Free Run the Risk by Scott Frost Page B

looking down at the body. Death and the water had softened the contours and age lines on the man’s face. His eyebrows and mustache were the color of freshly ground pepper. I tried for a second to imagine what his voice had sounded like. Was it deep? Resonate? Did he talk in rapid bursts of sentences or slow, graceful arcs of words? Did he like to laugh? What was his wife’s name? Did he have a daughter? Did he understand what was happening to him as he fell face first into the shallow water of the pond?
    â€œThe same person who made the bomb that nearly killed Dave killed this man.”
    Connecting this man to an attempt on Traver’s life immediately brought Foley up to speed, even if he didn’t understand the hows and whys of it.
    â€œYou tell me what you want, Lieutenant,” Foley said.
    â€œI want to know everything about this man before and after he crossed the border.”
    Foley nodded. “If there’s water in his lungs and we get nothing more than a bump on his head from the autopsy, it’s going to be hard to prove this is a homicide.”
    â€œIt’s not this one I’m concerned about,” I said.
    â€œYou want to tell me what does concern you, Lieutenant?” Foley said.
    â€œThe next one,” I said.
    â€œThe next one?” Foley asked.
    I walked over to the edge of the pool and looked down at the red sweater the Mexican major was wearing. It was so obvious to me that I was stunned I hadn’t thought of it before. I turned and looked back at Harrison.
    â€œWhat was it you said about a bomb used as a political or terrorist act?”
    Harrison thought a moment, replaying the conversation in his head. “They take place in public places—train stations, restaurants, wherever.”
    â€œWhat if this, and the bomb in Sweeny’s, were just attempts to cover up another act?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSomething that hasn’t happened yet.”
    â€œAnother killing?”
    â€œAn act of terror.”
    â€œI’m not sure I follow.”
    â€œThat makes two of us,” Foley said.
    â€œWe have two people dead for no apparent reason, and an exotic explosive designed for one purpose, to explode in places where it won’t be detected.”
    â€œWhat kind of places?” Foley said.
    â€œPublic places,” I said. “What’s the date?”
    â€œThirtieth.”
    â€œThe first is two days away,” I said.
    I could see in Harrison’s eyes the light of recognition going off.
    â€œJesus,” he said. “The Rose Parade.”
    I nodded and said, “Exactly.”
    â€œExactly what?” Foley said.
    â€œAnd the bungalow and this, and even Finley were just acts to cover his tracks?” Harrison said.
    â€œIt’s the logical conclusion,” I said.
    â€œBut it’s not one you could base on evidence,” Harrison said. “There’ve been no threats, no warnings. We would have heard about them in the squad, we get those kind of warnings all the time.”
    â€œAnd when don’t bombers give warnings?”
    He didn’t even have to think about that. It was glaringly clear, even if the theory was supported by nothing more than the finest thread.
    â€œWhen the device’s intention is to kill, you don’t warn anyone,” Harrison said.
    We all know about that now. The terror that comes out of nowhere is seared into our collective consciousness.
    â€œDevices?” Foley said. “You’re saying the guy who did this is going to put a bomb in the Rose Parade?”
    I turned to Foley. I didn’t want this information picking up speed and getting out of control, not until I had more than conjecture to follow. We still had a couple of days. When time was up and push came to shove, we could send up the red flags of desperation. But until then we would do this quietly.
    â€œWhat I’m doing is thinking out loud,” I said. “And no one else