Maggie Price - Moment Of Truth

“I agree.”

Ingram nodded toward the plywood door. “You ready to have a look at the crime scene?”

“Ready.” Hart swung open the door and gestured for Ingram to step in before him.

“This room is…was the Men’s Grill,” the retired cop explained across his shoulder as Hart followed him in. “Part of the original structure. If what’s left of the walls could talk, they’d tell you about the hundreds of big-money land, cattle and oil deals they’d seen sealed over grilled Texas beef, whiskey and cigars. Sad to say, a lot of the Lone Star’s history went up in smoke the morning that bomb went off.”

The security chief flicked on a bank of portable lights sitting just inside the door. “The club brought these in to help the lab boys see what they were doing,” Ingram explained. “They’ll stay here until this investigation is wrapped. So feel free to use them. Move them around wherever you need them.”

“Thanks.”

With the stink of smoke hanging in the air, Hart took in his surroundings while particles of soot and dust danced in the bright beams. He saw immediately that the explosion had occurred somewhere near the rear of the restaurant, blowing outward toward where he stood. The chairs and tables nearest him had been toppled by the force of the blast, but left intact. Across the room, the furniture was reduced to splinters. Throughout the restaurant, pieces of charred ceiling, insulation and boards had rained down, crisscrossing on top of the furniture and floor.

Ingram shifted his stance. “Has the D.A. already briefed you on the specifics of what happened? Given you copies of the reports?”

“No. I told him I wanted a look at the scene first. Gather my own impressions.”

Usually at a fresh bomb scene, hot spots, jagged glass, nails and other debris made moving around treacherous. Those times Hart wouldn’t take a step before pulling on the pair of steel-soled boots he kept in his field kit. Here, though, the scene was ten weeks old. The lab techs who had worked it had cleared a narrow footpath as they dug through the rubble.

Hart followed that path, snaking around toppled tables and chairs and other charred debris toward where the damage visibly worsened. Getting closer, he thought.

A few inches from a gaping hole in a wall, he found the crater. The shallow depression measured about four feet across. Crouching, he narrowed his eyes. Although the illumination from the portable lights on the far side of the restaurant was dim, he could see that the blast had ripped through the wood flooring but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast.

The ache that began working its way up from the bottom of Hart’s skull told him volumes about the bomber’s explosive of choice. Frowning, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He rose, stepped back from the crater. “A dynamite headache, is all.”

“Dynamite headache?”

“There’s traces of nitroglycerine in the crater.”

Ingram’s eyebrows slid up his broad forehead. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Nitro gives some people, including me, a headache. Has to do with its instant ability to thin blood.”

“Okay, Spence Harrison hasn’t briefed you on what happened. You haven’t read any lab reports on the bomb. From what I hear, there’s a lot of explosives out there these days. Why do you automatically assume the bomber used dynamite?”

“I’m not assuming anything. First, when it comes to explosives, nitro is used almost exclusively in dynamite. Finding nitro in any other type of explosive would mean the bomber used something pretty far-fetched and exotic.” Hart gave his neck another rub. “Second, I get hit with a headache at a scene, I’m 99 percent sure I’m dealing with a dynamite bomb. Third, this bomb left a shallow crater, the type of blast commensurate with dynamite. The crater’s size confirms what the ache in my head is telling me.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ingram murmured. “You’re right, Sergeant. The bomber used a nitroglycerine-based dynamite.”

Turning, Hart glanced though the jagged teeth of a gaping hole in what was left of the restaurant’s rear wall. Beyond the hole was a dark, yawning expanse where the worst of the fire had raged. He knew the dynamite itself wouldn’t have sparked the flames unless an accelerant had been present.

He looked at Ingram, who had moved in and now stood a few yards away. “What started the fire?”

“Beyond that wall is the fried remains of the billiards room. Had big, megaexpensive pool tables, thick mahogany paneling on the walls, leather sofa and chairs, a lot of brass antiques. A real man’s room.”

“None of those things started the fire.”

“I’m getting to that.” Ingram pointed a finger. “A janitor’s closet was there, sandwiched between the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. At the time of the blast, it was filled with cleaning supplies, cans of paint and thinner.”

“Paint and thinner? I expect the fire marshal had something to say after his people found out about that.”

“Yeah. Everybody agrees—the stuff shouldn’t have been in there.”

“Why was it?”

“A paint crew was scheduled to start work on the kitchen the day after the bombing. When one of the crew members hauled in their supplies, he stuck everything in the closet where it’d be handy to the kitchen when they started the job the next day.”

Hart slid his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “So, when the bomb exploded behind the closet, the blast ignited everything flammable inside, blowing flames out into the billiards room.”

“You got it, Sergeant.” Ingram ran a hand over his balding head as if smoothing down hair that was no longer there. “Some of the club’s board members wanted the painter gone. His name’s Willie Pogue and he’s not exactly the most sterling employee around here. Bonnie talked the board out of firing him. He’s got a wife and new baby, and a case of guilt a pasture wide. Nobody had to tell Pogue his carelessness made things worse.”

“A lot worse,” Hart agreed.

“Even so, I sided with Bonnie. We don’t need to spend our time hammering some guy for an innocent screw-up. We need to find the sick scum who planted the bomb.”

Unless Pogue was that scum, Hart thought. And he stacked the accelerant in the closet to intensify the damage.

Adding Pogue to the list of items he planned to bring up with Spence, Hart looked back at Ingram. “Other than the two fatalities and their injured son, how many people were hurt?”

“Fifteen. That includes club members and wait staff. Thank the Lord none were hurt worse than little Jake Anderson.” Ingram checked his watch. “You going to spend a lot of time in here tonight? If so, I can give you a hand with whatever you need.”

“Thanks, I’m almost done for now.” Ingram had been nothing but congenial and cooperative. Eager. Still, Hart had worked hundreds of investigations; he knew that many things were not as they appeared on the surface. Things or people. When he worked this scene, he intended to do it alone.

He shifted his gaze back to the crater. Like all bomb investigators, he paid attention to details. He moved slowly and methodically, building puzzles often made of many small pieces over postblast investigations that lasted weeks, sometimes months. This investigation was no different. He would find out everything there was to know about the dynamite bomb that had exploded out a pressure wave with the capacity to kill in one-ten-thousandth of a second. Then, if luck and evidence were on his side, the remnants of that bomb would lead him to its maker.

That wasn’t the only puzzle he intended to piece together, Hart realized as the image of Joan slid uninvited from a dark corner of his aching brain. He thought again about the flash of panic he’d seen in her eyes as she faced him across an expanse of ten years. Why panic? he wondered again. Why the hell panic?