Alex steps forward, holding his wife’s hand tight. “I love you, Bree.”
She squeezes his hand, her eyes wet. “I love you too, Alex.”
He slides the key into the lock, turns it gently, then leads the way into the darkness.
CHAPTER 11
Sampson
AFTER THE WATER IN the street subsides, I go to my car and open my kit. I change into a disposable protective jumpsuit, special-ordered for my size, then walk over to where Anna Rizzo is kneeling on the wet, cracked pavement. She’s staring down at a huge piece of twisted metal.
Part of a truck axle.
“The bomber’s vehicle?” I ask.
“I’d bet on it,” she says. “Looks like it was at the center of the blast.”
I look around. The initial investigative work is underway. Technicians from the ATF, the DC bomb squad, and other forensics investigators are laying out plastic triangles to mark evidence, taking photos, measuring. The bombing scene looks like a nightmare—broken windows, burned-out vehicles, bare trees. Is this really a street in our nation’s capital?
Rizzo stands up and taps my arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Good idea.”
The sound of sirens has finally faded. I’ve already instructed the FAA to shoo away the news choppers. Sure, they want dramatic footage of the bomb site for their viewers, but the helicopters’ rotor blades stir up dust and scatter evidence. As much as possible, we need a clean scene, TV ratings be damned.
As we walk away from the blast zone, Rizzo looks back and forth along the street, then up at the buildings around us. Broken glass and bits of metal crunch under our shoes. Rizzo steps around evidence markers and splintered tree branches. She stops in front of a store and turns to me. “See what I see?”
I do. The windows are intact. “The extent of the blast.”
Rizzo slowly turns around. “That’s one of the best markers we have—unbroken windows at a certain distance shows you the size and strength of the bomb.”
I nod. “Then there’s the Erin Woods formula, where you measure the distance human remains have traveled from the epicenter of the blast zone, and that also gives you an idea of the explosive force.”
Rizzo smiles. Just a little. “Glad to know you keep on top of these things. Looks like you’ve got a big brain to go with that big body.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
Rizzo puts her hands on her hips. “Car bombs, truck bombs, van bombs—they cause incredible damage. But luckily, they also leave a huge reservoir of clues, albeit in bits and pieces. We usually find the source of the vehicle in less than a day, and that’s the first big break we get.”
“If we find it soon, it means our bomber might actually have made a mistake.”
“Right,” says Rizzo. “By opting for a big evidence source.”
EMTs at the other end of the street are placing the shrouded remains of another victim into a dark blue van marked on the side with yellow letters:OFFICE OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER.
I lean against a pillar in front of the store. “Either that or the bomber’s incredibly smart and sophisticated and thinking ten steps ahead of us.”
“Possible,” says Rizzo.
There’s a chime from my phone and I see an incoming text.
Ready for you. Chan.
Dennis Chan is the head of the Technical and Analytical Services Bureau of DC’s Special Operations Division and the brainiest guy I know except for my brilliant best friend, Alex Cross.
Shit.Alex …
I get a sudden twist in my belly when I remember that Damon is missing, and I’m going to have to stay here instead of going down to North Carolina to help. But Chan wouldn’t text if he didn’t have something important to show me. That has to be my focus right now.
