Triple Threat Read Free Page A

trickiest. He’s senior in the organization and he’s not the least shaken by the collar.” She nodded toward the perp, who was lecturing nearby officers relentlessly about the destruction of the Individual by Government—he was supplying the capitalization. “He’s going to be trickier to break. Paulson’s been wounded and that’ll make him more vulnerable.” She could see that Nichols was considering this. “I think, our different styles, background, yours and mine, it’d make sense for me to take Keplar, you take Paulson.”
    Nichols squinted against some momentary glare as a roll of fog vanished. “Who’s Paulson exactly?”
    O’Neil answered. “Seems to be the technician. He’d know about device, if that’s what they’ve planted. Even if he doesn’t tell you directly, he could give something away that’d let us figure out what’s going on.” The Monterey detective wouldn’t know exactly why Dance wanted Keplar and not Gabe but he’d picked up on her preference and he was playing along.
    This wasn’t completely lost on the FBI agent. Nichols would be considering a lot of things. Did Dance’s idea to split up the interrogation make sense? Did she and he indeed have different interrogation styles and background? Also, he’d know that O’Neil and Dance were close and they might be double teaming him in some way, though he might not figure out to what end. He might have thought she was bluffing, hoping that he’d pick Wayne Keplar, because she herself wanted Gabe Paulson for some reason. Or he might have decided that all was good and it made sense for him to take the wounded perp.
    Whatever schematics were drawn in his mind, he debated a long moment and then agreed.
    Dance nodded. “I’ll call my associate, have Paulson brought over here.”
    She gestured to the two CHP officers towering over Wayne Keplar. He was hoisted to his feet and led to Dance, O’Neil and Nichols. Albert Stemple—who weighed twice what the suspect did—took custody with a no-nonsense grip on the man’s scrawny arm.
    Keplar couldn’t take his eyes off the FBI agents, “Do you know the five reasons the federal government is a travesty?”
    Dance wanted him to shut up—she was afraid Nichols would change his mind and drag the perp off himself.
    “First, economically. I—”
    “Whatever,” Nichols muttered and wandered off to await his own prisoner.
    Dance nodded and Stemple escorted Keplar to a CBI unmarked Dodge and inserted him into the backseat.
    Michael O’Neil would stay to supervise the crime scene here, canvassing for witnesses and searching for evidence—possibly items thrown from the car that might give them more information about the site of the attack.
    As she got into her personal vehicle, a gray Nissan Pathfinder, Dance called to Nichols and O’Neil, “And remember: We have two and a half hours. We’ve got to move fast.”
    She pulled out her phone, briefed TJ Scanlon about Paulson and Nichols and turned on the flashing lights suctioned to her windshield.
    1:52.
    Dance left rubber on the concrete as she sped out of the parking lot.
    Fast…
    # # #
    Albert Stemple was parked outside CBI, looking with some contempt at the press vans that were lolling near the front door. Dance parked behind him. She strode to the Dodge.
    A reporter—a man with an aura of Jude Law, if not the exact looks—pushed to the barricade and thrust a microphone their way.
    “Kathryn! Kathryn Dance! Dan Simmons, The True Story dot com.”
    She knew him. A sensationalist reporter who oozed toward the more tawdry aspects of a story like slugs to Dance’s doomed vegetable garden.
    Simmons’s cameraman, a squat, froggy man with crinkly and unwashed hair, aimed a fancy Sony videocam their way as if about to launch a rocket-propelled grenade.
    “No comment on anything, Dan.” She and Stemple shoehorned Wayne Keplar out of the car.
    The reporter ignored her. “Can you give us your name?” Aimed at the suspect.
    Keplar was