Free Shockwave (Calendar Men: Mr. May) by D.L. Jackson Page B

reporter and not law enforcement, she didn’t need a warrant. Granted, the act would be breaking in, and she’d get arrested if caught, but if Catherine were in fact the bomber, then they might let her off with a slap on the wrist. She sure as heck hadn’t gotten a Pulitzer for being cautious.
    Reporters had been known to go where they shouldn’t. Nobody would question her snooping if Catherine turned out to be innocent.
    If.
    Something told her that wouldn’t be the case and had her leaving the office seconds later, slinking out the side, toward the agent’s car. It took her at least five minutes to work her way to the black BMW.
    She squatted down by the rear passenger side, hidden from all the activity and, from Agent Dawson’s view. She lifted up enough to peek through the windows to where Tanner and Catherine talked. She eyed the back seat. A black trash bag, much like the one she’d tossed in the closet in her room, sat in the rear passenger side floor of an otherwise spotless interior.
    Components of the bomb?
    She tried the passenger handle. Locked. She eyed the driver’s side to see if Catherine secured her car. To her surprise, she hadn’t. The only way inside the car, to see what she’d hidden in the mysterious bag, was to go through the driver’s side door and take a chance she’d be spotted.
    She chewed on her thumbnail, debating the intelligence of her actions. Not her most brilliant move—but not her stupidest either. No other person in would be in danger here, and the authorities could write her bad judgment off to her being a nosey reporter. She crawled toward the hood and peered around the bumper. Agent Dawson and Tanner were examining something near the site of the explosion. Their backs were to her. Even better, everyone seemed engrossed in their investigation and no one looked in her direction.
    No time like the present.
    She made her way around the front of the sedan and opened the door. Ding, ding, ding . The door pinged. Lannie glanced back to make sure no one watched and scrambled into the seat and shut the vehicle. She hit a button and unlocked all the doors, in case she needed to make a speedy exit. She checked again, ensuring Catherine remained engaged, and noticed they were now walking toward the building, and away from the parked car.
    Lannie popped open the glove box first and began to dig through, searching for who knew what? Would Catherine be stupid enough to put evidence of her crime in her car? Nothing . She slammed the compartment shut and went for the center console. A few papers, nothing screaming killer. She bit her lip and scanned the front. A business card stuck up from where it had wedged in the passenger side seat. She plucked it out. Her heart thumped in her chest and her mouth went dry. She’d given Catherine the card during her interview last week. Not any kind of evidence. Except....
    She scalp tingled again. On the back—someone had written her room number at the Day’s Inn.
    And license plate number, make, and model of her car. She slapped her hand over her mouth. Shit. Shit. Shit . Catherine was the bomber. There could be no other explanation. She looked over the seat at the bag. Explosives? Remote devices?   She reached for it, and the driver’s side opened, and a gun cocked.
    “Find what you were looking for?”
    Oh, hell—and more .
     
    ***
     
    Tanner knocked on the office. Nobody answered. He tried a second time and turned the knob. “Lannie?” He pushed the door open and stuck his head in. The lights were off and a pad with names sat on the desk, but the room sat empty.
    Damn. He’d told her to stay in here. Where the hell had she gotten off to? He shut the door and headed to her room. She wouldn’t go far without a vehicle. Lannie had to be around somewhere, and everything pointed toward the obvious. Probable she’d gone upstairs to change.
    But if the bomber knew where she’d stayed, she could be in danger. A small component of the detonator