The Serpent's Kiss

90

The Palace security office was tucked away in a corner behind the box office and Derek was sweating heavily by the time he and Deputy Angela Pushman got there. The chief of security was an elegantly-looking man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Despite his appearance, he wore jeans, a white dress shirt and tie and a navy sport coat. He stood up and took them in, his voice soft and gentle. “Hello. I’m Bruce Lippman. Is there a problem?”

Deputy Pushman said, “This is Derek Stillwater, with the Department of Homeland Security. There’s—”

Derek checked his watch and said, “We have reason to believe there’s going to be a sarin gas attack here at eight o’clock.”

Although Lippman didn’t act noticeably perturbed, he did straighten his back and focus on Derek. “Credentials,” he snapped. He tapped his Timex watch and looked back at Derek. “This is rather short notice, Agent… is it agent?”

“Agent Stillwater or Dr. Stillwater. We’re afraid a mass evacuation will just set him off, and we haven’t known very long. Have you received a phone call from the FBI? They’re supposed to call.”

“No. We have not.”

Dammit, Derek thought.

“Please, sit down, Doctor. You… do you need a wheelchair or something?”

I need a vacation, he thought. “No, I’m fine for now.” Derek thought Lippman must have a bit of the rebel in him, wearing jeans when all the rest of the staff wore dark slacks. Trying to be a regular guy, maybe.

Derek gave him his ID. “I’m working with an FBI agent. Her son… we don’t have time for a long explanation. Do you have security cameras?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s take a look.” He handed the tablet PC to Lippman and said, “This is the guy we’re looking for.”

Lippman glanced at it and scowled. “That’s Kevin Matsumoto.”

“Yes. He works here, correct?”

Lippman shook his head. “Worked here. He quit a few days ago.”

“Did he say why?” Derek demanded.

Lippman shrugged. “We weren’t sorry to see him go. Kevin had a tendency to involve himself in things he wasn’t supposed to. And he made people nervous. We got complaints that made it to my office. I talked to him personally about it.”

“What type of complaints?”

Lippman shrugged. “Creepy threats. Talking about the end of the world. One or two people thought he might do one of those Colombine things, you know? Go crazy, shoot up the place. You have to take those threats seriously these days. But it was nothing solid. I talked to him about it. I warned him to behave and he apologized, said it was a misunderstanding. Just a religious guy who thinks the end of the world is coming any day now. That was my take on it. I kept an eye on him for a while, but he seemed harmless enough.”

“He’s not,” Derek said. “What was his job?”

“Part of the technical crew. Lights, sound system, electronics. The whole deal here. We not only have concerts and basketball games, but rodeos and tennis matches and hockey games, and Matsumoto was handy around equipment like the ice machine, the Zamboni and the smoke machines.”

Derek said, “Smoke machines?” He nearly twitched, his instincts kicking in and kicking in hard.

“Well, yes. For, you know, fog. We have foggers and smoke machines, for special effects.”

“Where?”

“Some are on the main floor. Some are set around the upper beams and belong the overhangs of the luxury suites.”

Derek rubbed his forehead and checked his watch again. He said, “Show me the fog machines. Can you take me down there right now?”

“You think—”

Derek nodded. “I sure as hell do, Mr. Lippman. I sure as hell do.”