Michael Palmer - The Society

The phone tucked between her chin and shoulder, Patty was already out of bed snatching clothes from her bureau and closet.

“Kristine, it’s great of you to call me so quickly. I’ll get in touch with Wayne Brasco, my partner on this one, and we’ll be out there in just a little while. I guess you know this case is number three.”

“I do, but don’t bother calling Brasco.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s already here. Apparently someone from Norfolk called him, because he’s been here almost from the beginning, glad-handing the guys like this was some sort of frat party and ignoring every part of me except for my breasts. A couple of minutes ago, he jokingly let slip that you were also on the Middlesex cases with him-something about your being assigned to work with him as a favor to your father.”

“That’s absurd.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I was with you at the academy.”

“Thanks. I’m really upset that Brasco didn’t call me.”

“The man’s a cartoon. I don’t know how you put up with him. He’s like something from the fifties.”

In a tribute to her flexibility and fitness, Patty had brushed out her hair (cut short since a druggie seized a fistful of the longer version during an arrest), pulled on underwear, socks, a pair of slacks, and a dark blouse, buttoned it up and tucked it in all without dislodging the phone.

“Tell me something,” she asked as she slid on her belt, tightened it, and finished things off with a navy blue sweater vest. “Have you guys found an envelope yet?”

“Not that I know of, but mostly it’s been the lab people so far. We’ll get our shot in a little while.”

“I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“Great.”

“And, Kristine, thanks again.”

“I just hope I’m nearby to see Brasco’s face when you show up.”

“You may have to pull my fist out of it first.”

“Now, that would be my pleasure.”

Lost in thoughts of the managed-care murders and the disdain of Wayne Brasco, Patty was half a block past Serenity Lane before she realized she had missed the turn. No surprise. Driving was an instant hypnotic for her, and after just a few minutes on the road she was invariably lost in something-classical or country music or, more often, a case. She swung her three-year-old Camaro, a rally-red Z28, into a tight U, then paused by the curb to compose herself and take in a few more seconds of Beethoven’s Sixth.

Breathe in. . breathe out.

The exercise failed to lessen the stabbing pain caused by her nails digging into her palms. There was nothing to be gained by making a scene here with Brasco, she cautioned herself. Some kind of response to his snub was most definitely called for, but timing was everything. She just had to watch for the right moment and seize it.

A young uniformed policeman, stationed halfway down Serenity Lane, checked Patty’s ID, told her she was driving a really neat car, then motioned her past. The crime scene, cordoned off by yellow police tape and several sawhorses, was dramatic. Two fire engines, half a dozen cruisers, vans from the bomb squad and forensics, and an ambulance were still parked on the street. Beyond them, a dozen or so people-local cops, detectives, and crime-scene investigators-watched and waited as the laboratory people finished their work. Well off to Patty’s right, Kristine Zurowski and another officer were ascending the front walk to a Greek-revival-style mansion that Patty found repugnantly ostentatious. Ahead of her was a more tasteful but no less vast colonial with all of the windows shattered. The pungent smells of explosive and fuel still permeated the air.

Welcome to the Davenports’.

Patty flashed her shield at one more inquiring officer, then ducked beneath the yellow tape. The front yard was illuminated by hazy morning light plus a series of spots. In addition to the burned and twisted metal of Cyrill Davenport’s car, Patty could make out significant segments of the man himself, including an elbow and nearly intact head. She stared skyward for half a minute before she was composed and ready to make her way across to Detective Lieutenant Wayne Brasco.

Brasco, a thick, stubby, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, was chatting with two other men, still waiting for the green light to begin their work. He was a bull-necked specimen with a slightly simian face, a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, and hairy, tattooed forearms. A fog of cologne and cigar invariably hung around him, occasionally augmented by beer. While there were those who, out of earshot, derided Brasco’s intelligence, Patty knew better than to underestimate his street smarts or his shrewdness. He wore a wedding ring and as far as she knew had a wife, but that didn’t stop him from boasting of the “deals” he had made with the “chicks” he had arrested.

A shadow of surprise crossed Brasco’s face as she approached, dispelled almost immediately by a broad grin.

“Hey, if it isn’t my gal Friday. Guys, meet the legendary Patty Moriarity, Tommy’s kid.”

Patty shook hands with the men from Norfolk, Corbin and Brown, both of whom seemed at first glance to be more enlightened than her partner.

“Thanks for calling me, Wayne,” she said.

He shrugged matter-of-factly and said, “I was going to.”

“Bomb squad say anything yet?”

“Nope, but what can they say? The dude was blown to smithereens, and it wasn’t an accident. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom. Case closed.”

Brasco laughed at his own attempt at flip humor. Patty was pleased when neither of the other two officers joined in.

“Well, for those of us not as knowledgeable about explosives as you are,” she said acidly, “there may be one or two things we can learn.”

Had Brasco ever bothered to spend time talking with her, or even looking through her file, he might have learned that through taking several courses, Patty was making herself something of an expert on ordnance and explosives.

“Well, that’s one of them coming over here right now,” Brasco replied, an irritated edge appearing in his voice. “You can ask yourself.”

A baby-faced officer who could easily have passed for Opie on The Andy Griffith Show approached the quartet and was introduced to Patty by Corbin as Chipper Dawes.

“Well, we’re all done,” Dawes said.

“Thanks,” the Norfolk detective replied. “You’ll get us a report as soon as possible?”

“No problem.”

“So what do you think?” Patty asked. “Semtex?”

Dawes looked at her with surprise and undisguised respect.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “We’re fairly certain of that. Probably wrapped around the drive shaft, just behind the transmission.”

“So what’s this Semtex all about?” Brown asked, angling his rotund body, purposefully or not, so that Brasco actually had to step to his left and forward to insert himself back in the ring of conversation.

“The terrorist’s friend, we call it,” Dawes explained. “Plastique. Similar to C-4. It can be molded into almost any shape and worked into almost any space. Forty pounds or less flattened the American embassy in Kenya.”

Patty sensed Brasco’s discomfort and bore in.

“The IRA is supposed to have more than three tons of the stuff. With a little knowledge, it’s a cinch to make. Have you found the detonator?”

“No. I’m going to stick around for a while longer to look, but I have my doubts we will.”

“So,” Patty continued, now on a roll, “if the Semtex was wrapped around the drive shaft, the detonator was possibly some sort of centrifugal fuse that went off when it reached enough RPMs.”

“You’re exactly right, Sergeant,” Dawes said. “Two weights come together and form a contact that sends a small electrical impulse to the blasting cap, and ka-boom. There are other ways the Semtex could have been detonated, but this is what we think at the moment.”