Slow Burn (23 page)

Nate smiled. “FBI said the same thing. CSU will have first priority. The sooner we get over there, the better.”

“Yeah, okay. Where did Roger get the gun?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“He had a gun when he came to the reading of the will,” Kate said. “Remember?”

“The police wouldn’t have given it back to him,” Nate said. “Roger had just made bail. He was carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.”

“Did he tell the police where he got that gun?”

“Yes,” he answered. “He said Ewan gave it to him and that Ewan had bought it on the street.”

“Where’s Ewan now?”

“He’s voluntarily turning himself in. He’s on his way to the police station, no doubt with an attorney ready to bail him out. That’s why I’m headed there now. He’ll find out about Roger when he gets there. I checked on Bryce’s whereabouts, too. He’ll never hear about Roger. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness. His wife is by his side and will stay until the bitter end, which is going to be real soon.”

“What about Jackman?”

“FBI in Las Vegas picked him up for questioning. He’s their problem now.” Nate started toward the door as he said, “I’ll see you over there.”

“It’s really over, isn’t it? I still can’t believe it,” Kate said. Dylan was nodding, but she didn’t think he was paying attention. “Is something wrong?”

“No, but I want those policemen to stay until you’ve signed those papers.”

He walked downstairs with Nate, and together they checked in with the officers on duty, who assured them they would stay as long as Kate was in the building.

When Dylan came back into the conference room, she said, “I thought you wanted to look at the evidence.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Go on, and shut the door behind you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Kate hadn’t quite absorbed the news yet. The man who tried to kill her was dead, and his accomplice was in custody. And here she sat diligently answering her e-mail as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

She would probably fall apart tonight when she was all alone. Dylan could very well be on his way back to Boston by then. She felt an instant rush of panic and became angry with herself. Why should she be upset? She’d always known he was going to leave. No surprise there. And she would get through it just like everything else in her life that had been painful.

But Dylan wouldn’t go until tomorrow, she decided. He’d drive her back to Silver Springs, spend the night with her, and early the next morning while she was sound asleep, he’d leave.

She knew he cared about her. It had taken a considerable amount of coaxing just to get him to leave her alone to work on her computer while he went to the crime scene with Nate. He’d even suggested she go with him.

She realized she wasn’t going to get any work done if she continued to think about Dylan. He’d only just left, and she was already missing him.

She forced herself to go back to work. She’d answered several more e-mails before she was interrupted by Anderson’s assistant. He timidly knocked on the door and stepped inside.

“Miss MacKenna, there’s a phone call for you on line one. The gentleman wouldn’t give me his name, but he insisted he was a friend.”

Who would be calling her at the law office? The only people who knew where she was had her cell phone number.

“Should I tell him you’re unavailable?”

“No, I’ll take the call,” she said.

Terrance picked up the phone from the credenza and placed it on the corner of the table. “Would you like me to help you with anything? Get you anything?”

“No, but thank you for asking.”

“If you need me, I’ll be in the library. Just push the intercom button.”

She thanked him again, and as he was pulling the door closed, she answered the phone.

“Is this Kate MacKenna?” a man asked.

She didn’t recognize the caller. The voice was pleasant, though.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “And who is this?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to give you my name. I want to help you,” he said. “And I mean you no harm. I have information for you,” he rushed on. “Will you please listen to what I have to say?”

“Yes,” she replied cautiously. “I’ll listen, but first, please tell me why it isn’t a good idea to tell me your name.”

“I’m wanted by the police,” he answered. He hurried to add, “I’ve never killed anyone . . . at least on purpose.” He laughed, and then he snorted. “Just kidding . . . really, I’ve never killed anyone.”

Kate didn’t know what to make of him, but the call was beginning to unnerve her. She glanced around. She was alone, and the conference room door was closed.

Before she could ask him why he was a wanted man, he continued. “The authorities don’t know my real name, and I would prefer they never find out. Will you promise to remain calm? I want to help you, and in order to do that, you have to be able to hear what I have to say. You can’t become hysterical.”

“Of course I’ll remain calm,” she told him. “Just tell me who you are.” She could hear the apprehension in her own voice.

He laughed. “Nice try. I won’t be giving you my name. But I’ll tell you what I will do; I’ll give you the name the police call me.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Florist.”

Kate nearly dropped the phone. Her immediate response was disbelief. “That’s not funny . . . I don’t believe . . . why would . . .”

“Now, you promised to stay calm . . .”

Kate looked at the closed door again, willing it to open and Terrance—anyone—to walk in so she could signal him. Maybe someone could trace the call.

“This is a twisted prank,” she said.

“It is not a prank,” he insisted. “I’d never prank you. I
am
called the Florist, and I do want to help you.”

“Help me? If you are who you say you are, your bombs have nearly killed me twice.” She pressed the intercom button hoping that someone would hear the conversation, but the phone would not allow her to access the intercom as long as she was on the line.

“I didn’t try to kill you,” he said, exasperated. “I only made the explosives.”

“This is crazy,” she said.

“You need to hear what I have to say.” He didn’t sound crazy. He sounded reasonable. Was he going to offer her an apology?

“I’ll listen. Start explaining.”

“I like blowing things up.”

Okay, so he was crazy after all. She thought she should say something in response. “Do you want to tell me why?” If she could keep him on the line, she might be able to summon help.

“Why isn’t relevant,” he said. “I’ve made quite a nice income. I bought a big-screen TV with surround sound last month. You wouldn’t believe how it makes the Nature Channel come alive . . . but I digress. Truth is, I enjoy the extra income, and it allows me to do something I love doing.”

“Blowing things up.”

“I like building explosives, and in the past I never let anyone else near them. Until recently. A friend of a friend of a friend . . . you know how it goes. I was lured by the money, and I was hoodwinked. I was told the explosives would be used in the desert. There was a lot of talk about caves and underground facilities. Oh, yes, I was spun an elaborate lie, and I believed it. I was extremely naÏve and greedy.

“I took the money and went back to my day job. I didn’t think another thing about it until I opened the newspaper and saw a photo of an explosion at a gallery. It made the national news. I recognized my work right away. I was outraged because I had been hoodwinked, and after I read the article about how you had narrowly escaped death, I was scared, and I felt really bad for you.” He snorted again. “Really, I did . . . heh, heh . . . I thought about sending you flowers.

“I tried to get hold of my contact, but he had disappeared. Then I read about another explosion that destroyed a building and nearly killed you again. I knew then that you were the target.”

She heard him take a deep breath and let out a long sigh.

“This is a dangerous business.”

He was just now figuring that out? “Yes,” she said.

“I’ve decided to quit.”

“You’re calling me to tell me you’re retiring?” she asked suspiciously.

He didn’t answer the question. “There’s a gentleman who has been pursuing me for several years now. His name is Sutherland, and he works for ATF. I would appreciate it if you would call him and tell him to go home.”

“Because you’re retiring.”

“Yes.”

This was the most bizarre conversation she had ever had. “I think
you
should tell him. I’m sure he would love to meet you, even if only by phone.”

“Oh, we have met, several times, in fact. He just doesn’t know it.”

She bet Sutherland was going to love hearing that. She spotted her purse on a chair next to the window. Her cell phone was in it. If she could get it, she might be able to contact someone.

She needed to keep him talking.

“May I ask a question?” she asked as she stood up and moved the phone to the end of the table as far as the cord would allow so she could reach for her purse.

“Certainly. If I can answer it, I will, and no, I’m not really a florist. If you could see my garden, you’d—”

“That’s not the question I was going to ask. I was told that you always put your explosives in baskets. I was curious to know why.”

“That’s a common misconception. I don’t put them in baskets. They
are
the baskets. It’s quite intricate work. I like to think of myself as a virtuoso. The Beethoven of bang, if you will.” He chuckled.

“Why did you really call me?”

“I need to get serious now,” he said as he stopped his laugh with a sigh. “I want to save your life.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“By giving you important information. The first explosion tore out a hill.”

“Yes.” She grabbed the purse handle and pulled it to her.

“You walked away and barely suffered a scratch. Do you know the statistical odds for that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The second explosive took down a building, and you survived that as well. That’s phenomenal, just phenomenal.”

“Yes,” she said again. Where was this leading? She fished to the bottom of the purse for her phone.

“The odds are becoming positively astronomical. I’m quite worried about you. You just can’t survive another one.”

“Another one?”

“Yes. You see, I made three.”

“What?” She stopped. “What did you say?”

“There’s one more bomb out there, and you need to listen carefully . . .”

Kate was concentrating so intently on what the bomber was saying, she didn’t hear the door open behind her.

Chapter Thirty-five

Roger Mackenna’s apartment smelled like forgotten garbage. Roger smelled like he’d rolled around in it before he killed himself. He was lying on the floor in the living room, flat on his back, the gun still clutched in his hand. Blood had pooled around his head and upper shoulders and had formed what appeared to be a perfect black chalk outline. Death had captured his expression of despair. One eye was closed, the other was somewhere in the back of his skull.

He wasn’t a pretty sight.

The FBI was there in force, and the agent in charge, Joel Kline, turned out to be surprisingly accommodating. He was about Dylan’s age, but he already had deep creases at the corners of his mouth. His tall, thin frame was hunched at the shoulders as though permanently bent from stooping over too many crime scenes.

Once Dylan had diplomatically let him know that he was in no way interested in usurping his position, Kline handed him a pair of gloves and told him to have a look around. He’d be happy to get his input.

The medical examiner was a middle-aged man named Dr. Luke Parrish. He was kneeling beside the body. Dylan squatted next to him, introduced himself, and showed him his badge.

Parrish liked to chat. “I used to live near Silver Springs,” he said. “Real nice area. Not enough homicides to keep me busy or interested, so I moved here. Savannah’s real nice, too,” he added. “With that accent of yours I’d say you’re from the northeast. Am I right?”

“Yes,” he said. “Boston.”

“You relocating?”

“No, this is a temporary job.”

They both turned to look at the body. “This one knew what he was doing,” Parrish said. “One clean shot took care of it. Most of them don’t know where to aim.”

The weapon was a Glock. Parrish bagged it and handed it to a hovering agent. “Damn, he stinks. I don’t think he ever took a shower. He hasn’t been dead long. He had this stench on him when he was alive. How could anyone live like this? Look around. The place is a pit. You’d think anybody who could afford expensive furniture like this might try a little to keep it nice. That leather sofa alone had to have cost a couple thousand.”

Parrish wasn’t exaggerating about the apartment. It was a pit. There were overflowing ashtrays on tables and chairs, and empty whiskey bottles scattered about. The sofa looked like it was ready to be carted off to the city dump. The cushions were all broken down, and there were cigarette holes along the arms.

The coffee table was the only clean surface in the apartment. The papers on top were organized.

“Did you find a suicide note?” Dylan asked.

Kline crossed the room to join him. “No, not yet. But he left us all these papers. I think he wanted to help us get Jackman.”

“Is there enough to prosecute him?”

“We’re not through looking.”

In other words, no, Dylan thought. “Tell me what you do have.”

“We’ve compared what we found here with the information we’d already gotten from Nate Hallinger. He’s gonna love seeing all this evidence when he gets here.

“It looks like Roger knew just about everything there was to know about Kate MacKenna. He had all of her phone numbers, her work and home addresses, the make and model of her car, the license plate number, her business associates’ phone numbers and addresses, her sisters’ cell phone numbers. He even had Isabel MacKenna’s ex-boyfriend’s name and phone number.”

“He had Reece Crowell’s name?”

“And he’d underlined Carl Bertolli’s address and had the date and time for the gallery party. He had the address for the warehouse, too.”

“My God, he had it all, didn’t he?”

“I’m just getting warmed up. We already bagged the calendar we found in the kitchen next to the phone. It was covered with prints. It looked like someone else besides Roger had made notes. There were two distinct handwritings. I sent it to the lab over an hour ago and put a rush on it. We should have a preliminary report any minute now. Besides times and places, there were flight numbers. Kate’s flight numbers. He knew when she was going to Boston, and he knew when she was coming home.”

Dylan was having a difficult time controlling his anger. How long had the son of a bitch been stalking Kate? Had he been inside her house? It would have been easy for him. She never locked the damned doors.

“Have you looked at his car yet?”

“Yes,” Kline answered. “It’s a white Ford with tinted windows. This has to be the car Kate described to Hallinger, the one that tried to run her down.”

“Getting all this information took a lot of time and care.” Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. “What else?”

“There were two dates heavily circled on the calendar.”

“The dates of the explosions.”

“That’s right,” Kline said. “Roger made a lot of notations. One was real interesting. ‘Jackman got the baskets.’ ‘Two hundred thousand’ was written next to it. That has to be the amount he paid for the explosives.”

“Nate told me Jackman’s been picked up.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Right now he’s sitting in an interrogation room in Vegas waiting for his attorney.”

“Roger’s notes aren’t going to be enough to hold him long, and you still don’t know who was behind the camera when Compton MacKenna filmed his farewell address.”

“We know it wasn’t one of the nephews because he didn’t trust any of them, and he didn’t want them to know what he was up to,” he said. “That was real apparent in the video. There are a couple of people looking good to us, though. One’s the housekeeper. We just found out she made a fat deposit in her account about six weeks ago. We’re bringing her in to have a little talk.” He added, “And we’re also interested in Compton MacKenna’s attorney. I’m not worried. We’ll find whoever it was.”

Dylan took his time walking around the apartment and studying the papers and the handwritten notes. Nice tidy package, he thought. Roger couldn’t have been more accommodating if he’d tried. He’d left just enough hints to connect Jackman, but not hard evidence to nail him.

Something didn’t compute. Dylan made a second examination of the information the agents had collected, but each time a question was answered, another one popped up. What was Reece’s name doing in Roger’s notes? Why did he leave information for them to find and yet leave no suicide note? Where did he get another gun so quickly? There was nothing orderly in Roger’s life, so why was this so organized?

One perfect shot . . . knew just where to aim.

The paramedics had come in to bag the body. Agent Kline moved out of their way and noticed Dylan staring down at the papers, frowning. “Something bothering you?” he asked.

Dylan nodded. “This doesn’t feel right. It isn’t working for me.”

They both watched the body being carted away. “What you’ve got here is a nice, tidy package,” Dylan said.

Kline shrugged. “It can happen this way . . . all of it coming together . . .”

“Yeah? Since when does it happen this way? Everything laid out nice and easy for you? The only thing missing from the table are arrows pointing to the evidence on those papers.” He shook his head. “I don’t like nice and tidy, and do you know why? It makes me think that maybe all this was staged.”