There would be federal charges—mostly related to the explosives—but those could be handled later.
As they waited in the parking lot for Nichols to arrive, O’Neil asked, “So, how’d you do it? All I know is you called me about three, I guess, and told me to get choppers and a communications team ready. You hoped to have some details about the location of the attack in about forty-five minutes. But you didn’t tell me what was going on.”
“I didn’t have much time,” Dance explained. “What happened was I found out, after wasting nearly an hour, that Keplar was kinesics proof. So I had to trick him. I took a break at three and talked to our technical department. Seems you can speed up analog clocks by changing the voltage and the frequency of the current in the wiring. They changed the current in that part of the building so the clock started running fast.”
O’Neil smiled. “That was the byword for this case, remember. You said it yourself.”
Dance continued, “I remembered when we got to CBI Keplar started lecturing Dan Simmons about his cause.”
“Oh, that obnoxious reporter and blogger?”
“Right. I called him and said that if he asked Keplar why he picked those particular victims, I’d give him an exclusive interview. And I called you to set up the search teams. Then I went back into the interrogation. I had to make sure Keplar didn’t notice the clock was running fast so I started debating philosophy with him.”
“Philosophy?”
“Well, Wikipedia Philosophy. Not the real stuff.”
“Probably real enough nowadays.”
She continued, “You and the crime scene people found out that it was probably a bomb and that it was planted in a large room with a stage. When the clock hit four in the interrogation room, I had Albert call me and pretend a bomb had gone off and killed people but the stage had absorbed a lot of the blast. That was just enough information so that Keplar believed it had really happened. Then all I had to do was perp walk him past Simmons, who asked why those particular victims. Keplar couldn’t keep himself from lecturing.
“Sure was close.”
True. Ten minutes meant the difference between life and death for two hundred people, though fate sometimes allowed for even more narrow margins.
One of the FBI’s black SUVs now eased to a stop beside Dance and O’Neil.
Steve Nichols and another agent climbed out and helped their shackled prisoner out. A large bandage covered much of his head and the side of his face. O’Neil stared at him silently.
The FBI agent said, “Kathryn, good luck with this fellow. Wish you the best but he’s the toughest I’ve ever seen—and I’ve been up against al-Qaeda and some of the Mexican cartel drug lords. They’re Chatty Cathy compared with him. Not a single word. Just sits and stares at you. He’s all yours.”
“I’ll do what I can, Steve. But I think there’s enough forensics to put everybody away for twenty years.”
The law enforcers said good-bye and the feds climbed into the Suburban, then sped out of the CBI lot.
Dance began to laugh.
So did the prisoner.
O’Neil asked, “So what’s going on?”
Dance stepped forward and undid the cuffs securing the wrists of her associate, TJ Scanlon. He removed the swaddling, revealing no injuries.
“Thanks, Boss. And by the way, those’re the first words I’ve said in three hours.”
Dance explained to O’Neil, “Gabe Paulson’s in a lot more serious condition than I let on. He was shot in the head during the takedown and’ll probably be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. Which might not be that long. I knew Nichols’d wanted to have a part of the case—and for all we knew at that point he had primary jurisdiction. I wanted to interrogate the only suspect we had—Keplar—so I needed to give Nichols someone. TJ volunteered to play Paulson.”
“So you just deceived the FBI.”
“Technically. I know Steve. He’s a brilliant agent. I’d trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this.”
“Three hours, Boss,” TJ said, rubbing his wrists. “Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That’s very hard for me.”
O’Neil asked, “Won’t he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?”
“He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I’ll deal with it then.”
“I thought I was going to be waterboarded.”
“I told him not to do that.”
“Well, he didn’t share your directive with
Dance laughed.
O’Neil left to return to his office in Salinas and Dance and TJ entered the CBI lobby, just as the head of the office, Charles Overby, joined them. “Here you are.”
The agents greeted the paunchy man who was in his typical work-a-day outfit: slacks and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing tennis- and golf-tanned arms.
“Thanks, Kathryn. Appreciate what you did.”
“Sure.”
“You were in the operation, too?” Overby asked TJ.
“That’s right. FBI liaison.”
Overby lowered his voice and said approvingly, “They don’t seem to want a cut of the action. Good for us.”
“I did what I could.” TJ said. Then the young man returned to his office, leaving Dance and her boss alone.
Overby turned to Dance. “I’ll need a briefing,” he said, nodding toward the reporters out front. A grimace. “Something to feed to
Despite the apparent disdain, though, Overby was in fact looking forward to the press conference. He always did. He loved the limelight and would want to catch the 6:00 p.m. local news. He’d also hope to gin up interest in some national coverage.
Dance put her watch back on her wrist and looked at the time. “I can give you the bare bones, Charles, but I’ve got to see a subject in another matter. It’s got to be tonight. He leaves town tomorrow.”
There was a pause. “Well, if it’s critical…”
“It is.”
“All right. Get me a briefing sheet now and a full report in the morning.”
“Sure, Charles.”
He started back to his office and asked, “This guy you’re meeting? You need any backup?”
“No thanks, Charles. It’s all taken care of.”
“Sure. ‘Night.”
“Good night.”
Heading to her own office, Kathryn Dance reflected on her impending mission tonight. If Overby had wanted a report on the attempted bombing for CBI headquarters in Sacramento or follow-up interrogations, she would have gladly done that, but since he was interested only in press releases, she decided to stick to her plans.
Which involved a call to her father, a retired marine biologist who worked part time at the aquarium. She was going to have him pull some strings to arrange special admission after hours for herself and the children tonight.
And the “subject” she’d told Overby she had to meet tonight before he left town? Not a drug lord or a terrorist or a confidential informant… but what was apparently the most imposing cephalopod ever to tour the Central Coast of California.
