Chapter 2

Sergeant Deckard of the Nova City PD was ready for his lunch. Maybe with a beer. "About time we got a break," he said over his shoulder toward the back of the patrol car as he buckled his seatbelt. Nix, his explosives detection dog, standing behind the mesh screen, yipped agreement and flapped her long English Springer Spaniel ears. They'd been out since five a.m. walking the route of the Nova City marathon, making sure no miscreant had decided to get nasty with explosives. Luckily, the last masochist running twenty-six-point-two miles in the hot July air was done. And so were they.

"What do you think?" Deckard asked Nix. "Burgers?"

She yipped even louder for that.

He reached for his radio to sign off shift but it buzzed under his hand.

"Sergeant Deckard, we have a call for you and Nix. Over."

He made a face and thumbed the button. "I'm about to go off duty."

"You're close to the Hoffward building, aren't you?"

He made a more scrunched face but admitted, "About three blocks. Why?"

"Officer Bleakman asked for an explosives check on a suspicious package in the mailroom of the Hoffward."

Deckard murmured, "Fuck," without thumbing the button. Then he clicked in and said, "I can be there in five minutes. What's the situation?"

"Civilian called in a suspicious package, swore it was a bomb. Bleakman's concerned enough to ask for you."

Deckard huffed a short breath, but he wasn't going to leave some patrolman hanging, maybe getting his ass blown off. "Got it."

"He'll wait for you at the alley doorway north side, off Tenth."

"Heading out now." Deckard hit the ignition and the cruiser coughed a puff of smoke as it started. Need to send this one to the shop, too. With his K9 unit in for repairs, the least they could've done was give him something better than this piece of crap. He glanced back to make sure Nix was settled on the unfamiliar hard seat, her harness tethered short enough to keep her safe, and asked Dispatch, "Will someone okay my overtime if reassuring the civilian goes long?" At least he might as well get paid.

"Ask your supervisor. Over and out."

That'll be a "Fuck, no." He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the busy street.

The Hoffward stood on a very desirable piece of downtown real estate, twenty-seven stories of luxury apartments owned by some of the city's elite. Hell, the police commissioner lived there, along with a couple of judges, city councilors, and the owner of the local baseball team. Lots of targets, if that thing really was a bomb. Deckard wasn't holding his breath, though. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the might-be-a-bomb abandoned bags and packages, weren't.

And thank all the little pink saints for that.

An NCPD cruiser stood parked in the alley. Beyond it, a door was held open by the meaty arm of Officer Rod Bleakman. Someone seemed to be trying to peek around Bleakman, but the patrolman was so big that Deckard only got a hint of dark hair and a white polo shirt.

He parked behind the cruiser, went around to the back, and let Nix out. She bounced excitedly when she saw him get her squeaky toy out of the box. "Heel," he told her and she trotted beside him as he went over to Bleakman. "Fill me in."

"This civilian here—" Bleakman gestured behind him and said the word civilian as if he wanted to use something a lot less polite. "—reported a suspicious package. In a mailroom. With many other packages."

Deckard tried to see past the big patrolman but got just flashes of pale skin, white shirt, maybe glasses. "Why's it suspicious?"

"He said it's ticking." Bleakman rolled his eyes.

Deckard managed not to do the same, but only because that wasn't professional. People got their ideas about bombs from Wile E. Coyote. Modern bombs didn't have ticking analog clocks in them.

From behind Bleakman, the hidden guy said, "It's real suspicious. I swear."

Well, I'm here now. Deckard sighed. "Might as well take a look."

Bleakman stepped back to let him inside and Deckard got his first look at the civilian. A bit of a twink with his short, slim build and neat hair, a bit of a nerd in those dark-rimmed glasses, with a sharp angle of jaw that made things more interesting. The kind of guy who'd be catnip to Deckard in a gay club but also apparently the kind of guy who heard packages ticking.

Deckard gave the man a nod. "Sergeant Deckard, NCPD Bomb Squad. Who are you?"

"Perry. Crawford. Peregrine."

That name raised an odd echo in the back of Deckard's mind. "…named him after a bird of prey, hoping their kid would grow up to be a superhero. Hah. Some parents need to get a grip…" He shook his head to clear the memory. Irrelevant. "Show me this ticking package."

Perry flushed crimson, which didn't make Deckard more likely to believe his story, but pointed down the hall. "This way."

Bleakman strode ahead and Perry scurried after him, which put Deckard behind Perry's round little ass in awful uniform trousers worn a size too tight. Deckard added queer—question-mark to his evaluation of Perry, but sometimes straight guys liked to strangle their balls too.

After taking them down a utilitarian stairway, Bleakman walked through a large open office and paused at a door. "Mailroom." He waved. "Single package on the bigger cart."

Deckard peeked in. The room was about fifteen feet square, and contained little except a table, high shelving and two metal wheeled carts, one piled with a variety of packages, the other with a single modest cardboard box on top. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Probably the source of the ticking. If there'd even been ticking. Maybe Perry was just bored and looking to liven up his day with some eye candy. Bleakman was a big hunk of man, if you liked that kind of thing, though very much not Deckard's type, even if Bleakman hadn't been straight as a ruler…

Deckard gave himself a mental slap on the cheek. He was tired after seven hours patrolling the race route, but that was no excuse for letting his mind wander. No matter how unlikely a bomb might be, shit like that got your head blown off. "Okay. We'll ask Nix. Settle the question." A quick "No explosives" from his clever pup and they could be on their way home.

"Ask who?" Perry asked.

"My dog?" Deckard pointed down at where Nix sat obediently at heel, her floppy ears cocked. "My bomb detecting dog?"

"But she's a spaniel."

"And?" He raised one eyebrow. He'd quelled stronger men than Perry with that look.

Perry flushed. "I thought police dogs were, like, Shepherds and Malinois and such."

Perry got a few bonus points for knowing Malinois existed, but not many. "If I wanted her to bite your face off, sure. If I want her to work around the public, sniffing for explosives? Not so much. A sharp nose and an even temper. That's where it's at." Deckard gestured Nix into the room. "Seek, Nix."

She trotted a methodical pattern, sniffed past the loaded cart full of packages, went to the single box on the other cart… and sat down abruptly, looking his way.

Well, shit!

"Good girl, Nix. Heel." Deckard passed down a kibble as she returned to his side. "That's a bomb," he added evenly.

"She didn't do anything," Bleakman protested.

"She sat. That's her explosives signal. Back up, both of you." Deckard took some pictures of the room with his phone, then eased the door shut. Not that a door between them, and the bomb would be a lot of protection but every little bit helped.

Bleakman looked like he wanted to challenge that announcement, Perry looked like he was going to throw up. Deckard ignored them both, waving them farther toward the hall as he dialed Headquarters. "We've got a problem. Bomb in the basement of the Hoffward building. We'll need evacuation and the squad out here."

"How big a bomb?"

"No clue on content, but about eighteen by twenty-four inches. Nix signaled it as soon as she got close."

"I'll dispatch the crew to you. ETA… seventeen minutes. What do you need for evacuation?"

Deckard rubbed his forehead. This was going to be a hell of a mess. "Someone with enough rank? The Hoffward is full of high-powered folks who probably think nothing bad can ever happen to them."

"I'll let the captain know. He'll be in touch."

Deckard turned to the two men watching him. "Perry, evacuation means you first. Go out the alley door and down the block. Do not talk to anyone." They didn't need a panic. "And don't leave the area. I need to interview you afterward." I still don't buy the ticking. Although who knew— maybe the bomb-maker also watched Roadrunner cartoons.

Perry waved his hands. "Shouldn't I, like, help? I know all the residents."

And I bet they treat you like dirt. Between his age, his service uniform, and his lack of natural authority, Perry wasn't likely to be any help in getting these folks out of their apartments. Plus, Deckard wanted him safe. That thing could go off at any time. "You should help by clearing out. There's a café in the next block. Go."

"Are you going to bring in a superhero?" Perry asked, dithering. "Like Invincent? He could lie over the bomb and detonate it and not be hurt, because he's invincible, right?"

Deckard rolled his eyes. "He could be flung upward by the blast, have his invincible body smashed up through some vital support beams overhead like a missile, and bring down the building. No, we're not bringing in a superhero. Ordinary human expertise will work just fine. Now go!"

Once Perry had hurried out and they heard his footsteps running up the stairs, Deckard signaled Nix to stay at heel and turned to Bleakman, gesturing him onward as well. "How good are you with rich folks?" At least his size will help. "Let's get hold of whoever's on building security and start clearing this place." He'd leave Nix in the cruiser with the AC on.

The process went about as well as Deckard expected. Captain Cleaver came by with a bunch of uniformed officers and stood by on call for the refusers. You'd think "There's a bomb in the basement" would get people out in a hurry, but apparently the entitled response was "Well, take care of it and don't bother me."

Twenty-seven stories and four big apartments per floor meant a lot of door-knocking, and then checking when there was no answer. Middle of the day, a lot of the residents were at work. They got the superintendent's key and did a fast search of the silent apartments. Deckard averted his eyes from some cocaine on a dresser in a fifth-floor bathroom. No warrant meant no action. He made a note.

They were halfway through when his squad turned up with the bomb disposal van. Deckard left the others to finish the evacuation and hurried down to the alley. Nix wagged her tail at him through the window of the cruiser from where he'd moved it half a block away. He waved to her, hoping she was comfortable hanging out in the AC, and joined the crew in the van.

"Hey, Deck," Lieutenant Jeffries said, as he climbed inside. "Whatcha got for us?"

Deckard explained the situation and showed them his photos of the bomb-box and layout.

"No idea what the level of threat is, huh?"

"No."

"That civilian who reported it sounds hinky. You think he planted it?"

Deckard gave that serious thought. He agreed Perry's story was odd but he couldn't imagine Perry as an evil mastermind, planting a bomb and then calling the authorities, and acting like such a convincing nervous nelly about the whole thing. Then again, he'd met some good actors in his time. "I'm keeping an open mind. I'll interview him once we're done."

They decided the convenient position of the bomb on top of a cart meant they could use the containment clamshell. "Can't be a motion-triggered device," Deckard commented. "Not if a delivery man hauled the box inside on a dolly, and Perry moved it too."

"Unless Perry constructed the device in place," Jeffries pointed out darkly, "and is lying."

"The back door has security cameras," Deckard noted. "Maybe we can grab the footage."

"On it." Wells, their tech person, got on her phone with the building security people and a couple of minutes later, had logged into the security files. They gathered around her laptop, watching the camera records, as she fast-forwarded through the morning's file, slowing when the delivery truck pulled up.

"There." Deckard pointed to the screen as they saw the uniformed guy lifting packages from the open side of his truck and loading up his dolly. "That looks like the one." The guy set the box in question fourth from the bottom on his stack, added two smaller ones on top of it, and pushed his load in through the door held open by Perry. The hand truck bounced over the doorsill which should've set off any motion-sensitive trigger. Deckard didn't analyze why he was so relieved to see Perry's story hold up.

"That Crawford guy could've emptied the box down in the mailroom, put the bomb inside, and sealed it again." But Jeffries shrugged. "Your gut feeling, Deck? You have a good feel for people."

"I believe him." But is it because Perry's cute as hell? I hope I have better instincts than that. Deckard shrugged off his doubts. Anyone who got hung up on second- and third-guessing themselves didn't last long in bomb disposal. "At least, I believe that the box came in with the delivery."

"Right," Jeffries said. "Clamshell, then. Deck, you guide it down there since you know the way."

Wells woke up the robot containment chamber, and when they had the van open and the ramp in place, steered it down to the street. Deckard set a hand on Clammie-the-robot and walked alongside as the tech remotely maneuvered the cumbersome device. A wide loading bay door next to the back entrance let them take Clammie in that way. Deckard pressed the service elevator button and rode down with the robot, then followed as Clammie rolled through the maintenance office and up to the mailroom door. Deckard eased the door open. The clamshell just barely fit through a doorway even when latched and Wells needed three tries to line Clammie up perfectly.

Deckard would give her a hard time for that. Later.

His earpiece crackled as Clammie cleared the doorway. "Right," Jeffries said. "Get the hell out, Deck."

He hurried out and took the stairs, sprinting up and out the back door, then vaulting up into the back of the van and pulling the door shut behind him. Jeffries backed the van down the alley out of immediate splatter range as Ulrich networked, confirming that the evacuation of the building and both businesses next door was complete. Jeffries put the van in park and said, "Okay, Wells, do your thing."

They crowded around to watch on the second laptop while Wells peered at her split screen. Avoiding sudden movements, she maneuvered Clammie into place, opened the shell's sides, slid forward, then closed the clamshell inch by inch. The floor-skimming flanges slid under the cart, lifted it slightly with the package sitting on top, and… nothing happened as Clammie's sides fitted together and the locking mechanisms engaged, enclosing the bomb in hardened steel.

They took a collective breath. Wells said, "Let's bust this sucker."

She expanded the views of the interior cameras. Enabling a drilling tool, she approached the side of the box and ground a hole just barely through the cardboard, then withdrew the drill and inserted the tip of the water gun.

They chanted together, "Three, two, one, blast it!" She hit the trigger.

The force of the high-powered blast of water blew the package apart and soaked it. Small bits flew across the chamber, hitting the hardened walls. One camera view went dark and Wells muttered, "Fuck." But there was no obliterating explosion. The interior of the chamber ended up littered with soggy cardboard, a rectangular device, some loose wires, two sticks of what might have been dynamite, a scatter of torn plastic and… Deckard peered more closely. "Is that glitter?"

Wells zoomed a camera in on a sparkling clump. "Looks like it."

"Well, that's different."

Wells snorted.

Jeffries said, "Are you sure that little twink of yours didn't construct this?"

Deckard couldn't deny glitter sounded more like Perry than dynamite, but the box had both. "I'll ask him about it. Tangentially." They'd keep this detail under wraps to avoid copycats.

"Do that," Jeffries agreed.

Deckard left his teammates working on Clammie's retrieval. They'd transport her back to base, where they'd open her— carefully— and do an analysis of the device. He walked past a bunch of uniformed officers holding back the crowd of residents and onlookers behind the crime scene tape. No doubt there was an NCPD detective or two around somewhere, ready to take over all the investigating, but Deckard had promised himself first dibs on Perry.

Not in that way, he reminded his libido, which had done a happy dance at the idea of dibsing Perry. Now where is the little brat?

He'd suggested the café in the next block, but before he could head over there, he spotted Perry's white shirt and tight trousers. The man stood beside Deckard's cruiser, bent over, peering in the passenger side back window.

What's he doing? "Hey!" Deckard strode toward Perry. "Hands off the vehicle."

"I wasn't touching!" Perry whirled with his hands held high, color rising in his face. He jerked his chin up. "You shouldn't leave a dog in a parked car."

"The AC is running." Deckard slowed as he approached. "She's fine."

"You might run out of gas." Perry glared.

"We fill the tanks every morning." And why am I explaining myself to him? Deckard was about to point this out when a motion behind Perry caught his eye. A silver Mercedes nosed out from where it had been parked and a guy in a… rubber fox mask…? pointed a long-muzzled gun out of the driver's side window as he came level with them.

Deckard leaped at Perry, hauling him to the ground as the gun popped— a limited sound like an air gun— and something thudded against the side of the cruiser above their heads. Then the Mercedes accelerated away down the alley.

"Fuck!" Deckard pushed to his feet. The spot where the projectile had struck oozed a long, sticky trail of glitter glue. "It's him!" Deckard sprinted around the cruiser, jumped into the driver's seat, and slapped his belt on.

As he slammed the car into gear, Perry scrambled into the passenger side and shut the door. "Who was that? Where are we going?"

Deckard snapped, "Get out!" But then when Perry reached for the door at twenty miles an hour, he barked, "No, stay put!" Deckard glared at the Mercedes pulling farther ahead of them. He should stop and ditch Perry but the glitter fox guy— Did I seriously say that?— would be out of sight and he'd only seen half the plate number. "Buckle up."

Ahead, the Mercedes made a sharp turn into a cross alley, then, as he followed, another sharp turn out onto the street. Deckard swiped with a finger as he wrestled the steering wheel and the siren came on. "Lights," he explained. "We want to control the traffic signals."

"What lights?" Perry squeaked.

"The— fuck!" Thirty feet ahead, the Mercedes ran the tail end of a yellow signal. The traffic cycle would adjust for them, but not instantly. Deckard gritted his teeth and eyed the cross traffic. "I need that signal!" Maybe we can make it… no. Gonna have to brake.

Perry raised his hand forward, palm out, like that would keep him from hitting the windshield if he hadn't buckled up.

Miraculously, the light ahead went back to green in an almost instant response to the flashers. Deckard accelerated?—

Slam! A sedan hit the front bumper of the cruiser, spinning them around. The airbags deployed, smacking Deckard in the chest. They came to rest facing sideways, the engine catching roughly.

"Well, shit." As the bags deflated, Deckard turned off the ignition and stared at Perry. "Are you okay?" Please say yes.

"I think so?" Perry rotated one wrist.

"Deep breath. No chest pain? Head or neck pain?" Deckard's shoulder ached fiercely but nothing else hurt. Yet.

"I'm okay," Perry said.

Deckard wrestled out of his seatbelt and turned to the back seat. "Nix, baby, you okay?"

Nix's front end was down in the footwell but she scrambled back up on the seat at his voice and panted, eyes wide, ears up. No obvious bleeding. The tether had kept her from being fully thrown. Deckard breathed a relieved sigh.

He shoved his door open and hurried to get to Nix, feeling her over inch by inch. She wiggled and licked his hand, showing no signs of pain, even under the straps of her vest. Thank goodness. He closed the back door to keep her safe from traffic.

Staring in the direction of the vanished shooter, he pulled out his phone, called Dispatch, and gave his name and rank. "I need a BOLO on a silver Mercedes four-door midsized sedan, partial plate Hotel Charlie Victor, driven by a man in a rubber fox mask, last seen corner of seventeenth and Northway."

The dispatcher only hesitated fractionally before saying, "Fox mask. Yes, sir."

"And record my unit out of service in a traffic accident." He eyed his smashed fender morosely.

A man climbed out of the offending vehicle and Deckard saw red. "You!" He took two long strides to confront him. "You ran a red light!"

"I didn't." The man waved at the crumpled front of his Lexus. "You did! Look at my car."

"My light was green, bozo. Still is." Deckard pointed at the traffic signal, just as the man pointed to his own, just now turning yellow. Deckard's was still green. What the hell? As Deckard watched, the other direction turned red. His stayed green. Except. A new green light brightened on his signal. On the bottom. Where green lights were supposed to be. Not the top. Where the first light had shone a slightly different green and had now gone dark. Where red was supposed to be.

The driver of the Lexus stared at it alongside him, openmouthed. "What the hell kind of signal is that?"

"I don't know." Bystanders around them had climbed out of their cars and were arguing for the presence of green signals in both directions.

"I have a dash cam," the man insisted. "I can prove it was green."

"Me too." Deckard glanced back at his cruiser. In the passenger seat, Perry lowered a hand he'd been holding out and when he caught sight of Deckard watching, ducked his face away. Hmm. What's that about?

The other driver said, "Being a cop doesn't mean you can plow through red lights without pausing. It wasn't my fault."

Wasn't mine, either. As traffic edged around their disabled cars, Deckard watched his light. Which went yellow. And then red at the top, like it was supposed to. Fucking weird.

A uniformed officer pulled up behind them and parked, turning on his flashers. The traffic signals changed again, properly. Red at the top, green at the bottom, in opposite patterns. As the cop got out and came over to them, putting on his hat, Deckard spotted Perry climbing out of his cruiser. And backing up, maybe trying to look casual but mostly looking constipated.

Perhaps he's hurt. He wasn't acting hurt, though. He acted… guilty. Deckard leaped into motion as the realization hit. He jogged over to where Perry was backing into the onlookers and glared at him. "Not so fast. You're a witness. Come along."

Perry pivoted and took two slow steps like he was trying to get away without being obvious. "I'll just be in the way."

"Nonsense." Deckard got in front of him, gestured brusquely, and ushered Perry back to the scene of the… crime? Deckard was beginning to wonder if perhaps there had been one. In addition to the bomb, plus getting shot at, which Perry was at least innocent of. Reminded, he pointed Perry along the side of his cruiser to where the missile had struck. A splotch of multi-colored glitter still marked the pillar ahead of the passenger door and dripped down the paint job.

"What does that look like?" he asked.

"A glitter bomb?" Perry reached a finger toward the mess.

He froze when Deckard said, "Stop! Don't touch it." The mess probably wasn't poison but he wouldn't put anything past the fox guy. Using his phone, he documented the splat in a series of photos.

"You didn't tell me what it really is," Perry prompted.

"Did you see the guy in the fox mask?"

"In that car we were chasing?—"

"I was chasing. You weren't supposed to be there."

"Why did you start chasing him anyhow? Why did you knock me down?"

Deckard realized that Perry's back had been to the masked man when he pulled the gun, and the shot had been just a pop. "Never mind." He gestured Perry ahead of him again, over to the patrolman documenting the accident scene. "This is my passenger. Enter all his details and then we'll check the dash cams."

Perry stammered but offered up his full name, birthdate— he's twenty-three, young but not a kid— and address.

Deckard made sure to keep an eye on Perry as they retrieved the images from the Lexus's dash cam which showed, yes, a green light for the driver. Deckard wasn't free to share cruiser footage with civilians, but he and the uniform in charge verified that, yes, he also had that weird top green light.

Deckard sighed. His team was going to roast the hell out of him, fault or not. You busted up equipment, you got the full treatment. Fault or not. He stuck close to Perry, making sure Perry felt the unwavering weight of his attention— no, you're not slipping away from me— as tow-trucks arrived to remove the disabled vehicles; as the cop in charge closed his notes and offered side-eyed condolences; as another cop offered them a ride in his black-and-white.

"Back to headquarters for both of us," Deckard told the patrolman. "Thank you." He ushered a weakly protesting Perry into the back seat and had Nix jump in beside Perry, locking her harness to a seatbelt. He had a moment of hesitation. You'd better not touch my dog. But the way Perry began crooning to Nix about how cute she was eased his worries. He got in the front next to the driver and took one last glance back at the haunted traffic light, now signaling perfectly normally as they drove away.