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The radio crackled and Lawrence grabbed the mic and said, “Morrison, what’s happening?”
“No answer to the doorbell, Captain. We’re going to take a look around back.”
The two cops dressed as construction workers disappeared from view. A couple minutes later, they returned to the front door of the house. The one named Morrison cupped his hands at the front window and looked in.
After that, Morrison gestured to his partner, who also peered through the glass. Lawrence opened the mic and said, “What have you got, Morrison?”
“The house appears wired, Captain. Booby-trapped.”
“Get out of there now,” said Lawrence.
Cindy listened to the rapid-fire radio communications between the captain, the men in the woods, and the undercover cops, who got back into their construction van.
Cindy’s mind was on fire. She saw how this story was going to start: right here, with Morrison telling Lawrence that the house was rigged to blow. This was a beautiful lede. A movie-style fricking opening.
Lawrence released the brake and headed the car south toward the main road with the construction van following right behind.
He said, “Cindy, we have to talk.”
“Absolutely,” she said to the captain. “The house is wired. Booby-trapped. This means that she set up explosives so that if the law came in through the door—”
“I mean,” said Captain Lawrence, “we have to talk about our deal. If Morales is staying here, we can’t let on. She may come back if she thinks her safe house is still safe. That’s what we want.
“Now I have to call the FBI. You can thank me later for keeping you out of that. They will not make a deal with you, but you will have to give up your source. Count on that.
“Also, Morales may have had nothing to do with wiring that house. And as I understand journalism, if you can’t verify it, you can’t write it. Am I right?”
“You’re right as to the kind of journalism I do.”
“Okay, then. Bottom line, Cindy,” Lawrence said, turning to her as he negotiated the rutted road. “You cannot write a single word until or unless I say so. Not one single word.”
CHAPTER 14
MY PHONE RANG on the table next to the bed, cracking my deep sleep wide open.
I was pretty sure it was Saturday. I looked at the clock. 10:30 a.m. I had slept at least six hours straight and—hey, the baby wasn’t crying. Cause for celebration!
The phone was still ringing.
Joe groaned beside me. He said, “I’ll get her. My turn.”
I said to Joe, “It’s Brady,” and I reached for the phone.
I asked myself, why was Brady was calling me? He and Yuki were getting married today. I clicked to answer the call, hoping he just needed me to pick up something for the wedding and Yuki hadn’t gotten cold feet or there’d been a quadruple homicide and he was handing off the case to me.
I said my name into the phone.
“Boxer, someone just called in something that sounds like a belly bomb. You want it? Or you want me to give it to Paul Chi? It’s your call.”
I said, “You know me too well.”
I took the address and said I’d be on scene in twenty minutes. I didn’t see how I could do that, but belly bombs were mine. I called Conklin, who said his car was in the shop. And he was at Tina’s house.
“Get dressed,” I said. “I mean now.”
I had fallen into bed last night thinking that Joe and I were going to make love in the morning. Pretty sure that he’d been having similar thoughts.
I got out of bed and opened the closet. Pulled out a pair of jeans and a man-tailored white cotton, no-iron shirt. My usual.
