coffee, you could hardly tell that they had done something here. Maybe the Minnesota fans weren't such idiots after all.
Dawkins had a radio plugged into his ear. Listening to a game on the radio was like having sex with your clothes on, but at least he knew what the cheers were about. Minnesota scored first. Wills took it in by sweeping left end from fifteen yards out. The Vikings' first drive had taken only seven plays and four minutes fifty seconds. Minnesota sounded pretty tough today.
“God, Dennis must be sick,” Fowler observed. Liz didn't hear him, concentrating instead on her movie. The Secretary of Defense immediately had cause to feel sicker. The kickoff was fielded at the five, and the reserve running back who handled that duty for the Chargers made it all the way to the forty — but there he fumbled, and a Viking fell on the ball.
“They say Marvin was a clever little bastard. Look at the numbers on the other licenses. Except for the first couple of digits, they're the same as his… I bet he got — well, somebody got — one of these ID machines,” Murray said.
“Passports and everything,” O'Day replied, watching Tony Wills do it again for eight yards. “If they don't figure a way to key on that kid, this game's going to be a blowout.”
“What kind of passports?”
“They didn't say. I've asked for more information. They'll fax the photos when they get back into the office.”
In Denver the computers were humming. The rental car company was identified, and a check of their system revealed that the car had been returned to Stapleton International Airport just a few hours earlier. That made a really hot trail, and the detectives drove directly there from the motel, after taking initial statements from the first pair of “witnesses.” The descriptions of the other two matched the photos on the passports. These were on their way to police headquarters. Already, they knew, the FBI was yelling for information. That made it sound more and more like a major drug case. Both detectives wondered where the victim's van was.
Dawkins finished his first circuit of the stadium just as Minnesota made its second touchdown. Again it was Wills, this time a four-yard pass out of the backfield. The guy already had fifty-one yards rushing and two receptions. Dawkins found himself looking at the ABC van he'd checked through. Why the Colorado tags? They'd said they were from Chicago, and that they had brought the tape widget in from Omaha. But the truck was painted like an official network truck. The local TV stations were not network-owned. They all showed network affiliation, but the big letters on them were for the local call-letters for the stations. Something to ask the sarge about. Dawkins circled the entry on his clipboard and wrote a question-mark next to it. He walked inside to the security booth.
“Where's the sarge?”
“Out walking the lot,” the officer at the booth replied. “The dumbass has twenty bet on the Chargers. I don't think he can take it.”
“I'll see if I can get him to lay a little more,” Dawkins replied with a grin. “Which way did he go?”
“North, I think.”
“Thanks.”
The Vikings kicked off again, with the score 14-0. The same return man took the kick, this time three yards deep in the end zone. He ignored the safety man's advice to down the ball and went up the middle like a shot. Breaking one tackle at the sixteen, he took advantage of a picture-book block and broke for the sidelines. Fifteen yards later it was clear that only the kicker had a chance, but the kicker was slow. At one hundred three yards, it was the longest kick return in Superbowl history. The point after was good, and the game was now 14-7.
“Feeling better, Dennis?” the Secretary of State asked the Secretary of Defense.
Bunker set his coffee down. He had decided not to drink. He wanted to be stone sober when he accepted the Lombardi Trophy from the Commissioner.
“Yeah, now we just have to figure a way to stop your boy.”
“Good luck.”
“He's a great kid, Bruce. Goddamn if he can't run.”
“He isn't just an athlete. Kid's got brains, and a good heart.”
“Bruce, if you educated him, I know he's smart,” Bunker said generously. “I just wish he'd pull a hamstring right about now.”
Dawkins found his sergeant a few minutes later. “Something funny here,” he said.
“What's that?”
“This truck — little white van on the east end of the row of big satellite trucks, 'ABC' painted on it. Colorado commercial tags, but supposedly it's from Chicago or maybe Omaha. I check 'em through, said they had a tape deck to replace a broken one, but when I walked past it a few minutes ago, it wasn't hooked up, and the guys who brought it in were gone.”
“What are you telling me?” the sergeant asked.
“I think it might be a good idea to check it out.”
“Okay, call it in. I'll give it a walk-past.” The sergeant looked at the clipboard to check the tag number. “I was headed off to help out the Wells Fargo guys at the loading dock. You take that for me, okay?”
“Sure, Sarge.” Dawkins headed off.
The watch supervisor lifted his Motorola radio. “Lieutenant Vernon, this is Sergeant Yankevich, could you meet me down at the TV place?”
Yankevich started walking back south around the stadium. He had his own personal radio, but it lacked an earpiece. San Diego stopped the Vikings on downs. Minnesota punted — a good one that required a fair catch at the Chargers' thirty. Well, maybe his team could get the game even. Somebody ought to shoot that Wills kid, he thought angrily.
Officer Dawkins walked to the north end of the stadium and saw a Wells Fargo armored car parked at the lower-level loading dock. One man was trying to sling out bags of what had to be coins.
“What's the problem?”
“The driver's beat his knee up, he's off having it fixed. Can you give me a hand?”
“Inside or outside?” Dawkins asked.
“You hand them out, okay? Be careful, they're heavy mothers.”
“Gotcha.” Dawkins hopped inside. The interior of the armored truck was lined with shelves holding innumerable bags of mainly quarters, it looked like. He lifted one, and it was as heavy as he'd been told. The police officer stuck his clipboard in his belt and went to work, handing them out to the loading dock, where the guard set them on a two-wheel hand-truck. Trust the sarge to stick him with this.
Yankevich met the Lieutenant at the media entrance. Both walked over to the truck in question. The Lieutenant looked inside. “A big box with 'Sony' written on it… wait a minute. Says it's a commercial videotape machine.”
Sergeant Yankevich filled his boss in on what Dawkins had told him. “It's probably nothing, but—”
“Yeah — but. Let me find the ABC guy. I'm also going to call the bomb squad. Stay here and keep an eye on the thing.”
“I have a Slim Jim in my car. If you want, I can get in easy enough.” Every cop knows how to break into cars.
“I don't think so. We'll let the bomb guys think it over — besides, it's probably just what it looks like. If they came down to replace a broken tapedeck — well, maybe the broken one was fixed and they decided they didn't need it.”
“Okay, Lieutenant.” Yankevich walked inside to get another cup of coffee to keep warm, then returned to the out-of-doors he loved so much. The sun was setting behind the Rockies, and even in zero weather with a bitter wind, it was always something beautiful to watch. The police sergeant walked past the network uplink vans to
