons was married with three daughters, had never been convicted of a crime, and was not a veteran of military service, let alone being a death-dealing ex-Ranger and part-time mercenary. Maybe he would show tonight, but maybe he wouldn’t. People like Peter Willy often chickened out. Big talk on the net, but short of action in the real world. This, John knew, is what separated the predators from the prey.

  John sat in the diner, sipping iced tea until six women rose from a corner booth and left. The alpha female, a busted-out Clairol blonde with cratered skin and an ass as wide as a mobile home, had put the bill on her charge card. Now, as they herded out, John ambled past their table. He made sure that no one was looking, then palmed the credit card receipt and tucked it into his pocket.

  As it was only a little after two in the afternoon, John had time to kill, and was curious to learn what the ATF had made of his little love letter in the Broward County Library. John had been moving steadily since then, working Claudius to locate a new source of RDX, but was now anxious to read the alerts that had been written about him in the ATF and FBI bulletins. He knew that his little stunt at the library would not place him on the Ten Most Wanted List, but he expected that field offices around the country would be buzzing with alerts. Reading them gave him a serious boner.

  John laughed at the absurdity.

  Sometimes he was so goddamned bizarre that he amazed himself.

  John paid for his meal without leaving a tip (the crappy shrimp), saddled up the big 396, and rumbled down the road back to the Blue Bayou Motel, where he had acquired a room for twenty-two dollars. Once in his room, John plugged the new iBook into the phone line and dialed up AOL. Typically, he would sign on to Claudius to read what the geeps posted about him, and sometimes he would even pretend to be someone else, dropping hints about Mr. Red and enjoying his mythic status. John ate that stuff up: John Michael Fowles, Urban Legend, Rock God. But not tonight. Using the Visa card slip and the Clairol blonde’s name, he joined AOL, signed on to the Internet, then typed in the URL address for a web site he maintained under the name Kip Russell. The web site, housed in a server in Rochester, Minnesota, was identified by a number only and had never been listed on any search engine. It could not be found on Yahoo!, AltaVista, HotBot, Internet Explorer, or anything else. John’s web site was a storage facility for software.

  John Michael Fowles traveled light. He moved often, abandoned those possessions and identities by which he could be tracked, and often carried no more than a bag of cash. He was without bank accounts, credit cards (except those he stole or bought for temporary use), and real property. Wherever he relocated, he acquired the things he needed, paid cash, then abandoned them when he moved. One of the things he often needed but never carried was software. His software was indispensable.

  Before John built bombs, he wrote software. He hacked computer systems, networked with other hackers, and was as deeply into that world and its ways as he was into explosives. He wasn’t as good at it as he was with explosives, but he was good enough. The software that waited for him in Rochester was how he was able to run background checks on doofballs like Peter Willy, and how he knew what the feds knew about Mr. Red. With the software that rested in Rochester, he could open doors into credit card companies and banks, telephone systems and the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System, including the FBI’s Bomb Data Center, the ATF’s National Repository, and some branches of the Defense Department, which he often scanned for reports of munitions thefts.

  When John had accessed his web site, he downloaded an assault program named OSCAR and a clone program
named PEEWEE. The downloading took about ten minutes, after which John hand-dialed the phone number for a branch of Bank of America in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and used OSCAR to hack into their system. PEEWEE piggybacked on OSCAR, and, once in the B of A system, cloned itself into a free entity that existed only within the B of A branch in Kalamazoo. PEEWEE, from Kalamazoo, then dialed into the ATF’s National Repository. As expected, PEEWEE was stopped at a gate that demanded a coded password. PEEWEE then imported OSCAR to assault the gate. Start to finish, the process took two minutes and twelve seconds, whereupon John Michael Fowles, also known as Mr. Red, had access to everything within the ATF’s database of information on bombs and bombers.

  John smiled to himself as he always did, and said, “Piece a’ fuckin’ cake.”

  The most recent entry was from Los Angeles, which surprised John. It should have been from Miami, but it wasn’t.

  John Michael Fowles had not been to Los Angeles in almost two years.

  John stared at the entry for several seconds, curious, then opened the file. He skimmed the summary remarks, learning that an LAPD bomb technician named Charles Riggio had died in a Silver Lake parking lot. John scanned the summary, the last lines of which hit him with all the impact of a nuclear device.

  … analysis finds residue of the trinary explosive Modex Hybrid … Initial evidence suggests that the perpetrator is the anonymous bomber known as “Mr. Red.”

  John walked across the room, leaned against the wall and stared at nothing. He was breathing harder now, his back clammy. He stalked back to the iBook.

  John’s eye zoomed into the components of the bomb until they filled his screen.

  MODEX HYBRID

  He wondered for a crazy, insane moment if he had built the bomb and somehow forgotten it, laughed aloud at that, then threw the iBook across the room as hard as he could, gouging a three-inch rent in the wall and shattering the plastic case.

  John shouted, “You MOTHERFUCKER!”

  John Michael Fowles grabbed his bag of cash and ran out of the motel. Peter Willy would have a long night at the titty bar, waiting for someone who would not show. John barrel-assed the big red SS 396 along the edge of the lake, pushing the gas-guzzling engine hard and making the fat, low-class tires squeal. He stopped on the side of the causeway long enough to throw the iBook into the water, then drove like a motherfucker all the way back to the airport. He put the car in long-term parking, wiped down the interior and doors to remove his fingerprints, then paid cash for a one-way ticket to Los Angeles.