The Wrong Man

84

When we got back to my hotel room, I dumped everything out of the blue gym bag Tori had taken from Stanley Keane’s office upstairs. My initial optimism quickly dimmed as I pored over Stanley’s telephone and cable bills, a letter from his health care provider, a summary of year-end payroll for his company, and a notice from Publishers Clearing House informing him that he may have just won a million dollars.

But before I got to a second makeshift pile that appeared to contain similarly irrelevant stuff, my heart did a flutter. Among the pile was a pocket-sized map of the city’s downtown.

I unfolded it and spread it out on the table. It was limited to the commercial district, bordered to the west by the north-south bend of the river and to the east by the lake, covering twelve city blocks with the east-west leg of the river cutting it roughly in half.

I saw markings in red pen. There was a red X near the southern boundary of the district, by the Hartz Building at South Walter Drive. Next to it was the handwritten number 12. Then a red marker traveled north along South Walter to River Drive, then across the Lerner Street Bridge, and stopping at the federal building. There was an X placed at the federal building, as well as another X two blocks away at the state building. Next to both the state and federal buildings was the number 1.

“This is it,” I said to Tori, who was seated on the bed next to me now. “They’re going to blow up the Hartz Building and the state and federal buildings downtown.”

“The Hartz Building?” Tori said. “What’s that? Who’s in there?”

“No idea. I know a couple of law firms there.” I traced the route with my finger. “Assuming twelve and one are times, they’re going to hit the Hartz Building at noon-or midnight-and then hit the government buildings an hour later.”

That seemed odd. I’d never planned a bombing before, so admittedly I had little on which to base this, but I didn’t see why a multiple-strike attack wouldn’t occur simultaneously.

“The question is when,” said Tori. “Tomorrow, a month from now, when?”

That wasn’t the only question. But neither of us knew. And Stanley Keane was no longer available for our questions. Had we handled things differently at his house, we might have had time to review this map and then ask him about it.

But that was over now. No sense relitigating that battle.

“I’m calling the FBI,” I said.

I looked around and found my cell phone. As I reached for it, it began to buzz. I hate it when that happens.

But maybe not this time. The caller ID said it was Wendy Kotowski, my opposing counsel.

“Tomorrow morning, nine A.M.,” Wendy said to me. “The M. E.’s office. You’re one minute late and I lock the door.”