CHAPTER 1
San Francisco
Tuesday, May 23
The corpse had been burned beyond recognition. Curled into a fetal position, it lay beneath the remains of a gaping office window, its neck pulled back and the mouth open as though in a final, terrifying scream.
FBI Agent Jack Kenyon was wearing a full haz-mat suit consisting of white disposable overalls, an oxygen mask and latex gloves. He awkwardly bent to examine the remains. The hair on the skull had been singed off, and white bones protruded from scorched flesh. Most of the clothing had been burned off, but, miraculously, the shoes remained intact.
Agent Kelly LaPierre, Jack’s partner, was similarly dressed. Brushing aside some shards of glass, she knelt in the soot strewn across the office floor. “Adidas aerobics, size 7,” she noted. “I’m guessing a woman under the age of 30.”
Jack nodded. “Do you think she was trying to escape through the window?”
Marcy Locke, a senior detective with the San Francisco Police Department, was standing behind Jack and Kelly. She pointed to scorch marks and the remains of computer equipment at the rear of the office. “The blast pattern near those servers looks like this room was the epicenter of the bomb. She was probably either knocked unconscious or killed outright.”
Jack and Kelly had been on rotation when the call from the San Francisco Fire Department had come in prior to dawn, alerting them to an explosion in the South Beach district adjacent to the Bay. By the time they had arrived at a refurbished, red-brick warehouse on fashionable Brannan Street, the ensuing fire had largely been extinguished.
Jack looked around at the walls; charts and displays had been rendered unrecognizable by the carnage. “What is this place?”
“Heart to Heart, also known as H2H,” replied Kelly. “They created a gaming app that kids play online.”
“What kind of game? Do they blow things up?”
“Just the opposite. You play with your pals in Teddy Bear Village.” Kelly noticed the remains of a smiling teddy bear under a desk. “My niece loves it.”
The smell of charred flesh hung heavily in the air. Even though the investigators were wearing snug masks, the aroma was overpowering. Jack indicated they clear the building to continue their conversation.
Once outside, they doffed their haz-mat suits. Marcy was a pretty woman with long brunette hair, sensuous lips and dark brown eyes. Kelly was blonde and blue-eyed, with broad shoulders and athletic legs, legacies of her days as a male competitive swimmer during college.
Jack, standing at just over six feet, was long and lean, with dark brown hair. The smell of the burnt corpse clung to their street clothing; Jack was concerned he might have to toss his dark blue suit into the garbage.
It was early in the morning and the sun had yet to rise above the adjacent buildings. Normally, San Francisco was shrouded in fog during May, but the day had dawned bright. A cool breeze blew in from the Bay, but Jack guessed it would be warm by early afternoon.
The investigators glanced up and down the cordoned-off street. The force of the blast had thrown debris for at least one hundred feet, shattering store windows and hefting a small electric car on its side. Fortunately, the explosion had taken place well before dawn, when most of the workers who toiled in the software businesses located along the thoroughfare had yet to arrive. A bevy of news vans had congregated at the end of the street, reporters filing footage.
As they stood surveying the scene, a stocky woman dressed in SFFD gear joined them.
Marcy made the introductions. “Jack Kenyon and Kelly LaPierre, FBI. This is deputy chief Juanita Alvarez.”
Jack shook her hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, but Marcy speaks highly of you.”
Juanita smiled, her white teeth in contrast to her olive-shaded skin. “You the cowboy?”
Jack gave Marcy a rueful look. “That’s me.” While it was true that Jack had grown up on a ranch in Montana, he had earned his nickname from the numerous times he had participated in gun fights over his career. He glanced toward the building. “Where do we stand on jurisdiction?”
Traditionally, the SFFD held lead on arson investigations, which meant Juanita was in charge. Because there had been a death, however, Marcy from the SFPD would also be involved. And the bomb pointed toward possible terrorism, which was the FBI’s responsibility.
“Marcy and I will start on examining the arson pattern and identifying the victim,” said Juanita. “You guys are in charge of motive.”
“I’m OK with that,” replied Jack. “We’ll interview the owner and find out if they had any enemies.”
“It might be easier to just take the phone book and cross off the ones who aren’t,” said Kelly. “You know who owns H2H? Myron Buckstar.”
Jack groaned. Buckstar was a flamboyant billionaire who had stepped on the toes of countless competitors on his meteoric rise to the top. “We’re talking about the guy who wants to mine platinum on asteroids?”
“Yup.”
“The clown who thinks he can build supercomputers from liquid silicon and inject them into women’s breasts?”
“I think he might have been kidding about that one.” Juanita pointed skyward. “But flying cars? Definitely.”
A large quad-copter painted sapphire blue and bearing the gold stylized logo MBE on the bottom of the fuselage descended adjacent to the TV news vans.
“MBE?” asked Jack
“Myron Buckstar Enterprises,” replied Kelly.
“Humble guy.”
The heavily-tinted canopy opened and a wiry man wearing a bright gold flight suit stood up on the cockpit chair. He pulled off his helmet with a flourish, revealing black wavy hair streaked with white at the temples. He pointed a finger back at the destroyed building. “I know who did this, and I am going to exact revenge!”
As reporters shouted questions, Myron clambered back down into the quad-copter and revved the engines, stirring up a huge cloud of soot as he hurtled back into the sky.
“Have fun,” said Marcy.
Jack and Kelly returned to the FBI offices located on the 13th floor of the Phillip Burton Federal Building, one block north of city hall. Special Agent in Charge Jasmine Leroi was in her office, hanging up her phone. “That was the assistant director in Washington. This is top priority.” She took a sniff. “You two stop at a BBQ joint for breakfast?”
“Ha-ha, Jazz, funny.” Jack sat down on a chair in front of her desk. “You know Juanita Alvarez at the SFFD? She’s covering arson and Marcy at SFPD is handling the murder. FBI forensics is recovering bomb debris and Kelly and I will find out from Buckstar who he thinks caused it.”
Jasmine had been Jack’s partner for several years before being promoted to the head of the FBI’s San Francisco office. “Good luck with that. I hear he’s nuttier than a squirrel cage.”
“Myron Buckstar Enterprises is the parent company of the target,” said Kelly. “I’ll arrange an interview with MBE’s security officer. We need to high-grade this and get moving.”
“You think it’s domestic terrorism?” asked Jasmine.
Jack ran a hand across the dark stubble on his chin; there had been no time to shave when he had been summoned from bed. “Hard to tell. There’s no climate change angle for the tree huggers or racial issue for the Hard Boys. Has there been any claim of responsibility?”
Jasmine touched an icon on her smartphone and glanced at a readout. “Nothing on social media.”
“Might be because the perps didn’t intend to kill anyone,” said Kelly. “They timed it to go off early in the morning, so the intent was to garner publicity for their cause. Now that there’s been a murder, it changes the calculus completely.”
“OK, so we know the target was H2H, but not the reason,” said Jasmine. “We’ll have a better idea whether we’re dealing with pros or amateurs once we have intel on the bomb. In the meantime, you two concentrate on MBE’s top ten shit list.”
After changing out of their tainted suits, Jack and Kelly spent the rest of the afternoon working the phones. The destruction of the H2H office obliged them to contact the headquarters of MBE in New York. All of the H2H staff had been accounted for, so the victim wasn’t a full-time employee, but there was a large contingent of subcontractors and temps and it might be several days before they heard back from everyone. The chief of security, Buford Taylor, was flying out the following morning with a dossier of potential perpetrators.
At 3 pm, US Assistant District Attorney Janice Herring appeared on the FBI floor. She had been ADA for two years, and Jack admired her no-nonsense approach. The job was often a springboard to higher office in the state, but she prioritized law over politics. Jasmine greeted her and gathered the investigators in the conference room.
Herring was dressed in a black suit that had been cleverly tailored to minimize her stocky frame, and her dark brown hair had been cut to accentuate her compelling eyes and high cheek bones. “I’m holding a presser at 4 pm to reassure the public,” she announced. “What have we got so far?”
Jack glanced at Jasmine. They both knew that the timing of the ADA’s media conference was aimed at being the highlight of the evening news. Clearly, Herring’s ambitions had grown.
Jasmine summarized the case. “Forensics has recovered a significant portion of the explosive device, and the coroner has placed the victim on priority. We haven’t ruled out domestic terrorism, but so far there’s been no credible claim of responsibility. We’ve got the MBE security officer meeting us tomorrow, so we’ll have a list of suspects we can investigate.”
“Where does Mr. Buckstar fit into the equation?”
Herring had a right to be cautious. The billionaire was not only a big political finance contributor, he was an unpredictable wild card. If the ADA came down on the wrong side of the mercurial man, her political ambitions could curdle.
“No doubt you heard his accusation this morning,” said Jasmine. “He left the scene before we could follow-up.”
“Where’d he go?”
“He flew to his launch pad in Arizona for the liftoff of his rocket, Achilles I,” said Kelly.
“At this point, it’s best we find out from the security officer the specific details of his accusation and proceed from there,” said Jasmine.
“Good.” Herring stood up and straightened her suit jacket. “Let’s comfort the good citizens of San Francisco.” She pointed at Kelly. “Agent LaPierre, I want you to represent the case on behalf of the FBI at the press conference.”
Jasmine, who had risen half out of her chair, sat down again. Kelly’s eyes went round in surprise, but she obediently rose. Jack glanced between Kelly and Jasmine. The latter stood 5 foot six and had coffee-colored complexion, while Kelly had a statuesque figure and pale skin. More important, however, was the fact that Kelly’s mother was Senator LaPierre in Washington. Kelly was also transitioning to womanhood, which made a key political prop in San Francisco.
As Kelly fell in behind the ADA, Jack rolled his eyes at Jasmine. Now that Herring was on the hustings, they would definitely have to be extra careful with the case.
His duties done for the day, Jack took advantage of the good weather to stroll to his home in Russian Hill. He lived in a century-old Queen Anne house with a turret running up the west side. Bronson, a retired theater costumer, resided on the main floor. Jack, his fiancée Bee and their cat Mister Muggs lived on the top floor.
Bee was in the kitchen preparing dinner. The aroma of mushroom-stuffed raviolis frying in butter and sage drifted down the stairwell. Mister Muggs met Jack as he reached the upstairs landing, rubbing against his trousers in greeting. Jack scratched behind his ears.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Bee came out of the kitchen to hug and kiss him. “Now that lectures are done for the semester, I’ve been slaving away at the stove to make my husband-to-be his dinner.” She waved toward the living room. “Why don’t you relax while I mix you a martini?”
Jack admired Bee as she returned to the kitchen. She was an inch shorter than Jack, and her flaming red hair tumbled down her back, almost touching her curvaceous hips. Her medieval history students at Berkeley cherished both her keen mind and cheerful disposition.
Jack kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie. The northwest corner of the living room featured a set of bay windows, the view overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. The coffee table in front of the couch was covered in academic journals and wedding magazines. Jack sat down on the couch and propped his feet on a free corner of the table. Mister Muggs obligingly hopped onto his lap.
“What was the call-out about?” asked Bee from the kitchen. She had been sleeping, spooned against Jack when the phone had rung before sunrise.
“Bomb on Bannard Street. Woman was killed.”
“Och, that’s terrible!” Bee appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray with two martini glasses and a shaker. “I saw that Buckstar chap on the news. Was it terrorists?”
Jack admired the way that Bee vigorously jiggled the shaker. “Don’t know yet.”
Bee poured the drinks and handed one to Jack before sitting down on the couch. “Dinna forget, we’re due this Sunday at the vineyard.”
Jack loved Bee’s Scottish accent, an artifact of growing up in the Orkney Islands. She had been educated at Oxford and summered for many years at her grandfather Baron Feargus Morgan’s chateau on the Loire River, but had never lost her brogue.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Jack and Bee had gone the previous summer to the Bennington Estate, a vineyard in Sonoma County owned by Samuel, an old theatrical friend of Bronson. Along with Jasmine, her spouse Ryan and son Bobby, they had enjoyed a delicious meal cooked by Samuel’s wife Collette.
Bee tapped her chin with a tapered finger-nail. “It would be a nice outing for Jazz and her family again. I could see if they want to come along.”
Jack nodded agreement. When they had invited Jasmine and Ryan over for supper a few weekends ago, the conversation between the two women had been strained. Jasmine had been putting in long hours, swamped with her promotion to head of the San Francisco field office, and Ryan had confided to Bee that she was not too happy with an absent spouse.
Bee changed the subject. “Speaking of invitations, Feargus has been angling for an invite to the wedding.”
Jack took a long swig of his martini. “Great. Tell him the dress code is prison stripes.” The last time Jack had crossed paths with the baron, the latter had pulled off the theft of a revolutionary nuclear engine from right under the noses of the Department of Defense and fled to Switzerland. “The moment he shows up, I’m pulling out the cuffs.”
“Ooh, poo. You wouldn’t do that.” Bee fished the olive out of her drink and made a delightful face sucking out the pimento. “It was his engine to begin with.”
“Granted, but he didn’t need to kidnap you to get it.” Feargus had engineered a complex ruse that had Jack and Scotland Yard running all over England trying to save her. “I don’t want you to disappear from the altar because of some madcap scheme of his.”
Bee put down her drink and slid across the couch until she was pressed against Jack. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand across the skin of his chest. “If you’re in the mood for some madcap schemes, I’ve got one I’d like to show you in the bedroom.”
Jack stood and wrapped his arms around her. “As the old saying goes, ‘the more madcap, the merrier.’”
Wednesday May 24
Jack was sharing a cup of coffee in his office with Kelly the next morning when the latter held up her cell phone. “You see the latest? Buckstar’s rocket blew up.” Kelly cued a video and passed it to Jack.
The agent watched as the immense Achilles I lifted off its launch pad then toppled sideways and erupted in an immense explosion. “Ouch.”
“Thing cost two billion bucks. They’re calling it the world’s most expensive fire-cracker.”
Jack’s in-basket dinged. He handed back Kelly’s phone and opened the email. “It’s the Office of the Medical Examiner. They have a preliminary for us.” He tapped in a reply and waited a few seconds. “They can see us now.” He grabbed his jacket from the peg behind the door and they headed out.
San Francisco’s Office of the Medical Examiner was located south of the downtown core, in the neighborhood of Bayview – Hunters Point. The area had once been filled with run-down warehouses, but had since been gentrified with low-rise condos. Jack and Kelly drove south along 3rd Street until they crossed the drawbridge over Elias Creek and turned left onto Cargo Way.
The building itself was brand-new; a modern, three-story edifice clad in blue and silver metal. They parked on the street and entered through the main doors. Dr. Romero was waiting in reception with Marcy. The coroner was a middle-aged woman with long, black hair draped over the back of her lab coat. She held out her hand to Jack. “Long time, no see.”
Jack shook her hand. “Thanks for the rush job. This is my new partner, Kelly LaPierre.” He turned to Kelly. “Doc Romero worked on the autopsy of Dag Hammerson.”
Kelly stuck out her hand for Dr. Romero. “The victim of an axe murder in the suitcase bomb case? The one who worked for the US Nuclear Regulatory Commission?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Romero. “Tragic way to die. Would you like to come back to my office, or the morgue?”
Jack recalled the smell of the victim. “Just the office, if you don’t mind.”
“Can’t say as I blame you.” Dr. Romero pointed down the hall. “Let’s grab a coffee and I’ll show you what we found.”
Dr. Romero’s office was windowless, but the walls were covered in tasteful, soothing abstract paintings. She sat behind her desk and rotated a large monitor so that her guests could see the images. “The victim is a white female, approximately 30 years of age.” She pointed to the microscope image of a mass of porous, blackened cells in the upper left corner. “This is her lung tissue. She was alive at the time of the explosion, at least long enough to inhale the cloud of super-hot air.” She drew attention to a pair of X-rays. “This is her skull and right shoulder blade. The force of the blast pushed her into an adjacent wall with sufficient force to kill her with blunt-force trauma.”
“Is there any identifiable surgery?” asked Marcy.
“No artificial joints or implants, so no chance of a trace there,” said the ME. “But she had dental cavities as a child. The fillings in her teeth point toward time spent as an adolescent in the UK.”
“Is there anything to indicate or eliminate the possibility she might be the person who planted the bomb?” asked Kelly.
Good question, thought Jack.
Dr. Romero leaned back in her chair and thought for a moment. “If she were the perpetrator attempting to sabotage the servers, then the bomb obviously went off prematurely. In that scenario, the victim is usually missing hands or arms. Judging from the injuries sustained, I think it’s more a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“We’re talking inadvertent manslaughter?”
“We’re talking first-degree murder.”