Dark Hunger by Rita Herron Read Free Book Online Page B

the fluorescent lights.
    “Detective Crawley, ma’am.” His head bobbed slightly. “You asked to speak to a detective?”
    “Yes,” she said, then introduced herself. “I’m Annabelle Armstrong, CNN News.”
    His bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah, I recognize you from TV. You come for a story about the bombing?”
    “Actually, I was here on vacation and happened to be on River Street at the time of the explosion.” She gestured toward the back. “Can we talk?”
    He shifted awkwardly, then led her through the door to a small interrogation room with a metal table and chairs. “Coffee?”
    She nodded. “Thanks.”
    He poured them each a cup, then straddled the chair across from her. “We already had a press conference, and I covered everything we have so far.”
    She placed a photo of Quinton on the table. “Do you recognize this man?”
    Detective Crawley nodded. “Yeah, Quinton Valtrez. He works for Homeland Security. He found bomb parts in the explosion and pointed them out to our CSI.”
    So he was working with the police. Interesting.
    She laid the photo of Vigontol on the desk next. “How about this man? Do you know who he is?”
    He narrowed his eyes at the dead man’s picture. “No. Should I?”
    “He was a suspected terrorist.”
    “You think he had something to do with the bombing?”
    “I’m not certain, but it’s possible.”
    “You know where he is?”
    She produced the second photo, the one of Vigontol lying in a pool of blood. “Dead. As of last night.”
    His gaze lifted slowly to hers. “You know who killed him?”
    “Again, I can’t say until I have proof.”
    He grunted. “Well, if he was responsible for all those people’s deaths, then I say he got what he deserved.”
    So he believed in meting out justice like Quinton. Annabelle clenched her teeth. “There’s something else.” She removed her PDA. “I received a disturbing text message that you should see.”
    He unfolded reading glasses from his pocket, put them on, then read the small screen with a frown. “Who sent it?”
    “I don’t know,” Annabelle said with a hint of frustration in her voice. “That’s why I’m here. We need to try and trace it.”
    He pulled at his chin. “Don’t you think it’s probably just a prank?”
    She rolled her shoulders. “That’s possible. But what if it’s not?”
    “Why send it to you?”
    “Because I’m a reporter,” she said, “and he’s seeking attention. He wants his five minutes of fame.”
    He frowned. “It doesn’t say when or where the next one will strike, does it?”
    “No, but we should see if we can trace the message.”
    He made a grunting sound. “I guess you’re right. Although I just got word that Dr. Wynn, a forensic specialist the Feds brought in from DC, ID’d the man they thought was the suicide bomber as Warren Ames. Some locals who survived witnessed an old man in a green corduroy jacket set it off. Seems he was homeless, had been sleeping in the graveyards. Says here he lost an arm during his stint in the service and suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome. Police are trying to locate his family members or friends for questioning.” He heaved a breath as if the explanation exhausted him. “So it doesn’t sound like a terrorist cell.”
    She shivered. “Why would a homeless man kill himself and others?”
    He gave her an impatient look. “He was probably mentally ill or had a substance abuse problem.”
    “But how would he get the parts or have the knowledge to build a bomb?”
    Crawley consulted the fax on his desk. “He was a veteran. Probably learned how to make a bomb in the military. And if not, anyone can read about it on the danged Internet these days.”
    Annabelle pursed her lips, thinking. “If he’s homeless, he wouldn’t have access to the Internet.”
    He made another sound in his throat. “Right. And he’s dead, so he couldn’t have sent you a text.”
    Annabelle frowned. “But someone else could have put him