The Detonator Read online

  Chapter 16

  Dialing the number for the APD, South Pearl Street Precinct, I await the connection. When it comes I ask for Detective Nick Miller in Homicide.

  “Thought you were on vacation,” says the dispatcher. A pleasant young man named Jack recently diagnosed with a heart condition and therefore assigned to dispatch.

  “I am,” I say. “Or, was anyway. Had a tire blowout on the way home, so now I get an extra night in a small town outside Worcester.”

  “Lucky you, Ike.” Then, “Hang on, Miller’s light just went off. Here he is.”

  “Singer,” Miller says, as the connection is made. “How was the beach?”

  “I’m tanned to perfection.”

  “So why the call? You’re not required to check in with anybody here. We get a bomb threat while you’re vacationing, the staties can take care of it. That kind of constant-up-my-ass-communications responsibility is above your pay grade.”

  What Miller is referring to is that, technically speaking, I’m not a cop, but instead a subcontracted employee since the city of Albany doesn’t possess the resources or the manpower to mount an official bomb squad (bomb threats are usually handled by the State Police and/or Department of Homeland Security). So what they do to plug up the vacuum is hire me, full-time/part-time. In turn, I’m granted access to a used Ford F150 extended van outfitted with mostly outdated equipment, an eleven-year-old explosive-sniffing dog named Nemo, and support staff consisting of a single rookie cop named Ted. If and when I go out on a call, I usually work not with homicide but instead, arson. Course, if a bomb were to go off in Albany and it resulted in fatalities, I’d work with homicide as well. But thus far, it’s been all quiet on the northeastern front.

  “Ran into a bit of problem. You got a minute, Nick?”

  “For you, of course.”

  As the sign for the Motel 6 up ahead begins to take shape, I fill him in on the events of the past twenty-four hours. About Alison showing up. About her veiled threats of revealing everything that transpired back in ’99 to Ellen.

  “Have you thought about telling your wife everything?” Miller says. I see him seated behind his desk in his first-floor office outside the general booking room, the venetian blinds closed on the windows. He’ll be wearing tan, neatly pressed trousers, and a maybe a light blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His full head of gray/white hair will be cut military short and his smooth, boy-like face, clean shaven. He’ll have his feet resting up on his desk beside his holstered sidearm, which he will have removed from his belt before taking a load off. Having jogged his standard five miles this morning, the old dogs need a rest.

  “Would you tell your wife about an affair you conducted when your only child was four years old and that led directly to the suicide of who was then your best friend and business partner? A suicide by building implosion that nearly took you along with it while robbing you of your livelihood? It’s too late for a full confession, Nick.”

  I see him shaking his head.

  “My wife died on the operating table,” he says, exhaling. “There’s so much I wish I’d told her before she passed on.”

  Nothing but breathing coming over the line. In my mind, I can’t help but picture Henry…picture him laid to rest. It’s a vision that makes me shudder. I feel a knot in my stomach and I quickly try to erase the vision from my consciousness.

  “You want me to look into her for you?” he says after a time. “It’s really a job for arson or traffic, but I’m not particularly overwhelmed at the moment.”

  “I can look into her on my own. What I was hoping is you might make a check on my wife and kid tonight.”

  “You think this Alison character might, ummm, overstay her welcome? Make things uncomfortable for Ellen and Henry?”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll call you later if there’s a problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Least I can do for the APD’s favorite subcontractor.”

  “Now you’re making me blush.”

  “Good to know I still have the touch,” he says. “But do yourself a favor and think about telling Ellen the truth. Or at least, a version of the truth. You keep lying to her, you’re also lying to yourself. That ain’t good. She’ll be angry at first and hurt as all hell. Shit, she might even make you sleep on the couch for a week or so. But it would stop Alison in her tracks if she is, in fact, planning on doing something hurtful. You destroy her leverage, you destroy her will.”

  What I want to do right now is destroy Alison. But I’m not about to tell Nick that.

  “I’ll definitely take that into consideration. Talk to you later.”

  “Roger that, Ike.”

  He hangs up.

  I pocket the phone and head into my home away from home for the night. The beautiful Motel 6.

  Chapter 17

  After checking into a second-floor corner room, I head out for a few supplies, which include a six-pack of beer, a mixed submarine sandwich (they call them “grinders” out here in Massachusetts), plus a toothbrush and toothpaste. After I set everything onto the bed back in my room, I decide to text Ellen, make sure everything is okay. Alison warned about calling too much. Her threat wasn’t direct, but I perceived it as one, and its message was clear enough. But maybe I could sneak in a text.

  Home yet? I type into the smartphone.

  I wait for a reply and drink a full beer while staring out the window onto a long row of three-story wood clapboard houses. Blue-collar neighborhood. Red Sox and Pats fans. Mostly from Irish stock. Heavy drinkers. When the chime indicating a response comes through, I open the text.

  We are home and all good, reads the texted response.

  For the moment I feel a wave of relief. Until a second text comes through.

  This is Alison. Thought I asked you not to call or text Ike, you silly man.

  My body goes rigid. Acting on instinct, I press the telephone-shaped green indicator that will immediately place a call to Ellen’s cell phone. I count three rings before what sounds like someone answering the phone. But as soon as I speak, the phone is hung up.

  I dial again, but this time, I get Ellen’s prerecorded message.

  “This is Ellen Singer. Sorry I can’t take your call, but at the beep leave your life story. Have a great day.”

  I dial it again. And again. Same thing. Just the message. I would have tried the landline next. That is, if we still had a landline. But we got rid of that after buying a new cable television-slash-cell-phone package from Verizon.

  I pop the tab on another beer, drink that down. Then open a third and wait. My heart beats in my throat and my brow breaks out in beads of cool sweat. Could Alison have physically harmed my family? Is that what this is all about? Is it time to call Miller back, have him send a couple squad cars to the house? What if I do that and it only makes Alison angrier so that she kills my wife and my son?

  Maybe I should think about what Miller suggested. Maybe it’s time I stopped lying to myself and Ellen and just fess up the truth. Maybe Alison will still come after me, but at least my conscience will be clear.

  Patty’s face in my head.

  “How come you never told Ellen?” I say aloud, as if she can hear me.

  Because I loved you too much. I didn’t want to hurt you, even if you were hurting me.

  “Any other reasons?”

  Ellen was my friend. Had been since college. You remember. You were there, Ike. What good would it have done to hurt her just after she gives birth to a little boy who would be lucky to make it out of his teens?

  Cell phone chimes, breaking me out of my spell.

  I snatch it up, peer at the digital face. A multimedia text from Ellen. I open it. The video shows the interior of my house. Someone is walking with the cell phone in hand through the
kitchen, into the front hall and vestibule, up the stairs, all the way down the narrow corridor into the master bedroom. For a quick second or two, the phone flips around showing Alison’s smiling face while she brings an extended index finger up to her lips as if to say, Shhhhh.

  Then, flipping the phone back around, she focuses in on two objects laid out on the king-sized bed. Two human objects. They are Ellen and Henry, snuggled up together, asleep. At least they appear to be asleep.

  But how do I know for sure?

  I text, Put Ellen on. Do it now.

  A text comes back a few seconds later.

  Beauty sleep time. No more texts…Catch my drift, Ike?

  “You bitch!” I shout.

  But there’s no one around to hear me.

  Chapter 18

  I try calling again, but it’s no use. All I get is the message machine. Knowing I have no choice, I call Miller back. Jack, the dispatcher, claims he isn’t in. But I have his cell phone number in my speed-dial, so I try that. When he answers, I can tell right away he’s in his car since I make out the sound of traffic behind his somewhat distant voice.

  “What’s wrong?” he says. “You’re all out of breath.”

  I tell him what had happened when I called Ellen’s cell phone. About the hang-ups and the video.

  “Calm down,” he says. “It’s probably nothing more than what it appears to be. Alison decided to answer Ellen’s phone while she was asleep. Maybe she’s having trouble using it since it might be a model that’s foreign to her.”

  “I don’t like the feel of it, Nick.”

  “You been drinking, Singer?”

  The question catches me by surprise.

  “I had a couple of beers. Just a couple.”

  “Okay, tell you what. I’m on my way home. I told you before I’d make a check on things and that’s exactly what I’ll do now.”

  “Thanks. But do me a favor. Don’t make it obvious.”

  “How can I not make it obvious?”

  “You’re a cop. Can’t you sneak around the house, make a check through the windows with no one being the wiser?”

  “Jeez, that’s illegal. And last time I checked, I carry a real honest-to-goodness cop badge and a real honest-to-goodness Smith & Wesson 9mm.”

  “I’m telling you it’s okay. I’m giving you permission.”

  “Okay, okay, but I’ll have to wait until nightfall to do what you want.”

  “Fine by me. Let me know something as soon as you know something.”

  “I will. And, Ike…”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

  Chapter 19

  Options. Either sit here while the dusk approaches and drink the rest of the six-pack. Or do something with my time. Which is why I decide to head down to the lobby to utilize their quote “Business Center” unquote, which in reality is nothing more than an old Dell desktop computer set out on a thrift shop kitchen table in the far corner of the lobby.

  Clicking on the Google search engine, I type in Dr. Alison Darling, wait for the results. There isn’t a whole lot to speak of. A LinkedIn profile seems the best bet, so I click on that. There’s a picture of the young professional, hair neatly parted on the side, her expression confident, her lips neither smiling nor frowning. If I don’t already know her for who she is, I would find her attractive and smart. I might even hire her. That is, if I was looking for someone with expertise in both commercial and military applications of super nano-thermites.

  I peruse the description, find that she worked for a several big demolition outfits across the country after college before returning to school for a master’s. None of this seems particularly shocking, but it’s the last line of the description that gives me pause. It says she’s currently working not only for the University at Albany in the nano-tech research facility, but that she also subcontracts for several private sector explosive demolition outfits. Including BigBlast, Inc.

  …BigBlast, Inc.…

  “Where do I know that name?” I whisper to myself.

  Opening up another Google Search screen, I type in BigBlast, Inc. The website comes up for the New York City–based but apparently Chinese-owned company. The home page for the website features a slideshow that might as well double as an advertisement for some HBO action/adventure series featuring big bombs, big explosions, and lots of crazy death-defying stunts.

  The first photo shows an old hotel being imploded in Las Vegas under colored lights while the caption below it reads “Las Vegas illusionist Criss Angel pulls off an elaborate escape from a downtown strip hotel mere seconds before its demolition.”

  I find myself shaking my head.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” I whisper inside the empty Motel 6 lobby. “No wonder the Chinese are kicking our fiscal asses.”

  The next picture reveals an old hotel being shot on a Palm Beach oceanfront. The one after that, an old metal-span bridge that connects Vermont and New York’s Lake Placid being blown to bits. Then, a final photo displays charges being set inside the Wellington Hotel in my hometown of Albany for an implosion that’s to take place the day after tomorrow.

  I can’t help but feel envious of this last photo. Knowing in my bones that the project would be mine if I were still licensed to perform explosive demolition, I can’t help but feel my stomach sink at the sight of BigBlast, Inc. barging in on my territory. And now, to be made aware of Alison’s probable involvement in the project while she stalks my family is doubly troubling.

  Shutting down the BigBlast website, I go back to Alison’s LinkedIn page. Having scoured the entire listing, I click back to the Google results. I see a listing for her dad’s obituary way back when in 1999. I click on the link for the Times Union newspaper and peruse the short article that accompanies the round, rugged face of my old college roommate and then Master Blasters partner.

  “A loving father and devoted husband was lost in a tragic accident last Friday,” the article begins. But that’s where I stop reading.

  It wasn’t an accident, now was it? I whisper to myself.

  Sitting back in the chair, I picture the words “devoted husband” like they’ve been spray-painted on the plain white wall before me. In my head, I can’t help but play out the events of that one night in 1999 that changed my life forever. My meeting Patty Darling at a nondescript bar in downtown Albany. I remember how she reached out to me for advice on how to handle a husband who all but ignored her now. As Brian’s best friend, was there anything she should know about? Was he conducting an affair behind her back? If he was seeing someone, who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? Was the other woman more interesting than her?

  I looked into her eyes while she sipped her drink and brushed back her dirty blonde hair. Hair that, other than the color, was not all that different from her daughter’s today. She was so beautiful, I thought. So sweet. I’d always found her to be beautiful and sweet. I’d even nicknamed her Patty Cakes. I couldn’t imagine how in the world Brian could shove her aside emotionally. But then, what the hell did I know? I was suffering through my own turmoil. My own absence of domestic tranquility. And who knows what really goes on inside another man’s castle? Who was I to judge?

  My own life had taken a nosedive since the birth of my son.

  Since his diagnosis, frustration filled my veins and sadness plagued me. What hope other than a slow, cruel death awaited my little Henry? Better that he’d not been born at all.

  I took my despair out on Ellen, lashing out at her or worse, pretending she didn’t exist. The bottle became a near constant off-hours companion. All too often I slept in the construction trailer parked at one of the no-explosives-required mechanical demolition job-sites I had going on in the city. The sad truth is that I isolated myself not only to avoid my family, but to a
void myself. The hatred I had for myself over the way I was acting. There were no mirrors to be found inside a job-site trailer. No pictures, no mementos, no reminders of the affliction that now overwhelmed my son, overwhelmed my wife. Overwhelmed me.

  So that night, when I listened to Patty, and I watched her dry her tears with the backs of her hands, I saw something in her that I needed so very badly. I saw a beautiful woman who was in trouble. Who was vulnerable. And I reached across the table, took hold of her hand, and held it tightly.

  I’m not sure how it happened exactly, or how it was agreed upon. But one thing led to another, and soon we were out the door of the bar and in my car. We pulled into the first discreet motel we could find. Naturally, I parked around back. I paid for a room with cash and then we made a kind of love that wasn’t really love at all, but more like a primal release. An explosion or implosion of pent-up frustration and sadness.

  We did it in that rented room for much of the night. Until our bodies were coated in sweat and our flesh ached and there was nothing more for me or Patty to give. When it was over, our respective demons returned to haunt us. We had no choice but to retreat back inside our protective shells and we slept, or tried to sleep, one beside the other in the cramped, old bed.

  We slept, but not together.

  When I opened my eyes in the cold morning darkness, and the hangover had set in, I stared up at the popcorn ceiling…a ceiling stained with the memories of countless couples who had used this small room for the very same purpose…and I cursed myself for what I had done.

  I slid out of bed, got dressed as quickly and quietly as I could, left fifty dollars on the table for Patty’s cab fare. Sure the money might have been confused as a payment. As a gratuity. But I didn’t care. I just wanted out of there.

  Unlatching the chain on the door, I succumbed to the urge to steal one more glance at her. She was lying on her stomach, her soft hair settled on her neck and back, her elbows out, her hands hidden under her face. In the stark red light from the exterior neon sign that leaked in through the narrow, vertical openings in the drapes, I saw her eyes open and then close. I knew then she was faking sleep.