Shadows at the Spring Show (26 page)

“Detective, is there any progress on figuring out who set the explosives? Or who killed Jackson Sloane?”

He shook his head. “The device that set off the bomb was very simple. A teenager could have found instructions on the Internet. It didn’t involve any complicated ingredients we could check out. And as for Jackson Sloane . . . frankly, we haven’t got a lot to go on. His father’s gun is still missing. We were able to confirm that the gun that shot Holly Sloane was the same one that killed Jackson.”

“Did you find whoever Jackson was with after he left his home Saturday night?”

“Jackson walked out of his house and disappeared until those kids found his body. No one saw him. He didn’t take any of the family cars or bicycles, so we’re assuming either he walked or someone picked him up. It was after dark, and the houses where the Sloanes live aren’t too close together. Someone would have to have looked out a window at just the right moment or been out themselves. We’ve talked with neighbors, but no one’s come up with leads that go anyplace.”

Al shook his head. “If you knew who’d done the shooting, I think you’d also find the person who set off that bomb yesterday.”

“You may be right. But we can’t assume that either. The only connection is the Our World Our Children agency, and they don’t know anything. If someone were angry at the agency, you’d think they’d threaten it directly, not threaten families connected with it, or fund-raisers.”

“Carole Drummond said she’d asked for more surveillance of the agency offices,” said Maggie.

“And we’re checking their offices regularly. But all the action seems to be away from the agency itself. Like here.”

“That could change,” said Al. “Someone could be trying to draw your efforts away from the agency.”

“That’s why we have extra guys keeping alert for the next couple of days. Especially Saturday and Sunday, when most of the agency people will be here. OWOC has hired private security people for the weekend, too.”

Earlier that week Carole had said the offices held irreplaceable papers critical to bringing children to this country or to finalize adoptions. Carole hadn’t even been near the gym yesterday, so far as Maggie knew. It sounded as though she’d been busy protecting her own turf.

Detective Luciani took out his notebook. “I’ve been checking the records of everyone who was here in the gym yesterday. Everyone who had an opportunity to place that bomb. All they had to do was tell someone they were going to a restroom. It wouldn’t have taken long.”

“But just a few of us were here, and I can’t imagine any of us doing it! Someone else could have driven or walked into the parking lot during the afternoon. We weren’t watching it every minute while we were working in the gyms.”

“I understand, Professor Summer. But we had to start the investigation somewhere. As you say, though, we didn’t find much.” Luciani looked down at his notebook. “You had two
parking tickets about four years ago. That’s the only record we had for you. And you left your fingerprints with us earlier this week, so we’ll be able to check those out.”

“You think I bombed my own van? You must think I’m totally insane!”

“Al, your record is clean. Eric Sloane had several juvenile arrests, but they must not have been serious; they’ve been sealed. He’s had nothing since he was seventeen. Abdullah Jaleel has had three speeding tickets within the past five years. We also found records that one of his neighbors, and several anonymous callers, reported after 9/11 that he might be a terrorist.” Luciani raised his hand to shush Maggie’s aggravated expression. “Nothing was found; nothing was done. They were just hate calls so far as I could tell. There was also some racist spray painting at his home, and his mother reported she’d overheard people making anti-Arab remarks. The usual ‘Camel jockey, when’re you going on your suicide mission?’ sort of talk.”

“The ‘usual talk’?” said Maggie incredulously. “What’s ‘usual’ about discriminating against someone who lost his brother
in
a terrorist attack?”

“People listen to the news, and they worry. They go on the offensive,” said the detective, adding, “And I guess you know his mother killed herself.”

“I’d heard.”

“Abdullah was the one who called 911 when it happened. She hung herself. Left a note about being tired and not able to cope anymore. It wasn’t pretty.”

“She killed herself because of the prejudice?”

“It looked as though that pushed her over the edge, after her older son was killed.”

Al asked, “There was no question it was suicide?”

“No question. From the investigator or from her son. She did it.”

“This is awful,” said Maggie. “I can’t believe you’re rehashing all the terrible things that happened to these good people in the past, when I’m sure someone else set that bomb!”

Detective Luciani continued, unfazed. “Will Brewer has no record of any sort we could find, although we have faxed the police in Buffalo to verify that.”

Maggie almost stamped her foot in rage. Was all this necessary? There was a killer out there! And these idiots were investigating victims, like Abdullah, and innocent bystanders, like Will.

“The only one here who had any sort of significant record was Claudia Hall.”

“Claudia?” Maggie stood absolutely still.

“Yup. She has a sheet.”

Maggie felt a bit faint.

“Shoplifting, a couple of times, about ten years ago. Drug possession, once.”

“Drugs?” croaked Maggie. The woman who was condemning her for drinking diet cola?

“Marijuana. She was in a car accident; police found it in her pocketbook. And there was a protective order taken out against her, four years ago.”

“A protective order?” Al frowned. “She was abusing someone?”

“Harassing. Former boyfriend. He said she was following him and sending him threatening letters. She was pissed because he had a new girlfriend. A couple of new girlfriends, actually.” Detective Luciani shook his head. “Anyway, it didn’t come to anything. She stopped bothering him, I guess.”

“But she did send threatening letters.” Al was looking back toward the gym, where Claudia was working.

“She did. And,” Detective Luciani looked at Maggie, “she does have a gun.”

“I know that. It’s licensed.” Last fall Maggie had had a serious talk with Claudia about why one shouldn’t carry a gun to work in one’s pocketbook. Even if it was licensed.

“And, luckily for her, it’s not the same type used to shoot Mrs. Sloane or her son. But we’re going to watch her, I have to
tell you. If you see anything suspicious, with her or anyone else, let me know as soon as possible.” Luciani paused. “Maybe it would be a good idea if she didn’t work so closely with you on this show.”

“No!” said Maggie. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for everything. And let’s assume for a minute that she is responsible for all this chaos. Which I don’t for one minute believe. Wouldn’t it be better if she were right here with us, so we could keep an eye on her?”

“I suppose that’s right, Professor Summer. But be careful. She might be a dangerous person.” Luciani looked down at his notes. “And then there’s Hal Hanson.”

Maggie felt her level of frustration rising. “I suppose he’s a dangerous criminal, too?”

“Possibly, yes.”

Maggie took a deep breath. “What did you find out about Hal?”

“He was adopted about ten years ago, by Sheryl and Len Hanson, who lived in Somerville. Didn’t make a good adjustment; had been abused by his parents and as a kid in foster care, and was seriously hyperactive. So hyperactive the local school system said they couldn’t handle him; he was hitting other kids and throwing things out windows during classes. His parents had him in counseling, tried different medications and different schools. None of them worked out.”

Maggie listened carefully. Life had been difficult for Hal. And his adoptive parents.

“After he set a few small fires at home, he ended up at an adolescent psychiatric facility in Pennsylvania.”

Fires.

“He was released from that hospital late last fall and moved home, on medication.”

“And in January his parents’ home burned down, killing them both,” said Maggie quietly.

“That’s why we have a whole file on him. But I want to
emphasize—there was no proof the fire was set, or that he had anything to do with it. It appeared to be electrical. Hal was in a first-floor bedroom; the fire started in the middle of the night. He called 911. His parents were in bed and trapped on the second floor. There was nothing he, or anyone else, could do.”

“You investigated and found nothing.”

The detective shook his head. “We had some questions, but nothing conclusive. Then the Drummonds took him in. They knew his history, and they believed he was innocent.”

Carole and her husband wouldn’t have offered Hal a home if they’d felt there was danger to their other children. Maggie was sure about that.

“So . . .?”

“No proof. No reason to investigate further. But Hal has a history of emotional disturbance and a connection with fires.”

Maggie thought a moment. “Has he had any connection with guns? Or bombs?”

“None that we know of.”

She nodded. “So it may all be a coincidence that he was here.”

“It may be,” agreed the detective. “And it may be a coincidence that all three of the young men here yesterday afternoon have lost family members to violence. But we in law enforcement don’t like it when there are too many coincidences connected with one event.”

“Incidents of violence and death of family members is much more common among adopted children and adults than it is among the population in general,” Maggie put in. “Two of those young men were adopted. And Abdullah lost his brother in the World Trade Center. You can’t put that loss in the same category as the others!”

“That’s very different, of course,” said Detective Luciani. “But it is interesting that the three of them were together.”

“All helping to support adoption,” Maggie reminded him. “
Support
adoption. Not threaten it.”

“We’re exploring all possibilities. Let me know if you hear or see anything that might be helpful to the investigation.”

“Of course,” said Maggie.

“Or if you see or hear anything that could potentially lead to another incident.”

“You mean another threat?”

“Another threat. Or worse.”

Chapter 35

Crossing a Deep Ravine Dangerous to Pafs (sic).
One of six hand-colored etchings in the “Steeple Chase” series by Henry Thomas Alken (1785–1853), perhaps Britain’s most famous painter of sporting subjects. His satirical view of sports was popular in England in the 1820s and 1830s. This etching, published by S&J Fuller, shows four horses and riders in a race. One horse and rider have fallen into a deep ditch, while the other three proceed to the next hazard: bushes in front of a fence. Matted, in modern antiqued gold frame. Frame: 12.5 x 15.5 inches. Price: $250.

By one in the afternoon it was beginning to feel as though there might really be an antiques show.

Signs appeared all over town announcing the show and directing potential customers toward the college. And with the help of some ladders Eric had located, Skip Hendricks and his committee put a big vinyl banner on the gym declaring
OWOC ANTIQUES SHOW—MAY
14 & 15 in red letters on a white background. Maggie had seen signs for professionally run shows that weren’t as clear.

Volunteers who believed in their cause were invaluable. Maggie
realized it was a slight miracle that everyone who’d been working in the gym yesterday when her van blew up was back again today.

She looked around. Additional handicapped parking spaces had been reserved.

The electricians had finished putting the cables and outlets down, tables were in the booth spaces, and dealer signs were in each space.

Maggie hated to do it, but, without giving a reason to anyone, even Will, she’d asked Will and Claudia to work together to check the booth contracts Gussie had organized, and to verify that each dealer had the electricity and the number and size of tables he or she wanted. Just in case one of the students had made an error or left anything in one of the booths. Or that Claudia had uncharacteristically left something undone.

I’m getting really paranoid, thought Maggie to herself. But she double-checked everything.

They’d shortened one line of booths to make up for a cancellation, and Gussie had the brilliant idea to use one of the canceled booths as a lounge, leaving a dozen extra chairs there for people who wanted to sit for a while, to wait for a spouse who was still shopping, or to make a decision about a major purchase.

The tables and chairs for the café looked fine. Ann would check that setup after the bank closed at three.

Eric had listened to Maggie’s concerns. Twice he’d assured her there was plenty of toilet paper in the bathrooms, including the bathrooms in the locker rooms. Maggie made a note to make sure the locker rooms were locked before the end of the day.

“Okay, Ben,” she said. “I think it’s time for you to be a porter and bring in Gussie’s and my stuff from the van so we can get our booth set up before the other dealers arrive. Will, if you want to start setting up, too, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. I might need your help with something else after the other dealers arrive.”