Holding up a folded piece of paper, she identified herself. “Mr. Hernandez, I’m Agent Burrell of the FBI. I have a warrant to search these premises for material evidence in a matter of national security. Would you step aside, Sir?”
Maybe because he was groggy, or maybe because he was pissed at being awakened, or maybe it was just that no woman was going to come into his castle and start giving him orders in his underwear, he responded, “Hell no, get away from my house!” He attempted to shut the door. All Brooke had to do was tilt her head toward the door to get the three big bulls in flak jackets and helmets to slam a battering ram into the door, smashing it open. Two more team members hustled a bikini-brief-clad Enrico to the floor and cuffed him. Bringing him upright and sitting on his couch, the forensic teams went to work straightaway, dusting for prints and retrieving fibers. One cop secured the unwilling Enrico’s fingerprints.
When Brooke left two hours later, Dennis, who had watched the operation go down, took the opportunity to cross the street and introduce himself. She was smaller than he expected; more refined than the policewomen he had known in New York. She greeted him with a welcoming smile.
“Hello, Mr. Mallory, nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure. How did it go?”
“Like in the book. Got a lot of latents. Maybe one of those prints will be your bearded wonder’s.”
“How was Hernandez?”
“He chose the hard way, but we persuaded him to see our point. He’s just an angry citizen. He’ll get a suspended sentence for obstruction and no jail time.”
“Thanks for all your help,” Dennis said. This agent was no older than his daughter.
“No problem. I hear you were an above-grade cop.”
“I had my moments. You’ll let me know if you turn up any interesting evidence?”
“As long as my supervisor approves, you’ll know what I know.”
“Thanks.”
“One latent print lifted from Enrico’s drawer matched an ex-Army Corps of Engineers grunt named Thomas Regan,” Brooke Burrell told Mallory a few days later in her FBI office. “He received the Purple Heart for being wounded during the invasion of Grenada while attempting to rescue medical students who had been taken hostage. The Army photo of him was a rough match to the pictures Harv took, when you allow for the twenty-five years, twenty pounds, a beard, and thinning hair that separated them. His last known address was in Thousand Oaks, California, in 1989. No record since. No credit cards, no license, no police records, and no death certificate. He just vanished into the American fabric.”
“Until he went shopping in Enrico’s dresser drawer.”
Burrell nodded. “So Regan risks a break-in and covers his tracks for the sole purpose of stealing a 250-dollar ticket to a high-society wingding?”
“This guy is focused and dedicated. I have to assume he has thought this out. I can’t believe he left a partial. Probably missed it in his wipe down.”
“You think he’s that careful?”
“The .25 caliber revolver that was found in the ballroom was wiped clean. And that would have been before he intended to use it.”
“It isn’t a dead match but it looks like your ‘beard’ is Thomas Regan. We’ll have all the airports and train and bus stations alerted with composites.”
Brooke’s cell phone rang. “Yes, he’s here right now.” She passed the phone to Dennis. “It’s Special Agent in Charge Palumbo.”
“Hello, Mallory here.”
“Mr. Mallory, we’ve never met, but Jack Flanagan asked me to extend the professional courtesy. How are they treating you back there in New York?”
“Like a VIP. Can’t complain. I’m guessing this is not a customer satisfaction survey.”
That got an audible laugh. “Fair enough. The fact is that your lead is bringing us into an area of national security. I might not be able to keep the door swinging both ways much longer.”
“I hear you. I won’t expect anything further, then.”
“Of course, I now also have to make a pitch to appeal to your sense of patriotism. If you find out anything that can help us, you’ll be forthwith.” Joey employed the grammar of New York cops to stress his point.
“Of course. And thank you for everything you’ve done to help me thus far.”
“We are all on the same team here.”
“Do you want to speak to Agent Burrell?”
“I’ll call her back later. You be good … oh, how’s your wife?”
That genuinely surprised Dennis. “Why, fine thank you. I’m touched that you asked.”
“From what Flanagan said, she’s one tough lady.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Blowing up Sperling High Voltage was an extra-points project because, with one blast, Tommy Regan not only struck a blow against technology, he made an object lesson of man’s cruelty to the environment. The people who died from noxious fumes resulting from the fire became poster children for America’s disregard for chemical and biological safeguards. In one fell swoop, he had won the admiration of the Sabot Society and ELM, the Earth Liberation Movement. This next attack would be spectacular, in the aftermath of which no politician or government official could deny the danger or ignore the raping of this planet any longer.
Luckily, magnets were not on any federal agency’s watch list. There were no public outcries to regulate magnets. They just cost a bundle. So Tommy reached out to the Sabot Society.
Voyeurger: In order to prepare the Cat, I will need $7,000 to cover veterinary costs.
SABOT: I don’t think that will be a problem, especially after how well your last pet project was received.
Voyeurger: Have them priority mail their intentions to me.
SABOT: I will alert all our members.
It was amazing. Within three days, the post office box he rented from Pack, Wrap, and Mail on Sunrise Highway was stuffed with U.S. Post Office blue-and-red Priority Mail packets. They were the perfect carriers, these solid cardboard envelopes that offered not a hint of their contents. Less than five dollars’ worth of stamps got second-day delivery. They were dropped in standard, anonymous mailboxes leaving no way to trace the sender.
Outside the store in his rotting Camaro, Tommy opened envelope after envelope, calculating their contents. There were twenties, fifties, fives, and tens, some wrapped in newspaper in a further, though unnecessary, attempt to hide the contents. Within two weeks, he had $8,432 dollars in cash all collected, transported, and delivered through the courtesy of Uncle Sam’s post office. What a great country!
Alinco permanent magnets were awesome devices. A one-pound magnet could lift an engine block. The two magnets he needed cost $1,200 each, for which he paid cash, no questions and not even a raised eyebrow. Edmund Scientific out of Tonawanda, New York, supplied the next crucial element of his surprise package, a four-pound gyroscope. It was a 24-volt model. He had already located eight-ounce RV model batteries that put out 24 volts from Radio Shack. Designed for model planes and boats, they were lightweight. Each one cost $189. He bought four. The expensive part was the C-4. It took him three weeks to locate the guy on the Internet who once said it would not be a challenge to acquire certain “plastics” for rapid remodeling work. Rapid being the three ten millionths of a second it would take to detonate the four pounds of deadly putty.
It was a devilishly simple device, once he figured it out. The basic principle was based on a cat’s ability to land on its feet. Of course, making something that performed like a cat was no small task. He even toyed with the notion of using an actual cat, but he thought it might bring about unfavorable Karma to initiate the genocide of possibly 10 million with the death of one of God’s innocent creatures. No, he would not sacrifice a cat to help man pay for his sins.