The Hammer of Eden (36 page)

Kincaid stood up. “You are like hell!” he shouted.

Judy sighed. There was no way to get this done without making a lifetime enemy of Brian Kincaid. “I have to call Mr. Honeymoon soon,” she said. “Do you want me to tell him you’re refusing to give me the manpower I need?”

Kincaid was red with fury. He stared at Judy as if he wanted to pull out his gun and blow her away. At last he said: “Your FBI career is over, you know that?”

He was probably right, but it hurt to hear him say it. “I never wanted to fight with you, Brian,” she said, striving to keep her voice low and reasonable. “But you dicked me around. I deserved a promotion after putting the Foong brothers away. Instead you promoted your buddy and gave me a bullshit assignment. You shouldn’t have done that. It was unprofessional.”

“Don’t tell me how to—”

She overrode him. “When the bullshit assignment turned into a big case, you took it away from me, then screwed it up. Every bad thing that’s happened to you is your own damn fault. Now you’re sulking. Well, I know your pride is wounded, and I know your feelings are hurt, and I just want you to understand that I don’t give a flying fuck.”

He stared at her with his mouth half-open.

She went to the door.

“Now I’m going to talk to Honeymoon at nine-thirty,” she said. “By then I’d like to have a senior logistics person assigned to my team with the authority to organize the manpower I need and set up a command post at the officers’ club. If I don’t, I’ll tell Honeymoon to call Washington. Your move.” She went out and slammed the door.

She felt the exhilaration that comes from a reckless act. She would have to fight every step, so she might as well fight hard. She would never be able to work with Kincaid again. The Bureau’s top brass would side with the superior officer in a situation like this. She was almost certainly finished. But this case was more important than her career. Hundreds of lives might be at stake. If she could prevent a catastrophe and capture the terrorists, she would retire proudly, and to hell with them all.

The DT squad secretary was in Kincaid’s outer office, filling the coffee machine. “Thanks, Rosa,” Judy said as she passed through. She returned to the DT office. The phone on her desk was ringing. She picked up. “Judy Maddox.”

“John Truth here.”

“Hello!” It was weird to hear the familiar radio voice on the other end of a phone. “You’re at work early!”

“I’m at home, but my producer just called me. My voice mail at the radio station was maxed with overnight calls about the Hammer of Eden woman.”

Judy was not supposed to talk to the media herself. All such contacts should go through the office media specialist, Madge Kelly, a young agent with a journalism degree. But Truth was not asking her for a quote, he was giving her information. And she was in too much of a hurry to tell Truth to call Madge. “Anything good?” she asked.

“You bet. I got two people who remembered the name of the record.”

“No kidding!” Judy was thrilled.

“This woman was reading poetry over a background of psychedelic music.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “The album was called
Raining Fresh Daisies
. That also seems to be the name of the band, or ‘group,’ as they used to call them then.”

He seemed pleasant and friendly, nothing like the spiteful creep he was on air. Maybe that was just an act. But you could never trust media people. Judy said: “I never heard of them.”

“Me either. Before my time, I guess. And we sure don’t have the disk at the radio station.”

“Did either of your callers give you a catalog number, or even the name of the record label?”

“Nope. My producer called both people back, but they don’t actually have the record, they just remember it.”

“Damn. I guess we’ll just call every record company. I wonder if they keep files that far back.…”

“The album may have come out on a minor-league label that no longer exists—it sounds like that kind of far-out stuff. Want to know what I’d do?”

“Sure.”

“Haight-Ashbury is full of secondhand record stores with clerks who live in a time warp. I’d check them out.”

“Good idea—thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, how’s the investigation going otherwise?”

“We’re making some progress. Can I get our press officer to call you later with details?”

“Come on! I’ve just done you a favor, haven’t I?”

“You sure have, and I wish I could give you an interview, but agents aren’t allowed to talk directly to the media. I’m really sorry.”

His tone turned aggressive. “Is this the thanks you give to our listeners for calling in with information for you?”

A dreadful thought struck her. “Are you taping this?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

She hung up.
Shit
. She had been trapped. Talking to the media without authorization was what the FBI called a “bright-line issue,” meaning you could be fired for it. If John Truth played his tape of their conversation over the air, Judy would be in trouble. She could argue that she had urgently needed the information Truth offered, and a decent boss would probably let her off with a reprimand, but Kincaid would make the most of it.

Heck, Judy, you’re already in so much trouble, this won’t make any difference
.

Raja Khan walked up to her desk with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Would you like to see this before it goes out? It’s the memo to police officers about how to recognize a seismic vibrator.”

That was quick
. “What took you so long?” she said, joshing him.

“I had to look up how to spell ‘seismic.’ ”

She smiled and glanced over what he had written. It was fine. “This is great. Send it out.” She handed back the sheet. “Now I have another job for you. We’re looking for an album called
Raining Fresh Daisies
. It’s from the sixties.”

“No kidding.”

She grinned. “Yeah, it does have kind of a hippie feel to it. The voice on the record is the Hammer of Eden woman, and I’m hoping we’ll get a name for her. If the label still exists, we might even get a last known address. I want you to contact all the major recording companies, then call stores that sell rare records.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s not yet nine, but I can start with the East Coast.”

“Get to it.”

Raja went to his desk. Judy picked up the phone and dialed police headquarters. “Lieutenant Maddox, please.” A moment later he came on the line. She said: “Bo, it’s me.”

“Hi, Judy.”

“Cast your mind back to the late sixties, when you knew what music was hip.”

“I’d have to go further. Early sixties, late fifties, that’s my era.”

“Too bad. I think the Hammer of Eden woman made a record with a band called Raining Fresh Daisies.”

“My favorite groups were called things like Frankie Rock and the Rockabillies. I never liked acts with flowers in their names. Sorry, Jude, I never heard of your outfit.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“Listen, I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about your guy, Ricky Granger—he’s the man behind the woman, right?”

“That’s what we think.”

“You know, he’s so careful, he’s such a planner, he must be dying to know what you’re up to.”

“Makes sense.”

“I think the FBI has probably talked to him already.”

“You do?” That was hopeful, if Bo was right. There was a type of perpetrator who insinuated himself into the investigation, approaching the police as a witness or a kindly neighbor offering coffee, then tried to befriend officers and chat to them about the progress of the case. “But Granger also seems ultracareful.”

“There’s probably a war going on inside him, between caution and curiosity. But look at his behavior—he’s daring as all hell. My guess is, curiosity will win out.”

Judy nodded into the phone. Bo’s intuitions were worth listening to: they came from thirty years of police experience. “I’m going to review every interview in the case.”

“Look for something off-the-wall. This guy never does the normal thing. He’ll be a psychic offering to divine where the next earthquake will come, or like that. He’s imaginative.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“What do you want for supper?”

“I probably won’t be home.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“Bo, I have three days to catch these people. If I fail, hundreds of people could die! I’m not thinking about supper.”

“If you get tired, you’ll miss the crucial clue. Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need.”

“Like you always did, huh?”

He laughed. “Good luck.”

“Bye.” She hung up, frowning. She would have to go over every interview Marvin’s team had done with the Green California Campaign people, plus all the notes from the raid on Los Alamos and anything else in the file. It should all be on the office computer network. She touched her keyboard and called up the directory. As she scanned the material, she realized there was far too much for her to review personally. They had interviewed every householder in Silver River Valley, more than a hundred people. When she got her extra personnel, she would put a small team on it. She made a note.

What else? She had to arrange stakeouts on likely earthquake sites. Michael had said he could make a list. She was glad to have a reason to call him. She dialed his number.

He sounded pleased to hear from her. “I’m looking forward to our date tonight.”

Shit—I forgot all about it
. “I’ve been put back on the Hammer of Eden case,” she told him.

“Does that mean you can’t make it tonight?” He sounded crestfallen.

She certainly could not contemplate dinner and a movie. “I’d like to see you, but I won’t have much time. Could we meet for a drink, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“I’m really sorry, but the case is developing fast. I called you about that list you promised, of likely earthquake sites. Did you make it?”

“No. You got anxious about the information getting out to the public and causing a panic, and that made me think the exercise might be dangerous.”

“Now I need to know.”

“Okay, I’ll look at the data.”

“Could you bring the list with you tonight?”

“Sure. Morton’s at six?”

“See you there.”

“Listen …”

“Still here.”

“I’m really glad you’re back on the case. I’m sorry we can’t have dinner together, but I feel safer knowing you’re after the bad guys. I mean it.”

“Thanks.” As she hung up, she hoped she merited his confidence.

Three days left
.

*  *  *

By midafternoon the emergency operations center was up and running.

The officers’ club looked like a Spanish villa. Inside, it was a gloomy imitation of a country club, with cheap paneling, bad murals, and ugly light fixtures. The smell of the skunk had not gone away.

The cavernous ballroom had been fitted out as a command post. In one corner was the head shed, a top table with seats for the heads of the principal agencies involved in managing the crisis, including the San Francisco police, firefighters and medical people, the mayor’s office of emergency services, and a representative of the governor. The experts from headquarters, who were even now flying from Washington to San Francisco in an FBI jet, would sit here.

Around the room, groups of tables were set up for the different teams that would work on the case: intelligence and investigation, the core of the effort; negotiation and SWAT teams that would be called in if hostages were taken; an administration and technical support team that would grow if the crisis escalated; a legal team to expedite search warrants, arrest warrants, or wiretaps; and an evidence response team, which would enter any crime scene after the event and collect evidence.

Laptop computers on each table were linked in a local network. The FBI had long used a paper-based information control system called Rapid Start, but now it had developed a computerized version, using Microsoft Access software. But paper had not disappeared. Around two sides of the room, notice boards covered the walls: lead status boards, event boards, subject boards, demand boards, and hostage boards. Key data and clues would be written up here so that everyone could see them at a glance. Right now the subject board had one name—
Richard Granger—and two pictures. The lead status board had a picture of a seismic vibrator.

The room was big enough for a couple of hundred people, but so far there were only about forty. They were mostly grouped around the intelligence and investigation table, speaking into phones, tapping keyboards, and reading files on screen. Judy had divided them into teams, each with a leader who monitored the others, so that she could keep track of progress by talking to three people.

There was an air of subdued urgency. Everyone was calm, but they were concentrating hard and working intensely. No one stopped for coffee or schmoozed over the photocopier or went outside for a cigarette. Later, if the situation developed into a full-blown crisis, the atmosphere would change, Judy knew: people would be yelling into phones, the expletive quotient would multiply, tempers would fray, and it would be her job to keep the lid on the cauldron.

Remembering Bo’s tip, she pulled up a chair next to Carl Theobald, a bright young agent in a fashionable dark blue shirt. He was the leader of the team reviewing Marvin Hayes’s files. “Anything?” she said.

He shook his head. “We don’t really know what we’re looking for, but whatever it is, we haven’t found it yet.”

She nodded. She had given this team a vague task, but she could not help that. They had to look for something out of the ordinary. A lot depended on the intuition of the individual agent. Some people could smell deceit even in a computer.

“Are we sure we have
everything
on file?” she asked.

Carl shrugged. “We should.”

“Check whether they kept any paper records.”

“They’re not supposed to.…”

“But people do.”

“Okay.”

Rosa called her back to the head shed for a phone call. It was Michael. She smiled as she picked up. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’ve got a problem tonight. I can’t make it.”