Blind Dates Can Be Murder (49 page)

Danny watched as the nurse wrapped the green netting around and around his leg. They were giving him a fiberglass cast, and he’d had his choice of hot pink, lime green, or neon yellow. As they worked, he had to wonder whatever happened to good old-fashioned white plaster.

Of course, once they were finished, he was glad the cast wasn’t plaster. Rather than having to wait two days for it to dry, this one set almost immediately. They fit him for a pair of crutches, scheduled a follow-up appointment, and sent him on his way.

He was so relieved to have his freedom back! The solid cast significantly reduced his pain, and now that he didn’t have to be so careful, he was as free to move about as the crutches would allow. Once he got back to his aunt and uncle’s house, he borrowed one of their cars so that he could drive to the bomb squad’s command center at the chief’s house.

He prayed fervently as he went.

It had been a busy morning for Chuck. First stop was a hardware store for three thick metal pipes with coarse threading and matching end caps, then a grocery store for a giant bag of sugar, then a pet store for lots of potassium permanganate, then a hobby store for some remote control ignitors, then a mailbox store for an empty box and a roll of bubble wrap. By the time he was ready to actually sit down and assemble the bombs, time was running close—and explosives weren’t something he wanted to rush.

He also didn’t have a convenient place to work. He couldn’t go back to the hotel. And the longer he drove around the small town in a stolen car, the more nervous he became. The theft of the car he was driving had to have been reported by now; sooner or later the cops were going to see him.

Finally, he found a secluded parking spot behind an auto parts store. Though cars came and went from the front of the busy business, the way the parking area was set up, he couldn’t really be spotted out back unless someone came walking behind the fence that surrounded the dumpsters. Feeling confident that he had chosen a good place, he got out of the car. Moving around to the trunk, he went to work on the explosives, capping one end of the first pipe, lining the inside with a little of the bubble wrap, and then carefully mixing together the permanganate and the sugar. He had learned a lot about explosives prior to his incarceration, and in prison he’d picked up even more tips. Now he felt like an expert as he assembled the explosive, the detonator wire, and the ignitor. This baby was going to be sweet.

Once he had finished making the first bomb, he carefully placed it inside the empty guitar case, which he lined with more of the bubble wrap.

Then he started on the next one.

“My client agrees to the terms,” Anna said to Chief Cooper as she slid the signed paperwork across the table. “She’s ready to talk.”

Lettie watched as the chief picked up the papers and carried them out of the small interrogation room, returning with three bottles of water and a tape recorder. He gave them each water, keeping a bottle for himself, and then he set the tape recorder in the middle of the table and turned it on.

“I am Chief Harvey J. Cooper,” he said toward the recorder as he sat across from them.

As he gave the date and place and time, Lettie couldn’t help thinking how different this was from what she had expected. There was no bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, no cops with veins bulging on their foreheads as they screamed at her. It was much more sedate than that, and much kinder. So far, she hadn’t regretted her decision to confess.

Really, despite her shaky future and the situation she found herself in now, she felt better on the inside than she had for three years.

What was it they said? Confession is good for the soul?

If that was the case, then her soul was about to feel great.

Chuck walked into Dates&Mates carrying the guitar case. He had all sorts of lies at the ready about what he was doing, but the place was so busy that no one seemed to notice or care. He breezed right past the reception desk and simply walked through the facility, looking for the best place to stow the case and the bomb that was inside.

Just outside of an Internet café area, he spotted a small alcove, inside of which was a rack with three coats and a whole bunch of hangers. If he left the case there, he knew, no one would bother it for a while. It would look as though someone had stashed it along with their coat.

He started to place the case on the floor but changed his mind and carefully slid it onto the shelf over the rack. He didn’t want anyone to accidentally kick it and blow things to smithereens prematurely.

Once that was done, he wandered a bit more, just to look legit in case anyone was watching. Then he left by a side entrance, got in the waiting car, and drove away.

As Jo opened the back door of her house and stepped inside, she vividly recalled the events of the night before. To be prudent now, she grabbed a knife from the butcher block and held it in her fist as she slowly, cautiously roamed from room to room.

Chuck Smith, if it had indeed been him, had torn her home to shreds. She felt heartsick as she took in the broken treasures, the slashed-up mattresses. Her homeowner’s policy covered theft and vandalism, but she knew no amount of money could ever pay her for the loss and violation of this act.

At least he hadn’t hurt her.

“Okay, I’ve checked every room,” Jo said out loud, so that the men on the other end of the bug she wore would hear her. “There’s nobody here but me.”

A moment later, her telephone rang once and then stopped. That was their signal that she was coming in loud and clear. Heaving a sigh of relief, she walked to the living room. All of the upholstered chairs were slashed up, however, so she chose a wooden stool in the kitchen. She pulled it to the counter near the telephone, sat, and waited.

The call came at ten minutes after noon, the Caller ID simply indicating that the number was “Unknown.” It was a man’s voice, the same voice from last night. He wanted her to meet him at the cemetery beside the park in five minutes. Though most people might have found that extremely disconcerting, for Jo it was almost a good omen: That was the cemetery where her grandparents were buried. She knew her way around the place and felt comfortable there.

“Remember,” he said before she hung up. “No cops, no friends. I want you there by yourself.”

“Got it,” she replied. “I’ll see you in five minutes.”

She hung up the phone and spoke out loud the directions he had given her, so that the cops could hear. Her phone rang once in confirmation. After it did, she ran to her car and started it up, one eye on the clock that was ticking away her time.

It was a big risk, Chuck thought as he sat in his car, but it was necessary. He watched as Jo Tulip pulled out of her driveway and sped off. After she turned right at the end of the road, he drove forward and pulled into her driveway.

Getting into her house was easy this time, as he had stolen a spare set of keys last night. He found the one that was for the back door, opened it, and then retrieved the second bomb from his car trunk. He carried it inside and placed it in the living room, against the wall.

Then he returned to his car and drove away.

Jo’s body was quaking by the time she pulled into a row of parking spaces beside the mausoleum. That’s where he had said to wait, so, carrying the suitcase, she got out of her car and sat on a bench up against the marble wall. She knew that the police could hear her but not see her. She wanted to whisper something into her wire, like “He’s not here yet” or “So far, so good,” but she didn’t dare. He might be watching her and see her talking.

Finally, from the shrubbery that separated the cemetery from the park, a man emerged and came sauntering in her direction.

“You walked over here from the park?” she asked as he drew closer, trying to clue in the police who were listening. “I didn’t realize you could get through the bushes that way.”