I thought out loud. “So he has knowledge of and access to a wide array of explosives. What kind of person would get that kind of knowledge and access? I mean to seek out and get the C-4?”
Mahoney said, “Money talks. You can buy nearly anything these days on the dark side of the internet.”
“Or he’s someone with real training, a military sapper. Or ex.”
“You mean like a Marine master gunnery sergeant?”
“Tim Chorey’s in detox,” I said. I started to see blue lights ahead of us, and cruisers blocking access to the Washington Monument.
“No, he’s not,” Mahoney said. “I had someone check. Chorey walked out four days ago, within hours of you dropping him.”
Chapter 20
Dawn came. The rain had been torrential and relentless all night, hampering the search for the latest bomb, and the dark, low-hanging clouds above the Washington Monument showed no sign of clearing.
Bree and I were in our car, taking a break from the rain, listening to WTOP all-news radio and drinking coffee. I was only half paying attention to the newscast, covering the latest bomb threat and the likely effect on commuter traffic.
I was still brooding over Tim Chorey. On the drive over to detox, he’d told me he was ready for change. He was tired of the streets, tired of living in a soundless world, and tired of being blasted all the time. Blasted. It was the exact word he’d used.
Had the deaf veteran been playing me the entire time? I like to think of myself as a pretty shrewd judge of character, and an excellent reader of body language. I’d honestly believed Chorey, and I’d gone to bat for him.
The back door opened. Mahoney slid inside wearing an FBI rain slicker and ball cap. He pushed back the hood and said, “It’s a monsoon out there.”
“Anything?” I said.
“We’re positive the inner monument is clear. But this rain’s killing us. Really messes with the dogs’ noses.”
“And he could have used the pre-1980 C-4 again.”
“True. Could also be he’s abandoned his penchant for garbage cans as bomb sites. We’ve checked every one in a mile radius.”
Bree said, “Are you hearing this?”
We looked at her. She turned up the radio, reporting on a veterans’ appropriations bill stalled in the Senate. If the bill doesn’t make it to the President’s desk before Friday, there would be slashing of funds for dozens of critical veterans’ programs across the board.
“You think this has something to do with it?” Mahoney said.
“He talked about Congress not treating vets right,” she said. “Maybe this is his motivation. He knows this bill has to pass in four days, so he’s pushing.”
“But he never mentioned that specifically?” Mahoney said.
“No,” Bree said. “He didn’t.”
“It’s been seven hours since the call,” I said. “Maybe there’s no bomb this time. Maybe he’s yanking our chain.”
“What makes you think that?” Bree asked.
“It’s a freebie. He gets us mobilized, on edge, and the media worked into another frenzy, and he doesn’t have to use an ounce of plastic explosives to do it.”
“Well, he’s got me on edge,” Mahoney said. “Six cups of coffee and two hours of sleep in the last twenty-four is not the way to better mental health.”
“No, and neither is thinking Chorey’s our guy,” I said, looking over the backseat.
Mahoney started to stiffen, but I held up my palm. “The bomber hears just fine. Unless Chorey’s had a cochlear implant, he’s not who’s been calling Bree. I read his medical files. There’s no way he—”
Ned held up both hands. “Agreed, Alex. He’s not the caller. But he could be the caller’s partner.”
I couldn’t dispute that possibility. “Are you naming him a person of interest?”