Fresh Disasters (Stone Barrington 13)

“Rough night,” Stone said, “but maybe not as rough as this morning.”

“Clear that up for me,” Dino replied.

“There’s a box on my doorstep, no return address or shipping label, probably hand delivered.”

“How big?”

“Bigger than a bread box.”

“Don’t touch it.”

“You think you have to tell me that?”

“I’ll get our people over there pronto.”

“If it goes up in the street, people could get hurt.”

“I’ll tell them to finish their doughnuts quickly.”

“Thank you.”

“And you and Joan go upstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Right now.”

“All right!” He hung up. “We’re going upstairs,” he said to Joan, but she was already headed that way. Then, as he started up the stairs, he had an awful thought.

Dino sat with them, sipping his coffee. Nobody was saying much. “You don’t think it’s a bomb, do you?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Stone replied. “I think murder by car or hunting knife is more his style.”

A heavily equipped cop appeared in the doorway. “It’s not a bomb,” he said.

“Dino,” Stone said, “I think you’d better get a forensics team over here.”

“What’s in the box?” Dino asked the man.

“An aluminum case,” the man said, “the kind you carry camera equipment in.”

“How do you know it doesn’t contain a bomb?”

“I X-rayed it, then I opened it.”

“What did the case contain?”

“I think you’d better get a forensics team over here,” the cop said, then he left the room.

Dino opened his cell phone and pressed a button. “This is Bacchetti; it’s not a bomb. I want a forensics team and the medical examiner over here pronto.” He closed the phone. “You want to go see it?”

“I’ve already seen it,” Stone said. “I liked it where it was before.”

They all got up and went downstairs. The bomb squad had moved the box and the aluminum case into Stone’s office hallway. The cop stood in the door. “I don’t think we’re needed here anymore. Good luck.” He closed the door, and a moment later, the squad’s truck pulled away from its position in front of a fire plug.

The three of them stood and gazed at the aluminum case.

“There’s got to be fingerprints on that, right?” Joan asked.