Julie Garwood - Slow Burn

"Help me? If you are who you say you are, your bombs have nearly killed me twice." She pressed the intercom button hoping that someone would hear the conversation, but the phone would not allow her to access the intercom as long as she was on the line.

"I didn't try to kill you," he said, exasperated. "I only made the explosives."

"This is crazy," she said.

"You need to hear what I have to say." He didn't sound crazy. He sounded reasonable. Was he going to offer her an apology?

"I'll listen. Start explaining."

"I like blowing things up."

Okay, so he was crazy after all. She thought she should say something in response. "Do you want to tell me why?" If she could keep him on the line, she might be able to summon help.

"Why isn't relevant," he said. "I've made quite a nice income. I bought a big-screen TV with surround sound last month. You wouldn't believe how it makes the Nature Channel come alive… but I digress. Truth is, I enjoy the extra income, and it allows me to do something I love doing."

"Blowing things up."

"I like building explosives, and in the past I never let anyone else near them. Until recently. A friend of a friend of a friend… you know how it goes. I was lured by the money, and I was hoodwinked. I was told the explosives would be used in the desert. There was a lot of talk about caves and underground facilities. Oh, yes, I was spun an elaborate lie, and I believed it. I was extremely naive and greedy.

"I took the money and went back to my day job. I didn't think another thing about it until I opened the newspaper and saw a photo of an explosion at a gallery. It made the national news. I recognized my work right away. I was outraged because I had been hoodwinked, and after I read the article about how you had narrowly escaped death, I was scared, and I felt really bad for you." He snorted again. "Really, I did… heh, heh… I thought about sending you flowers.

"I tried to get hold of my contact, but he had disappeared. Then I read about another explosion that destroyed a building and nearly killed you again. I knew then that you were the target."

She heard him take a deep breath and let out a long sigh.

"This is a dangerous business."

He was just now figuring that out? "Yes," she said.

"I've decided to quit."

"You're calling me to tell me you're retiring?" she asked suspiciously.

He didn't answer the question. "There's a gentleman who has been pursuing me for several years now. His name is Sutherland, and he works for ATF. I would appreciate it if you would call him and tell him to go home."

"Because you're retiring."

"Yes."

This was the most bizarre conversation she had ever had. "I think you should tell him. I'm sure he would love to meet you, even if only by phone."

"Oh, we have met, several times, in fact. He just doesn't know it."

She bet Sutherland was going to love hearing that. She spotted her purse on a chair next to the window. Her cell phone was in it. If she could get it, she might be able to contact someone.

She needed to keep him talking.

"May I ask a question?" she asked as she stood up and moved the phone to the end of the table as far as the cord would allow so she could reach for her purse.

"Certainly. If I can answer it, I will, and no, I'm not really a florist. If you could see my garden, you'd-"

"That's not the question I was going to ask. I was told that you always put your explosives in baskets. I was curious to know why."

"That's a common misconception. I don't put them in baskets. They are the baskets. It's quite intricate work. I like to think of myself as a virtuoso. The Beethoven of bang, if you will." He chuckled.

"Why did you really call me?"

"I need to get serious now," he said as he stopped his laugh with a sigh. "I want to save your life."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"By giving you important information. The first explosion tore out a hill."

"Yes." She grabbed the purse handle and pulled it to her.

"You walked away and barely suffered a scratch. Do you know the statistical odds for that?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The second explosive took down a building, and you survived that as well. That's phenomenal, just phenomenal."

"Yes," she said again. Where was this leading? She fished to the bottom of the purse for her phone.

"The odds are becoming positively astronomical. I'm quite worried about you. You just can't survive another one."

"Another one?"

"Yes. You see, I made three."

"What?" She stopped. "What did you say?"

"There's one more bomb out there, and you need to listen carefully…"

Kate was concentrating so intently on what the bomber was saying, she didn't hear the door open behind her.

Roger Mackenna's apartment smelled like forgotten garbage. Roger smelled like he'd rolled around in it before he killed himself. He was lying on the floor in the living room, flat on his back, the gun still clutched in his hand. Blood had pooled around his head and upper shoulders and had formed what appeared to be a perfect black chalk outline. Death had captured his expression of despair. One eye was closed, the other was somewhere in the back of his skull.

He wasn't a pretty sight.

The FBI was there in force, and the agent in charge, Joel Kline, turned out to be surprisingly accommodating. He was about Dylan's age, but he already had deep creases at the corners of his mouth. His tall, thin frame was hunched at the shoulders as though permanently bent from stooping over too many crime scenes.

Once Dylan had diplomatically let him know that he was in no way interested in usurping his position, Kline handed him a pair of gloves and told him to have a look around. He'd be happy to get his input.

The medical examiner was a middle-aged man named Dr. Luke Parrish. He was kneeling beside the body. Dylan squatted next to him, introduced himself, and showed him his badge.

Parrish liked to chat. "I used to live near Silver Springs," he said. "Real nice area. Not enough homicides to keep me busy or interested, so I moved here. Savannah's real nice, too," he added. "With that accent of yours I'd say you're from the northeast. Am I right?"

"Yes," he said. "Boston."

"You relocating?"

"No, this is a temporary job."

They both turned to look at the body. "This one knew what he was doing," Parrish said. "One clean shot took care of it. Most of them don't know where to aim."

The weapon was a Glock. Parrish bagged it and handed it to a hovering agent. "Damn, he stinks. I don't think he ever took a shower. He hasn't been dead long. He had this stench on him when he was alive. How could anyone live like this? Look around. The place is a pit. You'd think anybody who could afford expensive furniture like this might try a little to keep it nice. That leather sofa alone had to have cost a couple thousand."

Parrish wasn't exaggerating about the apartment. It was a pit. There were overflowing ashtrays on tables and chairs, and empty whiskey bottles scattered about. The sofa looked like it was ready to be carted off to the city dump. The cushions were all broken down, and there were cigarette holes along the arms.

The coffee table was the only clean surface in the apartment. The papers on top were organized.

"Did you find a suicide note?" Dylan asked.

Kline crossed the room to join him. "No, not yet. But he left us all these papers. I think he wanted to help us get Jackman."

"Is there enough to prosecute him?"

"We're not through looking."

In other words, no, Dylan thought. "Tell me what you do have."

"We've compared what we found here with the information we'd already gotten from Nate Hallinger. He's gonna love seeing all this evidence when he gets here.