“Mack from Organized Crime is in the hospital. Henry from Robbery is too fucking stupid…”

“Bob, what do I care?!” Brown resisted. “My wife has already packed everything! Even my mug, damn it! Now I am just closing out all my old cases! The Perte police are expecting me next Monday! Forget about me, do you hear?”

Waiting until Brown stopped talking, Tierney raised his cheerless eyes, showing that he was not about to change his mind.

“Almost half an hour ago I spoke with the Mayor. The press is grabbing this story and tomorrow information about exploding heads will be in every newspaper and on every TV and radio channel. Do you do realize that this is the number one news item?”

“What’s it got to do with me, Bob? It’s my last…” But Tierney brusquely cut him off:

“The Mayor and the chief of police want the best person on this case. And you’re my best. You know it, Troy. So, do what I ask. Take the case. Just consider it a favor to the old man who has covered your ass a hundred times.”

“Fuck me Freddy,” said Brown fatalistically, imagining what Shelley would say when she heard about it.

“I called Perte.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“They are willing to wait. As long as necessary, if you aren’t finished by the end of the week. And they wish you good luck. Would you like to be a captain in Perte? If you solve this case, that cushy chair will be yours. So it’s in everyone’s interest. What do you say?”

“My wife is going to kill me,” said Brown gloomily, getting up to go.

Fifteen minutes later, he called his detectives together for a quick briefing. Trying to be optimistic, Brown realized that if he tried hard and solved the case by the end of the week it would be the best-case scenario. Shelley would be happy, and so would Tierney – and Brown didn’t want to let him down.

“Our main lead is the money. The guys with the collars somehow learned that Pickman had a large sum handy. Therefore, the number one question is, who told them?”

“Someone working for the company. That would be the most natural explanation,” said Porras.

“Okay, you take care of that. Check them all out, each and every one of them. Convictions, rap sheets, parking tickets – everything. Get their call logs too, both business and personal.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Dave, go see the owner of the motel that Pickman’s company built. Check him out fully. Find out what the local police have on him. DiMaggio, you take Pickman’s personal relationships. His whole social circle: who he slept with, who he drank with – everyone. Gilan, you take Rentier Bank. There may be a leak there. On Friday, the accountant withdrew cash from the company account.”

“I’m more worried about the explosives,” Chambers said. “The collar wasn’t big. But did you see the flash from that explosion on the video?”

“Contact the Feds, maybe they know something,” Brown agreed. “Now everybody pay attention. As you know, Friday is my last day at the office. So by Friday we have to get these guys.”

“By Thursday,” said DiMaggio cheerfully, with a nod at Chambers. “Rick said on Thursday we’ll go boozing.”

Brown grinned, then became serious again.

“We’ll see about that later. That’s what I wanted to tell you, guys. Pickman was killed, even though he had done everything they wanted, and paid them. Why?” The detectives, apparently not quite sure of what to say, simply looked at each other. Brown answered for them: “Because they need people to start talking about them. They need everyone in town to know they are serious and that you can’t mess around with them. And that means, they’re going to do it again.”

It was about six o’clock in the evening when Brown’s car rolled around the corner and past the old houses on Thurmont Street. A kid pushing drugs at the crossroads clammed up, sensing the police presence. But Brown had bigger fish to fry. Taking notice of a car at the curb with three tough-looking guys inside, following the uninvited guest to their neighborhood with suspicious eyes, Brown drove up alongside. He knew one of the guys – he worked for Hash, and was known as Basso. Lowering his window on the passenger side, Brown barked out: “I’m looking for Hash.”

Basso, exchanging glances with the others, nodded: “Wait around the corner. Hash will be there.”

Brown drove on. Reaching the corner, he got out of the car, sat on the hood, and waited, toying with the knife he always carried with him. An old Spyderco, one of the first. Brown remembered his delight as a teenager, when he received the gift from his late father. A heavy, impressive, deadly sharp knife that could be opened with just a flick of the thumb.

Hash showed up five minutes later. He had an imposing and unhurried stride, afraid of nothing, and was sipping a cocktail through a straw. This was his turf.

“Long time no see. Problems, boss?”

“Not exactly,” Brown replied, hooking the knife to his belt. “Have you been listening to the radio?”

“Yup,” said Hash with a grin. “The guy with no head? They really blasted it right off? We’ve been arguing all day about how it could have happened. Were the explosives taped up to his noggin?”

“Hash, six months ago you passed me some information on those guys who were selling grenades. Do you still have any contacts with arms dealers? I’m interested in C—4.”

“Plastic explosives? Oh, mama!” Hash shook his head with a smirk, but then grew serious. “People don’t bring that kind of shit to me. I’m a peaceful dude. You know that, boss.”

“You only have your peace because you have me, Hash,” Brown reminded him.

Hash’s real name was Tommy, but the nickname had stuck to him back in high school, where he started his street career selling weed. Tommy quit school, figuring that the main thing is to go into business and make money, and he knew how to do it. Also, there were rumors buzzing around school, and Tommy was afraid that he would end up in handcuffs. Almost immediately Hash switched to trading in harder stuff, pushing only to people he knew. His clientele at first was mostly former classmates and their friends. But this simple precaution did not help him, and before long one of his new customers turned out to be an undercover police officer. When he was arrested, Hash displayed unusual dexterity dumping the goodies. They had to let him go, but Hash still found his way into someone’s Rolodex at the Police Department.

That was when he met Brown, who had an interest in an acquaintance of Hash’s, another drug dealer. The pusher had decided to make himself a reputation for harshly punishing his debtors: He broke their arms. Brown arrested Hash with dope in hand, and offered him a choice: Go to prison for at least ten years or help catch the dealer. Of course, Hash chose the latter.

That was almost ten years ago. Now Hash himself had become a boss, king of the neighborhood between Griffin Road and Thurmont Street. His runners stood on the street corners selling meth, with secret caches and drop-boxes. Over the years, Brown had accumulated enough dirt on Hash to put him away for twenty years. But Hash turned out to be more valuable as an informer. “Use you brain, Hash, this is important. Ask around. Pretend you are just thinking about whether you should try dealing in something besides meth. Know what I mean? Check out carefully how much it might cost, whether you can actually buy C—4 in town. And if the answer is yes, find out who to contact.”

“Listen, boss, I try not to get involved in this kind of stuff.” Hash said. “I do business in my neighborhood and don’t poke my nose into other people’s shit. Boss, dope is one thing, or even guns. But explosives… Those guys, they really mean business, you savvy?”

“And I want to know who they are. Hash, they nabbed the director of the company when there was cash in the office. That means they have informants. So I think it’s someone local.”

Hash was skeptical.

“I’ve never heard of a crew like that. There’s been no buzz on the street about anyone out there about to hit the jackpot, nothing. And I’ve been on the street for fifteen years.”

“They don’t seem like some new guys in town.” After a pause, Brown decided to try another angle: “Hash, I’m moving to another city. If the gang continues to operate, the Feds will come in, and the cops will shake up the whole city to find these suckers. Businesses like yours will suffer. But I won’t be around, you’ll have no one to cover for you. So it’s in your interests too.”

“I’ll give it a try,” said Hash reluctantly.

“Get me the information, and you’ll be completely clean before the law. I’ll destroy all your files. Does that sound like a good deal to you?”

Grinning and slapping Hash on the shoulder, Brown got behind the wheel and started the engine. But he couldn’t resist saying, before driving off:

“And tell those three sleeping beauties of yours that a reconnaissance detail should stand watch on the perimeter, not smack in the middle of the neighborhood. Your pusher noticed me before they did. You are getting too soft, man.”

The explosives expert in the city Police Department’s forensic laboratory was a cheerful fellow by the name of Holtz. Despite his rather advanced age, Holtz adored gadgets and gizmos. That’s why he had stayed late in the lab. He was almost ecstatic.

“Just look at this! A hollow aluminum tube two inches thick. It had compartments separated by a partition. So far I’ve counted ten segments. A portion of the explosives was in each of them.”

Fragments of the explosive were lying on Holtz’s table: blackened bits of aluminum, burnt-out wiring, a scorched chip, and other bits and pieces of the device. Brown picked up one of them, trying to figure out what it was. “What kind of explosive?

“Plastic, C—4.”

“You sure?” Brown frowned.

“One hundred percent, Troy. Although I haven’t seen any C—4 for 10 years. Where did someone get an explosive like that in our sleepy town? And the most interesting thing is that they weren’t exactly stingy: There was about a pound of C—4 in the collar.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Let’s just say this collar would be the envy of any suicide bomber. If the explosion had occurred in a crowd, our morgue would have had nowhere to put all the corpses.”

“That’s just great,” Brown commented glumly. “Have you figured out how it worked?”

“Oh, that’s the most interesting part of all. Hell, it’s a real gem! These guys knew their business, Troy. Look here.” Holtz took one of the fragments of aluminum with partitions. “A web camera is attached to the front of the segmented tube packed with C—4, and there’s a cell phone on the side. This is a chip you see here, from the phone. The phone was for transmission. And the camera on the front transmitted the image in front of it to the phone and from there it went to someone on the other end, via a wifi connection. That is, the criminals saw everything that was happening to the victim and around him. What he did, where he was going, what he picked up – everything.”

“Now I see,” Brown nodded. “That’s why Pickman didn’t even try to call the police. He just did what they wanted. He gave them the money. But they still pushed the button.”

“In all the years I’ve worked in the police force, Troy, I’ve never seen anything like this! Don’t hold back,” said Holtz cheerfully. “This case is going straight into the textbook!”

Brown has already started to think along the same lines, but with much less enthusiasm.

The story of the explosion on the outskirts of the city got top billing on the 10:00 evening news. Half of the split screen image showed a picture taken by a cameraman at the crime scene: the cordon, a hearse from the city morgue, patrolmen. The anchorwoman, looking at the audience from the other side of the screen, announced:

“According to the Police Department, the victim, Eric Pickman, was the owner of Plate Build Construction. The criminals made off with $100,000 which was in the construction company office.”

But in the Browns” apartment, nobody was looking at the TV screen. Shelley, combing her hair in front of the mirror, indignantly snapped at her husband:

“I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

“I wonder how you knew, if even I didn’t,” muttered Brown in reply, flopping on the bed with a bottle of beer in his hand.

“Oh, don’t give me that!! You and I made an agreement!”

“What can I do about it? I’m the head of the homicide division, not a traveling salesman. They ordered me to do it, so I’m doing it.”

“You’ve been making such excuses your whole life!”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s an oath!”

“Oh yes, of course!”

Carol appeared in the doorway, with interest and timid hope in her eyes.

“Mom, we’re not going?”

“We’re going! Carol, go to your room. Or go look at cartoons, whatever!”

Not accustomed to people raising their voices, Carol ran off.

And immediately, as was usual with her, Shelley was ashamed. Sighing deeply, she went over to Brown and put her arms around his shoulders. “We had agreed on everything. On Monday they’re expecting me at my new job. They’re also waiting for you at the department in Perte. Don’t forget that in a couple of years the captain there will be retiring, and there are no candidates to replace him. Troy, that means a career for you.”

“Don’t worry.” Brown hugged his wife and drew her close. “There’s almost a week to go. I’ll do what I can, and on Friday I’ll turn in my badge. And on the weekend we’ll be setting up our new house.”

“Promise?”

Brown wanted to believe it, but to avoid answering, he raised the bottle: “How about a beer?”

But at the morning briefing, Brown realized that they were almost at an impasse. Porras had checked out the employees at Plate Build Construction, but a full day’s work had yielded nothing. No suspicious phone calls or suspicious conflicts with Pickman or suspicious movements in their bank accounts.

“The key thing is the cash,” Porras added. “So they can keep the money to themselves. But all the banks have been warned. If someone brings in a large sum for deposit, we will be immediately notified.”

The company that paid Pickman for the motel was clean, according to both the police and the IRS. Detectives visited Rentier Bank, but with no results there either. The branch of the bank where the accountant of Plate Build Construction cashed the check employed about 30 people.

“And what about the Feds?”

“Nothing about any explosives, Troy,” said Chambers. “Or they just don’t want to share it.”

“This case sucks, big time,” Brown admitted. “If Tierney finds out that we have no leads, he will rip me apart. So let’s do something.”

“I suggest we go through the archives and files,” said DiMaggio, after some hesitation.

“Archives and agents – that’s all that we’ve got. Go talk to your informants. You can offer a reward, more than usual, for any information; if need be, we’ll get more money. And then get on the databases. We’re interested in all extortionists, arms dealers, people recently released from prison – any clues at all.”

Brown’s cell phone rang. “Brown here,” he barked in his usual brusque manner. He heard Hash’s voice:

“Under the overpass in an hour.”

Between the pillars of the overpass, there was a vacant lot that served as a nighttime refuge for junkies looking to shoot up. It was one of Hash’s and Brown’s regular meeting places. Hash never asked Brown to come to his own neighborhood, so as not to scare away potential customers with the type of person that every addict, with an unerring instinct, recognized as a cop. After the briefing with the detectives, Brown dropped in on Captain Tierney, assuring him that the investigation was moving ahead, and then went to the rendezvous. Hash arrived with what was, for him, amazing punctuality. He was accompanied by Bosso, who stayed in the car.

“Last night I was at the club at Nash,” said the informant. “I chatted with a couple of guys about this little thing of ours. Both said pretty much the same thing. Deuce.”

“King,” Brown parried. “What are we playing?”

“That’s the moniker the guy who can get it all goes by. From any kind of piece to fragmentation grenades.”

“How about C—4?”

“I’m not sure about explosives. But the guys said that if there’s anyone in town who can get that stuff, it’s gotta be Deuce.’” “The men guys…,” Brown repeated sourly. “Okay, Hash, let’s suppose it’s true. So who is he?”

“That’s the problem, boss. Nobody knows.”

“Hold on,” Brown frowned. “You give me a nickname, which could belong to fifty people in the city, which would take me a couple of years to check out, and the best you can do on top of that is “nobody knows”? Hash, we don’t work that way, and you know it. This is not enough.”

“I don’t know who he is,” Hash repeated emphatically but nervously. “And nobody knows. Boss, I’ve heard that nickname a couple of times before. They say that Deuce is a tough customer. And very careful, you know what I mean? Very. Even more than us. He never attracts attention and does not work with strangers. And nobody knows who he is. But if you want someone who can get C—4, it’s Deuce.”

That was the information that was going to lead to a slaughter that would shake the Police Department to the core. But Brown didn’t know that yet.