commercial. This one had amped up the coverage, with a split screen of live feeds from the package sites, and a female anchor who looked suitably concerned as she interviewed a terrorism expert.
'How the hell do you get to be a terrorism expert?' McLaren asked.
Gino shrugged. 'They're probably all retired spooks.'
'Oh yeah? Seems like it'd be a good gig. Play James Bond for a while, then get a nice, fat contract to show up on TV whenever the shit hits the fan.'
'Sign up now, McLaren. I heard they're looking for orange- haired agents with borderline albinism to plant in the Middle East.'
'Do the words 'Miss Clairol' and 'spray-on tan' mean anything to you, Rolseth?' Johnny returned his attention to the terrorism expert, who was clearly his new idol.
Gino was shaking his head in disgust. 'They just always have to jump right to the doomsday scenario every frigging time, don't they? I mean, this is probably just a sick, twisted prank, but oh no, it's Muhammed Muhammed Whoever, blowing up the Heartland. I'm telling you, it's just like the weather warnings. Remember last Sunday, when they were crowing about how this summer was going to be the worst drought in recorded history, how the crops were going to die on the vine, food prices were going to skyrocket, and by August, we'd all be rioting over the last can of corn on earth? And what happens the next day? We get five inches of rain in two hours, and suddenly the rivers are going to crest and the entire Midwest is going to get wiped off the face of the map in biblical floods. Jesus. If there are any terrorists, it's those gel-haired assholes on TV who tell you every raindrop's a tornado and every mugging is the end of Western civilization.' He stopped for a breath and looked at Tinker, who was gaping at him, absolutely speechless.
McLaren, on the other hand, who always appreciated a good rant, was beaming at him. 'Man, two snaps up…
Hey, Magozzi, long time in the can. We thought you fell in.'
Gino looked up at his partner's rigid face and felt his insides go cold.
Chapter Thirty-two
Red hair or not, Johnny McLaren had one of those pale faces you never associated with the Irish. Neither round and rosy nor dark and haunted, his was one hundred percent affable, and, as the ladies were fond of noticing and slow to respond to, boyish. It hadn't looked boyish since Magozzi told them what he'd learned in the bathroom.
It took the media about five minutes longer to learn about the Mason jars, and now the coverage was nonstop, and about as close to grim as Minneapolis television ever got, which meant the anchors weren't smiling. Magozzi and Gino had gone back to their desks, but McLaren and Tinker were hooked to the TV like dogs on a leash.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,' McLaren murmured, and for the first time Magozzi heard Ireland in the lilt. 'They found another one. How many is that?'
'Seven,' Tinker said.
'And how many bomb squads have we got?'
'Last time I checked, we had four. In the whole state.'
Magozzi looked across the desk at Gino, whose eyes were fixed on the TV. The sound was muted, but the picture was bad enough. They had a graphic of the city up, with seven blinking red dots, marking the location of each suspect box. While they watched, three more lights popped up in the center of the city.
'Shit.' Gino pushed speed dial on his cell. 'Angela. Where are you? What library? Okay, that's okay. Where are the kids?'
Angela's irritated voice came through loud and clear when Gino held the phone away from his ear. 'Oh, gee, Gino, I don't know. Was I supposed to be watching them?'
Gino winced. 'All right, all right, I'm sorry, okay?' And then he told her what was going on, listened for a long time before turning toward the wall and murmuring some things Magozzi couldn't hear before hanging up.
'Everything okay?' Magozzi asked his partner.
Gino looked miserable. 'I told her to pick up the kids and take them on a little field trip.'
'Where to?'
Gino took a breath. 'Out of the city. Wisconsin, maybe.'
'Christ, Gino…'
But Gino didn't hear him. He'd raised his eyes to the television, where at least half a dozen new red lights were blinking.
Things were getting out of hand. Most Minnesotans watched the news coverage, decided for themselves whether the threat was real or exaggerated, and the only measure of the majority decision was the number of cars on the freeway heading for Wisconsin, because nobody wanted to attack Wisconsin. Ever.
'Lot of cars on the bridge to Hudson,' Gino commented, his eyes on the television.
Magozzi nodded. 'Where're Angela and the kids?'
'Somerset. She got the last room at a great bed-and- breakfast near the Apple River.'
'Feel better now?'
Gino nodded. 'Big time.'
Magozzi glanced at the caller ID when his cell rang, then picked up. 'You're watching this, right?'
Grace never worried about anything, except the bag boy at Whole Foods pulling out an AK-47 and shooting her dead. 'Of course we're watching it, Magozzi. We have been, since seven a.m., when we got a pre-post. You need to check the messages on your cell more often, especially when your switchboard is jammed.'
Magozzi thought about that for a minute. He always checked for messages, hoping one of them would be from Grace. But not this morning. This morning things had started to happen really fast, and his heart did a little flip- flop at the thought that he'd lost precious time on a potential murder. You're calling me, so I assume it's local. Did the post give you any ideas on the potential victim or location?'
'It's not another murder, Magozzi. We think the pre-post was about the boxes.'
'What?'
'All it said was 'City of Lakes, Many, Everywhere.' Half an hour later the TV was nonstop boxes. The post was untraceable, like the murder posts, but it didn't follow the same routing as the others. Your profiler friend, Chelsea, is in the know, according to John, and she says it's something else entirely.'
'She is not a friend. We had a beer and a burger and a gallon of milk while we talked shop about serial killers and Internet stuff. Did she bother to mention what 'something else entirely' means?'
'She's even got a name for it. Chaotic terrorism. You know how little boys get a kick out of popping out of closets and scaring the crap out of you?'
'That was really sexist, Grace.'
'How many little girls pop out of closets to scare people?'
'Not enough, but I get your point.'
'So Chelsea thinks this is the post-puberty version. Disenfranchised dweebs hiding in their basements, power- tripping on scaring a whole city to death. The coverage of the murder posts probably gave them the idea.'
Magozzi pushed wrinkles into his forehead. 'So she doesn't think it's real.'
'Obviously it doesn't have to be real to stop a city. The threat is enough, but it's still terrorism, plain and simple.'
Magozzi started rummaging in his desk drawer, looking for aspirin. 'So our choices are a terrorist attack or a teenager attack?'
'And if it's the latter, you better get those monsters in cuffs by the morning news or every media-addicted creep in the country is going to try to outdo what happens here. Go to work, Magozzi. We can't find them, so it's all on you.'
When Magozzi hung up, Gino was peering over his computer screen at him, powdered sugar parentheses enclosing his mouth. 'I choose teenager attack.'
'Huh?'
