Edmund smiled mischievously.
It was then that the phone rang. Edmund picked up a cordless on the handset. “Saved by the bell,” he groaned. “It’s the office. On Sunday, Claire. Can’t they ever give you a break?”
Claire took the phone. It was Freddie Rodriguez, a staffer at the M.E.’s office. Claire listened, then she set down the phone.
“My God, Edmund… there’s been an explosion downtown! Lindsay’s been hurt.”
Chapter 6
I DON’T KNOW what took hold of me. Maybe it was the thought of the three dead people in the house, or all the cops and firemen charging around the accident scene. I stared at that knapsack, and my brain was shouting out that it was wrong—dead wrong. “Everyone get back!” I yelled again.
I started toward the knapsack. I didn’t know what I was going to do yet, but the area had to be cleared.
“No way, LT.” Jacobi reached for my arm. “You don’t get to do this, Lindsay.”
I pulled away from him. “Get everyone out of here, Warren.”
“I may not outrank you, LT,” Jacobi said, more impassioned this time, “but I’ve got fourteen more years on the force. I’m telling you, don’t go near that bag.”
The fire captain rushed up, shouting into his handheld, “Possible explosive device. Move everybody back. Get Magitakos from the Bomb Squad up here.”
Less than a minute later, Niko Magitakos, head of the city’s bomb squad, and two professionals covered in heavy protective gear pushed past me, heading toward the red bag. Niko wheeled out a boxlike instrument, an X-ray scanner. A square armored truck, like a huge refrigerator, backed up ominously toward the spot.
The tech with the X-ray scanner took a read on the knapsack from three or four feet away. I was sure the bag was hot—or at least a leave-behind. I was praying, Don’t let this blow.
“Get the truck in here.” Niko turned with a frown. “It looks hot.”
In the next minutes, reinforced steel curtains were pulled out of the truck and set up in a protective barrier. A tech wheeled in a claw and crept closer to the bag. If it was a bomb, it could go off any second.
I found myself in no-man’s-land, not wanting to move. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek.
The man with the claw lifted the backpack to transport it to the truck.
Nothing happened.
“I don’t get any reading,” the tech holding the electro-sensor said. “We’re gonna go for a hand entry.”
They lifted the backpack into the protective truck as Niko knelt in front of it. With practiced hands, he opened the zippered back.
“There’s no charge,” Niko said. “It’s a fucking battery radio.”
There was a collective sigh. I pulled out of the crowd and ran to the bag. There was an ID tag on the strap, one of those plastic labels. I lifted the strap and read.
BOOM! FUCKERS.
I was right. It was a goddamn leave-behind. Inside the backpack, next to the standard clock radio, was a photo in a frame. A computer photo, printed on paper, from a digital camera. The face of a good-looking man, maybe forty.
One of the charred bodies inside, I was pretty sure.
MORTON LIGHTOWER, read the inscription, AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE.
“LET THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE BE HEARD.”
A name was printed at the bottom. AUGUST SPIES.
Jesus, this was an execution!
My stomach turned.