Striking Distance

Surely Tom realized she couldn’t share information from an active investigation just because she worked for the paper.

His gaze shifted back to Alex. “Get me something—an interview with a source close to the investigation, the kid’s parents, witnesses. I want at least ten inches on this, enough for a decent headline.”

“Whatever you say.” Alex was definitely irritated. “There was a gang-related killing in the state pen overnight. The suspected head of one of the Mexican nationalist gangs was found dead in his cell this morning with his throat slit. Word is that the head of the white supremacist group green-lighted the murder from his cell in D-seg. I’d like to report this—maybe ten inches—and use it as a springboard for a bigger piece about gangs in Colorado prisons.”

While Tom and Alex discussed possible angles for Alex’s proposed story, Laura looked over her notes, knowing it was almost her turn in the hot seat. She heard footsteps and looked up to see Javier. Her breath caught, her mind going blank. He stood in her office doorway wearing nothing but a towel. In the sauna, seeing him dressed like this had been one thing. But seeing him standing in her office, daylight highlighting his muscles, making his dark skin gleam . . .

“Can I use your washer?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, unable to keep from raking him with her gaze.

“Nilsson, you there?” Tom looked into the computer screen.

“Yes.” Laura glanced down at her notes. “I need to finish my interview with Ted Hollis, the man I was speaking with when the bomb went off. I’ve got two more soldiers I’d like to interview after that. I’m slated to talk to the local coordinator for the VA’s PTSD program tomorrow. I’d like to talk to the regional VA director, as well, but he keeps shunting me over to the PR flack. I hope to have a story by Friday.”

Laura glanced back over her shoulder, but Javier was gone.

* * *

MCBRIDE SHOWED UP with Callahan at fifteen hundred hours to brief Laura on the investigation. Javier could tell the man was pissed. So was he.

“I’ve never known the Marshal Service to back down like this. Tower must have powerful friends in Washington. He also has an alibi. A friend of his claims he was in D.C. at the time the bomb went off. I’m sure it’s false, but I can’t prove that. He came in voluntarily and answered our questions, even offered to help, which makes him look good. Officially, he’s no longer a person of interest in this case, but unofficially . . .”

Laura nodded. “I understand.”

Javier stood to her right, the tension inside him making it impossible for him to sit. “What about all the phone calls, the way he followed her to her car? What about the bruises he left on her wrists?”

McBride didn’t seem to take Javier’s frustration personally. “The district attorney has declined to prosecute the case. He bought into Tower’s claim that Tower would never have touched Laura if she hadn’t held a gun on him. He says one incident of following Laura to her car doesn’t constitute stalking. But if Tower continues to call you or comes near you again, Laura, we’ll arrest the son of a bitch and charge him with violating the restraining order. He won’t be able to squirm out of that.”

The order, signed by a judge on his lunch hour, thanks to Laura’s very determined attorney, sat on Laura’s coffee table beside half-empty coffee cups.

Tower was making the most of his fifteen minutes of fame to repeat his lies about her being to blame in some way for her own abduction and the deaths of his men, and this time some of the papers had taken the bait, dredging up old news stories, reexamining the State Department’s report. The bastard was a master schemer, and he’d taken advantage of the bombing to manipulate the media.

But Javier was willing to bet Laura knew more about the media than Tower did—and she had her own contacts. She’d already been interviewed by her editor for a piece in tomorrow’s paper, and she’d left a message for her former anchor, who’d been more than happy to give her a segment on Thursday’s primetime broadcast.

Laura reached out, touched McBride’s hand. “Thanks. This isn’t your fault.”

McBride turned to Detective Callahan. “I believe you wanted to update Laura on your investigation.”

Detective Callahan nodded, dark circles beneath his blue eyes proof he’d been putting in long hours. “We’ve collected debris from the bomb site and from the body and have been able to piece together the explosive device.”

“Have you learned anything definite so far?” Laura asked.

Callahan nodded. “We know that the bomber used dynamite stolen from a construction site in Adams County to use as a primer. The dynamite was detonated by cell phone. A call was made to a cell phone co

When it was clear that this meant nothing to Laura, Javier knelt down beside the coffee table, took her reporter’s notepad and pen, and began to sketch. “A call to the cell phone sends current through the phone. The current passes through a nine-volt battery that is wired into a blasting cap. The blasting cap is what sets off the dynamite, which in turn ignites the ANFO. We saw shit like this all the time in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

She studied the drawing. “Can you trace either cell phone?”

Callahan shook his head. “The one used to make the detonator was a burner bought solely for this purpose. It received only one call—and that call came from a burner phone, too.”

She looked disappointed. “I guess there’s not much to go on.”

Callahan’s brows bent in a frown. “Not true. We’ve got serial numbers and may be able to locate the store where the phones were purchased. Same with some of the detonator’s components. That might give us an idea where this person lives—in Colorado, out of state, Front Range, Western Slope. We might also luck out and get some footage from security cameras. Obviously, this won’t yield results overnight, but we

will

find him.”

“In the meantime,” said McBride, “we know for certain another person or persons was involved. We know that the materials they used are consistent with the materials used by AQ, the Taliban, and other terrorist groups to build and detonate IEDs. And we know that Ali Al Zahrani wasn’t the shotcaller here. Whoever detonated the explosives probably never intended for Al Zahrani to set off the bomb himself. He probably used Al Zahrani to help mix the ANFO and get the car into position, and then killed him to eliminate witnesses or prevent him from backing out and warning someone.”

“That poor kid!” Laura closed her eyes, then looked up at them. “He was murdered. Someone pumped him full of hatred, brainwashed him into doing their dirty work—and then shot him in the head. What if he had second thoughts? Maybe he remembered at the last moment that killing was wrong. Maybe he realized he wanted to live and—”

“Hey, don’t do this to yourself.” Javier rested his hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know what happened for sure.”

“But we are going to find out.” McBride pressed a finger to his earpiece, then glanced toward the door. “This is going to be fun. Excuse me.”

He walked out the door, closing it behind him. A few seconds passed before Javier heard the sound of arguing.

“This is still a multi-agency operation. I don’t see why I can’t remain a part of Ms. Nilsson’s protection detail.” That was Agent Killeen.

McBride’s voice was so deep he could barely make out what McBride was saying. “The marshals are handling that aspect of the operation. The FBI—”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t give a rat’s ass where the brass have drawn the lines. I promised to keep her safe, and I want to fulfill that promise.”

“You kept that promise, and now you’ve been relieved.”