Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [16]
Rooney Berwick was waiting impatiently behind the ID machine.
“It’s a California license,” I said helpfully. “Darcy DeGuzman just moved up to Oregon.”
“Got it right here.” Rooney Berwick tapped some papers. He knew his damn job. “Look at the little babies now.”
Tacked to the wall was a snapshot of four pug puppies with walleyed faces scrambling to get out of a cardboard box.
“Are those your puppies?”
“Please hold still, Miss DeGuzman.”
The camera strobed.
Rooney said, “Pick it up when you leave.”
But I could not just leave. Searching for his eyes I said, “I’m really sorry about your mom.”
He looked away and mumbled, “Have a great day” in the burned-out monotone of mid-level technical services personnel who inhabit the hidden compartments of the Bureau: doing it thirty years and never seen daylight. Their ideas, and their expertise, make other people famous. Nobody cares about the grunts.
I joined the team in a damp wood-paneled alcove in the basement. Coffee cups, water bottles, and documents marked OPERATION WILDCAT—TRUSTED AGENTS ONLY littered the table.
“The firebomb that blew up Ernie’s Meats is consistent with the explosive that killed Steve Crawford,” Special Supervisory Agent Angelo Gomez told us. “The bomb techs are calling it a signature device.”
Angelo Gomez is a legendary undercover investigator who favors the narco look—slicked-back hair, earring, mustache, Hawaiian shirt (to cover the gun), two-ton Rolex, and chubby pink sapphire ring. One eye is smaller than the other and set at a skewed angle. A kiss from a bullet, rumor goes. Angelo is the case agent, running the show from Los Angeles. Mike Donnato will fly up to Portland as needed.
“How are the bombs the same?” my partner asked.
“Both built the same way, by someone with skills, using the explosive Tovex. Just like in Steve’s case, the TPU was built with everyday materials—cell phone, digital clock, batteries—connected with alligator clips.”
“The alligator clips,” I remarked, “are worthy of note.”
Galloway was looking through files and doing something with a calculator, but he was listening. He had taken the supervisory position on the case because Steve Crawford meant that much to him.
“What’s the significance of alligator clips?”
“It means he’s a lazy bomb builder,” I replied. “Wants to build it fast. Confident, not a perfectionist, doesn’t have to have the wire wrapped just so—just wants to get the job done.”
“What’s the profile?”
“Off the top of my head? He’s a white heterosexual male. The way he builds his TPUs—the alligator clips and ordinary wire—says he’s not high-tech, goes with the classics.”
“Older?”
“Maybe. We can eliminate vandalism or experimentation as a motive. This guy is on a mission.”
Galloway nodded. “Ideology. That’s what our pals at FAN stand for—Free Animals Now.”
“Don’t let the soft and furry animal rights bullshit melt your heart,” Angelo agreed. “These are criminals, bad as Timothy McVeigh. Their end goal is to change society—into what, who knows or cares—but the immediate goal is to put fear in people. Chaos and destabilization—that’s their stock-in-trade.”
I reached past Donnato to sneak a corner of the blueberry muffin he was delicately breaking into crusts. Automatically, he slid it toward me—one of many small, endearing moves during a long partnership in which we often found ourselves sharing the same thought: Doesn’t matter what the boneheads call themselves. They killed Steve.
“What’s on your mind?” Galloway asked, seeing my frown.
“Opening-night jitters.” I shrugged.
Never let it show.
“Afraid you won’t know your lines?”
“I’ll figure it out. I’ve read every transcript of every intercept.”
“Anarchists don’t care about the issues,” Galloway reminded us. “Don’t feel you have to spout the rhetoric. The cause is