Fallout

CHAPTER 24

Craig didn’t sleep late, nor did he sleep well. Finding the dead body of a prime suspect spoiled his ability to rest comfortably. Everything would come to a head tomorrow, not only the inspection team’s deadline, and the President’s visit, but also the fatal countdown from the Eagle’s Claw. He didn’t have time to sleep anyway.

Before he headed out to the Nevada Test Site on a last, desperate search of the records, Craig drove bleary-eyed to the FBI Satellite Office where Goldfarb and Jackson had set up shop.

Even at this early hour, telephones rang, photocopiers whirred, people in suits moved up and down the halls. It could have been a commercial bank in any large city, but here the file cabinets contained dossiers of every con man, high roller, or drug dealer that had crossed state lines and fell under their jurisdiction.

Jackson had draped his suit jacket on a chair; a paperback Western peeked out of the pocket, though Craig didn’t suppose the other agent would have much free reading time at lunch. Goldfarb looked up from his second cup of coffee. In front of him on the desk lay a manila folder crammed with photocopied faxes. “You missed the excitement this morning. June Atwood called — she’s sending another dozen field agents out here to help.”

“Great,” Craig said. “Just as long as they help and don’t take up any of my time. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to go.”

“So, what time did you get to bed last night, Craig?”

“After midnight,” he said with a yawn. “Once I found Jorgenson’s body, I had to wait for the local law enforcement and the coroner, then fill out a bunch of forms, make my statement, add to the sheriff’s report.”

Goldfarb shook his head. “I called Julene and the kids at nine and got to sleep by ten. After almost being barbecued, stabbed, and shot in the same day, I needed my beauty sleep.”

“Good, after all that rest, you two can go check out Jorgenson’s trailer yourselves. Have those new field agents take over for you here.” Craig rubbed his eyes. “I’ve already applied for the search warrant, and it should be ready by lunchtime.”

Jackson sat stiffly, intent on Craig. “How does that connect to our case? Tomorrow’s the 24th, and, like you said, we don’t have a lot of extra time on our hands.”

“I’ve asked the ME to check for the same chemical substance they found in Maguire’s autopsy. Jorgenson’s convenient death sounds a bit too similar. And since Warren Shelby was a militia member and an NTS worker.…”

Jackson cleared his throat, all business now. “We think along the same lines, Craig. Remember that hunch I had yesterday?” He slid open the center drawer of the desk, shuffling aside sticky notes, paper clips, pens, and a yellow legal tablet. “I was also wondering if the dam incident had any connection to the murder of your Russian inspector.”

He pulled out sectional topographic maps of southern Nevada showing power lines and railroad tracks. He had used a lime-green highlighter to draw lines, circling electrical substations. “Look at these power substations and electrical lines. A carefully placed explosion at the hydroelectric plant would have cut off power not only to parts of California and Arizona, but also to all of the Test Site.”

“That’s a big area and a big assumption,” Craig said.

Goldfarb leaned forward eagerly. “Remember, Craig, these guys are militant separatists who don’t want our country dabbling in foreign affairs. That high-visibility Russian inspection team is a vital part of what the two presidents will be bragging about at their summit meeting. A total power blackout would have sabotaged the disarmament activities, thrown a wrench into the works, mucked everything up before Saturday’s big show. Quite a statement for the cause, don’t you think?”

Craig stared at the map as the ideas converged around him. “I can’t seem to get away from the militia even when I’m investigating my own case.” He turned to the door, anxious to be on his way to dig through Nevsky’s paperwork.

He had to stop back at the Excalibur to pick up his notes on his way out to the Test Site. This was his last day to solve everything. “Oh, let me pass along another tip I got last night,” he said, suddenly remembering what Maggie the Mind Reader had suggested. “Could just be a false alarm, but you can decide for yourselves.

“Somebody spotted suspicious activity in one of the casinos, frequent surreptitious meetings on the crowded slot-machine floors. Often the people wear service uniforms from a slot-machine repair shop called Dennisons — but the odd thing is that Dennisons apparently doesn’t service the equipment in the Excalibur, so why they’d be there at all is a mystery to her.”

Jackson nodded, running a finger along his smooth chin. “We had assumed the militia group meets in local bars, but if they hang out in busy tourist places, like the Excalibur, they’d never be noticed.”

Goldfarb rubbed down his hair, still frizzy from his close-call with the fire yesterday. “Hey, Jackson — wasn’t there a work order or a receipt from some slot-machine repair in the papers I rescued yesterday?”

“Dennisons. We’ll check it out later this morning,” Jackson said matter-of-factly, scribbling a note down on his yellow legal pad.