“Anyone injured?”
“Not a scratch,” says Bannon. “Turns out the charges were only about the size of an M80. So it was like a kid’s prank.”
“Or a warning?”
“You said it, not me. But, yeah, the officers stopped bothering us. When I talked to Phillips about it, at first he just kind of smiled.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“Not then, but he did eventually.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that if you want to get somebody’s attention, explosives are the way to do it.”
CHAPTER 77
BY THE TIME I get off the phone with Rick Bannon, I’m the only person left in the office. Time to go; I have plans later tonight. I pack up my stuff and head for the door. My finger is on the light switch when I see the elevator door open across the hall.
Shit.
Perkins and Walsh. The two people I least want to see.
The CIA agents make their way through the cubicle maze and stroll into my office. They grab the two chairs in front of my desk and sit down.
“Don’t you guys ever call first?” I ask.
“We were in the neighborhood,” says Perkins.
No hellos. No explanations. No apologies.
Walsh points at the pile of confidential files on my desk. “What have you found?”
I sit down at my desk. Clearly, I’m not going anywhere for a while. I tap the files. “I talked to about half a dozen vets from your list so far.”
“What are you hearing?” asks Perkins.
“Mostly, a lot of complaints about the VA.”
“Not our department,” says Walsh dismissively. “What have you heard about Phillips?”
“There’s a definite pattern to what people remember. Phillips had their backs in the field, but he enjoyed killing a little too much—and blowing stuff up. Nobody I talked to has kept in touch with him, but no one was surprised to hear we’re looking into him for the bombings. Several say he seems like the type.”
“So this contradicts what you heard from the wife and Florence Nightingale,” Perkins states.
I nod. “That’s right. Both of them are of the opinion that Phillips is a damaged guy with PTSD but claim he’d never kill innocent people.”
“Bullshit,” says Walsh. “Ladies always let emotions cloud their judgment. Biggest mistake this country ever made was passing the Nineteenth Amendment.”
I just stare at him. “I guess you skipped sensitivity training.”
“I did,” says Walsh. He forms a pistol with his thumb and index finger. “I was on the shooting range.”
I focus on Perkins, who seems to be the more reasonable of the pair. “This is supposed to be a two-way street. Anything from your end?”
“It’s hard to pull any info out of Afghanistan these days,” says Perkins. “The people we still have over there need to be very careful about who they talk to.”
Walsh makes a slicing motion around his neck. “Or else …”
