Triple Threat by Jeffery Deaver Page A

blouses for the girls.
    They were checking out the treats—and the boys were probably wondering if they could cop a spiked punch—but would refrain from anything until after the twenty-minute concert. The kids took their music seriously and sweets tended to clog the throat, her grandson had explained.
    She hugged the blond, good-looking boy and shook the hand of the chorus director.
    “Everyone, everyone!” she called. “Take your seats.”
    And the children climbed up on stage, taking their positions.
    # # #
    The clock in the interrogation room registered 3:51.
    Dance broke off the debate for a moment and read and sent several text messages, as Wayne Keplar watched with interest.
    3:52.
    “Your expression tells me the news isn’t good. Not making much headway elsewhere?”
    Kathryn Dance didn’t respond. She slipped her phone away. “I’m not finished with our discussion, Wayne. Now, I pointed out you were hypocritical to kill the very people you purport to represent.”
    “And I pointed out a hole a mile wide with that argument.”
    “Killing also goes against another tenet of yours.”
    Wayne Keplar said calmly, “How so?”
    “You want religion taught in school. So you must be devout. Well, killing the innocent is a sin.”
    He snickered. “Oh, please, Ms. Firecracker. Read the Bible sometime: God smites people for next to nothing. Because somebody crosses Him or to get your attention. Or because it’s Tuesday, I don’t know. You think everybody drowned in Noah’s flood was guilty of something?”
    “So al-Qaeda’s terrorist tactics are okay?”
    “Well, al-Qaeda itself—’cause they want the strongest government of all. It’s called a theocracy. No respect for individuals. But their tactics? Hell, yes. I admire the suicide bombers. If I was in charge, though, I’d reduce all Islamic countries to smoking nuclear craters.”
    Kathryn Dance looked desperately at the clock, which showed nearly 3:57.
    She rubbed her face as her shoulders slumped. Her weary eyes pleaded. “Is there anything I can say to talk you into stopping this?”
    3:58.
    “No, you can’t. Sometimes the truth is more important than the individuals. But,” he added with a sincere look. “Kathryn, I want to say that I appreciate one thing.”
    No more Ms. Firecracker.
    “What’s that?” she said in a whisper, eyes on the clock.
    “You took me seriously. That talk we just had. You disagree, but you treated me with respect.”
    4:00 p.m.
    Both law officer and suspect remained motionless, staring at the clock.
    A phone in the room rang. She leaned over and hit the speaker button fast. “Yes?”
    The staticky voice, a man’s. “Kathryn, it’s Albert. I’m sorry to have to tell you…”
    She sighed. “Go on.”
    “It was an IED, plastic of some sort… We don’t have the count yet. Wasn’t as bad as it could be. Seems the device was under a stage and that absorbed some of the blast. But we’re still looking at fifteen or so dead, maybe fifty injured… Hold on. CHP’s calling. I’ll get back to you.”
    Dance disconnected, closed her eyes briefly then glared at Keplar. “How
could
you?”
    Wayne frowned; he wasn’t particularly triumphant. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. This is the way it had to be. It’s a war out there. Besides, score one for your side—only fifteen dead. We screwed up.”
    Dance shivered in anger. But she calmly said, “Let’s go.”
    She rose and knocked on the door. It opened immediately and two large CBI agents came in, also glaring. One reshackled Keplar’s hands behind him, hoping, it seemed, for an excuse to Taser the prisoner. But the man was the epitome of decorum.
    One agent muttered to Dance, “Just heard, the death count’s up to--”
    She waved him silent, as if denying Keplar the satisfaction of knowing the extent of his victory.
    # # #
    She led the prisoner out the back of CBI, toward a van that would ultimately transport him to the Salinas lockup.
    “We’ll have to move fast,”