Demolition Angel

  “How could we find Clint?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you find Clint?”

  “You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

  “Mr. Olsen gave me special permission. How did you find Clint? If we let you out today and you wanted more RDX, how would you reach him?”

  “I met him in a bar. That’s all there was to it. Like I told them when they arrested me. He had a case of antipersonnel mines, I bought it, and then he was gone. I didn’t want mines; I mean, I wasn’t going to put them out in a field and watch cows walk on them or anything. I bought them to scavenge the RDX.”

  Starkey believed that Tennant was telling the truth about salvaging his RDX from stolen mines; high-order explosives were almost always acquired that way, from mortar shells or hand grenades or other military gear. But she also believed that his source wasn’t some nameless yahoo in a roadhouse. Bomb cranks like Tennant were low self-esteem loners; you wouldn’t find “Plays well with others” on his report cards. Starkey knew that, as with arsonists, Tennant’s obsession with explosives was a sublimated sexuality. He would be awkward with women, sexually inexperienced in the normal sense, and find his release in a large pornography collection devoted to deviant practices such as sadomasochism and torture. He would avoid face-to-face confrontations of any kind. He would lurk in hobby shops like the one where he had been employed and swap meets; he would be far too afraid to connect in a biker bar. Starkey decided to change her approach and come at him from a different direction. She took out the photographs of the three cars and the interview pages from Mueller’s case file. The same things that Pell had read and understood on the drive up.

  “All right, Dallas. I can buy that. Now tell me this, how much RDX do you have left?”

  Tennant hesitated, and Starkey knew that Mueller had never asked that.

  “I don’t have any left. I used it all.”

  “Sure you do, Dallas. You only blew up three cars. I can look at these pictures and tell that you didn’t use all the RDX. We can calculate things like that, you know? Start with the damage, then work backwards to estimate the amount of the charge. It’s called an energy comparison.”

  Tennant blinked his eyes blandly.

  “That’s all I had.”

  “You bought the cars from a young man named Robert Castillo. Mr. Castillo said that you asked him for a fourth car. Why would you need a fourth car if you only had enough pop for three?”

  Tennant wet his lips and made the shy smile. He shrugged.

  “I had some dynamite. You soak the interior with enough gasoline, they go fine even with the dynamite. Not as good as with the RDX, but that’s special.”

  Starkey knew he was lying, and Tennant knew she knew. He averted his eyes and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing to say.”

  “Sure there is. Tell us where we can find your shop.”

  Starkey was certain that if they could find his shop, they would find evidence that would lead to his source of the RDX or to other people with similar sources.

  “I didn’t have a shop. I kept everything in the trunk of my car.”

  “Nothing was found in the trunk of your car except a few clips and wire.”

  “They kept asking me about that, but there was nothing to say. I’m a very neat person. They even offered to reduce my time and give me outpatient status, but I had nothing to trade. Don’t you think I would have made a deal if I could?”

  Pell leaned forward and put his hands close to Tennant’s book.

  “I think you jerk off every night about using the rest of your stuff when you get out of here, but you’re here on a mental. That’s a one-way ride until the headshrinkers decide that you’re sane, which figures to be never. Does a sane man blow off his own thumb?”

  Tennant flushed.

  “It was an accident.”

  “I represent the United States Government. Detective Starkey here represents the Los Angeles Police Department. Together, with a little cooperation from you, we might be able to help get your time reduced. Then you won’t have to mess around popping off fingers with window cleaner, you can go for the whole hand, maybe even an arm.”

  Starkey stared at Tennant, waiting.

  “I never hurt anybody. It’s not fair they keep me here.”

  “Tell that to the kid with the windshield wiper through his face.”

  Starkey could see that Tennant was thinking. She didn’t want to give him much time, so she stepped in, trying to appear sympathetic.

  “That’s right, Dallas. You didn’t intend to hurt that boy, you even tried in your own way to keep him safe.”

  “I told him to take cover. Some people just won’t listen.”

  “I believe that, Dallas, but the thing is, you see, this is why we’re here, we’ve got someone out there who doesn’t care about people the way you do. This person is trying to hurt people.”

  Tennant nodded.

  “You’re here because of the officer who was killed. Officer Riggio.”

  “How do you know about Riggio?”

  “We have television here, and the Internet. Several of the inmates are wealthy people, bankers and lawyers. If you have to be in prison, this is the place to be.”

  Pell snorted.

  “Officer Riggio was killed with RDX?”

  “RDX was a component. The charge was something called Modex Hybrid.”

  Tennant leaned back and laced his fingers. The missing thumb must have hurt because he winced and drew back his hand.

  “Did Mr. Red set that bomb?”

  Pell came out of his chair so suddenly that Starkey jumped.

  “How do you know about Mr. Red?”

  Tennant glanced nervously from Starkey to Pell.

  “I don’t, really. People gossip. People share news, and lies. I don’t even know that Mr. Red is real.”

  Pell reached across the table and gripped Tennant’s wrist above his bandaged hand.

  “Who, Tennant? Who’s talking about Mr. Red?”

  Starkey was growing uncomfortable with Pell’s manner. She was willing to let him play bad guy to her good guy, but she didn’t like it that he was touching Tennant, and she didn’t like the intensity she saw in his eyes.

  “Pell.”

  “What do they say, Tennant?”

  Tennant’s eyes grew larger and he tried to twist away.

  “Nothing. He’s a myth, he’s someone who makes wonderful elegant explosions.”

  “He kills people, you sick fuck.”

  Starkey pushed out of her chair.

  “Leave go of him, Pell.”

  Pell’s face was bright with anger. He didn’t leave go.

  “He knows that Red uses Modex, Starkey. We’ve never released that information to the public. How does he know?”

  Pell gripped Tennant’s bandaged hand. Tennant went white and gasped.

  “Tell me, you sonofabitch. How do you know about Mr. Red? What do you know about him?”

  Starkey shoved Pell hard, trying to move him away, but couldn’t. She was terrified that the guard would hear and burst in.

  “Damnit, Pell, leave go! Step away from him!”

  Tennant slapped at Pell without effect, then fell backward out of the chair.

  “They talk about him on Claudius. That’s how I know! They talk about the bombs he builds, and what he’s like, and why he’s doing these things. I saw it on Claudius.”

  “Who the fuck is Claudius?”

  “Goddamn you, Pell. Get back.”

  Starkey shoved at Pell again, and this time he moved. It was like pushing a house.

  Pell was breathing hard, but he seemed in control again. He stared at Tennant in a way that Starkey read with certainty that if Pell had his gun, he would be holding it to the man’s head.

  “Tell me about Claudius. Tell me how you know about Mr. Red.”

  Tennant whimpered from the floor, cradling his hand.

  “It’s an Internet site. There?
??s a chat room for people … like me. We talk about bombs and the different bombers and things like that. They say that Mr. Red even lurks there, reading what they say about him.”

  Starkey turned away from Pell, staring at Tennant.

  “Have you had contact with Mr. Red?”

  “No. I don’t know. It’s just a rumor, or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. If he’s there, he uses a different name. All I’m saying is what the others say. They said the Unabomber used to come around, too, but I don’t know if that was true.”

  Starkey helped Tennant to his feet and put him in the chair. A red flower blossomed on the bandage; his wound was seeping.

  “You okay, Tennant? You all right?”

  “It hurts. Goddamn, it hurts. You bastard.”

  “You want me to get the guard? You want the doctor?”

  Tennant glanced at her and picked up his book with his good hand.

  “I want you to sign.”

  Starkey signed Tennant’s book, and then she called the guard and got Pell out of there. Tennant seemed fine when they left, but she wasn’t sure what he might say once they were gone.

  Pell moved like an automaton, stalking out ahead of her, stiff with tension. Starkey had to walk hard to keep up, growing angrier and angrier. Her face felt like a ceramic mask, so brittle that if he stopped walking before they reached the car, it might shatter, and, with it, her control.

  She wanted to kill him.

  When they reached the parking lot, Starkey followed him to his side of the car and shoved him again. She caught him from behind, and this time he wasn’t ready. He stumbled into the fender.

  “You crazy bastard, what was that all about? Do you know what you did in there? Do you know what kind of trouble we could be in?”

  If she had her Asp from her uniform days, she would happily beat him stupid.

  Pell glared at her darkly.

  “He gave us something, Starkey. This Claudius thing.”

  “I don’t give a shit what he gave us! You touched a prisoner in there! You tortured him! If he files a complaint, it’s over for me. I don’t know about the motherfucking ATF, but let me tell you something, Pell, LAPD will have my hide on the barn! That was wrong, what you did in there. That was wrong.”

  She was so angry that she wanted to throttle him. All he did was stand there, and that made her feel even angrier.

  Pell took a deep breath, spread his hands, and looked away as if whatever had driven him inside was leaching away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s great, Pell, thanks. You’re sorry.”

  She walked away from him, shaking her head. She could still feel last night’s drunk, and suddenly she realized that she was already thinking about getting there again, blasting back a couple of quick shots to kill the knots in her neck. She was so damned angry that she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  That’s when Pell said, “Starkey.”

  Starkey turned back just in time to see Pell stagger against the car. He caught himself on the fender, then collapsed to one knee.

  Starkey ran to him.

  “Pell, what’s wrong?”

  He was as pale as milk. He closed his eyes, hanging his head like a tired dog. Starkey thought he was having a heart attack.

  “I’m going to get someone. You hang on, okay?”

  Pell caught her arm, holding tight.

  “Wait.”

  His eyes were clenched shut. He opened them, blinked, then closed them again. His grip on her was so strong that it hurt.

  “I’m okay, Starkey. I get these pains sometimes. It’s a migraine, that’s all. Like that.” He wasn’t letting go of her.

  “You look like shit, Pell. I’d better get someone. Please.”

  “Just give me a minute.”

  He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. Starkey had the frantic thought that he was dying right here in the damned parking lot.

  “Pell?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Let go of me, Pell, or I might have to smack you again.”

  He held her with a grip like pliers, but when she said it, his face softened, and he let go. Color began to return to his face.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He looked at her then. She was very close to him. His closeness embarrassed her, and she scooted away.

  “Let me just sit here for a second. They can’t see us, right?”

  She had to stand to peer over the car at the reception building.

  “Not unless they can see through the car. If they saw what happened, they probably think we’re down here making out.”

  Starkey flushed, surprised that she’d said something like that. Pell seemed not to notice.

  “I’m okay now. I can get up.”

  “You don’t look okay. Just sit here for a minute.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He stood, balancing himself against the car, then used the door for support as he climbed in. By the time she went around the other side and got behind the wheel, he had more color.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Close enough. Let’s go.”

  “You really fucked us up in there.”

  “I didn’t fuck us up. He gave us Claudius. That’s something we didn’t have before.”

  “If he files a complaint, you can use that to explain to Internal Affairs why they shouldn’t bring me up on charges.”

  Pell reached across the seat and touched her thigh. His expression surprised her; his eyes were deepened with regret.

  “I’m sorry. If he files a complaint, I’ll take the bullet. It wasn’t you in there, Starkey, it was me. I’ll tell them that. Just drive, would you, please? That isn’t an order; it’s a request. It’s a long ride home.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, then she started the car and pulled away, her leg feeling the weight of his hand as if it were still there.

  6

  • • •

  It was after seven when Starkey let Pell off at the curb outside Spring Street. The summer sun was still high in the west, resting on the crown of a palm. Soon, the sky would purple.

  Starkey struck a fresh cigarette, then turned into the traffic. Hooker and Marzik had long since gone home. Even Kelso was gone, probably eating dinner about now. Starkey passed an In-’n-Out Burger, her stomach clenching at the thought of food. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, so she made do with a couple of antacids.

  In the long silence coming back to L.A., Starkey had decided that Pell was dangerous to her case and to her chances of reclaiming her career. If Tennant filed a complaint or squawked to his attorney, she was done. Olsen might be on the phone with Kelso right now; Kelso might be filing for an IAG investigation. A lot could happen in three hours.

  Starkey flicked her cigarette out the window, hard. Trading her job for this Claudius thing seemed like a sour deal. The only way Starkey could protect herself was to report Pell and file an officer complaint. She could call Kelso at home and explain what happened. Tomorrow morning, he would walk her up to IAG, where she would be interviewed by a lieutenant, who would then phone Olsen and ask him to interview Tennant. By midafternoon, the lines between Spring Street and the ATF field office would burn. Washington would jerk Pell from the case, and her own ass would be covered. Then, if Tennant squawked, Starkey would be clear. She would have acted accordingly and by the book. She would be safe.

  Starkey lit a second cigarette, thankful for the slow pace of the traffic. Around her, cars pulsed from parking garages like the life bleeding from a corpse. Going to Kelso was not an acceptable option. Even thinking about it made her feel cheesy and low.

  She couldn’t get Pell out of her head.

  Starkey didn’t know anything about migraine headaches, but what had happened in the parking lot had scared her even more than Pell losing control with Tennant. She fretted that beating the hell out of suspects was Pell’s ATF way of doing things, and that meant he would do it again, placing her in even gre
ater legal jeopardy. She was certain that he was hiding something. She had enough secrets of her own to know that people didn’t hide strengths; they guarded their weaknesses. Now she feared Pell’s. The bomb investigators that she had known were all detail people; they moved slowly and methodically because they built puzzles often made of many small pieces over investigations that lasted weeks, and often months. Pell didn’t act like a bomb investigator. His manner was predatory and fast, his actions with Tennant extreme and violent. Even his gun didn’t fit the profile, that big ass Smith 10.

  She drove home, feeling as if she was in a weakened position and angry because of it. She thought about calling Pell at his hotel and raising more hell, but knew that would do no good. She could either call Kelso or move on; anything else was just jerking off.

  At home, Starkey filled her tub with hot water for a bath, then poured a stiff gin and brought it to her bedroom where she took off her clothes.

  Naked, she stood at the foot of her bed, listening to the water splash, sipping the gin. She was intensely aware of the mirror on the closet. It was behind her, almost as if it were waiting. She took a big slug of the drink, then turned and looked at herself. She saw the scars. She saw the craters and rills and valleys, the discolorations and the pinhole stitching. She looked at her thigh, and saw the print of his hand as clearly as if she bore a brand.

  Starkey sighed deeply and turned away.

  “You must be out of your goddamned mind.”

  She finished the drink in a long series of gulps, stalked into the bath, and let the heat consume her.

  7

  • • •

  “Tell me about Pell.”

  “He’s a fed with the ATF. That’s Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”

  “I know.”

  “If you knew, why did you ask?”

  “I meant I know what the acronym stands for, that ATF is the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. You seem irritable today, Carol.”

  “How inconsiderate of me. I must have forgotten to take my daily dose of mellow.”

  Starkey was annoyed with herself for mentioning Pell to Dana. On the drive to Santa Monica, she had mapped out what she wanted to talk about in today’s session, which had not included Pell, yet Pell was the first damned thing that popped from her mouth.