out.”
“What kind of message?” I pressed.
“You wouldn’t hear it. For God’s sake, you’re the police. You’re a million miles away from these things, Lindsay. I’m not saying you don’t have a social conscience. But what do you do when you read that twenty percent of the people don’t have health insurance or that ten-year-old girls in Indonesia are pressed into stitching Nikes for a dollar a day. You turn the page, just like I do. Lindsay, you’re gonna have to trust me if you want me to help.”
“I’m going to give you a name,” I said. “This can’t appear in print. You run it around on your own time. Anything you find, no copyeditors. No ‘I have to protect my sources.’ You come to me first. Me, only. Are we right on this?”
“We’re right,” Cindy said. “So give me the name already.”
Chapter 30
“Beautiful,” Malcolm whispered, his eyes narrowed through surgeon’s operating lenses at the bomb on the kitchen table.
With still hands, he twisted the thin red and green wires that ran from the explosive brick into the terminal on the blasting cap and molded the soft, puttylike C-4 into the frame of the briefcase. “It’s a shame to have to blow this up,” he exclaimed, admiring his own work.
Michelle had come into the room and she placed a hand tremulously on Mal’s shoulder. He knew this scared the shit out of her—wiring the thing, current and charges going everywhere.
“Relax, honey. No juice, no boost. It’s the most stable thing in the world right now.”
Julia was on the floor, listening to the TV, the auburn wig ditched after her assignment last night. There was a news interruption about the murder at the Clift. “Listen.” She turned it up.
“While police are not yet linking Bengosian’s death to Sunday’s bombing at the home of a prominent Bay Area tycoon, sources say there is evidence to connect the two incidents, and they are looking for an attractive brunette female in her early to mid-twenties who was seen entering the hotel with George Bengosian.”
Julia turned down the volume. “Attractive?” She grinned. “Honey, they will never know. Whatya think.” She covered herself in the wig and struck a modeling pose.
Michelle pretended to laugh, but inside, she wished she hadn’t been so stupid as to leave that goddamn inhaler lying around. She wasn’t like Julia, who had killed a man last night looking right in his eyes. And now she was laughing about it, gloating.
“Mica, honey.” Malcolm turned around. “I need you to be a brave girl and place your finger on this spot.” He taped the wired blasting cap to the soft C-4 and molded in the rigged cell phone. “This is the delicate part. I just need you to hold the green and red wires, baby, so they don’t cross.… That would be very bad.”
Mal always made fun of her. Just a Wisconsin cheese head, he would say with a laugh. But she had proved herself. She put her finger on the wire, trying to show that she was brave. She wasn’t a farm girl anymore.
“Nothing to get worried about.” Malcolm winked, seeing her unease. “All that drama about crossing the wires, that’s for the movies. Now what is certifiably hairy is that I set these little wires to the ringer, not the phone battery; otherwise, they’ll be picking up our parts as far away as Eau St. Claire.” Her hometown.
Michelle’s finger was trembling. She didn’t know if he was toying with her or not.
“Done.” Malcolm finally exhaled, pushing the lenses up onto his brow. He wheeled back in the chair. “Juiced, as they say, and revved up to roar. Blow the dome right off of City Hall. Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.
“Think we should take her out for a little test drive?” Mal said. “Whatya say?” Michelle hesitated. “C’mon,” he said, grinning, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He handed her a second cell phone. “Number’s already punched in. Just remember, it’s just a toy until the fourth ring. That’s a no-no. You don’t want to hear the fourth ring. Take the wheel, honey… Let her rip.”
Michelle shook her head and handed it back to him. Mal merely grinned.
“C’mon, nothing to worry about. No juice, no boost. It’s all set up.”
Michelle took a deep breath and pressed the SEND button, just to show she could. A second later, the phone wired to the bomb jangled.
“Contact.” Malcolm winked.
A chill shot through her. Mal was so confident. He had it all planned. But things could go wrong. In the Middle East, Palestinian bombers blew themselves up all the time.
Beep. Her eyes went to the briefcase. Second ring. She tried to look calm, but her hand was shaking. “Malcolm, please.” She tried to give it back. “You see it works. I don’t like this, please.…”
“Please, what, Mica?” Malcolm held her wrist. “You don’t trust me?”
The bomb phone jangled again. Third ring …
Michelle’s blood went cold. “Cut it out, Mal.” She fumbled for the disconnect button.
The next ring was contact. “Malcolm, please, you’re scaring me.”
Instead of complying, Mal pinned her hand. All of a sudden she didn’t know what was going on. “Jesus, Mal, it’s about to —”
Beep. Fourth ring.
The sound split the room like a scream. Michelle’s gaze locked on the phone. On the bomb.
It began to vibrate. Oh shit… She looked into Malcolm’s eyes.
A buzzer sounded.
No explosion. No flash. Just a sharp click.
On the blasting cap.
Malcolm was grinning. He lifted the disengaged cap he’d been holding. “I told you, baby. No juice, no boost. So what’d you think? I think it drives just fine.”
Michelle’s body relaxed. Inside, she was screaming. She wanted to punch Malcolm in the face. But she was too spent. Sweat was pouring through her T-shirt.
Malcolm took the blasting cap and wheeled the chair back over to the device. “You think I was gonna set this beauty off?” He shook his head. “Fat chance, baby. She’s got important work to do. This bomb is going to blow the minds of everybody in San Francisco.”
Chapter 31
About seven, I was back at my desk. My teams scattered all around the area, chasing the leads we had. Cindy had gotten me a copy of this book, Vampire Capitalism. She said it would give me an idea of the new radicalism that was starting to take hold.
I flipped through the chapter headings: “The Failure of Capitalism.” “Economic Apartheid.” “Vampire Economics.” “The Armageddon of Greed.”
I didn’t even notice Jill standing at my door. She knocked, making me jump. “If only John Ashcroft could see you. The linchpin of the city’s law-enforcement machine … Vampire Capitalism?”
“Required reading,” I said, smiling, embarrassed, “for the serial killer with a bang.”
She was dressed in a stylish red pantsuit and a Burberry summer raincoat, a pile of briefs squeezed into her leather satchel. “I figured you could use a drink.”
“I could,” I said, tapping the book against the desk, “but I’m still on duty.” I offered her a bag of Szechuan soybeans instead.
“What are you doing,” she snickered, “heading up the department’s new Subversive Authors wing?”
“Very cute,” I said. “Here’s a fact I bet you didn’t know. Bill Gates, Paul Allen, and Warren Buffet made more money last year than the thirty poorest countries, a quarter of the world’s population.”
