yourself, even if you don’t tell me. Ten to one says the cops are suspicious of McCabe hanging himself. A dinner at Marley’s, Wendy, if they don’t suspect it was a murder staged to look like a suicide.”
“Kolarich, whatever else, don’t play me for stupid, all right? You and I both know if I ask the question, and I get that answer, I’m duty-bound to tell you.”
She was right, of course. “And you and I both know that what I’m asking you to do is the right thing to do. This is the guy that Kathy Rubinkowski went to see about Summerset Farms. This is the guy who brushed her off. And I’ll probably never be able to prove it, but he’s the guy who erased Kathy’s e-mail from Tom Rangle’s computer before he could read it. And now that I’m sniffing around, the guy suddenly offs himself? I mean, how many coincidences do we need before you stop calling this smoke and mirrors?”
“I don’t need preaching from you, Jason.”
“No, you don’t. You know what the right thing to do is. So do it.”
I punched out the phone.
“That was harsh,” said Tori, sitting next to me in my SUV.
It was. But I had faith in Wendy. And if she didn’t talk to the detectives investigating Bruce McCabe’s suicide, I would subpoena them and ask them myself. She knew that, too, which made our entire conversation somewhat contrived. Contrived, but necessary. It was better if Wendy felt like she was doing this voluntarily. It would invest her in the result.
I made a right turn and headed west. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into bringing you,” I said.
“Because you love spending time with me.” Tori put a hand over mine, resting in my lap. “Because you aren’t as conflicted as I am.”
“This could be dangerous, Tori. This isn’t a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
No, she wasn’t, but she was in a good mood. Playing cops and robbers always seemed to elevate her spirits, from the first time we visited a crime scene together to checking out Summerset Farms to now. It took the focus off of our relationship. Maybe that should tell me something.
I watched the street addresses and slowed my vehicle as we got closer. When it appeared we were about a half-block away, I pulled the car over to the side of the road.
My cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was my scrappy associate, Bradley John. Or John Bradley. Sometimes I forget.
“Hey, Pretty Boy,” I said.
“I found it. It’s the state police, believe it or not. The state police tracks sales of a number of chemical explosives. Nitromethane among them. SK Tool and Supplies sold nitromethane to Summerset Farms.”
“Boy, that’s a great system we got. The department of agriculture tracks the sale of fertilizer and the state police track sales of nitromethane?”
“Our government at work,” he agreed. “One hand not talking to the other. And Kathy’s e-mail was right-SK didn’t sell that product to anyone but Summerset Farms.”
If there was any doubt, that confirmed it. Randall Manning bought two companies at the same time, Summerset Farms and SK Tool and Supply. SK would sell the nitromethane, Manning’s company would sell the ammonium nitrate fertilizer, and Summerset would be the recipient of both, the front company.
I was still missing the “why.” Why would a multimillionaire like Randall Manning want to build a bomb?
“It’ll be interesting to hear how Stanley Keane explains this,” said Bradley.
“Yeah. I’ll let you know what he says.”
I hung up the phone and nodded to Tori. We got out of the car and walked toward Stanley Keane’s house.
81
Stanley Keane lived in a small town called Weston, more than a hundred miles southwest of the city. He lived on a corner lot in a two-story Victorian brick house. The houses were well spaced, and Stanley had an impressive backyard filled with trees that were naked this time of year. We walked to the street corner and looked at the front of the house. There was a light on upstairs. The front porch had an awning and a sconce that produced orange light.
As far as I knew, Stanley Keane lived alone. He was fifty-five years old and he was the only registered voter at this address, so that probably ruled out a wife or adult children. His age probably ruled out younger children, but I couldn’t be sure. We were doing everything on the fly, and this was the best we could do.
I’d figured out a few things about Stanley Keane, but I didn’t know enough. I didn’t know, for example, if he knew me, if he’d recognize my face. I didn’t even know if he was a part of this thing, but the odds were decent and I was out of time to dance around subjects.
It was eight-thirty, cold, and dark, so the streets were otherwise deserted, which helped. It was Saturday night, but this was a residential street. We’d passed a few busy taverns on our way here. They were a mile away easily.
Tori and I did a lap around the block. There was a back door into Keane’s house and the front door, of course. I thought about how this should play out.
We went back to the car. I drove it around the corner and parked in front of his house. I had considered a back-door entry, maybe using Tori at the front door to distract him. But I decided, in the end, to play it straight.
Well, kind of straight, anyway. I clipped my badge to my coat so it showed outward. It was my prosecutor’s badge. I’d lost it back when I was on the job, which was an extreme no-no, because in the wrong hands it could create all kinds of havoc. The job gave me a replacement badge, of course, and docked me pay as a penalty, which I had no problem with. When I later found the original in my overcoat at the dry cleaner’s, I figured I’d paid for it, so I’d keep it.
“You should stay in the car,” I told Tori. “I know you wanted to come and I thought I might use you, but I think this is better one-on-one. If I’m law enforcement, who are you? You look like a runway model, Tori.”
“I’m too short.”
“Okay, a short runway model.”
“You look less threatening with me at your side,” she argued. “Otherwise, you’re this big bruiser guy all alone. I’d be less worried about you if a woman were standing next to you.”
She had a point. Okay, fine.
We got out of the SUV and walked to the front door. I rang the bell and stepped back off the porch, beyond the awning, and held up my badge to the lit window on the second floor. A silhouette appeared, and then the window slid open.
I held the badge at an angle to obscure my face. He probably didn’t have a terrific look at me, anyway, but it didn’t hurt to make it more difficult.
“Mr. Keane?” I called out. “County sheriff’s investigator.”
He stuck his head out through the window. “It’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“If it could wait,” I said, “I would have waited.”
He nodded and closed his window. If Stanley Keane were an innocent guy in all of this, he’d come to the door. If Stanley Keane were a guilty accomplice in all of this, he’d come to the door. Right? If he was part of a plan for a terrorist act which obviously hadn’t happened yet, why would he risk himself and his plan by starting some controversy on his front doorstep with a law enforcement officer? What was he going to do, shoot me?
I would soon find out. I followed a trail of lights turning on in the house as he made his way downstairs. A light near the front door came on and I braced myself. He might know my face, after all.
He opened the door slowly. I held out my credentials for him to see clearly, which was pretty standard protocol for a nighttime visit from law enforcement. He poked his head out and his eyes went first to the badge. If he had good eyesight, he was probably wondering what a guy with a county investigator’s badge from the city was doing down here in Fordham County.
But he wasn’t wondering that. I saw it immediately in his eyes when they locked with mine. He knew who I
