“And?”
“Someone built a nitroglycerine-based dynamite bomb which they planted behind a closet filled with various accelerants. Since that’s all I’m sure of at this point, why don’t you fill me in on what you know?”
“It isn’t much. Two days after the bombing the police chief—Ben Stone—organized a task force. Ten weeks later they still have nothing. No firm motive. Or solid suspect. Right now the cops are a million miles away from closing the case.”
Hart wasn’t a homicide detective, but he knew the first rule of any homicide investigation: look for a link between the victim and the killer. “Bonnie Brannigan said the people who died in the blast were salt of the earth. Have the cops come up with a reason anyone might want to kill them?”
“No. The police searched Dan and Meg Anderson’s house and found nothing suspicious. The task force combed through their bank records, checked their safe deposit box, talked with co-workers, friends, the IRS and the state tax people. No red flags popped up. Nothing to make anyone think something nefarious was going on. No indication that either of the Andersons was being blackmailed or had a gambling problem. The way it looks, they’d be the last people anyone would have a reason to kill.”
“Did they have a reservation that day at the Men’s Grill?”
“No. One of the club members chatted with Dan outside the restaurant. He said he and Meg had decided to eat there on the spur of the moment. Even they didn’t know they’d be there.”
“Who was supposed to be there?”
“I was, for one.”
Hart arched a brow. “Did you make a reservation?”
“No, but it wouldn’t have been hard to figure out I would be there.” As he spoke, Spence gave the back of his neck a long, slow rub. “During my stint in the marines I served under a lieutenant colonel named Phillip Westin. So did four other buddies of mine from Mission Creek. A couple of days before the bombing, Westin called me, Flynt Carson, Tyler Murdoch and Luke Callaghan to let us know he was flying in and staying overnight at the Lone Star. Westin had already scheduled a tee-time for all of us to play golf. He’d also made a reservation for us to eat in the Men’s Grill after the game.”
“Westin made those arrangements before he was even sure all of you would be available?”
“He didn’t have to ask first. During the Gulf War, Flynt, Tyler, Luke, myself and another man named Ricky Mercado were captured in enemy territory. If Westin hadn’t helped us escape, we’d have died. He knows all he has to do is ask and we’ll be there for him. Anytime. Anywhere.”
Hart narrowed his eyes. “Something tells me Westin wasn’t making a social call here.”
“Right. He stopped over on his way to Central America. Mezcaya specifically.”
“The unrest there has made a lot of headlines. Why was Westin headed there?”
“To join a joint mission between our government and the British to take down the terrorist group, El Jefe. Have you heard of them?”
“Yes.” Hart settled his elbows on his knees. “Terrorists are partial to using bombs, so my unit gets memos from the FBI, DEA and ATF on all known terrorist groups. From what I’ve picked up, El Jefe is Mezcaya’s answer to Columbia’s Cali cartel.”
“Right. Lately El Jefe has been flexing its muscle. The Brits want to take down the group because its thugs have started roaming across the border and terrorizing citizens of Belize. The U.S. wants El Jefe because of the increase in drugs coming from Mezcaya into Mexico, most of which get smuggled into the U.S.”
“So, El Jefe would have had ample reason to stop Westin from joining the mission,” Hart reasoned. “A bomb would have not only killed him, but sent a message to others that it’s not smart to screw with El Jefe.”
“Correct.”
Hart pictured again the devastation he’d seen at the crime scene. “The bomber planted the device near the rear wall of the Men’s Grill. Was that near Westin’s reserved table?”
“Yes. Right next to the table where a waitress seated Daniel and Meg Anderson.”
“What about timing? Where was your group when the bomb went off?”
“On the trellised walkway behind the club house. Our golf game took longer than expected so we would have gotten to the Men’s Grill about ten minutes after the time Westin scheduled the reservation.” Spence shook his head. “That’s the sticking point for me, Hart. There’s no way to exactly time a golf game. My gut tells me word of Westin’s mission leaked. The four of us whom he called knew a couple of days ahead of time he’d be at the Lone Star. So did everyone working at the front desk, the golf shop and in the Men’s Grill. That’s plenty of advance notice for one of El Jefe’s thugs to set up the bombing. But since the bomb went off so close to the time set for Westin’s reservation, I can’t say for sure he was the target. If he was, the bomber sure didn’t leave himself a very big window of opportunity.”
“You’re supposing the bomb went off when the bomber meant for it to.”
Spence frowned. “Of course.”
“It’s not rare for a bomb to explode before or after it’s intended to, so you have to take that into consideration,” Hart responded. “A lot depends on the skill of the person who builds the device. Luck, both good and bad, also comes into play. I’ve lost count of the calls I’ve answered where an unsuspecting bystander touched a bomb and caused it to detonate prematurely. Sometimes you don’t even have to touch an explosive device to set it off. Walk across a carpet or wear too much nylon and static electricity can detonate a certain type of bomb. Show me a female bomb tech and I’ll guarantee you she never wears pantyhose on the job.”
“Christ.” Spence sent him a long look. “How do you do it?”
“What?”
“Purposely walk toward a ticking bomb. You do that, knowing the thing could kill you if you touch it the wrong way, make the wrong decision or cut the wrong wire.”
“With my training, I’m not in any more danger than a patrol cop who responds to a domestic disturbance,” Hart replied. “Speaking of career choices, your being the D.A. guarantees you a few enemies. Have you put anyone with explosives experience in prison? Especially someone who got out recently?”
“My staff checked. Other than you, the only person I know with explosives experience is Tyler Murdoch. Since he was also in Westin’s party, I doubt Ty planted a bomb designed to blow himself up along with me.”
“Good point.” Hart sipped his beer, going over what Spence had told him so far. “What about Ricky Mercado?” he asked after a moment. “You said he served in the marines with you, but Westin didn’t include him in the golf game. I remember hearing talk about the Mercado branch of the Texas Mob. Is Ricky a part of that family?”
“Yes. Westin didn’t call Ricky because there’s bad blood now between him, Luke, Flynt, Tyler and me. Has to do with Ricky’s dead sister.”
Hart glimpsed the shadow of regret that passed over Spence’s eyes. “Do I need to know about that for this investigation?”
“No. I know Ricky as well as I know myself. He didn’t plant that bomb because of what happened among all of us in the past. It’s possible, though, that someone else in the Mercado family was behind the bombing.”
“For what reason?”
“Did Bonnie mention Meg and Daniel Anderson’s son to you?”
“Yes. Kid named Jake, right?”
Spence nodded. “Minutes before the bomb exploded, Jake walked out of the Men’s Grill to find the rest room. He took a wrong turn and wound up opening a door that leads outside. He saw two men dragging