“Holy Joseph and crackers, Sal. There are more places to put explosives than M&Ms in Hersey, Pennsylvania.” I speed dialed Forte who picked up on the first ring. “Chief, I’d send as many of your guys into the areas behind First and Second streets as you’ve got. With the heat and dry weather, there must be a hundred places to hide one of those bombs.”
“I’ve sent a couple out toward Rosa Road, but hell, Nick, what do I tell them to look for? I’m having them find a big patch of scrub and walk it. It’s hit and miss, at best.”
“Tell me about the kid who brought the bomb to you.”
“Name’s Timothy Dornan. Senior at Bandon High. Why?”
“Where’s he live?”
“Up on Chicago Avenue Southeast, behind the PD.” He shuffled through his desk-top papers and provided an address. “Have something in mind?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Dialing off, to Sal, “We gotta talk to Dornan. Should be in school about now, but first let’s take a quick side trip.” Back up 101 to Tenth, left onto Baltimore Ave. SE and a few quick turns to Chicago SE.
“Remember Della Haye?”
Sal’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, yeah.”
“She lived up on Chicago.”
“Hotty.”
“You dated her, didn’t you?”
Sal grinned. “Oh, yeah.”
Shaking my head. “Letch.” Reflected back to those high school days. Sal and Della were a hot item for about a week.
“You two seemed pretty good. Why’d you break up?”
“Sauerkraut.”
“Sauerkraut.”
“Her family ate it all the time. I think they put it on their Fruit Loops for breakfast.”
“Foul smelling stuff.”
“You ever eat sauerkraut?”
That made me laugh. “Are you kidding? You know me. Nothing crosses my lips if it has more than seven letters or two syllables. Beer. Meat. Pizza. Fish. Shrimp. Soda.”
“Hamburgers has three syllables and 10 letters.”
“There’s no ‘ham’ in hamburgers. To me they’re ‘burgers. Seven letters. Two syllables.”
“Ice cream. Eight letters.”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Chicago cuts up the bluff overlooking Old Town. Most of the houses are neat and trim clapboard, well maintained and tidy. Checking the addresses, I pulled into the driveway of the Dornan house. Sal and I climbed out of the Vic and walked to the front door.
I pressed the doorbell button, a little blue thing with a whale engraved on it.
A hefty women in her 40s peeked through the glass panel, smiled and opened the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Dornan?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Nick Drago, this is Sal Rand. We’re working with the Bandon Police Department.”
“I know you, Nick. You’re in the papers all the time.”
A slight exaggeration, but I could feel my head swell an additional hat size.
“We’re looking for Timothy.”
A shadow crossed her face, “Is he in trouble?”
“No, not at all. In fact, he helped the Department this morning and we’re just following up.”
The smile returned. “He’s in school right now.” She checked her watch, “Should be in Mr. Martin’s English class, I would guess.”
“Would you mind if we walked around the back of your house?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“The view from up here is great. We’re trying to get an idea of how something could have been done.” The obvious vagueness didn’t seem to bother Mrs. Dornan. She walked onto the board porch and led us around the side of the house to the rear yard. Well kept, neat grass and trimmed back wild blackberries. A small patch of flowers in a well-turned garden was being watered with a lawn sprayer set on low.
Behind the yard, the roof of the police department, visible through a stand of scrub trees. The slope was pretty steep.
To the north, Old Town looked like a scene from an elaborate train set; buildings in redwood and clapboard with the Welcome to Old Town Bandon arch greeting visitors to the historic district. But the heat of the day was already building. Dry air, unlike the usual humidity that comes with being on the coast, forecasting another near-100 degrees.
Having seen enough, “Well, thank you. You have a lovely place here.”
“Come back anytime, Nick.”
Sal and I returned to the Vic, climbed in.
“Whatcha thinkin’ Kemosabe?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Starting the Police Interceptor V8, the exhaust grumbled from the Vic’s sidepipes. The harsh sun already heating the steering wheel to an almost uncomfortable temperature.
We returned to Tenth, made a quick right onto 101 and a left on Ninth. Pulling up to the high school, we took the broad walkway into the building. Low and wide, Bandon High hadn’t changed much since Sal and I attended. Glass front, big lobby, administrative offices straight across from the doorways, also behind glass. A pair of spacious hallways – one heading left, the other straight ahead – led to classrooms.
The walls were covered in trophy cases, class photos, pictures of past administrators. The usual high school decor.
The woman behind the Administration counter cocked her head, glanced at me then Sal. “Mr. Rand?” She was a few years older than Sal or me, hair cut short, blond with a streak of gray matching gray eyes.
Sal returned the smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I recognized you from the football photos in the trophy case.” Totally ignoring me, “My sister had a huge crush on you.”
Sal’s ears didn’t turn red. His cheeks didn’t blush. Why should they? ALL high school girls had a crush on Sal back then.
I leaned on the counter, “Uh, I played football, too. Quarterback, ya know.”
The woman twisted her eyes toward me, “Mister Drako.”
“Drago.
