Agent Lewis knew from training and experience that the crime scene yields the best evidence, though it’s sometimes overlooked because it’s so obvious. This was his biggest case yet, one that could make his career, and he vowed to miss nothing. He had ordered that no one and nothing leave the courthouse without approval. Each of the thirty-seven people identified so far as being in the courthouse had been cleared to go home, but only after their bags, purses, and briefcases were searched. Each would be interviewed later. He had the names and addresses of the injured, now numbering thirteen, with only two hospitalized. All trash baskets and garbage cans were collected and taken to a tent.
Lewis had suffered through three weeks without a cigarette, but he broke under the pressure. At 9:00, after dark, he lit a Marlboro and walked around the exterior of the courthouse, puffing away and thoroughly enjoying the tobacco. His wife would never know. The streets were blocked; there was no traffic. With the 11:00 p.m. Marlboro, he noticed a dark blue Dodge half-ton pickup parked on a side street facing north. It was a nice truck, certainly not abandoned. The nearest store had been closed for six hours. There were no apartments above the stores and offices; no lights were on. Down the street were some small homes, all with plenty of parking of their own. The truck was out of place.
The man with the broken leg had not been identified, and Lewis’s suspicion was growing by the hour. The state police had attempted to question him on two occasions, but he was barely conscious.
* * *
Jesse’s death was welcome news along the Strip. The club owners and their employees relaxed for the first time in months, maybe years. Maybe now with Rudy gone the good times could roll again. In the strip joints, bars, pool halls, and bingo parlors a lot of drinks were poured and glasses raised. Real drinks, not the feeble stuff they sold to their customers but top-shelf liquor that was seldom touched.
Hugh Malco, Nevin Noll, and their favorite bartender had a celebratory dinner at Mary Mahoney’s. Thick steaks, expensive wines, no expense was spared. Because the restaurant was crowded and people were watching, they controlled their euphoria and tried to give the appearance of old friends just having dinner. Occasionally, though, they whispered pleasant thoughts and exchanged grim smiles.
For Hugh, the occasion was bittersweet. He was delighted Jesse Rudy was gone, but so was his father. Lance should be dining with them and savoring the moment.
* * *
Lance heard it on the ten o’clock news out of Jackson. He stared at a fifteen-inch black-and-white television with rabbit ears and took in the face of Jesse Rudy as the anchor breathlessly reported his death.
From across the hall, Monk asked, “Ain’t he the guy who sent you here?”
“That’s him,” Lance said with a smile.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Not a clue.”
Monk laughed and said, “Right.”
The report switched to a shot of the Biloxi courthouse. A voiceover said, “Although authorities have yet to comment, a source tells us that Jesse Rudy was killed instantly around noon today when an explosion occurred in his office. About a dozen other people were injured. The investigators will make a statement tomorrow.”
* * *
At midnight, the truck was still there.
There was a flurry in the tent at 12:45 when the contents of a garbage can were spread on a table for a look. In addition to the usual litter and crap, a small unidentified device was found, along with a short-sleeved UPS shirt once worn by someone named Lyle. The FBI explosives expert took one look and said, “That’s the detonator.”
The 2:00 a.m. cigarette was forgotten as Lewis supervised the sickening task of removing the corpse. Jesse’s remains were pieced together on a stretcher. An ambulance took him to the basement of the hospital where the city leased a room for its morgue. There, he would await an autopsy, though the cause of death was obvious.