While Oliver hadn’t dismissed his impressions, neither had he been encouraging. “People are strange, Joe. She and Root had been married for over fifty years. That kind of loss can do weird things to people. Hell, maybe a small part of Root was relieved to have it done with. Maybe he’d already resigned himself to losing her.”
Was he right? McBride wondered. It was true: Human beings were strange beasts. Ask a hundred people how they describe happiness and you get a hundred different answers; the same goes for grief, anger, sadness … More importantly, Root didn’t strike him as a man who’d arrange his wife’s kidnapping and murder. On the contrary, the former DCI had cherished his wife.
Then why the hell can’t you get this out of your head? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that Jonathan Root was somehow involved in what had happened to his wife?
At two A.M. he gave up on sleep and went out to the garage, where he tinkered with a chickadee house he was building, until Libby got up for work. He made her coffee and a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal, then sat down to read the paper.
He could feel her staring at him. He lowered the paper. “What?”
She smiled and said, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a bad liar, Joe.”
He folded the paper and laid it aside. “This thing with the Roots. I can’t figure it out.”
“You did the best you could.”
“I know. It’s just …” He hesitated. Did he tell her or not? Not, he decided. Until he settled it one way or another he would keep his mouth shut. “I really thought we were going to get her back.”
“I know,” Libby replied. “You always think that — and you’re usually right. You’ve got a good track record, Joe. Don’t forget that.” She downed the rest of her coffee and stood up. “Now give me a kiss; I’ve gotta go to work.”
McBride filled his thermos with coffee, got in his car, and started driving. He tried to tell himself he was just wandering, but he knew better. He headed north up Highway 17 past Tidemill and Whitemarsh. At Tappahannock he crossed over to 360, then met the ferry at Ophelia and took it across to the Delmarva Penninsula. Three hours after leaving his house he pulled into the Roots’ driveway.
As he approached the front door, it opened, revealing a man in a sports coat and sweater vest. “May I help you?” he asked.
“I’m Joe McBride. I’m looking for Mr. Root.”
The man flashed a too-polished smile and extended his hand. “Steve Stanley. I’m the Roots’ family attorney. Mr. Root mentioned your name; he’s very grateful for everything you did.”
“That’s very kind. Is he at home?”
“He’s out of town.”
What’s this? McBride thought. “Pardon me?”
“Mrs. Root had family in Europe. He wanted to tell them in person about her death and bring them back for the memorial service.”
“I didn’t realize she had family out of the country. Where?”
Stanley’s smile wavered ever so slightly. He scratched his eyebrow. “Belgium.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No. Is there a message I can relay?”
McBride shook his head. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”
“That’s very thoughtful. It was my understanding the case had been handed over to a task force. Are you part of it?”
“No, this is a personal call.”
“I’ll be sure to let Mr. Root know you stopped by. If he needs anything, I’m sure he’ll call.”
Translation: Don’t call us, we’ll call you, McBride thought. Okay, let’s check your geography, Counselor. “You know, I have relatives in Belgium myself. Where are Mrs. Root’s?”
“I’m not sure. Brussels, I think.”
“Lovely city,” McBride replied. “Well, thanks for your time.”
“Don’t mention it.” The door closed.
McBride stood in the driveway for a few moments, not sure what to do next. His eyes roamed around the property, taking mental inventory: The first guard was found over there, by the wall; another two on the path along the creek; the kidnappers used that door to gain entry …
His eyes fell on Mrs. Root’s garden. Weeds had overtaken the zucchini patch, and the tomato plants lay on their sides, their support stakes uprooted. She adored that garden, Root had told him. Despite their wealth, Amelia had insisted on tending it herself, getting her hands dirty, kneading the soil. She’d even kept her own compost heap …
McBride caught himself. He was drifting. He walked back to his car, got in, and drove a hundred yards down the road. He pulled over and stopped. He dialed his cell phone. Oliver answered on the second ring. “Hey, Joe, I was just about to call you.”
“What’s up?”
“You first.”
“I just stopped by the Root house. Guess who’s out of town?”
“Where’d he go?”
“According to their George Hamilton look-alike attorney, he’s in Belgium visiting relatives.”
“Could be,” Oliver said.
“You don’t find that curious? The day after he identifies his wife’s body he’s on a plane out of the country.”
“Maybe … hell, I don’t know. How soon can you be at Quantico?”
“An hour.”
“I’ll meet you there. We’ve got something on Selmani’s cell phone.”
McBride was met in the lobby and escorted to a conference room where he found Oliver paging through a manila folder. Sitting on the table was a pair of clear evidence bags, a larger one containing bits and pieces of what McBride assumed was Selmani’s cell phone; the smaller one held what looked like a thumbnail-sized circuit board.
“What’ve you got?” McBride asked.
“Right before the explosion, Selmani got a call. The first signal we picked up was 1.9 watts — very weak. It lasted sixteen seconds.”
“Wait a second. You said thefirst signal. Was there—”
“Ten seconds after Selmani disconnected we picked up another signal, this one incoming at 2.1 watts — a little stronger.”
“But the explosion—”
“Right. Selmani never had a chance to answer; the detonation came at almost the exact same moment.” Oliver pointed at the bag containing the circuit. “Know what that is?”
“A potato peeler? It’s a circuit of some kind. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“Me neither until our tech people told me. It’s a signal converter. Did you know that cell phones are nothing more than very sophisticated radios?”
“No.”
“They are. They transmit radio waves just like walkie-talkies, but they have a wider range of frequencies. Know what else works by radio waves?”
“Tell me.”
“Remote, electronic detonators.”
“Huh? You think someone other than Selmani detonated the bomb?”
Oliver shrugged. “It’s just a hunch, but yeah, I do. I think Selmani did exactly what he was told to do: Call the boss when the good guys come charging in, which he does. He hangs up, ten seconds later his phone rings, and then … boom. I think either the boss was worried Selmani would lose his nerve, or Selmani never had control of the bomb in the first place.”
“They wanted to make sure we didn’t get her back alive.”
“Her or Selmani — or both. Whichever it is, these are some sophisticated folks we’re dealing with. They went to a lot of trouble to set this up.”
“And for what?” McBride replied. “Five million dollars? That’s nothing. How do you know about all this? I thought all this had been handed off to the task force.”