“It was Lucius,” came a deep voice from the front seat. Everyone’s eyes turned toward Skeeter.
“What’d you say, Skeet?” Scott asked.
“Lucius got hisself killed, not Gaius,” Skeeter said, never taking his eyes off the road. “That’s the public schools of Tunica County, Mississippi, K through 12.”
The other three burst out laughing. “You’re one strange bug, Skeeter,” Scott said, shaking his head.
Chapter 25
Wednesday, January 14
CTD Midwest Division Headquarters
St. Louis, Missouri
Tara Walsh despised making the Starbucks run. First of all, she felt it was below her position, particularly since she was the ranking member of the group. But in the egalitarian world of her little think tank, everyone was assigned one day a week to make the run.
The biggest problem wasn’t the humiliation; it was all her team’s special orders. People in line were not afraid to voice their impatience with her as she verbally stumbled trying to order Virgil Hernandez’s venti low-fat caffè vanilla Frappucino, light on the whipped cream with a dash of nutmeg on top or Evie Cline’s grande iced Tazo green tea latte with soy milk and light on the ice. Tara never knew how to say the drinks right, and she secretly envied those who rattled off their pretentious-sounding, fifteen-plus-word personalized coffee and tea choices. Couldn’t anyone just order normal drinks anymore? Drinks like her standard Two Shots in the Dark, two shots of espresso topped off with dark roast coffee-easy to say, no mess, no fuss.
Balancing a tray of four drinks in one hand and carrying her own cup with the other, Tara planted a quick kick on the door to the “Room of Understanding.”
The ROU was designed as a miniature war room, but early on Evie had voiced her concern that “war room” didn’t communicate what it was they were really trying to do there. After all, weren’t they really trying to prevent wars and bring about world peace and harmony? She had suggested “Love Room,” but Tara had quickly vetoed that out of concern that this group of characters might take the name a little too literally while she was out getting coffee. “Room of Understanding” was finally chosen because, according to Evie’s reasoning, the purpose of the work done in the room was to gain understanding of various events, thereby bringing greater understanding among the nations of the world. Tara had fought it, but Scott had said, “It’s just a room. Who gives a rip what they call it?”
Joey Williamson opened the door and took the tray from Tara. She saw him look down at her noticeable lack of an accompanying bag that should have been carrying the almond scone he had asked for, but he decided against mentioning it when he saw the dark expression on her face.
The room was large enough to comfortably accommodate five workstations around the perimeter and one large conference table in the middle. All the chairs around the table were unmatched and falling apart, the original chairs having been destroyed during a series of late-night races through the St. Louis CTD building. Division Chief Porter had told the team that their choices were to either sit on the floor or replace the chairs themselves. So they had scrounged garage sales and the local thrift store to come up with what they now sat in.
As per routine, the team was gathered around the table. Tara sat at the head. The odor her chair gave off when she sat in it always brought the words sweaty dachshund to mind. To her left were Virgil Hernandez and Evie Cline. To her right was Joey Williamson. And at the other end was a new guy, a brilliant media and technology analyst who, for some unknown reason, liked to go by the name Gooey.
“Okay, what have you come up with so far this morning?” Tara asked.
Hernandez spoke up first. “Big news is, while you were playing around at Starbucks, we matched a third suspect-Tahir al-Midfai. Iraqi-born, midtwenties. He’s the guy who came through Platte River gate 7. We picked him up on a security camera, entering Rome’s Fiumicino Airport ten days before the attack. That tells us he didn’t fly into the airport, which means he probably originated in Italy. I’ll bet you the flowers in the bud vase of Evie’s VW that two weeks before the bombing, he was basking in the sun on the beaches of Barletta-or, since it was December, he was doing whatever terrorists do during the winter along the sea.”
“When I was a kid in California,” Williamson said, “we used to build bonfires on the beach during the winter. We’d roast hot dogs and s’mores and stuff like that.”
“Oh, I love s’mores,” Evie cried. “I used to make those at Girl Scouts camp-at least I did the year that I made it through the whole two weeks without getting sent home.”
Tara just shook her head. A recent commercial campaign flashed in her mind where some poor guy was trying to do his best while working in an office filled with monkeys. “Excuse me… excuse me!” she piped in. “I think we may be slightly off track. So, that makes three we’ve identified-Naji Mahmud, our failed bomber who is now in a coma thanks to the modern-day Einstein who attempted Jim Hicks’s shaking technique after Hicks had already gotten the information we needed; Djalal Kazemi, the interesting Iranian connection, now blown to bits; and now this al-Midfai guy. I’m assuming you’re running the Fiumicino Airport database against our Platte River database?”
“As we speak,” Hernandez assured her.
“So let’s recap our bombing order and where things stand for identification. Bomber one-no ID. Why?”
“We’ve got a good visual on him, but he’s not coming up in any databases,” Evie said. “He very well might be a one-hit wonder.”
“Bomber two-that’s Mahmud. Bomber three?”
“That’s al-Midfai,” Hernandez answered.
“Good. Bomber four?”
“Another mystery date like number one. We have a facial but no match,” Evie said.
“Okay, so one and four are unknown. What about five? No ID on him either, right? Come on, our databases can’t be that bad,” Tara complained.
“It isn’t a database issue, Terri,” Gooey said, mispronouncing Tara’s name for the thirty-second time since joining the team, thus causing Tara to have her thirty-second vision of planting the heel of her boot between his puffy blue eyes. Gooey continued, “It’s a camera-angle thing. He was chilling out front of the stadium, and all we got are some nice, framable pictures of the dude’s back.”
“Thanks… Goofy,” Tara said, immediately regretting her attempt at a zinger, which for some reason had seemed quite cutting when she’d rehearsed it in her head. Out loud, it just sounded stupid.
The rest of the team rolled their eyes, which was actually a relief to Tara. Enduring an eye-roll meant getting off easy with this bunch.
“So, no five,” Tara plowed on. “And what about six? Oh yeah, that’s Kazemi. Right?”
“Right-o, Tinkerbell,” Hernandez confirmed.
“What? What did you call me?”
“Tinkerbell. Sorry, I thought we were doing Disney names. Didn’t you, Mickey?”
“I thought so too, boys and girls,” Williamson answered in a falsetto voice. “What about you, Fairy Godmother?”
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Evie sang.
“I can’t believe this,” Tara grumbled loudly as she stood up and grabbed her stuff from the table. “I get a bachelor’s degree in three years from Hillsdale and a master’s from Yale, and here I am stuck in this room with you social miscreants.”
As she turned to walk away, Hernandez called out, “Hey, Tink, you forgot number seven.”
Tara spun around. “What?” she demanded.
“Bomber number seven. Your list only got through six.”
Tara sighed and placed her stuff back on the table. “And what about bomber number seven? What might we have on him?” she asked in slow, measured words.