you need to sit down?”
“No. No, I just need a minute to steady myself.”
“Bonnie, something like this can’t help but get to you. I can check the site, then ask you any questions I have later.”
Nodding, she pulled a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her suit jacket. “By now I shouldn’t get so emotional. It’s just… The people who died—Daniel and Meg Anderson—were salt of the earth. Of the survivors, their son, Jake, was the most seriously injured. He’s only five. The sweetest little boy you’d ever want to know.”
Since color had settled back into her cheeks, Hart dropped his hand from her elbow. “How is Jake doing?”
“Fine. Better.” Dabbing at her eyes, Bonnie took a deep breath, then forced a watery smile. “Adam and Tracy Collins, a lovely couple, have given him a home. They’ve put the wheels in motion to adopt him.” Bonnie shifted her gaze down the hallway. “Here’s Yance Ingram now.”
Hart turned. The man striding toward them was medium height, toughly built and compact. He had a round face and a neatly cropped mustache the same dark brown as the hair that had receded halfway down his head. Midfifties, Hart judged when the retired cop got closer. Dressed in a starched white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and gray slacks, Ingram looked comfortable and competent.
“Yance, thanks for meeting us,” Bonnie said. “This is Sergeant Hart O’Brien from the Chicago PD bomb squad.”
“Pleasure, Sergeant,” Ingram said. When he extended his hand, light glinted off the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to his right lapel. “Glad you’re here. Any help we can get on solving this bombing is welcome.”
Hart returned the man’s brisk, sure handshake. “I hope I can help.”
“I spent twenty years on the job, and I never saw anything as terrible as this,” Ingram said. “I’m not proud to know that some bastard managed to sneak a bomb in here on my watch. You can damn well bet I let my security people know that, too.”
Ingram turned to Bonnie, his eyes softening. “Why don’t I take over and give Sergeant O’Brien a rundown on things while he has a look at the scene? When we’re done, I’ll give you a call.”
“I appreciate that, Yance.” Turning back to Hart, Bonnie squeezed his arm. “I’ll just run up and make sure everything’s perfect in your suite.” Her mouth curved. “We’re going to take good care of you here at the Lone Star. So good you’ll be tempted to call your boss and tell him you’re staying forever.”
Hart gave a meaningful look at the huge diamond that glittered like the tail of a comet on Bonnie’s left ring finger. “If some man hadn’t already laid claim to you, I’d make that call right now.”
She chuckled. “Oh, you’re a devil, Hart O’Brien. A real devil.”
Hart waited until Bonnie disappeared down the hallway, then shifted his gaze to Ingram. “She could charm a dead man.”
“You’ve got that right. We’re going to miss Bonnie like hell when she leaves.”
Hart arched a brow. “Leaves for where?”
“She’s decided to quit her job when she marries C. J. Stuckey—he’s a rancher with a huge spread east of town. The Lone Star board offered C.J. a dues-free lifetime membership if he can talk Bonnie into staying on after they’re married.”
“Think he can?”
“Not so far,” Ingram said. “She claims she intends to stay home and tend to C.J. Lucky man, is all I can say.”
“I agree.”
Ingram nodded toward the plywood door. “You ready to have a look at the crime scene?”
“Ready.” Hart swung open the door and gestured for Ingram to step in before him.
“This room is…was the Men’s Grill,” the retired cop explained across his shoulder as Hart followed him in. “Part of the original structure. If what’s left of the walls could talk, they’d tell you about the hundreds of big-money land, cattle and oil deals they’d seen sealed over grilled Texas beef, whiskey and cigars. Sad to say, a lot of the Lone Star’s history went up in smoke the morning that bomb went off.”
The security chief flicked on a bank of portable lights sitting just inside the door. “The club brought these in to help the lab boys see what they were doing,” Ingram explained. “They’ll stay here until this investigation is wrapped. So feel free to use them. Move them around wherever you need them.”
“Thanks.”
With the stink of smoke hanging in the air, Hart took in his surroundings while particles of soot and dust danced in the bright beams. He saw immediately that the explosion had occurred somewhere near the rear of the restaurant, blowing outward toward where he stood. The chairs and tables nearest him had been toppled by the force of the blast, but left intact. Across the room, the furniture was reduced to splinters. Throughout the restaurant, pieces of charred ceiling, insulation and boards had rained down, crisscrossing on top of the furniture and floor.
Ingram shifted his stance. “Has the D.A. already briefed you on the specifics of what happened? Given you copies of the reports?”
“No. I told him I wanted a look at the scene first. Gather my own impressions.”
Usually at a fresh bomb scene, hot spots, jagged glass, nails and other debris made moving around treacherous. Those times Hart wouldn’t take a step before pulling on the pair of steel-soled boots he kept in his field kit. Here, though, the scene was ten weeks old. The lab techs who had worked it had cleared a narrow footpath as they dug through the rubble.
Hart followed that path, snaking around toppled tables and chairs and other charred debris toward where the damage visibly worsened. Getting closer, he thought.
A few inches from a gaping hole in a wall, he found the crater. The shallow depression measured about four feet across. Crouching, he narrowed his eyes. Although the illumination from the portable lights on the far side of the restaurant was dim, he could see that the blast had ripped through the wood flooring but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast.
The ache that began working its way up from the bottom of Hart’s skull told him volumes about the bomber’s explosive of choice. Frowning, he rubbed at the back of his neck.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He rose, stepped back from the crater. “A dynamite headache, is all.”
“Dynamite headache?”
“There’s traces of nitroglycerine in the crater.”
Ingram’s eyebrows slid up his broad forehead. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Nitro gives some people, including me, a headache. Has to do with its instant ability to thin blood.”
“Okay, Spence Harrison hasn’t briefed you on what happened. You haven’t read any lab reports on the bomb. From what I hear, there’s a lot of explosives out there these days. Why do
