Page 4 of Delusional

“I know that’s a joke, but to the people in the area, that’s the one thing they don’t want. With all the Californians moving into Montana, the locals hate the idea of urban sprawl.”

I patted Trilling on the shoulder and said, “Go.”

CHAPTER 4

I MADE THE solo trip from Manhattan to Picatinny Arsenal in Wharton, New Jersey, in record time. I may have had one of the older Chevy Impalas in the NYPD fleet, but I’d developed a deep attachment to the vehicle. An electronic key chain that rotated photos of my kids hung from a little hook on my dashboard. A titanium Saint Christopher medal my first wife gave me on our first anniversary had never left my rearview mirror. Little things from home were stashed all over the car to make me feel better on those days that dragged into nights. Every cop I knew with a take-home car did essentially the same thing.

I’d sent Trilling home from the crime scene at the Office of Technology. I couldn’t help but admire my young partner’s protective instinct. Trilling was a quiet guy but had an impressive background: Though barely in his mid-twenties, before joining the NYPD, he’d been an Army Ranger and received a Bronze Star for protecting a medical unit under ambush in Afghanistan.

And at least he was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was currently hosting five Pakistani human-trafficking victims in his little apartment. I still wasn’t sure how he was managing it, and I smiled, recalling how he’d worried he might be in trouble with the NYPD for taking in helpless victims instead of making them go to an immigration holding facility. He had done it the right way, through the court system, after we’d encountered the women on a case. Now that we knew, my family and I could pitch in a little bit. My grandfather, Seamus, had been able to help him with some community services he had access to as a priest at Holy Name Church.

Walter Jackson, our criminal intelligence analyst, called me as I was pulling up to the Army facility. Trent had gotten into my phone this time and set the theme song to the 1960s TV show Green Acres as my ringtone. It made me smile, and I knew I couldn’t punish him for it. The kid loved technology and pranks as much as he loved vintage TV. A dangerous combination.

Walter said, “I’ve nabbed all the info I can get from my contacts familiar with the incident. Apparently there’s some sort of argument between the ATF and FBI about who has jurisdiction. I’ll leave that mess up to you when you meet them. But I’m hearing this break-in might be related to an attempted bombing of a bank in Newark several months back.”

“In New Jersey? I think I vaguely remember reading something about it in the Daily News.”

“It happened the same day some idiot tried to crash his car into the crossing at Niagara Falls. Anyway, it was a crudely made bomb and it didn’t actually go off, so I’m not surprised that no one paid much attention to a story about a dud left in a regional bank.”

Walter didn’t have much more I could use but said he’d keep checking.

The arsenal already had local patrol cars, ATF bomb-disposal vehicles, and half a dozen unmarked police cars. Outside the gate there were two news crews broadcasting live at the scene. This is going to be a challenge. My stomach sank at the thought of entering a crazy crime scene like this.

I showed my badge to the uniformed officer standing at the front door of an administration building. He filled my name in on the entry list but didn’t give me any guidance as to where to go.

I followed a line of people traveling up and down the hallway. It wasn’t a giant building, and I soon found myself stepping outside and crossing a rear parking lot toward a low structure with no windows. Obviously a storage area.

Before I could make it to the building, a woman wearing jeans and an ATF raid jacket over a Yankees sweatshirt stepped outside. She was Asian with dark hair. I put her age somewhere between thirty and forty. She looked up at me and began marching in my direction.

CHAPTER 5

THE WOMAN SAID, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Chin with the ATF. People call me Maggie. And this is my crime scene.”

Before I could explain who I was and why I was at her crime scene, she continued: “I know who you are, Detective Bennett. I live on Staten Island. You seem to make the news enough that someone in my position pays attention.”

All I could say was “Gotcha. So did you hear about the bombing at a city office today?”

“I did. I would’ve responded there except I was already here. And I have no real answers for you about whether the incidents are connected.”

“I’m sure you have your hands full here.”

“You have no idea. The FBI sent two agents fresh out of the academy who’ve been absolutely useless and a veteran agent who showed up and tried to take over. I’ve dealt with him before.”

On cue, a tall man in his mid-forties stepped out of the low building and walked over to us.

“Maggie, I’m going to let you guys take the evidence. You’re in a better position to store anything that could be explosive,” he said.

Maggie didn’t hesitate. “And that way you don’t have to fill out any paperwork or take any of the evidence back to your office. Brilliant. That’s exactly the amount of cooperation I need from the FBI to work on this case.”

The FBI agent said, “I don’t give a shit what you need from the FBI to work on this case. We haven’t even decided if it rises to the level of our involvement.”

Maggie shook her head. And she said, “Josh, I envy people who don’t know you.”

I tried not to let out a laugh. It was as harshly as I’d seen anyone deal with an FBI agent in some time. I was thinking I might enjoy working with Maggie Chin.

When she was done with the FBI agent, she showed me around the crime scene. There were technicians from two different agencies snapping photographs and taking video.

“How long have you been with the ATF?” I asked Maggie.