"Used for?" Spinnelli asked.
"What's a hood?" Patrick asked at the same time.
"A hood's a contained area with a ventilation shaft. I'm betting the samples Jack took today will show traces of kerosene-our analysis of the solid showed our guy mixed it with the ammonium nitrate. Mixed with liquid fuel, fertilizer becomes explosive."
Patrick looked appropriately impressed. "And the gunpowder and sugar?"
"Homemade fuses. He would have used the gunpowder and sugar to coat regular shoelaces." Reed shrugged. "I've seen it done before. Terrifyingly simple to find on the Internet. One of the pages Manny had hidden away gave the instructions."
Spinnelli's eyes were intense. "But you still don't think he did this?"
"Not alone," Mia said. "Just listen to him. Unless he's a really good actor…"
Behind the glass, Manny still rocked himself, still muttered the same words.
"Patrick, is this enough to hold him?" Spinnelli asked.
"Hell, yeah. I'll petition a new trial with family court based on what you found. That'll give you a few days to figure out what he knows and who else is involved."
"One night in holding will be all Manny needs to convince him to talk," Mia said.
"We'll see," Westphalen said quietly still watching the boy. "I hope you're right."
"And next?" Spinnelh asked.
"Jack's got Latent analyzing prints and the lab analyzing the powder Solliday found in the lab. And we're back to the files, to see if we can find a connection between Roger Burnette, Penny, and anybody in that screwy school." Mia pointed at Patrick. "When this is done you guys need to check that school out. They're just plain off."
"I'll add it to my list," Patrick said dryly. "Call me tomorrow with an update."
"I'll set up time tomorrow for a formal exam for Manny," Westphalen offered.
Spinnelli followed them out. "We appreciate it, Miles."
Behind the glass an officer escorted Manny back to holding and the advocate gave them a hard look through the glass before leaving through the same door Manny used.
And then, they were alone in the dim anteroom. Mia sighed. "Now we hit the files."
"First I change my shoes."
Her lips twitched. "I'm really sorry about that."
Reed had to chuckle. "No, you're not."
She grinned up at him. "You're right."
He met her eyes, intending to raise her one better, but he stopped. And really looked. The laughter faded from her eyes, uncertainty taking its place. And as he watched, her uncertainty mixed with awareness and his throat grew thick. Once again they were connected on a different level, just as they'd been the night before in the quiet of his kitchen. Gently he grasped her chin and tugged her face toward the light. The bruise on her cheekbone was beginning to yellow, the scrape on its way to healing.
She wasn't a classically beautiful woman, but there was something about her face that drew him. He knew it wasn't wise. He told himself to let her go, but he didn't seem able. No, that wasn't true. He just didn't want to. And that was something that hadn't happened in too many years to remember. His thumb grazed her jaw and he watched the awareness in her eyes treble.
"You should have gone to a doctor. You might have a scar."
"I don't scar easily," she murmured, so low he almost didn't hear it. "I guess I'm lucky that way." She pulled away, took a step back, both physically and emotionally. "I've got to get to those files." And she was gone before he could open the door for her.
Wednesday, November 29, 5:00 p.m.
Brooke paused, trembling as she stood before Dr. Bixby's office door. She'd been summoned. It didn't sound good. Drawing a breath, she made a fist and rapped hard.
"Come." Dr. Bixby looked up from his desk, his expression forbidding. "Sit."
She did, as quickly as her knocking knees would carry her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Bixby waved his hand. "Let's cut to the chase, Miss Adler. You did a stupid thing. Now the police are crawling all over my school and this will not sit well with the advisory board. You have jeopardized my work. I should fire you right now."
Her mouth slightly agape, Brooke could only stare. Bixby's lips curled in a sneer.
"But I won't," he continued. "Because my lawyers have advised against it. Seems like your Detective Mitchell spoke to the attorney while she was searching the premises this afternoon. Said you were worried about getting fired. Said any move to terminate you would look bad in the event of a lawsuit. Are you planning to sue me, Miss Adler?"
Brooke somehow found her voice. "No, sir. I had no idea Detective Mitchell had spoken to anyone about me."
"We're compiling your file, Miss Adler. We'll be able to terminate you with just cause very soon. It would be better for all concerned if you resigned. Immediately."
Brooke fought back a wave of hysterical nausea. Thoughts of rent and bills and student loans charged through her mind. "I-I can't do that. Sir. I have responsibilities."
"You should have thought about that before you went on an unauthorized jaunt. I'll give you two weeks. At the end of that time I'll have enough in your file to let you go."
He leaned back in his chair, looking powerful, and something in Brooke snapped.
She surged to her feet, her face hot. "I did nothing wrong, and anything you manage to gather against me will be lies." She opened the door, then paused, her hand clenching the knob. "If you try to fire me, I'll go to the press so fast your head will swim."
His lips thinned. "Spin," he said dryly. Mockingly. "My head will spin."
She nearly faltered, then saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched a pen. Her chin came up. "Whatever. Don't try it, Dr. Bixby, or you'll be the one who's sorry."
Slamming the door, she marched out of his office and into Devin White who stood waiting in the hall. His lips were twitching. "Make his head swim?" he asked.
Now that it was over, tears burned her eyes. "He's going to fire me, Devin."
His amusement fled. "On what grounds?"
"He's making them up." A panicked sob welled in her throat.
Devin kneaded her shoulders restlessly. "He's just threatening you, Brooke. I know a good lawyer or two. Let's get a beer, calm you down, then we'll decide what to do."
Wednesday, November 29, 6:05 p.m.
Reed thought a half hour was enough time. It allowed Mia to reestablish her composure and allowed him to change his shoes and get them both a decent cup of coffee. He should have gone straight home, it was past six and he needed to set things straight with Beth. He thought about the way he'd dealt with his daughter the night before and the way he'd dealt with Mia Mitchell a half hour before and wondered if females ever hit an age where the men in their lives knew the right thing to do or say.
But he had done the right thing with Mia. It sounded cheesy, but it felt too right to have been wrong. Of course she'd be wary, uncertain. But he wasn't so out of practice that he didn't recognize good chemistry when he stumbled across it. A relationship with a cop would be difficult. Priorities would at times interfere. But the more he thought, the surer he became that if there was a woman who wouldn't want strings, it would be Mia.
And if she does? The question slyly insinuated itself, rattling him. If under that rough and sarcastic exterior beat the heart of a woman who wanted a home, husband, and children? Then he'd regretfully, but respectfully, walk away. No harm, no foul.
Reed started across the bullpen, his steps slowing as he approached her empty desk. The files she'd been reading were gone and so was Mia.
"She went home," said a cop in a rumpled suit who held something skinny and orange between his lips. A carrot, Reed decided. Another, younger, man sat across from him, typing with hurried strokes, a dozen red roses in tissue paper on top of a foil-wrapped gift box at his elbow. "You must be Solliday. I'm Murphy," the rumpled one said, his tone easy although his eyes were watchful. "And this is Aidan Reagan."