“This could be it,” says Alex. “Who owns it?”
Lola runs her fingers down a column on the side of the sheet. “Interesting. Looks like it’s remained in the same family for over two hundred years.” Lola taps her finger on the last entry in the column. “Here you go. Colton Brophy. He’s the current owner. It seems he inherited the title from his dad twenty years ago. No easements. No fines. Tax payments are up to date.”
“The family must have gotten offers for the property.”
“No doubt. But some people have their reasons for holding out. Maybe sentimentality. Or maybe they just don’t want to be uprooted.”
“Any recent permits?” Alex asks. He doubts he’ll find any paperwork for a target range. Or for antipersonnel mines.
“Let me check.” Lola flips through some papers attached to the property sheet, then taps another spot. “Excavation and building permit. Ten years ago. Looks like Mr. Brophy was digging a bomb shelter.”
CHAPTER 86
Sampson
I HAVE A RULE about not drinking alone.
I’m breaking it.
There’s a bottle of Scotch on my table and a half-empty tumbler beside it. I’m already feeling the effects. And it’s not helping.
Of all the next-of-kin notifications I’ve done over the years, this morning’s was one of the toughest. It turns out that Anna Rizzo’s abuela Marina speaks hardly any English. So after I sat Juan and Tina down and told them what had happened, they had to interpret for her. Marina let out an earsplitting wail, which terrified the kids.
I sat with them in their living room, letting them cry, letting them talk, letting them ask me questions—most of which I couldn’t answer or didn’t want to.
At one point, Marina handed me a scrapbook. Turning the pages, I saw Rizzo grow from a dark-eyed baby to a skinny kid insoccer gear to a beautiful young woman. I saw pictures of her wedding day, with both bride and groom in dress uniform, walking under an arch of sabers. Then with her babies, Juan, followed by Tina.
After two hours, I hugged them all and left them in the care of a kindly next-door neighbor. Told all of them to call me at any hour. Juan asked me if I’d come to his mom’s funeral. That just about broke my heart. I promised I would.
I also promised we’d find whoever did this and bring them to justice.
Which is what I always say. Even when I have my doubts.
By the time I got back home, the wreckage of Rizzo’s car had been carried away on a flatbed truck. The bomb squad had checked the garage, and they gave my car the all-clear.
My house still smells like smoke. When I look out through my kitchen window, I can see the hole in my driveway, black and deep, with broken concrete and blasted-out dirt all around it. The yellow tape still winds around my yard, flapping in the breeze.
My gun is on the table right next to the bottle of Scotch and my cell phone. Probably not a good combination.
I hear a sound behind me.
I whip around in my chair, but my reflexes are a touch slow.
A pistol is pressing into my forehead. In a snap, I recognize the man who’s holding it.
It’s Aiden Phillips.
His left arm snakes around and grabs my Glock off the table. He shoves it into his waistband, then grabs my phone. After that, he backs off.
“Don’t worry, John. I don’t hurt people. Not the good ones, anyway.”
CHAPTER 87
Cross
ALEX CROSS KNOWS HE should have contacted the Chapel Hill PD. Hell, he should have contacted the bomb squad. He should have done a lot of things. But he’s so pissed off about their lack of cooperation that he’s doing this alone. Even though the only weapon he has is his mini-pistol.
Sometimes, he admits, his pride gets the best of him. Always has.
