I stayed another hour with Julia, then drove to the Alagara on my way home. I didn’t get out but did stop and lower the passenger window. There were many more flowers, many roses. I’d heard someone had tweeted something about roses that went viral. But for me, it was knowing they were out there and that they cared. I sat parked there several minutes. At home, Jo was waiting with Chinese to go and a bottle of red that felt out of place tonight, but it was grand of her to get anything.
Some agents hadn’t been home since the bombings. They showered in the gym and slept on chairs, but that didn’t work well for me. Sometimes answers come when you take a step back. I used to joke that my brain worked best when I didn’t think. We ate and I checked in with the office. When I walked back out, Jo was in the lap pool, her clothes draped neatly over a pool chair. She swam a slow crawl and her body looked lovely. When she stopped, she waded toward me and said, “I want to see you swim.”
“You want to see me swim?”
“Yeah, I want to see if you’ve kept working on stretching out those lower back muscles. Show me.”
Water beaded on her skin as she climbed out into the warm night. It wasn’t about my back or torn muscles or disfigurement. She was putting herself out there at a hard time, but it felt right to heal the hurt between us and move somewhere new. A fence blocked the view of the only neighbors, and the other side looked out on the desert. I stripped off my clothes and swam, and maybe for the first time since I was wounded, I gave myself up to what I’d become.
Many got hurt in Iraq and Afghanistan. What were my wounds next to what soldiers had done and endured? Mine were nothing. They were bad luck, a failed mission. The way I had looked and felt before was gone forever, so let it go. Let it just be that I’m lucky to hold Jo again. Let it just be that and nothing else. Let it be without questions. Later, we made love in a slow way in the bed where I’d once slept with my wife, and then lay with the sliding door open and moonlight falling across the floor.
Early the next morning I wrote Jo a note before slipping out at first light. I like the gentle quiet and beauty of dawn. The early morning drive to the office is also when I sometimes do my best thinking about cases.
This morning I felt particularly down. I felt terrible sadness, yet tried to think through the pieces of what Lacey and I had: Mondari, Menderes, Rosamar Largo, the unknown bomb maker who I thought had to be here. I thought about C-4 magically disappearing from a Phoenix warehouse. My head also swirled with dark thoughts and images from the Alagara. I needed to think about cremating the bodies of Jim, Melissa, and Nate and what to do about a memorial service. Should Julia see them once more, or would that be traumatizing? She wanted to see them, and no one had significant facial injuries. Maybe she needed that finality, but I shuddered to think of a trip to the morgue with her. I was there in my head when my phone rang.
A soft-spoken southern voice identified herself as with Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. She then conferenced me into an ongoing call with a DC-based ATF unit working the Vegas bombings. I heard static, a piercing electronic squeal, and then without introduction, an ATF agent, a male voice, maybe midcareer, hard-edged, and not a voice I recognized. But I could guess why he was calling.
“Good morning, Special Agent Grale, we’re calling about your request.”
“I’ve been patched into a conference call?”
“You have. We got your request yesterday and are wondering what you’re after.”
“It wasn’t clear enough?”
“Whatever partial DNA came off the bomb detonators and the casings has already been run through the terrorism database. You must know that, so why do you want to run it through the ATF database?”
“ATF has the best database on domestic bombers, and the lists haven’t always matched in the past.”
“It might have been that way once a long, long time ago, but it’s not anymore. We’ll do the run for you, but it’s not going to turn up anybody new. Are you looking at a domestic bomber?”
“I’m leaning toward a freelancer.”
There was a pause that I knew I was supposed to fill but didn’t.
“Can you tell us what you’re working on?”
“My first cup of coffee.”
Somebody chuckled, and something about that chuckle was familiar. Couldn’t quite place it yet, but it was familiar.
“Look, I’m not working any headline stuff. My role here is to chase the orphan leads along the edges of the main investigation. I’m like a guy in the basement with a flashlight and stacks of files in moldy cardboard boxes, which would fit, right, for an old-school guy not up to speed.”
“I’m not sure what all that meant. Do you have a bomb maker you’re specifically looking at?”
“I’m working a list of known bomb makers.”
“Your request made it sound like you have someone in mind.”
“Can I get it run if I change the wording a little?”
A deeper voice broke in. “We’ll get it run for you, Grale.”
“Carl Brady?”
“It’s me, Paul, and it’s been way too long. What’s going on with you? Why aren’t you a supervisor by now?”