Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [14]
“Do you think this is just another scare like the last two?” asked Eric Summers, a detective on loan from the local police department, who was acting as special assistant to Baumgarten over the holiday period.
Harold stared into Summers’s serious, intelligent face. The detective was not a yes-man, and he seemed to specialize in annoying questions. If there was a bomb and it did go off, he almost wished Summers could be standing next to it. He schooled his face to be objective and answered: “It’s the same type of letter. The words were clipped from newspapers and pasted onto plain white tablet paper. The only difference is that this time they are saying the bomb will go off in seventy-two hours. That difference is what’s causing us the worry. I want all of you out there sniffing out this bomb.”
The clipped-out letters were a possible clue right there, Summers thought. Match them up with recent headlines and they would know what newspapers the man read. At least he assumed it was a man. Could be wrong on that, he told himself. Times were changing faster than ever. It also occurred to him that someone young would have used the Internet, not newspapers or magazines, to make his threat, and then dared the law to find him.
But it was early in this lethal game, too early to know anything for sure. Summers stood up. “You do realize that we could comb this shopping center from one end to the other and find nothing. We have to consider the fact that the device might not be planted until the eleventh hour. The police department will want to concentrate on finding the person who sent that letter—which, by the way, is crucial evidence and might have helped in finding the sender had it not been so carelessly handled.”
Any chance the detective got to needle Harold, he took. Baumgarten flushed deep red. Covering his embarrassment with bravado, he shouted, “It’s up to the state police to find that person! Your job is to cover each area. Twice. Then go back and begin again, if necessary. Do I have to tell you how to do your job?”
“No, sir, you don’t. I’m the best in the business and I have nine citations to prove it.”
Harold pointedly ignored him and addressed the others. “Mr. Richards will be here shortly, so we’ll have to wait. Meanwhile, I’d like for each of you to come up and view this letter—without touching it, of course,” he added sarcastically without looking at Eric Summers.
His mind was racing. Goddamn it, where the hell was Dolph Richards? Probably in the sack with the busty woman who ran the Lingerie Madness store. So said the rumor mill, anyway. He fumed. Here they were, faced with a credible, three-strikes-you’re-out threat, and the mall CEO was nowhere to be found, he thought viciously.
Summers smirked. He’d be willing to bet five bucks that Dolph Richards would keep them waiting till he’d finished laying some broad. He wondered what the prick’s screwing average was.
Richards appeared as if on cue, his fly unzipped. Summers suppressed a guffaw. He knew Richards would deliberately wait until he got up on stage to zip it, so Harold could see. The two of them had a running feud that went way back.
Dolph Richards walked up to the platform and waved a greeting. He was slim and tall with a youthful lift to his step that belied his sixty years. He plucked at the lapel of his Italian suit and passed a hand over his glossy hair. He silently mouthed a greeting to someone in the room, displaying perfect teeth. Squaring his shoulders, he slowly and deliberately checked the zipper on his fly. Satisfied with the glare he got from Harold, he started