Ten Plagues by Mary Nealy Page B

murders? He said I was too stupid to figure it out. So I must have charged him with something less than deliberate first-degree murder.”
    Keren went back to the computer. “Okay, not a lot of people go down for first degree, thanks to plea bargaining. I’m down to forty-six cases.”
    O’Shea said, “Have you taken out the women perps?”
    Keren nodded. “I did that first.”
    “And all the ones who are still in lockup?”
    “Done.”
    O’Shea looked at the vastly reduced number of files listed on Keren’s computer screen. “There’re still a lot of ‘em.”
    Paul glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time before we have to go back to the mission. Let’s move it.”
    “I’ll print out the names of the cases remaining.” Keren did so and handed them each a copy of the file numbers and names. “We can pull them from the files and start reading.”
    “Let’s see how many are known to be in the area,” O’Shea said.
    Keren added, “Some of them may be dead, too. That wouldn’t be in the computer. We may be able to narrow this list pretty quickly.”
    They were only into their first few cases when Paul’s phone rang. All three of them froze.
    Paul said, “Do you need time to get ready?”
    Keren and O’Shea sat poised, their phones already to their ears. They both shook their heads. Paul answered, holding his breath.
    “I just wanted to tell you, Reverend, you should remain at home tomorrow morning. You’re expecting a package.” Hysterical laughter broke through the carefully modulated voice. Then the call ended.
    All three of them looked at the stack of files. Paul glanced anxiously at his watch. “It’s almost six. I’ve got to go.”
    “Paul,” Keren said impatiently, “we’ve only got tonight. You know what to expect tomorrow morning.”
    Paul stood from his chair. “Do you think I need to be reminded?”
    He turned away with an effort Keren could read in every line of his body. She said, “O’Shea, give me the recorder phone. Chances are the wacko is done calling for the night anyway. I’ll go. You stay here and work.”
    She stormed after Paul. “This time I’m using code three, and you’re not going to guilt me into stopping. I think this warrants lights and sirens.”
    “As long as you turn them off well before we get to the mission.”
    “Deal.” When she agreed, he finally quit arguing. Nice change.

    With a giggling Rosita delivered on the first step of her date with Manny, Paul and Keren returned to work. O’Shea pounced on them when they returned to the precinct house. He had the report on the cause of the blast at the gang hangout. “Pure low tech. Just like those listening devices. This guy is no electronics genius.”
    Keren asked, “What’d he use, dynamite? C-4?”
    “Gasoline.” O’Shea flipped open the report. “Like I said, low tech. He soaked the basement with gasoline and had containers of gas duct-taped to every creaky support beam in the basement of that building. The bomb squad figures at least ten bombs.”
    “It’s a condemned building overrun by a gang. How’d he get in carrying gallons of gasoline?”
    “It wouldn’t take that much. A couple of gallons to splash around and another gallon or so to make a bunch of Molotov cocktails, waiting for a spark to set them off,” O’Shea said. “According to the few gang members who would talk to us, they never went down to the basement. It was full of junk and the foundation was crumbling. Pravus could have brought the gasoline in early in the morning. He could disguise himself like a homeless man and no one would look at him twice, especially since the people who live in the house are stoned most of the time. No one is prowling around much—not in the morning. Two gallons at a time under a big coat. He could have done it in a couple of trips.”
    “How’d he detonate it?” Keren reached for the report.
    “They’re not sure yet, because everything was blown to smithereens.” O’Shea