The Bohemian called back in two hours. By then, I was back at the turret, sitting on the bench by the Willahock, staring at the sky to the west, tensed for the first flash of yellow from the mother of all explosions.
There were no Vlodeks this time. “We’re set to meet at five thirty.”
“That’s the soonest?”
He swore. “That’s two hours from now. I’ve been on the phone since you called, conference calling with Chief Morris and some guy named Till at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. A.T.F. is not pleased.”
“Are you evacuating?”
“I recommended that to Bob Ballsard.”
“What did he say?” I remembered Ballsard. He was the chairman of the homeowners association. I’d met him at the Crystal Waters Fourth of July party the previous summer, the annual event the association held to let the Members think they knew the names of their neighbors. Ballsard was a nervous, rabbity little man, a partner in his father’s law firm. He had a deep tan and had worn
Topsider shoes, no socks, and a yachtsman’s cap festooned with a battery-powered flashing American flag. And he had big, Teddy Roosevelt teeth. As he made party talk with Amanda, I became transfixed by those big teeth. They seemed too square to be natural, and I wondered if he’d had them specially made for clamping onto halyards or lanyards or whatever sailors call those ropes that make sails go up and down.
“Bob was noncommittal,” the Bohemian said. “He’ll be at the meeting this afternoon.”
“He’s got no choice. He’s got to clear the place out.”
“See you at five thirty,” the Bohemian said, and hung up.
I didn’t want to kill another hour watching for the sky to blow up, so I headed to the health center, did laps, then took a long shower. None of it helped. Getting on the expressway I was just as twitchy as I’d been earlier.
On the Eisenhower, the slow-motion horror of the day continued to unfold. An avocado-colored refrigerator had fallen off a truck onto the middle lane, backing up traffic for two miles. The world was full of threats. I got to the Bohemian’s office fifteen minutes late.
Griselda Buffy was not pleased with my tardiness. “Everyone’s been waiting,” she said through the dark maroon paint that made her mouth look like a wound. She led me to a different conference room.
This one was much larger, with blue striped wallpaper and a silver coffee service shining on a sideboard. It was a room for the reading of big money wills.
Several men sat on dark blue leather chairs, around the long mahogany table.
“Vlodek,” the Bohemian said from a chair on the left side of the table. He didn’t bother to force a smile.
Stanley Novak sat two places to his left, a vacant chair in between them. Stanley’s face looked dry and immobile. I had the fleeting thought that he might be in shock.
The man to the Bohemian’s right, sitting at the head of the table, looked up from copies of the extortion notes spread out before him and nodded. He was in his late fifties, had wiry gray hair cut short, and wore a brown suit. He looked me up and down like he was measuring me for a uniform.
“Vlodek, this is Agent Till of A.T.F.,” the Bohemian said.
Agent Till stood up to shake hands. He was shorter than he seemed sitting down, no more than five-seven or -eight, and stocky. He looked like he could wrestle crocodiles. And win.
“And the chief, of course,” the Bohemian finished.
Chief Morris of the Maple Hills police, red faced, wearing a tan sports jacket and the kind of blue tie they give to tollbooth attendants, sat across the table from the Bohemian. He was also in his late fifties. He nodded but didn’t bother to get up. I’d met the chief when I’d gone to Village Hall to purchase an auto license. He must have heard the counter clerk repeat my address, because he came bounding out of his office to introduce himself. I thought it odd, the chief of police introducing himself to a car license applicant, and realized, reluctantly, that it had everything to do with Crystal Waters and not the subtle sophistication of my voice.
“As soon as Bob Ballsard arrives, we’ll begin,” the Bohemian said. Agent Till sat down and went back to examining the photocopies of the two notes. I took a chair on the chief’s side of the table.
No one spoke. It was like we had arrived early for a wake and were waiting for someone to finish powdering the guest of honor and wheel him in.
Bob Ballsard, chairman of the Board of Members of Crystal Waters, and future inheritor of great wealth, breezed in at five o’clock. He wore summer-weight gray slacks, a navy blazer like mine but undoubtedly acquired at five times the cost and most certainly without any trace of ketchup on its sleeve, and a white shirt with a
green tie that had little sailboats on it. He caught me leaning to take a discreet look at his shoes. He was wearing polished penny loafers, not Topsiders, and I was relieved to see he had on socks. He acknowledged me with a frown and a narrowing of his eyes. To the others, he offered a perfunctory apology that meant nothing of the sort, ignored the chair between the Bohemian and Stanley, and went down to sit at the foot of the long table.
Agent Till unstrapped his wristwatch and placed it in the center of the table in front of him. “Mr. Chernek has advised me of a developing situation at Crystal Waters.” His voice was raspy and had the hard edge of Chicago’s south side. “Before I proceed, I must tell you that for now, my role in this matter is strictly advisory. This matter is still under the jurisdiction of Chief Morris.”
Everyone looked at Chief Morris. Morris looked at the A.T.F. agent and cleared his throat. “That’s mostly a formality, though. A.T.F. will assume control of this case?”
“If the situation later warrants.” Till turned to the Bohemian. “Let’s start with a summary of where we are now, so we’re all singing out of the same hymnal.”
The Bohemian began with the letter that came in 1970, prior to the guardhouse explosion, and the subsequent letter and ten-thousand-dollar payment. He then moved to the two recent letters, the bombings of the Farraday house and the lamppost, and the five hundred thousand in cash left in the Dumpster. He ended with my discovery, the previous afternoon, of the extra wiring underneath the lamppost. He did it all in ten sentences.
Till looked at me. “And from this you’ve concluded … ?”
“The bombs in Crystal Waters are wired to one or more remote locations. The bomber triggered the Farraday house and the lamppost from someplace else.” I paused and then said it: “The bombs are all wired together. He can flip the remaining switches at one time, to send all of Crystal Waters up in one huge fireball.”
“Jesus,” Chief Morris said next to me, but everyone else was
silent. The Bohemian, Ballsard, and Stanley had known since I called the Bohemian that morning. Stanley grabbed for his handkerchief anyway. The Bohemian and Ballsard sat like granite.
Till turned to the Bohemian. “To date, there have been just the two payments made?”
“Correct,” the Bohemian said. “Ten thousand, back in 1970, and then five hundred thousand last Sunday night.”
“It didn’t occur to you to inform us before last Sunday night so we could monitor the drop site?”
“We were hoping that, if we paid him, he would go away like the last time.” The Bohemian’s face was expressionless.
Till turned to scan the faces of everyone else at the table. To the Bohemian, he said, “Your man came back. He will come back again. The only way to stop him is to catch him. That’s why it’s a damned pity nobody was watching that drop site.”
I cleared my throat. “I was.”
The room went quiet again, but this time it was as if the air had been suddenly sucked out of it. The Bohemian and Stanley looked away, but the eyes of the others were hot on my skin.
Till looked at me. “You were there?” he asked in a slow, deliberate voice.
“In a garage across the alley.”
“Jesus, Elstrom—” Ballsard muttered.
Till cut him off. “Let him continue.”
I took them through the kids passing the basketball, Stanley putting the bag of money in the Dumpster, the arguing midnight lovers, the garbage truck arriving at dawn, and my futile search for the money. To me, my voice sounded normal enough, but I felt like I was wearing a clown suit and a red rubber nose.
“No chance the garbage men hauled it off?” Till asked.
“More and more, I’m thinking that could have happened. I think they tossed the top bag from the Dumpster into the truck before I got to them.”
Till studied me for a minute and then said, “How long were you asleep?” The contempt in his words cut like a razor through a rotted peach.
“I took every precaution. I sat tilted—”
Till shook his head abruptly. “You fell asleep.” Dismissing me, his eyes turned to the Bohemian, then to Ballsard, Stanley, and back to the Bohemian. “You’ve all been cute, keeping this to yourselves. What you’ve done with your five hundred thousand is give your bomber a taste for easy money. Next time he’ll want a million plus, guaranteed.”
Ballsard made a noise like something was stuck in his throat. “We can’t come up with that.”
Till ignored Ballsard; he wasn’t done with me. “What exactly was your role supposed to be in this?”
“I was hired to examine the notes.”
“You’re a document examiner?”
“I provide that service. I brought the notes to a well-regarded document specialist.”
“He’s not much of anything, according to the Tribune.” Chief Morris jerked his thumb at me as leaned across the table toward Stanley. “You brought in this jamoke without bothering to contact us?” It was theater, and everybody knew it. Morris didn’t want to touch the Gateville explosions; he wanted to ride in parades and pose for the Assembler next to new squad cars. But Morris was right. I was too obviously a mistake.
The Bohemian spoke up, to cover both Stanley and Ballsard. “For the record, Chief, it was I who insisted on pursuing the investigation privately.”
“Let’s move on.” Agent Till held up a copy of the contractor list. “We do have a lead. An electrician, no?”
“Likely as not,” I said. “Anybody else stringing wires in an electrician’s trench would have been noticed by the electricians. And stopped.”
Till set the list back on the table. “There were five electrical outfits working at Crystal Waters, all of which are still in business. How many have you interviewed, Elstrom?”
I’d told him about hiring Ziloski to look at the lamppost. Stanley said he hadn’t gotten around to his four.
“The chief and I will get to them,” Till said. He looked down the long table at Bob Ballsard. “There’s one more thing. You’ve got to evacuate.”
Ballsard’s face flushed red, like it was the first time the idea had been raised.
“Get everybody out of Crystal Waters,” Till prompted, his eyes fixed on Ballsard.
Ballsard sputtered. “I don’t see—”
“Got a wife, Mr. Ballsard? Kids?”
“Yes, but—”
“They at home now?”
“Actually, they’re at my parents’—”
Till nodded, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Get everybody out. I can’t insist, because I have no standing right now, but if turning one switch can send your whole development into the sky, you’re fools not to evacuate.”
Ballsard’s eyes were wild as he looked toward the Bohemian. “You’ve got to do it, Bob,” the Bohemian said.
“When word gets out—”
“I understand, but Agent Till is right. You must get everyone out.”
“I’ll take it to the Board,” Ballsard said.
“Do it this evening, Mr. Ballsard.” Till picked up his watch and strapped it on his wrist. “That’s it, then. The chief and I will work together, with A.T.F. in an advisory capacity. Mr. Ballsard will inform his Board of Members that Crystal Waters must be evacuated. We will reconvene as the situation warrants.” Till stood and started for the door. Chief Morris scrambled to follow him. Ballsard,
looking dazed, stood up then and also walked out, his lips tight over his Teddy Roosevelt teeth.
I started to get up, too, but the Bohemian motioned for me to sit back down.
“I wouldn’t want to be Bob Ballsard tonight,” the Bohemian said.
“I wouldn’t want to be Bob Ballsard any night,” I said.
“Vlodek—”
I held up my hand. “Why the hell didn’t he run out of here like Paul Revere, to alert everyone at Crystal Waters to get out?”
“He has considerations,” the Bohemian said.
“Bullshit.”
“The Members are not as resilient as you, Vlodek. They were not schooled in bouncing up and starting over, like you did. They would not know to bathe at a local health center.”
It was a small thing, but startling. “How do you know that?”
“Stanley apprised me of your status.” He shook his head. “Enough of that. How do we progress?”
“We’re out of it,” I said. “Chief Morris has the case, but that’s nominal. A.T.F. has the scent; they’ll follow it.”
The Bohemian shook his head. “Only until the next rumor of a terrorist threat aimed at a downtown skyscraper. Then we go on the back burner. No, Vlodek, we must pursue this investigation ourselves. Stanley, do you agree?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Chernek.”
“How, Stanley? You know law enforcement. A.T.F. has the databases, field agents, labs, and big-time experience. Things we don’t have.”
“Maybe, Mr. Elstrom, but like Mr. Chernek says, we’re just one terrorist alert away from being put on hold. You saw the way Agent Till was reluctant to commit to anything, how he wanted the chief to be in charge. Agent Till can’t commit resources to a threat against a gated community full of rich people, especially since
what’s been destroyed is an empty house and a lamppost. Think what would happen if the papers picked up on that, what they would say about Agent Till nursemaiding a place like Crystal Waters when he should be focused on the airports, the railroad stations, the skyscrapers downtown. No, we’ve got to stay on this ourselves, like Mr. Chernek says.”
“So you both believe we should continue our own interviews?”
They nodded.
I pulled out the contractor list the Bohemian had revised. “Do either of you remember anything about these electricians? Any problems, even little ones?”
“I just wrote the checks,” the Bohemian said. “The Safe Haven partners would have dealt with any problems.”
“I’ve been thinking of something this morning, Mr. Elstrom.” Stanley started drumming his fingers slowly on the tabletop. “At the tail end of the project, one of the electricians didn’t show up to wire something, and everybody was worried the final occupancy permits wouldn’t be issued on time. They had to scramble to get somebody else to finish the work.”
The Bohemian shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Would it have had to do with wiring the fountain?” I asked Stanley.
His fingers stopped drumming. “Could be.”
“Ziloski, the electrician I brought to look at the lamppost, told me that’s why he was hired back then, to finish wiring the fountain for somebody who hadn’t shown up.”
Stanley nodded. “I remember the electrician going missing, and wondering if he might have had something to do with the bomb. But I called his employer and they said he had a family emergency, so I dropped it.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“James, I think. James something. But like I said, he came up clean.”
I picked up my contractor list. “Do you remember which company he worked for?”
“It was so long ago, Mr. Elstrom. And like I said, it was a dead end.”
“You looked for the man’s name on the parolee list?”
“I didn’t recognize any of those names.”
“Keep trying, Stanley. We’re chasing straws in the wind.”
Stanley reached across the table for my copy of the contractor list, circled two names, and gave it back. “You check those electricians. I’ll check the other two.”
We left the Bohemian sitting in his grand conference room and rode down in the elevator together and went to our cars.
The sun was going down as I got off the expressway. I didn’t want to eat alone. I didn’t want to think alone. I swung by Leo’s. His Porsche was parked at the curb in front of his mother’s bungalow.
“Want to go get something to eat?” I asked through the screen when he came to the door. Then I noticed the silvery, geometric-patterned shirt and the light green slacks. Dress duds. “Going out, or merely planning to change a tire on a dimly lit road?”
“I just dropped Ma at church for Friday night bingo. Endora and I are going to the movies.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the concrete porch. He studied my face in the glow of the yellow bug light. “You all right, Dek?”
“Peachy. Why do you ask?”
“Because you look like shit. When’s the last time you ate?”
I thought back. “Lunch, but I left most of it. I’m on a new diet: the Bad Nerves Diet. I’m going to write a book about it and get rich.”
He turned around and held the door open for me. “You hit the jackpot tonight, pal: pork, sauerkraut, and dumplings. A Polish Happy Meal.” I followed him into the kitchen.
He pulled a big plastic salad bowl out of a cabinet, opened the
refrigerator, and filled the bowl with the leftovers. He stuck a fork and a knife upright, like two flagpoles, into the big chunk of pork and handed the bowl to me. It must have weighed five pounds, and it was still warm. “Mind if we sit outside? You’re such a pig, and I won’t have the time to hose down the kitchen after you’re done.” He grabbed two bottles of Pilsner Urquell out of the refrigerator, and we went outside to sit on his front stoop.
He opened both beers and set one on the cement next to me. “Now tell Uncle Leo what’s ailing you, but talk straight ahead, toward the street. I don’t want your food on this two-dollar shirt.”
I ate and told him about the extra wires under the lamppost and the meeting with A.T.F. at the Bohemian’s. When I told him my theory that all the D.X.12 in Gateville was wired together, he set down his beer bottle so hard I thought I heard a crack.
“One switch blows it all away?”
“Could be.”
“Why hasn’t he threatened that, then?”
“I think he’s playing with them, stringing them along, one explosion at a time. A cat with a mouse.”
“Or because he thinks he can extract more total money if he does it a chunk at a time.” Leo looked off down the street. “At least you’ve passed it off to the Feds,” he said.
“I’m still on it. Stanley remembered part of a name from 1970, one of the electricians. The Bohemian wants Stanley and me to chase it down, paralleling Chief Morris and Agent Till.”
“That’s probably wise,” he said, taking a pull on the Urquell.
“No, it’s not. Using Stanley and me is like using Laurel and Hardy. I’m not equipped for it, and Stanley is supposed to be spending his time watching security at Gateville. Besides, his wife is sick, and he gets called away.”
“What’s the harm in you poking around, too? Worst case, you generate some billing that buys you hot water for the turret, unless
you actually enjoy going to the health center and getting naked with winos?” His eyebrows cavorted on his forehead.
I laughed, for the first time in what felt like forever. Leo Brumsky, with his crazy shirts, pastel pants, and furry eyebrows, always found a way through the cloud to the lining.
He grinned and went on. “Talk to coppers, they’ll tell you: The damndest things can pop up out of nowhere during an investigation. Everybody’s just got to keep plugging.”
I set the bowl of food on the step. It was still over half full. “It’s so amateurish. People can die, Leo, unless this thing is handled right.”
“As you said, A.T.F. is on the job. As for you, do your best. Continue on, as this Chernek wants. And don’t discount amateurs.” He checked his watch and stood up. “You’ve been fed. I’m late.” He ducked into the bungalow and came back with a sheet of aluminum foil. “You can have the remaining pounds for breakfast.”
We walked down the stairs to the curb.
“What theater are you going to?” I asked.
He launched his caterpillar eyebrows into a crazed dance that would have made Groucho Marx squirm with envy.
“The drive-in.”
“You’re a perv, Leo. What’s playing?”
“It doesn’t matter. It makes me feel young,” he said as he got in the Porsche.
“And Endora?”
“She feels really young.” He smiled out the window, twisted the key, and drove away, leaving me with a blast of German exhaust, a double entendre, and a bowl of cooling pork.