Richard Castle - A Brewing Storm

“Stolen elephants and naked people do interest me,” he quipped. “Naked people more than stolen elephants, unless midgets and butter are involved. But for now I’ll settle for the file about the four explosions.”

A clearly irked Agent Showers left the conference room. When she returned, she jabbed another case folder at Storm as if it were a knife.

“You and I both know,” Showers said, “that the kidnappers blew up the ransom money after sending you and Toppers on an elaborate goose chase. Ivan Petrov spit in Windslow’s face. Petrov took back his bribe money and killed his stepson. But I can’t prove any of this — thanks to the higher ups protecting you, Toppers, and Senator Windslow.”

Storm took the file and asked, “Did the FBI work the blasts that night or was it some other agency?”

“The explosions happened on parkland so the National Park Police and the District of Columbia police were responsible for the investigation. The actual bomb investigation was done by the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives because of its expertise.”

Storm removed the BATF analytical report. All four explosions had been caused by identical homemade devices. The explosions had come from small amounts of ammonium nitrate packed tightly into plastic bottles. A cell phone had been used as the trigger. The devices resembled the improvised explosive devices (IEDs) used against U.S. troops in Iraq, but they packed much less power. This similarity prompted BATF investigators to speculate that the bomb maker had some military training. The IEDs were missing the projectiles that insurgents normally used to cause maximum damage. Instead the bombs had been designed to cause a loud noise and ignite fires.

Included in the report was a list of debris that had been collected at each blast site. Despite the explosion and resulting fire, numerous remnants of one-hundred-dollar bills had been found. Newspaper fragments had been collected, too, along with other debris from items commonly found in trash cans, such as plastic bottles and aluminum soda and beer cans.

Although the four cell phones used to trigger the bombs had been destroyed, investigators had been able to glean that they were identical Motorola models.

With the report still in his hands, Storm asked, “Did you read this list of remnants?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Do you think you’re the only one who wants to be thorough?”

“Did you notice anything odd?”

“I assume you’re talking about the large amount of newsprint.”

“The report says there was four times more newsprint found at each blast site than there was remnants from hundred-dollar bills,” Storm said.

“At first, I didn’t think that was significant,” Showers admitted, “but then I remembered that newsprint is made of wood pulp.”

“And currency is made from cotton and linen,” Storm said, completing her sentence.

“Which means,” she said, “that the newsprint should have burned faster than the currency. Less newsprint should have survived. But there was more of it.”

Storm closed the file and handed it to her.

She said, “What are you saying — that something happened to the money?”

“I’m saying this case is far from over.”

He stood to leave.

“Hey, where are you going?” she asked. “What do you mean, 'This case if far from over’? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ll be in touch. Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You can’t just walk out of here like this,” she said.

But that was exactly what he was doing.

“You’re a son of a bitch — whatever your name is,” she said.

The coldness in her voice was strong enough to have chilled shots from an entire fifth of Jack Daniel’s.

Matthew Dull’s funeral was held in the prestigious Washington National Cathedral and attracted the sort of attention you would expect when the deceased had been murdered and was related to a powerful U.S. senator. The President of the United States was traveling overseas, but he sent the vice president to represent him. At least forty members of Congress took seats in the front pews. Georgetown socialites, who knew Gloria and her son, intermingled with the politicos. Every member of the Washington press corps who mattered was covering the event. While most mourners came to genuinely pay their respects, Storm knew a few had shown up simply to curry favor or rub shoulders with the city’s crème de le crème. He arrived late and stood at the rear of the church. He spotted Jedidiah Jones in a second-row seat.

A colleague of Senator Windslow had just started the eulogy when there was a ruckus in the front of the cathedral. Samantha Toppers had fainted and was sprawled on the floor. Everything stopped while security officers administered first aid and carried her outside to an ambulance. She was driven to an exclusive, private hospital on Capitol Hill.

After the service, television news reporters doing stand-up reports outside the cathedral could be overheard telling viewers that Toppers had collapsed because of her “broken heart.”

Storm didn’t stick around for the funeral processional to the famed Georgetown Tall Oaks cemetery. Dating back to 1849, Tall Oaks had run out of room long ago, but its owners had recently dug up the cemetery’s paths and walkways to create more space. Matthew’s body would be interred in a double-decker concrete crypt covered with slate and used as a new footpath. A tasteful marker would be placed beside the walkway, noting who was buried beneath it.

The local newscast that night revealed that Toppers was being held overnight for observation at the St. Mary of the Miracle Hospital. It was standard procedure. She was suffering from situational depression, her doctor said, and needed rest.

Visiting hours at St. Mary’s, which only accommodated fifty patients in its private suites, ended at precisely 8 P.M., which is exactly when Storm walked through the hospital’s entrance. The lobby was designed to look as if it were a living room. All visitors were required to sign in with a kindly looking elderly woman stationed behind a mahogany desk. The white-haired matron would press a concealed button that opened a solid oak door that led into the ward.

“I need to speak to the security officer on duty,” Storm told her.

“Oh, that’ll be, Tyler Martin. He’s a real nice fellow, but he’s always late. He’s supposed to be here now because my shift ends at eight o’clock.”

At that same moment, an overweight, balding middle-aged fellow wearing dark blue trousers, a light blue button shirt, and a black tie burst into the lobby and hurried toward them.

“Sorry, Shirley,” he said, puffing from his rushed pace, “traffic is a mess out there.”

“You know it always is, Officer Martin,” the woman replied, “especially since they got the streets around the hospital torn up with construction. You’d think all that construction work would stop drivers from racing by here, but I almost got hit last night crossing at the intersection. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“The good news is that if they get hit, they’ll be outside a hospital,” Martin quipped.

The older woman didn’t smile. She said, “Officer Martin, this man wants to speak to you.” Collecting her purse, she walked to the exit, calling over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow and please don’t be late again.”

“Give me a moment please,” Martin said as he popped behind the reception desk and put a paper bag and thermos bottle into a large drawer. Sucking in a deep breath, he looked up at Storm and said, “OK, now, how can I help you?”

Storm handed Martin a thin black wallet that contained the fake private investigator credentials that Jones had given him earlier. “Senator Windslow sent me over,” Storm explained. “He wants to make certain Ms. Samantha Toppers is protected from the media. He’s worried some tabloid photographer is going to sneak in here and take pictures of her while she’s distraught.”