Explosive Truth

CHAPTER ONE

Devon Thompson wiped down the tables at the McCormick’s Irish Pub as the last patrons finally staggered out of the building. Every night there was always one group that stayed right up until closing time. Even during the work week. She inwardly sighed. She’d hoped they’d have left earlier considering it was the middle of January in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with a cold wind coming in off Lake Michigan bringing the threat of snow.

But no such luck. She locked the door behind them, then quickly went to work on the rest of the cleaning. Thankfully, her manager, Steve Caraco, had left hours ago, leaving her to close alone. She preferred that as constantly fending off his advances, while trying to keep a professional relationship with him, was getting old.

Maybe it was time to get another job.

Restaurant positions were relatively easy to find these days, although the past seven years had taught her that managers like Steve were everywhere. There was no way to know for sure the next job would be better. Often it was just as bad, or worse.

Not for the first time, she wished things were different. That she hadn’t been forced to leave her home, her entire life behind. Changing her name and starting over had seemed to be a good idea at the time.

Now she was tired and crabby.

Yet there was no point in dwelling on the past. This was her life, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the better.

After finishing the last of the cleaning, making sure everything was put away for the morning crew who would be there early, she pulled on her coat. She grabbed her purse, fished out her keys, then headed to the rear door. Behind the restaurant, there was a very small staff parking area tucked regrettably behind two large dumpsters. They didn’t smell too bad in January, but during the summer, it was nasty.

She hit the key fob to unlock the car while she was still in the doorway. A large explosion rocked the earth, sending her flying backward into the restaurant. Debris rained around the area, hitting the dumpster and the ground with loud pings and thumps.

Lying on her back in the doorway, she struggled to catch her breath. The darkness was alight with orange and yellow flames coming from her car. The brick building of the restaurant shielded her from the worst of the blast, but what if she had been next to her vehicle when she’d unlocked it?

She’d be dead.

For a moment, she feared the worst, that somehow her father had been released from federal prison early and had tried to kill her.

But that didn’t make sense. He was serving several life sentences for all the people he’d killed, no way could he have gotten out.

Sirens wailed as she struggled to her feet. Her initial instinct was to run, but not only was it a cold five-mile walk to her low-rent apartment, she couldn’t just ignore the fact that her car had disintegrated in front of her eyes. The police would track her down regardless, so she knew it was better to meet them there.

She pulled out her cell phone and shakily dialed 911. The sirens grew louder, so she figured they were already heading to her location, but it would seem suspicious if she didn’t make the emergency call.

This is the 911 operator, what’s your emergency?

I—uh, my car blew up. Never in her life had she uttered those words, and she found it incredible this was happening now. My name is Devon Thompson. The car is located behind the McCormick’s Pub on Bolder Street.

Oh yes, we’ve gotten reports of an explosion in that area. Are you hurt?

Just a few bumps and bruises. Humbling to realize how this could have ended very differently. She watched the flames lapping at her car. The car is still on fire, though.

Help is on the way, the operator assured her.

True enough. Seconds later, the first fire truck pulled into the parking lot. One of firefighters rushed over to where she stood. Ms. Thompson?

Yes. She managed a weak smile.

I need to do a quick search for weapons. She was surprised but didn’t complain, still in shock over the explosion. When he finished, he said, Come with me.

She didn’t argue, allowing him to escort her from the restaurant, after she took a moment to lock the door behind her.

Once she was far enough away from the danger zone, the rest of the fire crew went to work battling what was left of the blaze. They soaked the building, and she had the random thought to be glad the building was brick and less likely to burn.

The police showed up next, two officers crossing over to where she stood. Are you Devon Thompson? the older of the two asked.

Yes. She told herself to remain calm, even though the mere thought of interacting with the police gave her the willies. They didn’t know her real name; hopefully, her fake ID would hold up to their scrutiny.

And if it didn’t? She swallowed hard, staring beyond the officers to her demolished car. She’d already considered getting a new job, but leaving town wouldn’t be easy without wheels.

Ms. Thompson, can you explain what happened? The younger of the two officers, a guy roughly her age of thirty, eyed her thoughtfully.

I unlocked my car, and it exploded. She held up the key fob in her hand. I was in the doorway over there, and the car was parked partially behind that dumpster. I—think that’s the only reason I’m not hurt.

Cars don’t just explode, the older cop said dryly. Someone must have planted a bomb. Any idea who would do such a thing? Anyone who has a grudge against you?

I have no idea. This—she waved at the debris littering the area—doesn’t make any sense. I’ve only been in the Milwaukee area for nine months. This was where she had to step carefully. I moved here from Detroit, Michigan.

And before that, it was Fort Wayne, Indiana, and before that, it was Chicago, Illinois. But none of that mattered now.

Her true identity would remain a secret unless some ambitious cop dug deeper into her background.

When the officers asked for her ID, she handed it over, her fingers still trembling. The younger cop took her driver’s license back to the squad, no doubt to run a background check.

The other cop asked her more questions. What’s your job at the McCormick’s Pub?

I’m a server and bartender, it’s my job to close the place down each night. She shivered, likely from shock more so than the temperature. I work five days a week, covering Tuesday through Saturday. I’m off on Sunday and Monday. She didn’t doubt for one minute Steve Caraco would open the following morning, unless someone, like the police, told him he couldn’t.

Do you have a boyfriend? the cop asked.

She narrowed her gaze but of course understood why he was asking. No, I don’t. I just told you, I haven’t been in the area for that long. And most of the people I meet working here—she jerked her thumb at the pub—aren’t the dating type, you know?

He stared at her for a long moment as if waiting for her to elaborate on her love life or lack thereof.

She didn’t.

Family or friends in the area? he finally asked.

My parents are dead. I’m an only child. Her mother was dead, and she was an only child, so that much was true. Can I please go home now? The buses stopped running two hours ago, but she could call for a rideshare. Although it made her cringe to spend money on such a luxury.

We’ll give you a ride, the younger cop offered, returning with her driver’s license. He smiled at her in a way that would have been sweet if not for the awful circumstances.

The older cop looked disgruntled but nodded. Yeah, sure. We’ll give you a lift.

She hesitated, glancing again over to where the firefighters had battled the blaze. All that was left of her car was a charred hunk of metal.

As she followed the officers to their squad, another vehicle pulled in behind it. The cops stopped and glanced over at the man who slid out from behind the wheel.

Captain Finnegan. The older cop nodded at the blond-haired man. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.

Heard about the explosion and figured I’d check it out. Captain Finnegan met her gaze. Ms. Thompson?

Yes. Her instincts went on high alert. This man wasn’t your average street cop, which was a bit worrisome. Why was a captain showing up at a crime scene at two thirty in the morning?

I’m Rhyland Finnegan, captain of the Milwaukee police tactical unit. We’re in charge of incidences involving explosive devices among other threats to the community. He crossed over to stand beside her. I’d like to ask you a few questions.

I already spoke to the officers, she protested weakly even as her mind spun. A captain of the tactical unit?

She shivered again, her heart sinking all the way down to the soles of her feet. Staring at the imposing figure before her, she felt certain this was a man who would keep digging into this incident until he knew everything about her.

Something she desperately wanted to avoid at all costs.

Rhy couldn’t understand why Ms. Devon Thompson was looking at him as if he were a potential threat. Someone had planted an explosive device in her car that had subsequently been blown to smithereens.

Shouldn’t that person be the source of her fear?

Or maybe it was just that she didn’t like people in authority. Either way, he found her reaction unusual. Combined with the fact that someone had blown up her car made her even doubly intriguing.

On a professional level, of course. Not personally. She was pretty enough, with her dark hair and large eyes, but he wasn’t interested. As the oldest of nine siblings and having helped raise most of them in the past ten years since their parents had died in a car crash, he wasn’t interested in anything remotely resembling a relationship. He’d had enough family responsibilities to last a lifetime.

Still did, since three of the youngest still lived with him in the large six-bedroom home his parents had built thirty years ago. At some point, the last three kids would be gone, and from there, he’d figure out what to do with his personal life.

Can’t we talk tomorrow? Ms. Thompson said. She was shivering; her lightweight dark jacket wasn’t warm enough for the Wisconsin winters. There was also a hole in her fitted black slacks, probably from when she’d fallen after the blast. It’s late, and these kind officers were about to drive me home.

This won’t take long, and I’ll drive you home after we’re finished. He nodded at the cops. They both likely knew his brother Tarin, who was a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department. You look cold, let’s head over to my car. We can talk on the way to your place.

Ms. Thompson looked as if she wanted to refuse yet managed a nod. Even in the darkness, he could see her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Sure, that would be fine. Thanks, she belatedly added.

This way. He turned and escorted her to his SUV. He opened the passenger door for her, then went over to slide in behind the wheel. When they both had their seat belts latched, he put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

What’s your address? he asked.

I’m in the Pine Ridge apartment building. She lifted her chin as if daring him to say something negative about the place. About five miles from here.

I know where it is, he agreed. He kept his thoughts about the high level of crime in that area to himself. Would you mind explaining what happened?

She sighed. I’m a server and bartender at the pub. I close Tuesday night through Saturday night. When I finished cleaning the place up, I unlocked my car from the doorway. Next thing I know, I’m lying on my back inside the restaurant, reeling from the blast.

Ms. Thompson, I know the police probably already asked, but do you have any idea who would do this? An ex-husband or boyfriend?

Call me Devon. And no, I have no clue who would do this. As I told the other officers, I’ve only been in the area for nine months. I relocated here from Detroit. I don’t have a boyfriend or an ex-husband. She turned to stare out the window for a long moment before turning back to face him. Honestly, I don’t have a single enemy that I’m aware of.

There must be someone you’ve angered at some point or another.

She narrowed her gaze. Because of the darkness, he couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. "Sure, I’ve fended off a few advances here and there, told several guys to keep their grubby hands to themselves, but to make someone mad enough to plant a bomb in my car? She shook her head. No way. That’s far too extreme for the clientele we see. If you ask me, I think the bomber must have chosen my car by mistake."

Picking your car by mistake is a possibility we can investigate, but it sounds to me that you’re the only person who closes the pub down each night. And your car was the only one parked back there.

Yeah, I know. Her voice dropped so low he had trouble hearing her. So maybe the bomber decided to test his bomb on my car. Or maybe there are other cars in the area that have also been wired by this idiot.

Wired? he echoed. It was a strange term for a civilian to use. How do you know the bomb was wired?

I—don’t all bombs have wires? She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. They do on TV.

You triggered the device with a wireless key fob, he pointed out. But yes, most bombs have wires as part of the components. He wasn’t about to go in depth about how bombs could be made. There was too much information on the internet about that already.

Devon didn’t respond but turned back to stare out the window. She was awfully calm, without any of the hysterics he’d have expected from someone whose car had just gone up in a ball of flames.

People didn’t react the same way to grief, death, and other life-altering events. He’d barely had time to grieve after losing his parents. He’d been twenty-six years old when they’d died, and his brother Tarin had been twenty-five. Together, they’d held the family together on a wing and a prayer.

Mostly prayer.

What about the owner of McCormick’s Pub? he asked, turning down the road that would lead to her apartment complex. He found himself hoping Devon didn’t make a habit of coming home alone at this hour with lots of cash in her purse. Talk about being a target for thieves. Have you spoken to him about what happened?

I’ve only met Mack a few times; he stops in occasionally. But we’re not friends or anything. I don’t have his phone number. But I suppose I should call the manager, Steve Caraco. She frowned, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. I hate to wake him and his family at this hour.

A bomb going off behind the restaurant is a pretty big deal. He pulled into the parking lot in front of the building. But I can call him if that’s easier.

She hesitated, then nodded. This type of news is probably better coming from you, Captain Finnegan. I’ll give you his contact information.

Call me Rhy, short for Rhyland. I don’t stand on formality. He smiled, trying to put Devon at ease. She seemed tense and wary, as if she didn’t trust him one bit.

Maybe she had a history with the police. No criminal record, he’d checked on his way over to the pub, but that didn’t mean much. Misdemeanor crimes didn’t always make it into the system.

Upon hearing she’d lived in Detroit, he made a note to perform a wider background check when he had time. It was possible Devon had made enemies back in Michigan. The cities were roughly the same size, with Detroit being slightly larger. And it wasn’t that far to travel by car, roughly six to seven hours depending on Chicago traffic.

Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he felt certain that some guy she’d escaped back in Detroit had driven down to exact revenge.

Not that car bombs were often used in such a way. That fact alone was what had brought him out to investigate in the first place. He’d gotten a call from the precinct as bombs tended to land within his purview.

Well, thanks for the ride. Devon reached for the door handle, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

She whirled to glare at him so fast he quickly let her go. Sorry, but I have a few more questions. How long did you live in Detroit? Is it possible someone there has a reason to come after you?

I told you, I don’t have any ex-boyfriends who would do something like this. Not from Detroit, or anywhere else for that matter. Her gaze bored into his. If I knew who did this, I would tell you. I don’t like knowing my car was used as an experiment by some bomb-crazy dude.

Her gaze slid from his, and this time, he didn’t stop her from getting out of the SUV. Instead, he quickly joined her in the biting cold.

What are you doing? she demanded.

Her suspicious nature was off the charts, but he cut her some slack considering her car had gone up in a ball of flames. I’m walking you up to your apartment. It’s the middle of the night. And you promised to give me Steve Caraco’s contact information, remember?

She hunched her shoulders but seemed to relax a bit. Yes, I did. Are you ready? She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. When she rattled off the number, he punched it into his phone.

Thanks. He typed in the guy’s name, then tucked the phone away. Lead on.

I’m fine. I come home at this hour all the time, she protested.

He arched a brow. I’m not leaving you alone, so let’s go.

She grimaced and headed toward the building. He fell into step beside her, sweeping his gaze over the area, on alert for any potential threat. Rhy had been a cop for fifteen years now, thankful for the job that had helped keep the family afloat after his parents died. He couldn’t deny the job had been good to him. He’d managed to move up the ranks, first earning a spot on the coveted tactical unit, then eventually being promoted to captain.

Devon opened the door to the building. He frowned. No locks?

She snorted. The lock has been broken since the day I moved in.