in dynamite. Finding nitro in any other type of explosive would mean the bomber used something pretty far-fetched and exotic.” Hart gave his neck another rub. “Second, I get hit with a headache at a scene, I’m 99 percent sure I’m dealing with a dynamite bomb. Third, this bomb left a shallow crater, the type of blast commensurate with dynamite. The crater’s size confirms what the ache in my head is telling me.”
“I’ll be damned,” Ingram murmured. “You’re right, Sergeant. The bomber used a nitroglycerine-based dynamite.”
Turning, Hart glanced though the jagged teeth of a gaping hole in what was left of the restaurant’s rear wall. Beyond the hole was a dark, yawning expanse where the worst of the fire had raged. He knew the dynamite itself wouldn’t have sparked the flames unless an accelerant had been present.
He looked at Ingram, who had moved in and now stood a few yards away. “What started the fire?”
“Beyond that wall is the fried remains of the billiards room. Had big, megaexpensive pool tables, thick mahogany paneling on the walls, leather sofa and chairs, a lot of brass antiques. A real man’s room.”
“None of those things started the fire.”
“I’m getting to that.” Ingram pointed a finger. “A janitor’s closet was there, sandwiched between the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. At the time of the blast, it was filled with cleaning supplies, cans of paint and thinner.”
“Paint and thinner? I expect the fire marshal had something to say after his people found out about that.”
“Yeah. Everybody agrees—the stuff shouldn’t have been in there.”
“Why was it?”
“A paint crew was scheduled to start work on the kitchen the day after the bombing. When one of the crew members hauled in their supplies, he stuck everything in the closet where it’d be handy to the kitchen when they started the job the next day.”
Hart slid his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “So, when the bomb exploded behind the closet, the blast ignited everything flammable inside, blowing flames out into the billiards room.”
“You got it, Sergeant.” Ingram ran a hand over his balding head as if smoothing down hair that was no longer there. “Some of the club’s board members wanted the painter gone. His name’s Willie Pogue and he’s not exactly the most sterling employee around here. Bonnie talked the board out of firing him. He’s got a wife and new baby, and a case of guilt a pasture wide. Nobody had to tell Pogue his carelessness made things worse.”
“A lot worse,” Hart agreed.
“Even so, I sided with Bonnie. We don’t need to spend our time hammering some guy for an innocent screw-up. We need to find the sick scum who planted the bomb.”
Unless Pogue was that scum, Hart thought. And he stacked the accelerant in the closet to intensify the damage.
Adding Pogue to the list of items he planned to bring up with Spence, Hart looked back at Ingram. “Other than the two fatalities and their injured son, how many people were hurt?”
“Fifteen. That includes club members and wait staff. Thank the Lord none were hurt worse than little Jake Anderson.” Ingram checked his watch. “You going to spend a lot of time in here tonight? If so, I can give you a hand with whatever you need.”
“Thanks, I’m almost done for now.” Ingram had been nothing but congenial and cooperative. Eager. Still, Hart had worked hundreds of investigations; he knew that many things were not as they appeared on the surface. Things or people. When he worked this scene, he intended to do it alone.
He shifted his gaze back to the crater. Like all bomb investigators, he paid attention to details. He moved slowly and methodically, building puzzles often made of many small pieces over postblast investigations that lasted weeks, sometimes months. This investigation was no different. He would find out everything there was to know about the dynamite bomb that had exploded out a pressure wave with the capacity to kill in one-ten-thousandth of a second. Then, if luck and evidence were on his side, the remnants of that bomb would lead him to its maker.
That wasn’t the only puzzle he intended to piece together, Hart realized as the image of Joan slid uninvited from a dark corner of his aching brain. He thought again about the flash of panic he’d seen in her eyes as she faced him across an expanse of ten years. Why panic? he wondered again. Why the hell panic?
At one time his love for her felt as though it was killing him. He’d gotten over her long ago, and he had no intention of taking a ride on that same roller coaster again. Still, he was curious. So much so that he intended to find the reason for that panic before he left Mission Creek.
Hours later Joan tucked the last of her laundry into a dresser drawer. Tightening the belt of her silky white robe, she eased a hip onto the edge of her pillow-piled bed.
“It’s nine o’clock,” she said to her daughter, clad in leopard-spotted pajamas and sprawled on her stomach crosswise on the peach-colored comforter. Propped up on her elbows, the young girl leafed through the pages of a family photo album.
“I think I’ll use this one of you.” Helena pointed a red polished fingernail at a photograph in the center of a page. “It looks the most like me. Grandma Kathryn took this picture of you, right?”
“Yes.”
The photo showed a nine-year-old Joan, dressed in pink tights and tutu. Positioned in the center of the stage at the Mission Creek Grade School, she stood on the tips of her toes in pink satin pointe shoes, her arms twined exquisitely above her head. Her childhood dream of becoming a prima ballerina had faded the instant she took her first tennis lesson.
Joan’s mouth curved. “Your grandma had a new camera that night. I think she snapped two entire rolls of film during the three minutes I spent on stage. I wasn’t even the star.”
“I miss Grandma Kathryn.”
“I do, too, sweetheart,” Joan said softly. Her grandmother’s death a year ago had devastated Helena. Joan knew that her own father’s rapidly failing health also hung heavy on her child’s mind. Helena didn’t need any more emotional trauma in her life right now. Which would be exactly what she would get if Hart O’Brien learned the truth.
Dread clamped a vise on Joan’s chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. With an unsteady hand, she stroked her palm down Helena’s long dark hair that streamed to her waist. “I think the two pictures you’ve picked are good choices for your Brownie project,” she managed.
Helena plucked up a photo of herself dressed in similar ballet attire that she had already removed from a different photo album. “I’m standing in an arabesque position instead of en pointe, like you,” she said, studying the photo. “But that’s okay. Mrs. Rorke said to bring a picture of ourselves and a picture of one of our parents doing the same activity.”
“We’re both dancing ballet, so you’ve got it made,” Joan said, then closed her eyes. There was no way Helena could have chosen a photo of her father doing anything, because there were no photos. None. When Helena had first asked why, Joan told her that her father had been gone so soon after they’d fallen in love there hadn’t been time for pictures. That was basically the truth, except Joan had been the only one in love.
“Mom, can we take
