“So what, boss? Erin tried to kill him. I tried to kill him. Hell, you’re the only guy in this room who didn’t take a shot at the son of a bitch. Not her fault Erin and I only winged him.”
“This isn’t the Wild West, Neshenko. She’s a goddamn terrorist. If she was a man and had an Arabic name, she’d be in Guantanamo Bay by now.”
“Don’t let the press hear you say that, sir,” Vic warned.
“I’m stating a fact, not a political opinion,” Webb said. He rubbed his face. “Not that we can prove any of it. We’re going to have to cut her loose.”
“I thought at least she’d be carrying,” Erin said. “If we’d gotten her on a weapons charge, we could’ve held her.”
“All night long,” Vic said, grinning.
“In your dreams,” she said, irritated. He wasn’t going to let her forget Siobhan’s parting shot.
“Nah, she’s not my type.”
“What, a gorgeous redhead doesn’t light your fire?” Erin teased.
“I prefer them sane.”
“Which is why you remain single. Any girl would have to be crazy to date you. It’s a catch-22.”
“What’d she mean about your boyfriend, anyway?” Webb asked.
Erin gave what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “She knows I’m in contact with Carlyle and Corcoran. I assume she meant one of them. I don’t know what she meant by it.”
Webb nodded. “We’ll keep her for a few hours, just in case something comes up.”
“We don’t really have her DNA from the bombing, do we?” Erin asked.
“Nope,” Webb said. “DNA from explosions is almost never any good. It’s always dead cells, with environmental contamination and heat damage.”
“You thought an IRA veteran wouldn’t know that?” Erin asked.
“I took a chance,” he said, annoyed. “You’re the one who brought her in without enough evidence to charge.”
Erin nodded and shut up. Webb was right.
The squad was back in the Major Crimes office, and Siobhan was cooling her heels in the precinct lockup. Vic was looking through file after file from the Organized Crime division, trying to make sense of the Lucarellis and where Conti had fit in. Webb was examining the little they had on Diego Rojas. Various officers came and went with bits of evidence. Erin was talking with Skip, who’d come up from his basement office.
“Forget about tracing a sale,” he said. “The bomb was homemade napalm. You can mix it with ordinary stuff, off the shelf. Assuming the bomber paid cash, and wasn’t dumb enough to buy all the ingredients in one place, there’s no chance.”
“How good was the device?” she asked.
“Wasn’t much of a device. Chemical trigger, inside the bottle. They threw it, the glass shattered on impact, and boom.”
“So, an amateur job?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m saying a Molotov cocktail looks about the same, no matter who makes it. Hell, the whole point of them is that anyone can build one. You know how they got their name?”
Erin shook her head. Skip wasn’t exactly a nerd, but on the subject of explosives he was an encyclopedia.
“Back in 1940, when the Soviet Union went to war with Finland, the Finns didn’t have much in the way of weapons. After the Soviets bombed Helsinki, the Russian Foreign Minister, a guy named Molotov, said they hadn’t really dropped bombs, they’d dropped bread to feed the starving people. So the Finns, dark humor specialists that they are, started calling Russian bombs ‘Molotov breadbaskets.’ Then, when they needed homemade anti-tank weapons, they called their gasoline bombs ‘Molotov cocktails,’ saying now they had a drink to go with the food.”
“That’s very interesting, Skip,” she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Are you telling me we’re looking for Finnish hitmen?”
“No, I’m just telling you it could be anybody.” He paused. “Including Finns, I suppose. You got any Finnish suspects?”
“It’s New York City,” she allowed. “Could be.”
“Or it could be a professional bomb-maker,” Skip added. “Like him.”
“Who?” Erin asked. Then she followed his gaze past her to the stairwell. “Shit,” she added under her breath.
Carlyle was standing at the entrance to Major Crimes with a man beside him who was definitely a lawyer.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Skip suggested.
Erin just stared, mind racing. She had no idea what to say, but Vic took it out of her hands. He sprang to his feet and crossed the room. Erin and Rolf scrambled up and followed, Webb just a few steps behind. Vic got right in Carlyle’s face.
“I think you’re on the wrong floor,” Vic growled. “Lockup’s downstairs.”
“We’re on our way there now,” Carlyle said, unintimidated. “But we’re needing to speak with your lieutenant first.”
“You want me, you got me,” Webb said. “What’re you doing here, Mr. Carlyle?”
“I’m here to arrange the release of one of your prisoners.”
“That so?” Webb looked Carlyle over. The Irishman was immaculately dressed in a gray suit that probably cost more than Webb’s entire wardrobe. He looked every inch the respectable businessman.
“Aye, that’s so.” He was calm, collected, and polite. But he didn’t look Erin in the eye. “Miss Finneran, if you please.”
“We’re not required to release her at this time,” Webb said.
“She’s an Irish national,” the lawyer said. “I’m John Walsh, and I’m representing Ms. Finneran. I have a letter here from the Irish consulate, respectfully requesting that Ms. Finneran either be charged or released at once.”
“The consulate has no jurisdiction here,” Vic said.
“No, sir, it doesn’t,” Walsh said. “But cooperation will prevent an international incident. We’re requesting this as a courtesy.”
Webb scanned the letter. His mouth twisted slightly, but he didn’t show any other emotion. Folding it, he handed it back to the lawyer.
“O’Reilly, release our guest.”
Erin cursed inwardly. “Yes, sir,” she said out loud. “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.” Rolf stayed at her side.
No one said anything as she led Carlyle and his lawyer down to the holding cells. She put her Glock and her backup ankle piece in a gun locker outside the cells and went in. Siobhan was waiting for them, reclining on an elbow on the hard
