Stone sat on a bench and finished his coffee while Chapman hovered in front of him. “Is it true you used to sort of live in the park?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Okay, this is going nowhere.”
“I was protesting. You’re allowed to do that in this country.”
“What were you protesting about?”
“Everything, pretty much.”
“What, taxes and stuff?”
“No, I never made enough money to pay taxes.”
“So what, then?”
Stone stared over at the White House. “Just things that I thought weren’t right.”
“Are they right now?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you stopped protesting?”
“Just because I’m no longer at the park full-time doesn’t mean I’m not still protesting.”
“Do you trust Weaver? From what you said, the man was pouring his heart out to you. Seemed legitimately concerned.”
“He was legitimately concerned. That somebody was going to perpetrate another 9/11 on his watch. I’m sure he will do all he can to stop that from happening. And I’m sure he will try and capture all the credit for doing so while leaving the rest of us in the dark if he can.”
“No honor among thieves or spies?”
“I see that as a case of splitting hairs, actually.”
Chapman threw her empty coffee cup away in a trash can and sat down next to him. “So we’re waiting on the FBI’s follow-up on the trail of the tree and who had the opportunity to put a bomb inside it. And Weaver is going to find out who might’ve been the real target at the park. Doesn’t leave a lot for us to do.”
“Why inside a basketball?” asked Stone suddenly.
“What?”
“If the bomb is inside the root ball why bother to put it in a basketball? It would take up more room and any hump through the burlap might’ve raised suspicions. So why not just wedge the bomb in the root ball.”
“I actually think I have the answer to that. Moisture.”
He looked at her. “Go on.”
“That tree is obviously going to be planted in the dirt. And watered. Probably soaked since it’s a new planting and they want to get it established. Unless it’s a completely encased mechanism meant for underwater use, presumably military in nature, explosive devices do not much like water. In fact, a little bit of liquid seeping in can foul a switch in no time, or even render the explosive element useless. You put it in a basketball, it’s sealed watertight. Or at least watertight enough.”
“Okay. But would a basketball be the first thing that occurs to you as far as a watertight compartment?”
“I don’t play the game, so no, it wouldn’t for me.” She sat up straighter. “But you’re thinking the choice of the basketball might be a clue as to the bomber’s identity?”
“It’s certainly a possibility. And since clues have been particularly hard to come by with this case, we can’t afford to ignore any possible ones.”
“Then you’ve bought into Weaver’s theory that the guns and the bomb were done by two separate organizations? Guns possibly by the Yemeni group and bomb by person or persons unknown?”
“I won’t go so far as to say I agree with it, but it’s intriguing enough to check out.”
“So why did they fire all those bullets and not hit a damn thing?”
“I wish I could tell you the answer to that. In my mind it’s critical.”
“This basketball thing is not so popular in my part of the world.”
“True. Though I can’t imagine a bunch of millionaire NBA players have banded together to blow someone up at Lafayette Park.”
“But the bombers might have some other connection to the game.”
Stone pulled out his phone and made a call. “Agent Gross, Stone here. I’m down at the park and I have some information for you and a question.” He told Gross about his meeting with Weaver and the NIC chief’s theory of the case. Then he told Gross about his basketball idea.
Gross said, “Okay. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes and we’ll go talk to the folks where that tree came from.”
Stone clicked off and looked at Chapman. “He’s coming to get us. We’re going to check out where the tree came from.”
“Good. I’m getting bored doing nothing.”
Stone rose and looked around. He started pacing off in different directions in the park as Chapman watched him curiously. Some of the damage from the blast had been cleaned up. And the small-tented markers were still laid out, giving the effect that both white and orange snow had fallen on the park. Weeks from now they would probably continue to find things. Possibly even years from now. He imagined a tourist happening on a bit of ear. Nice souvenir from their visit to the capital.
He finally ended up at the crater. Chapman joined him at the edge.
“So what’s going on in that noggin of yours?” she asked.
“I’m missing something. Something obvious, but I don’t know what.”
CHAPTER 34
“Didn’t know you and Riley Weaver were so tight,” said Gross as the FBI agent deftly handled the wheel of his Crown Vic on the way out of D.C.
Stone sat next to him; Chapman was in the backseat.
“Only met the man twice in my life. And neither time voluntarily. That doesn’t constitute ‘tight’ for me.”
Gross shot him a glance. “So why’d he come to you? And not me?”
“You’re his competitor. I’m just the man in the middle.”
Gross made a face. “We’ve got to cut this competitive shit out if we’re really going to protect this country.”
“Sounds good to me,” voiced Chapman. “You blokes are on the same side, after all.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, Agent Chapman,” said Gross as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“Just because you say it’s complicated doesn’t make it so,” she replied.
“Anyway, if NIC would cooperate with us, it would make all of our jobs easier.”
“And you don’t think every agency out there doesn’t say the same thing about the FBI?” said Stone.
Gross gave a resigned laugh. “I guess you’re right.”
“Weaver is still learning his way over there,” said Stone. “He doesn’t want the hammer to come down on his watch. He’s probably working this thing 24/7 using all conceivable methods. I was just one of them.”
“So where are we headed?” asked Chapman after a few seconds of silence as the nearly empty streets of D.C. flew by.
“Pennsylvania,” answered Gross. “That’s where the maple came from. A tree farm up near Gettysburg.”
“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Stone.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Shouldn’t you surround the place with agents?” said Chapman.
“Whoever was involved in this won’t be sticking around. We go in with heat, the people left behind might clam up. I want some answers and a bit of finesse never hurts.”
Many miles later they pulled past the gates of the Keystone Tree Farm. The paved road led them to a long one-story building painted white with a green metal roof. In the background were various outbuildings both small and large with several big enough to accommodate fifty-foot-tall trees. The parking lot held a few dusty pickup trucks, a compact car and a black Escalade SUV. The three climbed out of the Vic and headed to a door marked “Office.”
A plump woman in too-tight jeans directed them back to a small room where a large man sat behind a metal desk, a phone to his ear. He waved them in and pointed to two chairs. When Gross flashed his badge the man said into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back.”