Private Vegas (Private 9)

Father Joseph Brooks was stocky, balding, smiling, and he was expecting the investigators. He shook their hands, asked them to sit down, and offered coffee.

When they were settled in, Justine told the headmaster why they were there and asked, “Can you think of a student, or maybe a group of kids, who would have the competence and the anger or brio to go on a rampage like this?”

“Oh, man,” said the headmaster. He ran his hand over his head. “You think any of our kids could be such out-of-control lunatics? We have our share of cocky, rich-kid idiots, but this is over the top. In my opinion.”

The headmaster’s office faced south and had a sunny view over the valley. He kept bonsai trees in clay pots, and they crowded the windowsills. Justine wondered what this painstaking hobby meant to the man, reducing large plants with the potential to be huge into living miniatures, collecting them in rows.

“They might be chemistry buffs,” Scotty said. “Your science teacher might be able to give us a lead.”

“Mr. Peter Tong. I can tell you that Mr. Tong is a pretty traditional educator. Nothing radical or Fringe Division about him.”

Justine smiled at the reference to the sci-fi TV show and asked when they could speak with Mr. Tong.

“We’d like to ask him about the chemical composition of the explosives our lab turned up in the gas tank of one of the cars. Also, we have a list of your students who’ve been in trouble with the law.”

Father Brooks was examining the list when Justine’s phone rang. Seeing it was Jack, she answered it.

“Justine,” Jack said. “The cops were just here asking me where I was at six this morning. Another car went boom about two miles from my house. Look, in case it’s relevant, last night I got into a fistfight with Tommy.”

Chapter 44

I HAD BEEN in court, sitting behind Del Rio, when my cell phone buzzed. I went out to the hallway to talk to Detective Tandy, who gave me the breaking news on the crispy Aston Martin in Point Dume.

He asked, “You happen to have a sleepover guest who can verify you were in bed this morning at six?”

“No. Are you actually looking at me for this, Tandy? Or do you just have a crush on me?”

“It’s called thorough police work, Jack. And I’m keeping track of you to make sure you’re not a target. Believe it or not, that’s the truth. Do me a favor. Let me know if you plan to leave town. If I can’t find you, I might worry.”

“Thanks, Mitch. I’m touched.”

I called Justine, and then I called Dr. Sci.

I told my chief scientist that there was a new entry in the car-explosions series and that I wanted him to go to the crime scene on Grayfox Street, check out what was left of the hundred-thousand-dollar sports car, see if he could gain some insight into the who and why.

I returned to the courtroom, stared at the back of Del Rio’s head as medical professionals testified about the surgical procedures Vicky Carmody had endured after her admission to the hospital.

I was listening to the testimony, but I was thinking about this recent car destruction too. I knew where Tommy’s car was this morning. I had checked my phone and read the GPS data telling me that his Ferrari had remained at the Socket until 8:45 a.m.

Since Tommy’s murderous machinations last year, I’ve had cameras on his house, a call tracker on his phone. I could check on his whereabouts for the previous eighteen hours once I got back to the office.

Sci called and I left the courtroom again, sat on a bench in the hallway, and watched the live footage Sci streamed to my phone.

First up, a Realtor’s-eye view of the fantastic homes on Grayfox Street, then the exterior of the six-million-dollar gated house in question. The gates were wide open. And inside the courtyard, lying like a small asteroid in front of the Mediterranean-style villa, were the burned remains of a once-beautiful car.

Sci’s face came on my screen.

“The car is totally incinerated, Jack. Looks just like your Lambo. The fire started under the car, probably detonated by a cell phone. The gas tank is BLEVE’d, so it exploded from the inside. Safe to assume the lab will find remains of latex in the tank.” Sci paused, then said, “And here they come.”

As I watched, a flatbed truck from the city’s forensic lab passed Sci and drove into the courtyard. The ME’s van was right behind the truck. Both city vehicles came to a stop, and personnel got out, CSU techs and assistants to the ME, respectively.

I was puzzling over the presence of people from the coroner’s office when the ME, Dr. Andrews himself, got out of the van and began directing his techs, who were carrying a stretcher.

“Sci, what’s this mean?”

“This—this isn’t good,” he said.

There was a huddle outside the burned car as the two forensic divisions discussed, I assumed, procedure. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when the ME’s people backed off, CSU prepared to load the carcass of the car onto the flatbed.