Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Hardesy was shaking his head. “We can’t know that.”

“For a certainty, no,” Reeder said. “But it follows.”

Ivanek was nodding. “I agree with Joe. Our mastermind, if you’ll forgive the melodrama, has been delegating all his dirty work to this one mercenary. And the mercenary’s mind-set — well, consider that the entire hotel massacre was carried out by him alone. He has an inflated ego. A self-image of considerable worth, with underlying doubts that only proving himself again and again can overcome.”

“What he said,” Reeder said.

Miggie’s brow was knit. “But, Joe — if it’s a cell phone detonator, like the one in the Capitol cellar, he can set it off from anywhere.”

Reeder frowned. “No. I don’t think he can.”

“Of course he can,” Miggie said. “He just has to dial the cell wired to the bomb and... you know the rest. He could be on the other side of the city, hell, by this time, the other side of the world.”

“Not likely,” Reeder said. “He takes pride in his work, and he’s a micromanager. Trusts only himself with anything he deems important. Like detonating the bomb. Trevor, are we on the same page?”

Ivanek said, “We are. This individual will not only be compelled to push the button himself... he’ll want to witness the result of his handiwork.”

“Okay,” Hardesy said, raising his palms in surrender. “I’ll go along with all of this, since I don’t have a better theory. But we still don’t know where the bomb is, or what it looks like. Then there’s the small detail of where the hell our blond is , and how do we keep him from making a mass-murder cell phone call?”

“Luke,” Nichols said, calming her partner, “we all get that. But at least now we have a starting point.” Her eyes went to Reeder. “How close a ringside seat do you think our man will want to have? I mean, you can see the Capitol from as far away as Arlington, if you find the right spot.”

“He’d be closer than that,” Reeder said. “He may figure we might expose his plan and send people streaming out of the Capitol before the speech starts. He’d have to be close enough to see that, so he could detonate earlier than planned.”

“Joe’s right,” Ivanek said. “He won’t be too far away.”

Rogers — not participating in this discussion, since Reeder spoke for her on the subject — stood at his side with a thick printout of Barmore’s financials folded back to a page she was staring at in frowning interest.

“What?” he asked.

Her response was a seeming non sequitur: “Did Frank Elmore love Karma Sabich?”

All eyes were on Rogers, as if she’d begun speaking Esperanto.

The best Reeder could manage was: “What?”

“Is it possible,” she asked him, “that Frank Elmore was in love with his transvestite hooker?”

“Anything is possible, between two people. Why does it matter?”

“It matters,” she said, “because looking at this data for the thousandth time? Something jumped at me. Something I should have noticed before — Davis Construction.”

“DeShawn Davis,” Reeder said slowly. “Karma’s real name...”

“No excuse for missing it,” she said, shaking her head, “but Davis is a top-five common surname, like Jones or Smith or Williams.”

Reeder said, “Miggie — Davis Construction?”

“Already on it,” the computer expert said as he typed the words into a search engine on his personal tablet.

Miggie quickly brought up the construction company’s website and set the tablet on his desk, Reeder and Rogers gathering around to look over either shoulder, Nichols, Hardesy, and Ivanek crowding in, too.

Rogers asked Mig, “Can you put it on the big screen?”

He shook his head. “Not if we don’t want the guys in the weeds knowing what we’re up to.”

The Davis Construction and Renovation home page had a line of tabs across the top: HOME, ABOUT US, FAQ, AWARDS, CONTACT, and so on. Prominent in the left lower corner was a smiling picture of their president, Cornelius Davis, a handsome middle-aged African American.

“Looks like DeShawn,” Rogers said.

“Out of makeup,” Hardesy added, getting a quick dirty look or two. “So, if DeShawn’s daddy is the company president... where does Barmore fit in?”

“They own the company,” Rogers said. “Cornelius probably owned it at one time, then sold out and stayed on as manager, retaining his old title. But the business is wholly owned by Barmore Holdings.”

Reeder said, “Here’s a quick scenario, just guesswork. DeShawn’s father’s business gets in trouble, and Frank has Barmore buy it, as a favor to DeShawn.”

“All I got for Valentine’s Day,” Nichols said, “was flowers.”

Checking the Barmore financials printout again, Rogers said, “They purchased the company less than two years ago. Was doing DeShawn a solid the only reason behind that?”

On the tablet’s screen, the main photo in the center of the home page had been slowly scrolling, showing projects Davis Construction and Renovation had worked on. Several older buildings in the city revealed themselves, then came a shot of two bunker-like identical buildings separated by a parking lot — immediately recognizable to Reeder and Rogers, since the structures had blown up in their laps.

“Jesus,” Reeder said.

The next pic rolled up and Rogers finished his thought: “Christ.”

Davis Construction’s current project, the company’s biggest honor (according to the banner headline on the photo), was aiding in the restoration of the United States Capitol Building. The photo showed the dome encompassed in silver-pipe scaffolding courtesy of Davis Construction.

“It was right there in front of us,” Reeder said through his teeth, “the whole goddamn time.”

He looked up at the big wall monitor, where exterior views of the Capitol Building took up two of four panels.

“The scaffolding,” Rogers said breathlessly. “It’s Senkstone!”

Hardesy was almost glaring at them. “How could you know that?”

Reeder got up and went to the front of the conference room, standing with hands on hips. “The only thing locals reported about the loading of trucks in Charlottesville was that they maybe saw pipe. We assumed that meant the PVC Senk we found in the Capitol basement. Bomb squad tests proved that no more Senk was inside the building, so...”

“My God,” Hardesy said, finally onboard. “It’s all around it!”

Nichols, trying to process this, said, “The repairs were due to an earthquake , Joe. You can’t be saying a conspiracy caused that? ”

“No,” Reeder said. “I’m saying a conspiracy took advantage of it.”

“The furnace’s PVC, made out of Senk,” Miggie said, with a sick smile, “was just meant to distract us from the real stuff.”

“Or if the basement bomb wasn’t found,” Reeder said, “it could be part of a one-two punch.”

“Either way,” Miggie said, looking past everyone, “it worked.” Everyone followed Mig’s hollow-eyed gaze to the wall-mounted monitor and saw every network covering President Harrison and his Secret Service entourage entering the Capitol Building.

“We have to get this new information to Fisk,” Rogers said, “right now. We have to get the chamber, the whole building, cleared, and send the Bureau bomb squad in.”

“No,” Reeder said.

“ No? ”

“We can inform Fisk, and should, but she won’t have that building cleared. Or at least she shouldn’t. It’s too late.”

Ivanek, his face bloodless, was nodding. “The blond assassin is out there somewhere, watching. Just like we are. And if he sees efforts being made to clear the Capitol, he’ll detonate.”