Page 75 of Flash Freeze

“We hold nonprofit status.” His stalwart expression faltered. Finally, a crack in his façade.

“Nonprofit?” Bach gaped at Mora. “Two million dollars has flowed through an organization supposedly supporting individual freedoms. A simple audit will show us where that money really went.”

“You can’t prove anything.” He released the words like a stock line, void of the cocky attitude he’d displayed before.

“Actually, we can,” Athena declared. “And there’s more. Nolan’s blood on the floor mat in your pickup. Trace explosive residue was there as well, and in your empty lunch box. This ties you to the bomb and Nolan’s murder.”

“You’re lying,” he sneered, trying to cross his arms again. A streak of anger flashed across his face when he couldn’t position them the way he wanted to. He ground his teeth. “Did you find bomb-making supplies at my house? No. Did you discover a bloody wrench? No, you did not. Maybe you can prove I sold a batch of chemicals, but that’s it. And once I call my lawyer, even that won’t stick. So, I think I’d like to phone him now.”

Athena couldn’t hide the triumphant smile that spread across her lips. She exchanged a charged look with Bach, who shuffled papers back into his folder.

“Certainly, you may call your attorney, Mr. Mora,” she said. “You’re now being charged with the murder of federal investigator Jeff Nolan. I’m sure Mr. Bach will file state charges against you for the bombing and deaths of three of your fellow employees. We have enough to put you away.”

“No, you don’t!” Mora railed at her. “What? What have you got? Some trace that could have made its way into my truck by any means? I don’t lock it in the company parking lot. No need to. You have not a shred of evidence to convict me of murder.”

It was Athena’s turn to smirk. A well-deserved smirk, if she thought so herself. “No one mentioned that the murder weapon was a wrench. Only the killer and our forensic team would have that information. You just gave yourself away.”

“No, I was just guessing,” he insisted, his fingers curling into fists. “Could have been a hammer or a lead pipe.”

“Too late to walk it back now,” Bach said. Then he turned to Athena, talking to her as if Mora wasn’t even in the room. “I thought you said he was brilliant. Then he makes such an amateur mistake.”

“Well, I thought he was smart,” Athena said, her attention on the detective. “He won that scholarship to MIT.”

Bach replied, “Maybe they felt sorry for him.”

“That, or he lost his edge.”

BANG!

Athena and Bach turned simultaneously toward Mora, his fists shaking on the table, his face red with rage. “Stop ignoring me! I’m right here.”

Bach blinked. “Didn’t he say he wanted a lawyer?”

“Yes, but a lot of good it’ll do him.”

“I said for you to address me!” Mora thundered.

Athena did. Drawing upon mythology’s Hera and history’s Bloody Mary, she assumed her coldest, most intimidating manner and tone. “We are the authorities here. You don’t tell us what to do.”

Bach turned the screw. “You’ll have someone else telling you what to do, what to wear, when to eat, and where to go for the rest of your life.”

“Damn!” Mora wiped his mouth, reining himself in, a skill Athena was certain he’d practiced. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. A sly look had returned to his eyes by the time he lifted them to Athena.

“I was so careful.” Mora gave a humorless laugh. “I never wanted to kill Nolan and honestly didn’t believe anyone else would be hurt. But he got too close and was about to uncover my scheme. I didn’t use a weapon from my toolbox at work—figured those would be confiscated. Instead, I brought one from home and tossed it and the detonator where they’d never be found. I built the bomb in a half-collapsed, abandoned building. You never would’ve connected me to it. You’re right, Detective. Mentioning the wrench was an amateur mistake. That doesn’t diminish my intellect. It only confirms the truth—I’m not a criminal.”

“You stole from your place of employment and killed four people,” Bach stated. “That makes you a criminal.”

Mora assumed a relaxed posture and inhaled a deep breath. “Whitmore and his kind are the criminals. The powerful elite, hoarding all the wealth to themselves, with their boots on the necks of working people. And talk about dumb! With Booker’s help, I’ve been doing this for four years, and he hadn’t a clue.”

“You needed Booker,” Athena asserted, “someone on the inside who could doctor the books, someone above suspicion. Booker was the perfect pawn. Funny how he didn’t amass nearly as much as you did.”

“Booker got a cut,” Mora said dismissively. “Mine was the greater risk, and don’t think it was just for me to get rich. Advancing my message and attracting more believers requires money. Booker spent his on his workers, saving some for retirement. I’m funneling mine into a global cause.”

“Global cause?” Bach questioned, tilting his head at Mora.

“They’re all in it together,” he explained. “Or they’re all being controlled by the same entity. You have to see it. Whether it’s here in the U.S. or any other country, the powers that be keep their populations in a state of fear and uncertainty through wars, the economy, and sensationalizing tragedies and natural disasters. Then they use the media to brainwash the public.”

He scrunched his brow for an instant. “Or it could be the other way around. Media moguls could be pulling government officials’ strings. Either way, billionaires like Whitmore must be involved.”