“I have three days left until the nineteenth, if what they’re planning is an anniversary bombing. Give me three days.” Chris pointed again at the video. “In addition to which, the timing makes absolute sense for it to be a baseball player. A player leaving practice when it was over would arrive at Mr. Vrasaya’s farm, park his car, and run to the shed exactly when this happens, which is 6:20. I drove the distance myself. Then he still gets home in time, and nobody is the wiser, except for the fact that his trunk is filled with ammonium nitrate.”
“What does he do with it then? Does he hand it off? Does he store it at his house?”
“I don’t know but I’m gonna find out.”
“One question, Curt,” the Rabbi interjected. “What about your unwitting, Larkin? Do you suspect him?”
“No,” Chris answered. “Again, I’m going with my gut. Jordan Larkin doesn’t fit the profile for a domestic terrorist. He’s quiet, a rules follower, and a good kid.”
Alek ignored them both. “I still don’t understand what the teacher had to do with it. Yomes, the one who committed suicide.”
“Maybe Abe knew something. Maybe he saw something. Maybe he overheard something. He was a connected, inquisitive guy. It’s too coincidental otherwise.” Chris hadn’t yet found the connection, but he’d asked around at practice and determined that all five boys had Abe Yomes for Language Arts. “He was the one who asked me about Wyoming.”
“So it was a lucky break he died.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Chris shot back, cringing inwardly. He couldn’t think of Abe’s death that way, and before Abe had died, Chris had decided to immerse himself in Wyoming trivia, in order to answer Abe’s many questions.
“It’s a suicide, no question, according to the locals. Yomes hung himself. His boyfriend told them he had a history of depression.”
The Rabbi interjected, “Curt, I understand that Yomes was African-American and gay. Did you see any facts that would suggest the possibily of a hate crime? Any evidence of a neo-Nazi group? Are you seeing anything like that at the high school, or on the team?”
“Not yet,” Chris answered, then turned back to Alek. “Let the locals think whatever they think. Yomes told me about his depression himself, but it sounded like it was in the past. I’m going to follow up.”
“But Yomes has no connection to the baseball team, does he?”
“Other than he taught my five guys? No, not that I know of, yet.” Chris had been wondering if there was some secret connection there, maybe one of the players was in the closet, but he didn’t have enough information on which to float a theory.
“Curt, I’m unconvinced.” Alek shook his head. “We have bigger cases.”
“The Oklahoma City bombing was the most deadly act of domestic terrorism in the country. It doesn’t get much bigger than that. In this political climate, with feelings against the government, it’s only a matter of time until it happens again.”
“We’re not hearing anything. Nothing unusual, no chatter, no leads.”
“That could mean they’re good at it. Or a small group. Or a loner. I’ve got my eye on a few kids on the team, who spoke against the goverment in one of my classes. I did an exercise to see who felt that way. I’m asking for three days. Three more days, until the anniversary on the nineteenth.”
Alek frowned. “Curt, you’re killing me. You’ve made a name for yourself in the most dangerous operations. I can’t believe you want this one, with a bunch of high-school kids. It’s like Jump Street, for God’s sake!”
“The hell it is,” Chris said, simmering.
The Rabbi turned to Alek. “Let him see it through. We owe him that, don’t we? After Eleventh Street?”
Alek kept frowning, but said nothing.
Chris thought back to the Eleventh Street Operation, in which he’d gone undercover as a Kyle Rogan, a low-level cocaine dealer, infiltrating a gang of violent dealers near Wilmington, Delaware, believed to have connections to the Sinaloa cartel. Chris had been about to make a “buy-bust” in a run-down house on Eleventh Street, but the moment of truth had come when the drug dealers had insisted that Chris sample the product, which was one of the few things that the movies actually got correct—undercover ATF and FBI agents were typically asked to sample the product to prove they weren’t cops. In theory, it was otherwise illegal activity, or OIA, since the government had an acronym for everything. But refusing could endanger their lives. Chris had thought of another way out.
No can do, Chris/Kyle had said to the three thugs sitting opposite him, behind the black duffel bag of bricks wrapped in plastic, which the bearded drug dealer had split open with a key.
You won’t try some? Why?
I can’t. No liquor, no drugs. I’m a Muslim.
Who are you kidding? You’re white as a sheet. A Ku Klux Klan sheet. The bearded dude had burst into coarse laughter, and so had his cohorts.
So? Chris/Kyle had-shrugged. I’m a Muslim. Muslims can be white.
I don’t believe for one minute you’re a Muslim, said a skinny black man on the end, the only African-American in the room.
So Chris/Kyle had launched into a recital of the most important passages of the Koran, which he had memorized in anticipation of being quizzed. It had convinced the thugs of his bona fides, and they made the buy. Afterwards, they’d left the house, where ATF agents had arrested them all, including Chris, to preserve his cover.
The Rabbi was saying, “Alek, look at it this way. If Curt is right, you come out looking like a rose because you gave him the approval. If he’s wrong, everybody will understand why you gave him a freebie. It’s win-win, for you.”
Alek sighed heavily, then turned to Chris. “Three days. That’s it.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Chris walked next to the Rabbi past the well-maintained stone row houses, reflexively keeping his head down through Fairmount, an artsy city neighborhood with indie coffeehouses, historic pubs, and used bookstores, as well as the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Barnes Foundation, and Free Library. The Rabbi and his Portuguese wife, Flavia, were always nagging him to go to author lectures at the Free Library or folk dancing at the Art Museum, which would never, ever happen.
Chris was going to the Rabbi’s for dinner only because he wouldn’t take no for an answer, but Chris felt out of sorts. He was angry at Alek’s attempt to shut down the operation, and Abe’s death was beginning to haunt him. Heather was at the back of his mind, too, but he pressed her away as they reached the Rabbi’s house, which was different from the others, since Flavia was an artist and had wanted their window trim to be purple, pink, and green.
“Flavia is so excited you’re here,” the Rabbi said, unlocking the front door.
“Me, too.” They went inside, and Chris found himself surrounded by chatter, music, and delicious aromas of broiled fish. Soft bossa nova music played on an old-fashioned stereo system, and the sound of laughter and women talking floated from the kitchen.
“And the girls are home,” the Rabbi said, meaning his twin daughters, Leah and Lina, who shared an apartment in Center City.
“Terrific.” Chris looked up as their chubby brown mutt, Fred, ran barking toward them, his long ears and pink tongue flying.