She had to marvel at her neighbor’s will. The passage she was playing seemed demonically hard. Nora had learned it by heart, because the violinist had played this particular passage no less than fifty times in the last hour. It was indeed becoming smoother. The times when the violinist stopped midway through and began again at the beginning had become fewer. Nora knew now what it sounded like when she got it right.
But Nora was starting to lose her mind. She had just rolled over and cast a resigned glance at her clock, which absurdly read one-thirty in the morning, when she heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. It sounded to Nora like it had been the broad, heavy pane that filled her oaken front door.
She was out of bed in an instant. She plunged her feet into her sneakers and, head tilted, listening intently, she crossed to where her gun holster dangled from one of the four posters of the bedframe. Her neighbor had heard the sound as well, it seemed, because the music stopped midstream.
Nora didn’t even have a chance to assess if there was an intruder in her own apartment. She suddenly heard heavy footsteps pounding across the floor above and a scream that stopped Nora cold. She dashed back to the bedside table and pounded the numbers 9-1-1 into her BlackBerry, even as she raced, phone in one hand and gun in the other, to her front door and out to the porch she shared with the violinist.
The intruder had smashed the glass front door which was the twin of hers, then unlocked it from the inside. It stood ominously open now, the heavy glass littering the porch in large shards. Just as she was about to enter, Nora’s BlackBerry finally responded, “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
From within, Nora heard another gut-wrenching scream. “Intruder, possibly armed, attacking a woman—100 French Street, second floor, hurry!”
Then she was in. As she mounted the stairs, she was met by the sound of a heavy lamp crashing against a wall and a bulb shattering, and a voice roaring out the word bitch over and over. Now she galloped up the stairs two-by-two, leaping into the room, gun drawn. The living room was empty; she continued to what had to be the bedroom.
The door had the same crystal doorknobs as her own bedroom one floor below; it was not fully closed. Through the gap, she could see figures, and the sound of her neighbor whimpering in pain. With a quick kick, Nora burst in.
The man was bigger than she’d expected, with wide, rippling arms spilling out of a gray muscle shirt. Tattoos rampaged across biceps, forearms, and neck. Sandy hair framed a wide face with chiseled features. His expression was already one of fury, but when he spied Nora’s gun pointing at him, it turned to white-hot rage. Squirming beneath him, pinned to the floor, was the violinist. The blood dripping down her cheek and from her already-swollen bottom lip made a jarring contrast against her pale skin. Nora was surprised his position alone hadn’t crushed her.
“Get off of her and put your hands on the floor, slowly,” Nora said, mustering her angriest, most commanding voice. She begged God for a squad car with extra loud sirens, but nothing came.
“Fuck you,” answered the man, his chest heaving, his tone scathing.
He didn’t move. Nora scanned his clothing for a weapon and saw a bulge in his pocket that looked more pocketknife than gun. Still, she did not want to gamble.
“I’m Special Agent Nora Khalil of the FBI. If you refuse my direct order to stop this attack and surrender yourself, I will shoot you. Is this clear?”
She watched the man assessing her, weighing his options. She watched him assess incorrectly. He lunged at her, and she shot him twice, point-blank in the chest, as she deftly side-stepped his barreling mass.
The weight of his dying body splintered the door against which he fell. As the echoes of Nora’s shots faded, the violinist’s soft sobs became audible. The jockeying of nearing sirens struck a dissonant chorus.
* * *
It wasn’t how Nora had intended to meet her neighbor, but it was certainly effective.
Nora looked from the corpse to the woman, whose eyes were not on the massive dead man but instead riveted on her violin. It had evidently been tossed on the bed where it lay now, facedown, the bow pinned beneath it. Nora, reading her mind, walked over to the instrument, picked it up carefully, and showed it to her.
“Not a scratch,” she said, before replacing it on its back on the bright quilt. Then Nora walked over and crouched next to her neighbor. “Are you okay?”
The woman nodded, sitting up, feeling her limbs gingerly for breaks.
“Just a little bruised, I think.”
Nora tilted her head, observing her. “A lot bruised. Should I assume that guy’s a neighbor who couldn’t take the midnight practicing thing?”
The violinist raised her eyebrows and then burst out laughing. “My ex-husband,” she answered finally. “And yes, it always made him crazy, too.” She stuck out a slim hand. “I’m Rachel.”
Nora took it, noting the graceful, tapered fingers. “Nora,” she said.
“You saved my life, Nora,” Rachel said. “He intended to kill me this time.”
Nora digested the words, “this time,” and regarded her curiously. “Yeah, I got that impression, too. I’m glad you’re okay.…” She couldn’t help adding, “But that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to talk about suitable practice hours.”
Three police officers rushed in at that point, guns drawn, and Nora and Rachel spent the next ninety minutes answering questions. The ex-husband had come for Rachel from Buffalo where she had met, married, and divorced him. His continual physical abuse had earned him a restraining order that Rachel thought she could bolster by moving away. She had taken a job with the Erie Philharmonic in order to make a new start.
But the ex had not been ready to let go.
One of the officers was attempting to call an ambulance, but Rachel insisted that she would walk to the emergency room which was, after all, only two blocks away. Nora recognized this as a move typical of those who don’t have health insurance. When she further realized that Rachel wasn’t going to call any friends or family to accompany her, she refused to let her go alone.
They walked slowly down French Street to the hospital, striking up a refrain. Rachel kept stressing that Nora should go home and sleep, seeing as she had to be at work the next day. Nora kept responding that she was trying to get Rachel in her debt so completely that she wouldn’t dare play the violin at midnight ever again.
* * *
“What was a concert violinist doing with some burly biker guy?” Anna was asking, a frown creasing her features.
“I asked her the exact same thing,” Nora said, swiveling in her desk chair. “She told me she had married him to piss off her parents.”
“Ohhhh,” said Anna. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Get what?” asked Pete as he walked in, clutching his Starbucks cup and reeking of cologne.
Anna supplied, “Female self-destruction as rebellion against parents.”
Pete narrowed his eyes, trying to get his bearings in the conversation, then decided they were joking. “You’re talking about Miss Nora’s crazed nightlife?”
Anna grinned. “Actually, that’s just the right description. But I guess you didn’t hear? She shot a brute last night.”
Pete gaped. “I wanna shoot brutes,” he said crankily. “Why do you get to shoot brutes?”
Nora related the story, returning finally to the point about how the delicate violinist ended up with the tattooed attacker. “Apparently he was very appealing when he was sixty pounds lighter and fighting fires for a living. Then he started hitting her. When she left him, he just drank and rode his motorcycle.”
“And he got drunk and rode his motorcycle to Erie to reclaim her?” Pete asked.
“To reclaim his manhood,” Anna theorized.
Nora tapped her pen against the desk as she completed the paperwork. It was the second time she had killed someone, and she was trying to decide how she felt about it. She concluded that tea would clarify things, and she stood up to head for the kitchenette down the hall. “You guys want coffee or anything?” she asked.
Both declined.
As she scooped dried mint leaves into her mug from her secret stash behind the Keurig, she heard the SSRA behind her. “Well, Agent Khalil?”
Usually Sheila said “hello Nora,” and hearing the “Khalil” this morning confirmed to Nora that she had been consciously avoiding trying to pronouncing her last name. “Hi, Sheila.”
Sheila held a tall stack of files. “Child porn purveyors not enough for you, huh? Gotta go shooting wife-beaters. What’s next?”
Nora shrugged, not sure how to answer, and added hot water to the loose mint and the waiting tea bag.
Sheila regarded her, her features easing into a look of real concern. “You okay?”
Nora dangled the teabag in the mug, watching the water darken, then looked at her boss. “I think so. Little sleepy, maybe.”
“How do you feel about how things went down with this intruder thing?”
Nora thought about it. “I’ve been trying to sort out if there was any other way, but I don’t see how there were any options.”
Sheila nodded. “I get that. And I’ll read your report carefully before sending it on to the police. I still prefer that you don’t walk solo into such situations.”
“I called the police first,” Nora said. “They took forever to come, by the way.”
“It was actually only six minutes. I checked. Look, Nora, you acted correctly and with bravery. I’m proud of you,” Sheila said. “I also want to keep you, so be careful. I imagine you weren’t wearing a vest.”
Nora shrugged again. “I was wearing pajamas.”
Sheila shook her head and walked back to her office, flicking through the stack of files.
By now, Nora desperately needed her tea. The warmth of the mug radiated through her familiarly, restoring her a little. Not sleeping was a wrinkle she hadn’t foreseen in her strategy to excel in her new position. Appearing at work exhausted at seven thirty in the morning was not going to lead to stellar performance.
Nora blew across the rim of the mug, then sipped tentatively. Slowly, she walked to the cubicle and glanced at the papers on her desk, not eager to go back to scanning through the endless rosters of lost girls. It was like looking for a perverse lottery ticket. Nearly each of Frank Burgess’s waking hours was spent in trolling the Internet. Nora felt her skin crawl as she imagined him, utterly sedentary, locked in his trailer, feasting his pale eyes on the flesh of little children. She hated him. She hated him so much.
She had just settled into her task when a text from Ben flashed across the screen of her BlackBerry. On my way to NYC. Do you need anything?
She texted back, Six or seven I HEART NY t-shirts.
Then she frowned at the screen, adding, Why are you going to NYC?
There was enough of a delay that she had turned back to her computer screen when the words Long story came through.
She sighed, then pushed the BlackBerry away. She didn’t like long stories. She tried to go through her files again, but found herself staring at the BlackBerry. She did not want to pick it up, but was finally unable to resist. What’s the long story?
Sarah is getting out of rehab and needs someone to be there for a couple days.
Nora shoved back her chair and stood up, then sat down again. Then she stood up again, glaring at the screen and its message. Her breath came only choppily, and she found herself looking around the office as though expecting someone to materialize she could show the message to. She almost walked over to Maggie. But she imagined herself showing Maggie the screen and demanding she share her outrage, then imagined Maggie growling at her to get out of her cubicle. She almost texted Rachel, but knew both that it was too soon in their friendship to start being needy … and that Rachel was surely still sleeping after the late night at the hospital.
Dammit, she whispered to herself. He doesn’t have time to come here. How can he go up there? To her?
At least he’s telling you straight up. You would never have known, she pointed out, playing in turn the role of both of the girlfriends she didn’t have at a time like this.
She was holding the phone in her hands feeling utterly mystified when Anna said, “Yes!”
Nora looked a question at her.
Anna said, “I just got word that the warrant was coming through this morning for Burgess’s arrest and confiscation of his computer.”
Nora set her phone facedown on her desk and then sat up quite straight in her chair, willing herself to focus fully. “That’s incredibly fast for a warrant to come through,” she said. In Philly it would have taken longer, unless strings had been pulled or favors called in. There was just so much more to do to pin down a judge.
Pete actually grinned at her. “Yeah it’s fast. Which means it’s not just another mind-numbing day at the office!”
Anna shook her head, then smiled at Nora. “We’re going to McKean! Lucky you.”
“Oh my God,” Nora said, her heartrate zooming.
“Did you wear your fabled running shoes?” Anna was asking, sliding into her desk chair and pulling her laptop out of her slick leather briefcase.
“Will I need them?” she countered.
“Hell no,” Pete said. “Did you see that fat slob? He couldn’t run to the bathroom.”
* * *
As it turned out, her running shoes were the last things she needed.
The morning was filled with almost interminable waiting. The twenty-minute ride to McKean in Anna’s SUV was the swiftest part of it—Nora still marveled at the near total lack of traffic to contend with. Both Pete and Anna tended to take advantage of this by driving extremely fast even when it was completely unnecessary to do so.
It was the state troopers who came late, though.
They discovered this as they were pulling into the small town, nestled innocuously amid vast stretches of green as far as the eye could see.
“Really?” Nora asked Pete, who was engrossed in his BlackBerry looking at his Instagram account.
He looked up. “Really what?”
“That’s it? That’s all there is?”
“Girl, what did you expect? People turn to porn out here out of boredom, not malice.”
“My God.”
It was over an hour before the state police finally appeared. McKean, like most of the towns in the area around Erie, had no police force. Three state troopers—one of whom Nora watched spit tobacco mid-sentence—and their sergeant would provide support for the arrest. Anna, who did not flinch during the spitting incident, was speaking to them calmly.
Conversation. Speaking into handheld radios. More conversation. More speaking into handheld radios.
The three state police cars had gathered near Anna’s SUV in the parking lot of the local Sheetz.
Nora was refusing to answer Ben’s string of Why aren’t you responding? texts. Instead, she watched the cluster of law enforcement officers that had formed about Anna, almost obscuring her. Occasionally Nora caught glimpses of Anna’s unnaturally red hair, which shone like a squat beacon from between the uniformed figures.
“Those are some amazing hats, I have to say.”
The wide-brimmed gray wool hats bore shiny black bands and sat tall on the troopers’ heads. Just below each hat’s peak were two deep, matching indentations that made the hats look like faces with sucked-in cheeks.
Pete looked up. “Yep.” He looked back down at the screen.
“I think we need hats. I would like a hat like that,” she said.
“Like that?” Pete said, contemplatively. “Well, it’s a pretty awesome hat. But I think I’d look better in a fedora.”
She turned to regard him, then nodded lazily, her boredom weighing heavily on her. She said slowly, “Maybe. Theirs may be slightly much, now that I think about it.”
Finally, Anna beckoned to them. She and Pete descended from the SUV with relief; Nora had thought Pete was going to kick a hole in the back of her seat.
Anna, reading glasses on, was holding a file with a computer-generated map of the area and the relevant warrants. She introduced Pete and Nora to the sergeant, who informed them that he went by the name of Buck. The way that he said this seemed intended to convey a rural mixture of power and friendliness, but for Nora it only served to undermine whatever assurances she’d been drawing from the hat.
All were peering at the route they would take to the trailer park where Frank Burgess lived.
Anna said, “He has a vehicle registered in his name, but it’s an ’84 Ford Bronco. I cannot imagine that it would provide a fast getaway. Either way, you should block it in when we pull up.”
The men were nodding.
“If you can make us a perimeter, we can enter and make the arrest.”
Buck said, “There’s no evidence of anyone else in the trailer?”
Anna shook her head. “No. Just Burgess.”
They agreed to lead the way without sirens or lights, and the three agents returned to the SUV. After Anna slid the key into the ignition, she turned to Pete. “Pull those vests out of the back, kiddo.”
“Don’t call me kiddo. And why?”
“Because we’re in God’s country, boy. Thar be guns.”
Reluctantly, Pete passed out Kevlar and then put on his own.
“Your vests are different than what I’m used to.…” Nora observed, fighting with hers.
Anna nodded. “Israeli Kevlar,” she said. “People here have more rifles than handguns. You need more advanced stuff. With the right shirt you can conceal it, though.”
Nora placed a hand against the hard material, already sitting up straighter in her chair because she had no choice. She was trying to determine if any of her work shirts could be worn over the vest. She had one that was baggy enough, she thought. Still, though. Wouldn’t look too fly.
Glancing at Pete in the rearview mirror, Anna said, “Don’t feel so emasculated. Do it for the Starbucks wench.”
With that, she shifted into gear and tore off behind the state police. Although technically newer, Nora was slightly older than Pete and had a fuller resume. She appreciated his frustration at being patronized by the seasoned older agent. It was a dynamic she’d had quite enough of back in Philadelphia.
Frank Burgess’s trailer was sandwiched in among a dozen or so others. The park was a mere five minutes from the center of McKean. All the trailers seemed to Nora to be carbon copies, give or take some variations in trim or the occasional awning. She took note of the Ford Bronco, however, and her blood began to race. It had been almost a year since she had been part of a bust. In that year she had trained hard, in both martial arts and firearms, but it was still different from being out in the field.
Anna closed the driver’s side door quietly and motioned for them to do the same. “Okay,” she said, looking them hard in the eyes. “As we discussed.”
What they had discussed was that Pete would go to the back of the trailer and peer in through one of its grubby windows as Anna and Nora approached from the front with their identification and stated intention to arrest.
This they did. Anna checked to see that the troopers and Sergeant Buck were in place before she rapped on the rusted outer door.
“FBI,” she called out. “Frank Burgess, we have a warrant for your arrest.”
Exactly four seconds elapsed before Pete called, “He’s going for the gun cabinet!” This was followed by a crash as he kicked in the window. Nora and Anna leaned in hard against the locked inner door, then Nora stepped back as Anna took aim and fired her Glock at the doorknob, shattering it. The flimsy door swung open revealing Pete’s flying lunge against Frank Burgess. The obese man teetered, stumbled, then fell against the very gun cabinet he had been trying to pull open.
The state police poured in after Nora and Anna, guns at the ready, but Anna was already securing Burgess’s fleshy wrists with her handcuffs as she read him his rights. He was groaning in a loud combination of anger and pain. The open gun cabinet revealed at least a dozen rifles; a few of the weapons had tumbled onto the floor and Peter was careful to roll the man away from them before helping him to his feet.
Each of the agents, panting, regarded the other, confirming with gazes that they were all okay. Anna’s look expanded to take in their backup. “You all alright?” she asked briskly.
All three nodded.
“Alright then,” she said with a smile. “Not a bad summer outing.”
* * *
Sheila was pleased. She was a different person entirely when she was pleased. It was all new for Nora who realized she suddenly felt rather unmoored. Their boss was smiling, clapping them on their backs, and making optimistic predictions about good conquering evil. This last was even slightly more than Sheila herself could tolerate, and she seemed to snap out of it and return to the task at hand.
“Speaking of which, Anna, are you prepping for the meeting with the AUSA—”
Anna indicated the pile of papers on her desk. “I have the full debriefing ready.”
Her boss nodded. “I assumed you would. I’ll see you at three, then. Again, good work team, but the hard part starts now.” She exited with a swift step, leaving the three of them to their report-writing.
Pete had become fully alert, and his wide gray eyes were sharp. He looked at both women. “Has Burgess retained counsel yet?”
“No, he’s going with a public defender.”
“Mason?”
“Who else?”
Nora listened intently. She’d heard Mason’s name before. The word “bitch” usually followed quickly behind.
“God, she’s such a bitch,” Pete muttered.
“Why?” Nora pressed this time.
Anna answered for him. “She likes to win. And she’s good at her job.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“She’s assertive,” Anna insisted. “And she wins a lot because she’s smart. So we hate her.”
“Do we have anything to worry about?”
“Only if Pete fails to find all this Dark Web mumbo jumbo he was claiming would be on Burgess’s computer.”
He paused, his fingertips hovering in midair. “Oh, now it’s all on me?” he demanded.
“Of course,” Anna said.
“Then call Ms. Mason because I want to see if Burgess’ll just give me some information instead of making me spend a thousand hours breaking the encryption.”
Anna shrugged. “As you like. Strike while the iron is hot.”
“Sitting a couple hours in lockup will be enough to remind him how bad it sucks,” Pete pointed out. “But yeah, let’s just get the show on the road. We can make a deal, right? Because we want to know his source.”
Anna nodded. “Sheila made that clear to me.”
“Then we have some bargaining power,” Pete said. As Anna put in the call to the public defender, Pete returned to tapping on his keyboard.
Nora sighed as she turned back to her laptop. “That was a lot of firepower for a sedentary man.” Five Shotguns. Had he known the Bureau was targeting him and so harbored some fantasy about a standoff? Hunters, she assumed, actually had to leave their domiciles in order to shoot the woodland creatures. Burgess had seemed practically agoraphobic. Nora began printing up all the prior reports on Burgess, killing time until Anna came in to let them know that Maura Mason was in the elevator on her way up.
“Pete, you’re on point for this,” Anna said.
Pete shook his head vehemently. “Ew, no, I don’t want to be in the same room with him.”
Anna gave him a look. “Peter.”
“What if he molests me?”
“I’ll shoot him,” she said, in the tone with which Nora imagined some Midwestern grandmother might dangle the reward of a cookie for good behavior.
“You’re not a very good shot,” Pete pointed out.
“But he’s very large. My odds are good.”
Nora watched them bemusedly. She was just as happy not to have to interrogate anyone. It was her least favorite thing to do. She sipped at her tea, asking herself what her favorite thing to do might in fact be. She realized it was running down and tackling someone. That is not something I’m ever going to get to do here.
Fat Porn Freaks Don’t Run.
Pete glared at her. “What are you smirking about?”
“I was thinking up bumper stickers.”
Anna said, “Look, Pete, you know that he hates women. He’s resorted to a public defender, but she turned out to be a woman. Play the testosterone card. Be his bro. Win him over … and then dick him over.”
Pete rubbed at his beard, a glint in his eye. “Did you seriously, and with a straight face, just ask me to go in there and use my gender as a tool to manipulate a subject?”
Anna thought a moment. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Seriously.”
“Welcome to the Bureau. No one said you couldn’t teach third grade instead.”
Pete looked at her, wide-eyed; then he looked at Nora, who shrugged.
He sighed. “Jesus. Alright. Let’s do this.”
He entered the room, most of which was swallowed by Burgess’s bulk. They watched him greet Maura Mason and then, as though he had forgotten something, suddenly excuse himself and return to the hall.
His lips were pursed and his nose was flared. “Also,” he whispered loudly to Anna, “he smells really bad.”
Both women gave him a sympathetic look and then burst out laughing as soon as he walked away.
“Who knew he was such a whiner?” Anna asked.
The monitor, however, showed that he was a whiner who was utterly charming under pressure.
“Hi, Frank. It’s been a long day already … I apologize. Are you doing alright?”
“Of course I’m not doing alright,” the man grumbled, frown lines creasing the soft flesh of his wide forehead. His accent, slow and thick, was immediately grating to Nora, who knew her own expression reflected the revulsion she felt. Anna had been wise not to send her in.
“Now, I’ll be honest with you,” Pete said, his voice gentle, thoughtful. “There’s stuff I can do to help and stuff I can’t—tell me what you need. I know you had wanted a lawyer, and we made sure you had the best in town,” he said, with a wide smile at Maura Mason.
Maura Mason gave him a dispassionate stare.
“I could use a sandwich,” Burgess said.
“Of course!” Pete said quickly. “Preferences? Ham? Roast beef?”
“Ham,” the man answered.
It figures, thought Nora.
“Absolutely,” Pete was saying. “Ms. Mason, something for you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine,” she practically spat.
“Sure? Are you sure?” Pete asked, showing his dimples before he began walking toward the door.
She nodded, and he exited and went straight back to Anna and Nora. “I’m not getting him a sandwich, obviously,” he said, his tone several registers lower, his words more rapid. He sighed, tapping his feet and killing time as though perhaps he were putting in an order somewhere.
On the monitor, Nora heard Maura Mason hiss at Burgess, “That man is not getting you a sandwich, by the way.”
“You’re a tease,” observed Anna. “That poor pervert in there…”
Pete bared his teeth at her, then headed back toward the interrogation room.
Nora and Anna looked at each other and laughed again.
“See why we hate her?” asked Anna.
Pete had entered, saying to Burgess, “My assistant Maggie was actually just ordering in for all of us so we added yours. Okay? So just fifteen minutes, man. Jimmy Johns is, like, insanely fast.”
Burgess cast a glance over at his lawyer as if to say, See?
Pete picked up the reins again. “Listen, Frank, I’m very sorry about this morning, man. I really am. That must have been difficult, having us all charge in there like that.”
Mason jumped in. “My client is going to be bringing charges against you for unnecessary use of force.”
“Unnecessary?” Pete responded, very slowly, very calmly. “Now Ms. Mason, your client was going for his gun. Guns, I should say.”
Maura Mason’s face appeared impassive, but it looked to Nora that this information had been left out of the version of the story she’d encountered from Burgess.
“That’s my Second Amendment right to self-defense,” intoned Burgess.
Nora was sure she saw Pete roll his eyes at the camera at this characterization of the Second Amendment. His gaze returned to Frank Burgess quickly, though. Pete was even nodding sympathetically. “I get that, I do. And you have a lot worth defending. That’s an incredible computer system you have out there.”
Now it was Maura Mason who rolled her eyes. “Were you planning on asking my client a question or just kissing his ass all day, because I seriously don’t have time, Pete.”
Pete looked surprised and even slightly hurt at her words. Nora watched the expression on Frank Burgess’s face. He was actually frowning at his lawyer. “Oh my God,” whispered Nora. “He’s won him over.”
Anna was smiling knowingly. “Pete’s a flirt, plain and simple.”
They watched as he looked intently into Frank Burgess’s bloodshot eyes. “Frank, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I’m wasting your time, here. See, I think you’re important to us—I was just telling my colleagues that what we really need to be doing is asking you for help.”
“Help?” Burgess asked.
“Here we go,” Mason deadpanned.
Pete sat on the edge of the table and began tugging at his tie as though utterly exhausted. “I know that you are a hardworking man, and that you do things in your leisure time that are your own business. I totally get that.”
Burgess sat a little taller in his chair.
“The thing is, some of the sources you’ve been using are pretty intense, pretty serious stuff. I think you can help us by helping us find the bastards who messed everything up for you, who set off our alarms, helping us dig a little deeper than we’re able to. You’re a victim, man. I know that—”
Mason interrupted him. “McCormick, can you spare us? Are you offering my client something?”
“I am explaining to him how much we would like his cooperation, ma’am.”
“Don’t…”
“But then again, you know, there’s no need if—”
Burgess held up a fleshy hand. “What do you want?”
“You really know your computer stuff, and I’m struggling to keep up, Frank. The faster I can get in there and access the information we need, the faster this nightmare will be over for you. The slower I have to take, decrypting your files and, you know, stumbling around in the dark, the longer you’ll have to stay in lockup.”
“Are you offering him a lighter sentence, Special Agent McCormick?” she asked.
“I am offering to advocate for him for a lighter sentence, certainly. If he makes my job easier, if he helps me access the bastards responsible for him being here, I will go to bat—”
“He’s giving you nothing,” Mason said, with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“It’s an app called Telegram,” Burgess blurted out.
Nora’s jaw dropped.
“Frank,” Mason objected. “You don’t have to—”
“You can join groups. You can message people securely who are plugged in, but also see all the public conversations that are going down within the group itself. You can post things. They put a lot of exploding pictures up there, you know. Lotta stuff,” he was saying, his eyes seeming to look well beyond Pete and the walls of the interrogation room.
Maura Mason looked green. “I encourage you to exercise your right to silence, Frank—”
“There was a guy there. Claimed to have some live snuff, you know. So, yeah, I wanted to see that, always have. He couldn’t produce it but he had … other things.”
He picked up his lawyer’s pen and scrawled something on her legal pad. Then he looked at Pete. “Whatever it takes to just move this shit along. I got high blood pressure.”
Pete nodded, managing to look sympathetic and moved at the same time. Then he turned to Maura Mason. “May I?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she snapped, shoving the legal pad at him.
Pete copied down what Burgess had written, then thanked them both. “Maggie will be in shortly with your sandwich, Frank,” he said.
“There’s no fucking sandwich, Frank,” Mason said, standing to leave, as Pete slipped out of the room.
“Nicely done, sir,” said Nora.
“All in a day’s work, Miss Nora. That’s how we southern gentlemen fight crime. Through flattery and doublespeak.”
She grinned at him. “But will it help you unravel the mysteries of the Dark Web?”
“Well,” he said, looking at his watch. “We have done twice as much work today as we normally do, and so I am willing to continue masquerading as a federal agent until 5 P.M. If the secrets are not yet revealed, then I am willing to show up again tomorrow morning with my coffee and start afresh.”
But it seemed that the password he had taken was all he’d needed. In no time, she heard Pete congratulating himself behind her. He shoved back from his desk, spinning around in the swivel chair.
She paused to look at him. “Success?”
“Why, yes,” he responded. “I believe that is the proper word. It’s a start anyway,” he said.
“What did you find?”
“The technology he was using was dark but pretty basic at the same time. There are ways of communicating with like-minded folks in order to have private conversations. These are encrypted so the good guys—you and me—can’t listen in or follow. Unless I can masquerade as Frank Burgess, I can’t see the stuff that comes to him, all of which is, like, tips to new kiddie porn sites or the infamous live snuff, exploding pics that disappear from the Web once they’ve been sent.”
“So with the information you got today—”
“I can find several other nasty fat men like Frank. And from them…”
“Several more?”
“Yes. Yes and no. But if they don’t know we’re following them, and we monitor closely, we’ll get several steps closer.”
“Do we have enough to prosecute him with though?” asked Nora.
Pete smiled. “Does Miss Scarlett wear a corset?”
Nora frowned. “I’m—is that some kind of southern thing for ‘yes’?”
Pete flared his nostrils. “Oh, you have much to learn, Miss Nora. Much to learn.”
When five o’clock rolled around, she realized it had been the least boring workday she had yet spent in Erie, Pennsylvania.
Pete was stretching. “Come on, Nora. Me and Anna’ll take you out. Your first official bust means we officially have to buy you a beer. Contractual obligation.”
She shook her head automatically, searching for an out. “No, you know, I have to…”
He looked at her sharply, his tone changing. “What’s your deal? Why don’t you ever want to go out with us?”
Her eyes narrowed and she returned his gaze fiercely. “Seriously? Would you talk that way to—”
But Anna stepped in to defuse. “Pete, you just bore the hell out of her. Time to own that. You and your dimples just bore us all to death. And in fact Nora doesn’t drink.” Anna smiled at Nora in a way that evoked John Wansbrough’s fatherly gazes. “But we will take her out this evening because she deserves it, and she’s still new in town, and we should spend some after-hours time together so that she learns to love us.”
Nora realized she had been biting her lip as she slowly exhaled.
Anna continued, “And you can eat and drink whatever you like. Okay? It’s on Pete.”
“Hey!” he protested.
“It’s on both of us. Come on. Commodore Perry’s?”
Pete sighed. “Of course. That’s where all the boring people go.”
They headed down State Street toward the landmark pub. Traffic was light, lazy even. The streets were swollen with people. There was a preponderance of black or faded T-shirts and jeans or black leather pants. Nora looked curiously at bushy beards adorned with beading or small braids. Some had scraps of ribbon woven into them. Merchants were hawking every imaginable motorcycle-related product, and bright yellow barriers had been erected to demarcate the areas where pedestrians should walk and browse and where cars could still pass. Neatly aligned motorcycles were reveling in the special dispensation to monopolize the city’s street parking during the Roar.
Ten minutes after leaving the office, all three had settled into a tall, uncomfortable wooden booth, and Pete was dutifully explaining that the Commodore was not a dive bar. “It’s an after-work bar for the professional class,” he said. His shock upon discovering that Nora had never entered a bar before had now transformed into some sort of mandate to explain Erie’s bar culture. “Because Roar on the Shore is starting, there are slightly more biker-types than office-types.”
Nora, on cue, looked about her, taking in the excess of leather and ink, facial hair and bandannas.
“The altered atmosphere, however, does not affect the most important facet of the Commodore—the Giant Pretzel with the Outrageously Good Mustard Dipping Sauce.” Anna’s tone conveyed a childlike awe.
Feeling it was expected of her, Nora said, “Well, bring it on. And let’s order me a Coke.”
Anna ordered herself a mint julep. She then asked for a Coke for Nora, and, with what struck Nora as slightly more delight than the situation could possibly warrant, ordered the giant pretzel. Pete said to the server, “Eisernes Kreuz.” The server nodded as though they had shared just such an exchange several times before. She walked away, weaving in and out of the tables in the increasingly crowded bar.
“Eisernes…” Nora started, then felt her tongue falter. “This is a beer?”
“Eisernes Kreuz!” exclaimed Pete. “Not just any beer. You should always hold out for the best local brews. Very old German family. Perfected their approach in Holland before bringing their wisdom to these shores.”
“Pete fancies himself a beer connoisseur,” Anna explained.
“We all need talents,” Nora said.
Anna laughed out loud.
“It’s damn good beer,” he said, not flummoxed in the least. He regarded her curiously. “Can you just help me understand something about this not-drinking thing though?”
Nora flared her nostrils slightly and looked at Anna. “The whole sensitivity training thing apparently didn’t wash with this one?”
Anna shook her head. “He’s his own beast, Nora. It’s up to you, but I’d say educating him is actually to the collective benefit.”
Pete had his hands up as though at gunpoint. “Look, I never met anyone that just didn’t ever drink. There are people who used to drink too much and then had to stop. I get that. But to never even try it … it doesn’t make sense.”
Nora tilted her head to regard him. “Is there a question in all that?”
“Yeah, I want to know why you never tried it. You aren’t even a little curious? You didn’t have any friends who drank in high school? College? How could you have been a Philly police officer and not drink?”
Nora shifted in her seat. People didn’t usually press her on this. Ben just went with it—she’d always assumed he was relieved she didn’t drink because Sarah had been a drug addict. And though her cop friends had teased her, she’d been sure that most of them acknowledged it was for the better. It was too easy for cops to end up alcoholics at the end of a day full of brutality; she could name six of her cohort who’d had to leave already for that very reason.
Pete was looking at her earnestly. She was still on the fence about him. Frat boy? Jerk? Or someone who genuinely didn’t understand and wanted to? She decided at last that his question wasn’t an attack. She took a breath, then said, “Okay, let’s think about it this way. In my house, alcohol might as well be crack cocaine.”
She saw she had the attention of both her colleagues. They leaned in to hear her over the din. “Growing up, we never cooked with it, never splashed it into stew, never even bought cough syrup that had alcohol in it. My mom went out of her way to buy powdered vanilla so that there was no alcohol in it. Everyone had a story about someone who had just, like, imploded because of drinking. ‘He drinks,’ was, like, the same as saying, ‘He’s headed straight to hell.’ Sitting in a bar—” she paused to gesture around her for effect, “—is only marginally less awful than sitting in a strip club.”
Pete and Anna exchanged a look. Nora started to fidget, feeling uncomfortable.
“Shall I keep going?” Nora asked. “Or have you lost interest yet?”
“No, I’m with you,” Pete affirmed.
“Okay. So, it’s in popular culture, too, right? In Egyptian movies, the worst people in the world were the people who drank. The abusive husbands, the scary dictators, the drug dealers, the rapists. My dad’s restaurant doesn’t serve alcohol, and when someone brings their own bottle he won’t touch it to open it. Just the servers do that. It’s just something we feel is…” She stopped and searched for the words. “Scary. If you start, you can’t stop, and it will make you a monster and wreck your life.”
Pete seemed to be preparing a refutation, but Nora held up a hand. “I get that plenty of people are used to it. It’s absolutely normal for them. I’m just answering the question of why I don’t consider trying it. Because I guess I learned to be scared of it from early on.”
But Peter clearly thought she was being ridiculous. “Nora, we got briefed on you. You shot some dude in the back of his head in the middle of downtown Philly. You got some kind of award at Quantico for Jiu-Jitsu. And you want to tell me you’re scared of beer?”
Nora looked to Anna for help but got none as the mint julep had just arrived in a short tumbler. The drink therein was slightly murky looking. It immediately absorbed all of Anna’s attention.
“I am scared of beer,” Nora confirmed, accepting her Coke gratefully from the server. “And it was Mixed Martial Arts, not Jiu-Jitsu.”
The server set down a dark brown bottle before Pete.
Pete happily received his drink, smirked as Nora took hers, then nodded at Anna’s. “She is at heart a Confederate princess.”
Nora didn’t understand, but Anna’s next words to Pete clarified.
“It is no dishonor to the Union to admit that you Southerners invented better cocktails.” She tugged a bit of the liquid up through the tiny brown straw, then uttered an audible sigh of contentment. Crushed mint leaves were suspended in the liquid; a sprig of fresh mint was perched atop its surface.
Nora could not suppress her interest, given that mint tea was her go-to drink. She leaned in slightly to peer at the cocktail.
“What’s in there?”
Pete, embellishing his accent for good measure, ticked off, “Bourbon and smashed mint leaves. Sugar. Water. This incarnation is all wrong, of course. The mint should only be spearmint. It should be with shaved ice or crushed ice. And in a pewter or silver cup. But, you know. It’s Erie, not Savannah.”
“I’d be happy to let you try it,” Anna said, “but I was in fact paying attention to everything you just said.”
Nora gave her a grateful smile, then turned to Pete. “So, I’ve told you why I don’t drink. Now, you tell me why you’re such a punk.”
Pete blinked at her in mute surprise.
Anna was chuckling soundlessly, then she patted Nora on the shoulder appreciatively. “Nora, it’s about time you came out of your shell. Welcome to happy hour!”
Pete shook his head. “I am not a punk.”
“You act like some kind of obnoxious frat boy.”
Anna raised an index finger, indicating she had the appropriate response. “Football player, not frat boy. Although you were probably that too.…”
“No, not a frat boy. But I was a quarterback.”
“Much sought after by the ladies,” Anna added.
Pete was nodding. “Once. Now I’m having a hard time getting past a Venti.”
Anna and Nora exchanged knowing glances.
“But you disappoint me, Miss Nora. Or rather, I disappoint myself. Coming off as an obnoxious frat boy is not at all the vibe I was going for.”
Nora took the bait. “And what vibe would that be, exactly?”
He shook his head. “Miss Nora. The South has three things going for it and three things only. Chivalry, barbecue, and the mint julep. Given your stances on pork and alcohol, all I can extend to you is chivalry. I shall, given the new blossoming of our friendship, endeavor always to impress upon you that I am not an obnoxious frat boy at all, but, indeed, a southern gentleman par excellence.”
As Nora digested this monologue, a loud crack tore through the air, followed by a thunderous crash. The walls of the Commodore Perry shook, its windows rattling in their frames.
“What the hell?” said Pete, rising and looking about him.
Screams erupted all around them.
“Across the street,” Anna shouted.
The three tore toward the entrance, yanking open the heavy oaken door.
Nora saw smoke pouring out of the bank on the opposite corner and three figures clad entirely in black leaping onto three motorcycles. They were white, late 30s perhaps. One had a goatee. Each carried an over-stuffed backpack, and all three had rifles slung over their shoulders on wide black straps. The bikes started almost in unison, their engines adding to the uproar on the street.
Nora and Pete looked at each other, then dashed across the street in pursuit, guns drawn.
“Out of the way,” Pete shouted.
Nora found herself crying out those same words, over and over, but the festival-goers had densely packed the area, and now all of them seemed paralyzed with shock, many screaming. The bikers were weaving in and out among the crowd, and both agents dodged left and right, in and out, desperate to catch up, intent on getting a clear shot and dislodging one of the men.
Their shouts did not go unnoticed, however. Each of the bikers had cast backward glances at the pursuing agents, and each one seemed to be increasing the speed and the determination with which they darted through the crowds.
Pete had collided with a pedestrian, knocking her down and unbalancing himself—but Nora agilely darted through the crowds. She heard the wail of police sirens behind her and knew that no police car could navigate the crush of pedestrians to reach the fleeing motorcyclists. The bikes now roared along State Street, and she knew that they were headed for the Bayfront Parkway. If she could just get beyond the pedestrian congestion, she could get a clear shot.… She ran as fast as she could, angry with herself for not having worn sneakers to work. The hard black loafers slapped against the pavement as she approached the third biker.
“Out of the way!” she screamed at an obese woman in a violently pink sundress who was standing, stunned, several yards in front of her, but blocking the most direct angle of pursuit of the bikers.
The woman scurried to the left as Nora’s shoes slid slightly on the sidewalk. Nora steadied herself, then took aim at the third biker’s back wheel. She fired. Immediately the bike skidded out of control, and the biker tumbled onto the street. The bike careened, spinning, toward Nora and as she dashed to get out of the way, the second biker doubled back in a wide, rapid arc. The unseated motorcyclist leapt onto the back of his partner’s bike.
Once settled, the last biker swiveled in his seat and aimed his rifle at Nora.
She barely had time to throw herself behind yet another row of motorcycles, hoping the web of metallic frames would provide enough cover. Her eyes widened as she realized she could see the bullet streaking out of the rifle, its trajectory lit red. The round ripped into the gas tank of the first motorcycle in the row. The bike exploded, hurtling against the brick wall behind Nora in flames. Nora tucked herself into a ball as shards of scalding metal rained down on the pavement and the screaming crowd.
It was State Street’s second explosion of the day—the second in its history.
* * *
The EMTs were fast in coming. Hamot Hospital was only a block away, after all. Nora sat on the sidewalk, with Pete next to her, as the paramedic treated the burns across her arms, neck, and back. The metal had burned right through her clothing, and Nora would rather have gone to the back of the ambulance than expose so much flesh to the paramedic, or, for that matter, to her partner and the passersby. But each ambulance she saw was already filled with festival-goers being treated for burns that were similar if not worse. The fat lady in the pink dress was not far down the curb from her, and her exposed left shoulder wore an angry burn.
Nora realized, too, that no one was concerned with the amount of skin she herself was showing as the paramedic wrapped her wounds. Shock and disbelief were visible on the faces of each person in the street. Even those uninjured seemed to need to sit on the sidewalk, dazed, until being shooed away by the law enforcement officers. The cops were moving the colorful sawhorses used for festival crowd control to block off the side streets, barring the media trucks from approaching. Overhead the NBC chopper occasionally dipped and then headed out again. Pete had just explained that the pursuing police cars had never even been able to catch sight of the bikers after they had reached the Bayfront Parkway. It was as though they had simply disappeared. The news station gave access to the police for aerial searches in a crisis. There would be two cops riding along with a reporter, following possible routes they thought the motorcycles would have taken.
Nora gazed at the helicopter with its overly-cheerful peacock emblazoned on the side.
“Any bank robber is going to have figured that part out, though, right?” she asked Pete. “They wouldn’t just cruise down the interstate until they get to Mexico or wherever. They’re going to go somewhere close, some temporary safe house. Switch vehicles. Then go on.”
When the EMT had finished with the bandaging, he looked at Nora and told her she needed to go to the ER. “Sure,” Nora said, thanking him and determining that that was the last thing she’d do.
“You got some kinda hospital phobia?” Pete was asking.
“Got a time phobia, Peter. I’m fine, and I don’t want to waste time.”
Pete looked at her. “You were pretty zippy, there, Agent Khalil.”
Nora smiled at him. “Pretty poor results, though.”
“We have a motorcycle we would not have otherwise had.”
Nora nodded, gazing at the motorcycle that still lay on its side on the street. A few police officers were staking it off with yellow tape. “I don’t know how much we’ll get off it. He was wearing gloves. They all were.”
Gloves, leather … a goatee … Nora was raking through her memories of the men, trying to recall hair color and skin tones.
“We’ll be able to figure out a VIN number, probably.”
Nora considered this, then got lost a moment, reflecting on what she’d just seen. “Pretty tough, that guy, huh?” she said finally.
Pete agreed. “I saw what happened. You made an excellent shot. He popped up like a daisy after falling off that bike. I don’t think I could have done that. And then have the presence of mind to take that shot at you. Ballsy.”
Nora cringed, remembering how he’d made eye contact with her. His eyes had been hard and angry. She could not recall their color. It bothered her.
“Who does that, though?” Pete asked.
“Huh? Which part?”
“Robbing a bank. It’s the age of the Internet. I thought we were all just raiding each other’s checking accounts now or charging shit up on strangers’ Visa cards.”
Nora smiled despite herself. She didn’t know. She had never dealt with robbers. At least not since she was around six or seven, when she’d proved herself a virtually uncatchable robber in Coxe Park.
“That was a legit bank heist,” Pete said. “Like in a movie.”
Nora gazed at him bemusedly. “I swear sometimes you sound twelve to me.”
Pete smiled. “Part of my charm.”
Anna walked up to report that what was left of the bank guard’s body was being retrieved from the scene. She plunked herself down on the curb next to Nora. “You okay there?”
Nora nodded. “Fine. Do we have tape yet?”
“Yes, it’s being taken to the office now. As soon as you’re ready, Pete, we should go. But Nora, we’ll take you home first.”
“I’m fine,” she protested. “I want to come.”
“You’re covered in bandages and your shirt is in shreds.”
Nora pursed her lips. “Pete was about to gallantly hand me his blazer.”
Obediently, Pete shrugged out of his blazer and handed it to Nora. Anna shook her head. “Double-teaming me already? Good. I like the bonding.”
“We got numbers yet?” Pete asked.
Anna nodded. “They let the branch manager walk out with the two tellers. She said the haul was probably slightly north of 900 K.”
Pete whistled, extending his hand to Nora who allowed him to help her up from the curb.
The three started walking south on State toward the office. Sheila was standing on the sidewalk, speaking to the police officers who came and went. Their office had no bomb squad. As with so many other things, they relied on the local talent. There were five police officers—three from the Erie Police Department, one from the Sheriff’s Department, and one from a suburb called Millcreek. Sheila watched as they trolled through the wreckage, one ear pressed against her BlackBerry, the other tilted toward whoever came up to report back to her.
Nora’s eye fell on the cop standing with her. He had taken off the ballistic helmet and Kevlar jacket of the bomb disposal suit, but still wore the bulky, steel-plated pants and over-shoes. His sweat-soaked T-shirt redundantly proclaimed the words “Bomb Squad.” Sweat streamed from a thick shock of gray-streaked blond hair. He wore his badge around his neck on a lanyard that flopped against his prominent gut. He nodded at the trio. “Hey, Anna. Pete.” He nodded at Nora. His blue eyes were tired, his face grave.
“Nora Khalil,” Anna said, by way of introduction. “New kid. Nora, Abe Berberovic.”
“Nora. Hi.”
“What do you think, Abe?” asked Pete.
“Not much to think. It’s pretty straightforward. Easiest home bomb ever. Ammonium nitrate, fuel oil. Witnesses say they heard a gun fired. I assume they shot it with an incendiary bullet as they walked out.”
“Tracer? He shot a tracer at me,” Nora volunteered quickly.
“Yes,” Abe nodded. “I’d figured that’s what ignited the fuel tank on that motorcycle. You okay?”
Nora nodded.
“Well, the bank guard wasn’t as lucky. They let the two tellers and the manager go, but they’d strapped the guard to the bomb.”
The agents nodded somberly. Abe wriggled out of the rest of his suit, then went to place it in the armored bomb squad vehicle. Then, he fell into step with them, wiping his flushed, sweat-streaked cheeks fruitlessly against the wetter sleeves of his T-shirt. “I’ll come back and look at the tapes with you. But I assume we’ll see these guys walk in with a big bag of some sort. I’m guessing they knew that the armored car would be coming to collect today.”
“Still, they had to know that no homemade bomb could break through a bank vault,” Sheila was saying.
“Certainly,” Abe agreed.
“Then why bomb it if they had already gotten the money at gunpoint?”
The cop shrugged. “That’s going to be your driving question, I reckon.”
Sheila sighed. Then she dropped back to walk next to Nora. “Pursuing rifle-toting bank robbers on foot and without Kevlar, Agent Khalil?”
The mispronunciation made Nora’s skin crawl, but she nodded, waiting.
She didn’t have to wait long. Sheila’s tone was terse, irritated. “Not my favorite move.”
Nora said nothing.
“Still, I appreciate what you were able to do. At least we have one vehicle. You didn’t harm any civilians.” Sheila paused in her walking. “Even so, you drew his fire and put many in harm’s way.”
Nora looked at her boss. She bit back several different responses. Sometimes … you just go. She’d learned it from five years on Philly streets. Sometimes you just click into gear and there’s no thinking, there’s no calculating. You just go.
Sheila didn’t look like someone who had ever felt it. Sheila looked like she and her desk were inseparable. Nora knew she was flustered now because this bank robbery was the biggest thing that had ever happened in Erie and she was worried about how to manage it.
They had arrived at the building that housed their office. Before entering, Nora cast a glance over her shoulder at the blackened maw of the bank’s front lobby. She recalled the biker’s hard eyes. She decided that Sheila’s worry was well-founded.
* * *
Abe Berberovic was in love with Anna. It took about thirty seconds after they all sat down to go over the tapes for Nora to observe this. First surprised, then bemused, she took to watching his eyes skate over Anna’s face. No one else seemed to notice. They all sipped at the coffee Maggie brought them as Pete booted up the laptop and tried to sort out the operating system required to display the footage rendered by the bank security cameras.
Nora had known better than to ask Maggie for tea; she was clearly pissed that, on a day when she had elected to stay later than usual to finish up some work, she had gotten roped into staying extra late. The explosion and loss of life thing apparently left the woman wholly indifferent.
But when Nora realized Abe wasn’t touching his coffee either, she said, “I’m going to make some tea. Abe?”
He looked up at her, his tired eyes kind. “Yes, actually. Sounds great.”
Without looking up from the report she was filling out, Anna said, “Nora, you should put mint in Abe’s, too.” This was said so casually that Nora’s suspicions were immediately confirmed.
The crinkles around Abe’s eyes intensified now as he recognized Nora’s look of comprehension.
Smiling, Nora took an extra moment to stop by her locker. Her old blue backpack still held the Penn T-shirt Ahmad had given her the day he got his acceptance letter. She dug for it and then headed for the restroom. Cautiously she slid out of Pete’s blazer and her tattered Oxford shirt, twisting right and left to get a full sense of the bandaging job the EMT had done. There were half a dozen small burns, the largest being on her lower back. She felt grateful none of the hot metal had rained down on her face; she had curled herself into the tightest ball she could—that Quantico training kicking in. The most annoying of the burns was on the back of her neck, just below her chignon. She would have to wear her hair higher, as already the friction of the thick knot of hair against the bandage was uncomfortable. She tugged the elastic out and let loose the tumble of curls. Her hair smelled acrid. She gathered it into a quick ponytail for now, and headed back to the conference room.
By the time she came back with their teas, the footage of the robbery was ready to play.
It had all happened very, very fast. One of the men had smashed the lobby door with the butt of his rifle and then all three burst in. One was indeed carrying a huge duffle. While the first man subdued the startled guard and began duct-taping him to the duffle itself, the other two held the three female employees at gunpoint. It seemed clear that all of the men were shouting and gesturing. Once the guard was bound to the duffle, all three men leapt over the teller counters and a rapid exchange ensued with the bank manager and both tellers. Two men began stuffing their backpacks with the money sacks which had evidently just been taken out of the vault for armored car pickup, while the tallest man aimed his weapon at the women. Each woman stood with raised, trembling hands, her gaze riveted on the rifle that swung back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. Finally, their backpacks zipped, all three men shooed the women out through the broken glass doors and into the street. Upon exiting, the tallest man whirled, pointed his rifle at the duffle bag and fired.
The streaking bullet was visible even on the black and white tape.
And then blackness.
Sheila looked around the room at them, then said, “Pete, please play it again.”
Pete moved the cursor back to the beginning. This time, when the men entered the lobby, Anna said, “Pause.”
Pete paused the feed.
She was frowning, watching the video from over the rims of her reading glasses as she made notes on the legal pad in front of her. “Can you zoom in?”
The faces on the screen were grainy, but for the most part clear.
“God, here’s the part where we need facial recognition technology.”
“Someday reality will match the movies,” Abe said with an old-man chuckle. “But you have to admit they’re plucky, right? No bandannas, no panty hose, no Halloween masks. Just the faces God gave ’em.”
“Plucky. Right,” Sheila said. “At the very least let’s zero in on the door frame, catch the height markers?”
Nora watched as Pete used the mouse to select parts of the screen to zoom in on. Security measures in banks and businesses dictated that subtle markers be notched into the doorframes for just these occasions. Now Anna, Abe, and Sheila were squinting at the screen.
“6 feet,” said Pete, zooming out now from the first man. He allowed the video to advance a few milliseconds. “5'9-ish, right?… 5'11,” he said at last. The group jotted this down.
Abe interjected, “The last one is weighted down, slumping, you know. With the duffle bag. He’ll be slightly taller as he exits.”
“Are your guys going to be able to get us pieces of that bag?” Sheila asked.
“The bag? Maybe a scrap of metal if we’re lucky. If our crime scene isn’t contaminated too badly.”
“It’s locked down,” said Sheila assuredly. “Just keep your boys focused. But we are going to need speed. The Roar brings millions of dollars to the local economy. We have to sort this out immediately.” Nora thought she saw Abe and Anna actually roll their eyes at each other, but it was so subtle and quick that she couldn’t be sure. Sheila continued, “Can we figure out a source for the ammonium nitrate?”
Abe laughed out loud. “Sure, every farm supply store in the region.”
Pete said, “That will be about a thousand.”
They all ingested this as Abe said, “Unless it’s clear that someone is amassing ammonium nitrate in vast quantities, the farm supply stores have no obligation to keep a record. If I want to stockpile, I can go from one store to the next and just buy one bag.” He stood at this point, stretching. “Alright, I’ve got to get back to my team.”
“We’ll be back down to the bank in a bit,” said Sheila. “Thanks for coming up, Abe. Thanks for pulling in whoever got us this tape so fast.”
Abe gave a grin that fell largely on Anna. “I live to serve,” he said.
* * *
“Well, they can’t have just disappeared,” Anna was saying into the phone.
Pete looked at Nora. He stage whispered, “That sort of statement usually means that’s exactly what happened.”
Nora nodded, waiting.
Anna sighed and pulled her BlackBerry away from her ear. “Nothing.”
“The chopper?” Pete asked.
“The chopper, state police, sheriff, PD, no one’s got even a lead.”
Pete hopped up on his desk, his long legs dangling. “You know, they get a lot of credit. Those are some bold bank robbers … robbing our little hamlet in broad daylight like this.”
“Bold? Desperate?”
Anna harrumphed. “Probably both.”
“Men on a mission,” Nora surmised.
Her partners turned to look at her.
She shrugged. “They want to show strength, not sneakiness. They want to look badass in a way that attracts others—which is why they robbed a downtown bank in the middle of a motorcycle festival … on motorcycles. That heist was advertising.”
The two were silent. Then Pete said, “Hey, Philadelphia. You sound like some kinda college girl.”
Nora shook her head, but suppressed a smile just the same.
Anna stood. “I have to go with Sheila to oversee the evidence-gathering at the bank. Nora, how are you holding up, all those burns?”
Nora shrugged. She hadn’t been thinking about them and suddenly felt vaguely uncomfortable. “Nothing, Anna. Really, I’m fine.”
“Ok. Then head out with Pete. Sort out where those motorcycles went.”
Pete was nodding. Gingerly he said, “It’s getting dark outside, Anna.”
She put on her angry face, and both Pete and Nora were slightly taken aback. “Use a fucking flashlight, Peter. And don’t come back until you have an answer.”
She stalked off to Sheila’s office without another word.
* * *
“I was just sayin’,” Pete defended himself.
Nora shrugged. “She’s in crisis mode. She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Crisis mode,” he repeated, leading her to his car.
“Shouldn’t we walk?” she was asking.
“You do understand that it’s like a thousand degrees outside,” Pete retorted.
“Peter, as your accent clearly indicates, you are from the south. Why are you giving me a hard time? This is your climate.”
“Was. Was my climate. Now I like air conditioning. I like snow tires. Sweat is…”
“Cramps your style?”
“Cramps my style,” he affirmed.
“Doesn’t help get the honeys?”
“Cramps my style,” he said again. “And you sound ridiculous when you use words like that.”
“Okay, we can take the car at least to where they disappeared from our line of vision, but then we need to start entertaining the idea that they ditched the bikes and are hiding, or that they hid the bikes somewhere nearby. It’s just not possible that they got far.”
“Fine,” he said grudgingly, cranking the AC for the eight-block ride. He plopped the flashing light down on the roof of the steel gray Ford Fusion, and Nora recalled Ben’s old car with a pang. She wondered why the Bureau kept giving its agents small cars that could be easily crushed. In the movies everyone got tank-like SUVs that shone like black mirrors.
Pete guided the car out onto State Street from the garage. They did not get very far until they were forced over to French by the impassable swarm of emergency vehicles. Some onlookers lingered as well; despite the fact that the bomb squad had issued an order to clear the area, some of the festival-goers, beer-emboldened, could not be daunted.
“What did you think that walking was going to achieve?”
Nora glanced at him and then at her own place as they passed it going the wrong way. “Look, in Philly I walked or ran everywhere … I felt like I knew the city better than the guys who were always in their squad cars, or their … whatever, their Bureau-issued vehicles.”
Pete considered this. “I like my car.”
“I know you do. But you don’t really know the city, right?”
“I’m trying not to.” He shrugged. “Also, this isn’t really a city.”
“Dude, it has a mayor. Come on.”
But Pete only snorted.
Nora looked at him. She realized suddenly that Pete was biding his time as much as she was. “What’s your ideal post, Peter?”
He looked at her wistfully. “Aw, now…”
“You can tell me. I know you’re wishing you were somewhere else.” She thought for a moment, then admitted, “So do I.”
Pete inhaled then said, “Well, I’ve always wanted to live in California.”
“Really?” Nora asked.
Pete nodded. “Yeah. Just, you know, live the dream a little. My family … well, my family isn’t very well off. So.”
The way he spoke these words left Nora assured that they were a massive understatement. She regarded him thoughtfully as he drove. “So Cali is the answer?” she asked.
“Nah. But I thought it’d be cool to have one of those Hollywood girls. You know, just once.”
“Some hard-core beer-drinking girl?” Nora teased.
“Hell yeah,” he said, grinning.
“I’m pretty sure Hollywood girls like sweet drinks in pretty glasses,” Nora said. “I saw it in the movies, brother.”
Pete threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t believe everything you see, Miss Nora. The girl who loves beer and former quarterbacks—”
“Crime-fighting former quarterbacks, mind you,” Nora interjected.
“Yes, crime-fighting former quarterbacks … she’s out there.”
Nora smiled. “I do believe that she is. That said, what do you see here?”
They had looped around to the east side of the hospital and were now overlooking the bay. They lingered for a moment at the traffic light, their eyes scanning the view. The bay stretched out, dark blue-gray in the twilight. The road descended toward the Maritime Museum, the library and harbor, the convention center and its hotel, and the small bayside restaurants.
Nora tilted her head, her eyes scanning the water. “Could they have gotten on a boat?”
Pete glanced at her. “With their bikes or without?”
Nora shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He considered for a moment, then said, “They could have shoved their bikes into the bay and jumped on a boat. Sure. The scenario where they get motorcycles onto a boat would be … I don’t know, unwieldy at worst and attention-getting at best.” He pulled the car into the Erie Sand and Gravel Works. He slid the gear shift into park and they descended into the evening’s heat.
“I mean, they could have headed to Canada, right?” Nora said. “It’s only, what, twenty-five miles away?”
“Canadian bank robbers?”
“It’d be funny, right? Canadian bank robbers. Dressed up like prototypical American alpha males?”
Pete laughed out loud. “On behalf of the prototypical American alpha male, I’m offended that such an absurdity could even flit across your brain.”
A squat-looking administrative building seemed ill at ease holding sway over what looked like acres of gravel piles stretching as far as the eye could see. A long, empty road meandered between the piles.
Pete looked from the road to Nora. “Dump trucks take the gravel all over the city,” he said thoughtfully. “But also to the end of this road for loading onto barges.”
“Well, who do you call for warrants to search the gravel company?”
It turns out that John M. Finch, owner of the Erie Sand and Gravel Company, was more than welcoming, and no warrant was necessary at all. But there were also no abandoned motorcycles and no employees who’d seen any boats approaching the docks.
Anna narrowed her eyes at them when they returned after 10 P.M. empty-handed.
“Not even a track?”
Pete shook his head. “Trucks run in and out of there until dark. Any bike tracks would have been obliterated.”
“Lot of brush out there. You’re sure?” Anna insisted. She had clearly liked the idea.
“There are no abandoned bikes. You want to look in the bay, that’s another story.” His tone was borderline disrespectful but Anna was too tired to push back.
“No, I don’t want to order a sweep of the bay yet. But I’m not ruling it out, either.”
Finally she said, “Well, the state troopers are continuing to search. We gave them the outside perimeter and they’ve stuck to it efficiently. But nothing. I’ll see if I can’t get the coast guard in on the fun. Pitch your Canadian idea to them.”
“They’re in the city,” Pete opined. “Biding their time.”
“Til what? Heading for Rio?” Anna demanded.
Pete shrugged. “White men in leather with money. Definitely Vegas.”
Nora drummed her fingers on her desk. “They had the money. Why bomb the bank and kill the guard? It puts them in a whole other felony class. What was the point?”
“Makes a statement?” Pete offered.
“That they … don’t like banks?” Nora rejoined.
“Banks are institutions,” Anna said softly. “Institutions of the American government because they are federally insured.”
“Anti-government types then?” Pete asked, rubbing the stubble along his jawline.
Anna shrugged. “Maybe. McVeigh used the same kind of bomb, you know.”
“So, what I said. Makes a statement.”
“They walked away with almost a million in cash. What are they going to do with it?”
She shook her head. “Better rifles?”
Nora thought of Abe’s assessment of the homemade explosives used at the bank. “Better bombs.”
“Jesus,” Pete whispered.
Nora and Pete exchanged glances, waiting.
“Alright, you two. Let’s give it a fresh start in the morning. Be here early, though. The whole city is in an uproar. They’re this close to shutting down the festival.”
“They should shut down the festival,” Nora said.
“It’s not a festival,” Pete interjected. “It’s Roar on the Shore. Festival makes it sound like there’s maypoles and wine tasting.”
“Whatever the hell it is,” Anna said testily, “it may not be for long. If we can’t make a quick arrest here, they’re going to cancel the non-festival’s festivities. Got it? So we’re not lingering over Starbucks wenches and we’re not taking our morning runs, we’re showing up early and fixing this thing.”
Nora and Pete nodded and headed out the door.
“What about Frank Burgess?” Nora asked, as they started descending the stairs.
Pete shrugged. “A few extra days getting brutalized in prison won’t hurt that fat fuck.”
Nora winced, but found that she agreed wholeheartedly.
* * *
Her neighbor Rachel had been keeping an eye out for her return. This was disconcerting for Nora. The feeling transformed swiftly when she found that her neighbor was handing her a large Tupperware container, still warm, with several pieces of buttery garlic bread resting precariously on top of it. “I made gnocchi today. Had plenty to share.”
With a rush of gratitude, Nora realized she hadn’t eaten anything for almost twelve hours and she was ravenous. “Rachel, you shouldn’t have. I still feel like it’s too soon for you to be up and around like this,” she observed.
“You heard the doctor. A few bruises. I got off easy this time.”
She had. Nora had been in the room when the nurse recorded the legacy of broken bones, a knife-slashing across her belly, and a pot full of boiling water dashed at her back as she tried to dart away.
“Anyway, you should come in,” Nora said.
“No way, I heard the commotion, saw the news, and I know you must be wrecked. I wanted to insist you come up to my place, but I knew you’d be too tired, so I brought you this to-go deal here. Not pretty, but it works.”
“You’re … you’re completely amazing. Thank you.”
“Hey, now that I’ve got a new door, there’s nothing stopping me,” Rachel said cheerfully.
Nora took in the bland, cream-colored fiberglass door the landlord had apparently installed that day. It would have been better suited to some suburban subdivision than their character-heavy, early 20th-century brown brick abode. Nora wondered where the thick oak frame had gone, and suddenly realized how vulnerable her own door, more glass than wood, looked in comparison.
“Well, let’s hope none of the other neighbors sleeps with open windows,” Nora teased.
“Got a brick through the window just before you got here.”
For a second, Nora had believed her, but then saw that Rachel was laughing. Nora hated to admit she’d actually fantasized about sneaking out and throwing a brick through the window with a “practice in daylight hours” message attached.
“If I weren’t practicing for an audition in Pittsburgh, I’d ease up. So the food is a way to say I’m sorry, too. I can’t stop just yet, but soon, I promise.”
Nora reached out and embraced her tightly, careful not to knock the garlic bread to the ground. “You do what you need to do. I’m lucky to get to hear it, Rachel.”
Rachel grinned. “Thanks, Nora. Be safe in all this. Let me know if you need anything.”
* * *
She was just nestling into bed when she heard Ben’s ringtone. She rolled over and grabbed the phone.
“You knew I’d be worried about you, but you wouldn’t answer my texts or calls. What the hell, Nora? The story’s all over the news.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said.
“You’re being passive-aggressive or something.”
“I’m being tired.”
“Are you injured?”
She gazed down at the gauze circling her forearm. “Nah.”
He was silent. “Are you seriously still angry at me over this thing?”
“I was trying not to think about it.”
“She’s not a threat to you, Nora. You know how I feel about you.”
“I know. But you had a relationship with her that…” Nora stared at the swirls in the plaster ceiling, groping for words. Finally, she said, “I don’t know how to be that person. Yet. And you’ve been … well, patient for a white guy.”
“I’ll continue to be patient until you run out of patience,” Ben insisted. “I told you that from the beginning. I’ll never pressure you, Nora. I know it’s all still … new.”
She inhaled deeply, trying to smother the fear in her. Ben could get any woman, should have any woman, shouldn’t have to wait for her to get over a lifetime of lessons about waiting til marriage. They were lessons that were starting to feel like they’d come from a different world altogether.
He too was silent, then said, “Look, for the sake of an old friendship, I need to be there for her. I am not going back to her. I’m just being there.”
Nora felt a surge of emotion. “Well, I could use a friend too, Benjamin. You might think about it that way.”
“Well, every time I schedule time with you, I’m also scheduling time with your family,” he snapped.
It came too quickly. Nora turned his response over in her head, then said softly, “I guess I get it now.”
“Look, Nora, I—”
“Enjoy your stay,” she said, cutting him off. She ended the call. Then, uncharacteristically, she turned off the ringer completely. She would trust that the Bureau did not need her for the few hours remaining until she reported for work. It only took half an hour of crying until she fell into a fitful sleep.