I was going to give Allison Green the take-no-prisoners, ball-busting, deal-sealing Nora Black, who knew how to get things done.
When I walked into the station, Broyles was the first person I encountered. He assessed me up and down and then said, “Day-um. You did not come to play.”
“I did not,” I agreed.
“You can relax a minute,” he informed me as he scratched his head. He’d said earlier that he’d just turned forty. In the god-awful fluorescent lighting, I could see peppers of gray in his dark hair. “The mayor is currently reaming the chief and Detective Holden new buttholes. It’ll be a minute before she gets to yours.”
“I like my butthole right where it is, thank you very much,” I told him. “And if I were in the market for a new one, I wouldn’t get it from Mayor Green.”
Broyles laughed. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?”
“I’m afraid of all kinds of things. Just not blowhard politicians who care more about elections than the truth.”
He raised his brows. “Were you ever in the military?”
“No, but I grew up the daughter of the chief of police here in Garden Cove. Being his child was kind of like being in the military.” I grimaced when I remembered his memory of wretched combat. “Sorry,” I apologized. “My upbringing was nothing like what you went through.”
He shrugged. “It’s no never mind to me. I get it. My dad was an MP in the army. He’s the reason I joined. There’s a lot of pressure to follow in a parent’s footsteps.”
“But you became a demolitions expert, not an MP,” I pointed out.
He smiled, making his face appear more youthful, and spread his hands. “But look at me now?”
“You’re still a demolition guy but also a cop.”
“The best of both worlds.”
I shook my head at his bravado. It seemed to me that it took a certain kind of person to play with explosives—one that liked to live on the edge and didn’t always care about dying.
Reese came into the bullpen. “Hey, Nora,” she greeted. “Looking spiffy.”
“Then mission accomplished,” I told her. “Spiffy was the aim.”
“Then bullseye.” She mimicked drawing a bow and shooting an arrow. “We just processed Edgar. I’ve never seen a man cry so much. He went through an entire box of tissue between fingerprinting and mug shots.”
“Has he lawyered up?”
“Nope.” She gave a low whistle. “For a smart guy, he’s kind of dumb.”
Poor Edgar. He was going to go to jail—go directly to jail, and not collect two hundred bucks—if he didn’t wise up. I was half tempted to call Jasper Riley to take his case. I wouldn’t, of course. I was in enough trouble already, apparently.
While waiting for my turn with the angry mayor, I hummed the theme song from “2001: A Space Odyssey.”
“I can’t believe that movie came out in nineteen sixty-eight,” Broyles said. “The man was ahead of his time.”
“The theme song was composed by Richard Strauss in eighteen ninety-six.” I gave him a “yep, I said eighteen ninety-six” nod. “Strauss was ahead of his time.”
“My buddies and I would binge old sci-fi when I was at AIT at Elgin Air Force Base in Florida.”
“I thought you were in the Army.”
“He was,” Reese answered. “He trained as an explosive ordnance specialist at Elgin, though.”
“Okay,” I said to Broyles. “I gotta ask. Do you think the person doing this has demolition training?”
“What, you don’t believe it’s the banker?” he asked, sounding doubtful. Then he shook his head. “The materials this guy is using aren’t weapon-grade. They’re chemicals almost anyone can get hold of. I don’t think he’s a pro.”
“Okay, that’s good insight. I didn’t think about that. You mentioned something about fuming acid igniting latex. Why is it different?”
