Shoreline Page 5

  Nora could not suppress her interest, given that mint tea was her go-to drink. She leaned in slightly to peer at the cocktail.

  “What’s in there?”

  Pete, embellishing his accent for good measure, ticked off, “Bourbon and smashed mint leaves. Sugar. Water. This incarnation is all wrong, of course. The mint should only be spearmint. It should be with shaved ice or crushed ice. And in a pewter or silver cup. But, you know. It’s Erie, not Savannah.”

  “I’d be happy to let you try it,” Anna said, “but I was in fact paying attention to everything you just said.”

  Nora gave her a grateful smile, then turned to Pete. “So, I’ve told you why I don’t drink. Now, you tell me why you’re such a punk.”

  Pete blinked at her in mute surprise.

  Anna was chuckling soundlessly, then she patted Nora on the shoulder appreciatively. “Nora, it’s about time you came out of your shell. Welcome to happy hour!”

  Pete shook his head. “I am not a punk.”

  “You act like some kind of obnoxious frat boy.”

  Anna raised an index finger, indicating she had the appropriate response. “Football player, not frat boy. Although you were probably that too.…”

  “No, not a frat boy. But I was a quarterback.”

  “Much sought after by the ladies,” Anna added.

  Pete was nodding. “Once. Now I’m having a hard time getting past a Venti.”

  Anna and Nora exchanged knowing glances.

  “But you disappoint me, Miss Nora. Or rather, I disappoint myself. Coming off as an obnoxious frat boy is not at all the vibe I was going for.”

  Nora took the bait. “And what vibe would that be, exactly?”

  He shook his head. “Miss Nora. The South has three things going for it and three things only. Chivalry, barbecue, and the mint julep. Given your stances on pork and alcohol, all I can extend to you is chivalry. I shall, given the new blossoming of our friendship, endeavor always to impress upon you that I am not an obnoxious frat boy at all, but, indeed, a southern gentleman par excellence.”

  As Nora digested this monologue, a loud crack tore through the air, followed by a thunderous crash. The walls of the Commodore Perry shook, its windows rattling in their frames.

  “What the hell?” said Pete, rising and looking about him.

  Screams erupted all around them.

  “Across the street,” Anna shouted.

  The three tore toward the entrance, yanking open the heavy oaken door.

  Nora saw smoke pouring out of the bank on the opposite corner and three figures clad entirely in black leaping onto three motorcycles. They were white, late 30s perhaps. One had a goatee. Each carried an over-stuffed backpack, and all three had rifles slung over their shoulders on wide black straps. The bikes started almost in unison, their engines adding to the uproar on the street.

  Nora and Pete looked at each other, then dashed across the street in pursuit, guns drawn.

  “Out of the way,” Pete shouted.

  Nora found herself crying out those same words, over and over, but the festival-goers had densely packed the area, and now all of them seemed paralyzed with shock, many screaming. The bikers were weaving in and out among the crowd, and both agents dodged left and right, in and out, desperate to catch up, intent on getting a clear shot and dislodging one of the men.

  Their shouts did not go unnoticed, however. Each of the bikers had cast backward glances at the pursuing agents, and each one seemed to be increasing the speed and the determination with which they darted through the crowds.

  Pete had collided with a pedestrian, knocking her down and unbalancing himself—but Nora agilely darted through the crowds. She heard the wail of police sirens behind her and knew that no police car could navigate the crush of pedestrians to reach the fleeing motorcyclists. The bikes now roared along State Street, and she knew that they were headed for the Bayfront Parkway. If she could just get beyond the pedestrian congestion, she could get a clear shot.… She ran as fast as she could, angry with herself for not having worn sneakers to work. The hard black loafers slapped against the pavement as she approached the third biker.

  “Out of the way!” she screamed at an obese woman in a violently pink sundress who was standing, stunned, several yards in front of her, but blocking the most direct angle of pursuit of the bikers.

  The woman scurried to the left as Nora’s shoes slid slightly on the sidewalk. Nora steadied herself, then took aim at the third biker’s back wheel. She fired. Immediately the bike skidded out of control, and the biker tumbled onto the street. The bike careened, spinning, toward Nora and as she dashed to get out of the way, the second biker doubled back in a wide, rapid arc. The unseated motorcyclist leapt onto the back of his partner’s bike.

  Once settled, the last biker swiveled in his seat and aimed his rifle at Nora.

  She barely had time to throw herself behind yet another row of motorcycles, hoping the web of metallic frames would provide enough cover. Her eyes widened as she realized she could see the bullet streaking out of the rifle, its trajectory lit red. The round ripped into the gas tank of the first motorcycle in the row. The bike exploded, hurtling against the brick wall behind Nora in flames. Nora tucked herself into a ball as shards of scalding metal rained down on the pavement and the screaming crowd.

  It was State Street’s second explosion of the day—the second in its history.

  * * *

  The EMTs were fast in coming. Hamot Hospital was only a block away, after all. Nora sat on the sidewalk, with Pete next to her, as the paramedic treated the burns across her arms, neck, and back. The metal had burned right through her clothing, and Nora would rather have gone to the back of the ambulance than expose so much flesh to the paramedic, or, for that matter, to her partner and the passersby. But each ambulance she saw was already filled with festival-goers being treated for burns that were similar if not worse. The fat lady in the pink dress was not far down the curb from her, and her exposed left shoulder wore an angry burn.

  Nora realized, too, that no one was concerned with the amount of skin she herself was showing as the paramedic wrapped her wounds. Shock and disbelief were visible on the faces of each person in the street. Even those uninjured seemed to need to sit on the sidewalk, dazed, until being shooed away by the law enforcement officers. The cops were moving the colorful sawhorses used for festival crowd control to block off the side streets, barring the media trucks from approaching. Overhead the NBC chopper occasionally dipped and then headed out again. Pete had just explained that the pursuing police cars had never even been able to catch sight of the bikers after they had reached the Bayfront Parkway. It was as though they had simply disappeared. The news station gave access to the police for aerial searches in a crisis. There would be two cops riding along with a reporter, following possible routes they thought the motorcycles would have taken.

  Nora gazed at the helicopter with its overly-cheerful peacock emblazoned on the side.

  “Any bank robber is going to have figured that part out, though, right?” she asked Pete. “They wouldn’t just cruise down the interstate until they get to Mexico or wherever. They’re going to go somewhere close, some temporary safe house. Switch vehicles. Then go on.”

  When the EMT had finished with the bandaging, he looked at Nora and told her she needed to go to the ER. “Sure,” Nora said, thanking him and determining that that was the last thing she’d do.

  “You got some kinda hospital phobia?” Pete was asking.

  “Got a time phobia, Peter. I’m fine, and I don’t want to waste time.”

  Pete looked at her. “You were pretty zippy, there, Agent Khalil.”

  Nora smiled at him. “Pretty poor results, though.”

  “We have a motorcycle we would not have otherwise had.”

  Nora nodded, gazing at the motorcycle that still lay on its side on the street. A few police officers were staking it off with yellow tape. “I don’t know how much we’ll get off it. He was we
aring gloves. They all were.”

  Gloves, leather … a goatee … Nora was raking through her memories of the men, trying to recall hair color and skin tones.

  “We’ll be able to figure out a VIN number, probably.”

  Nora considered this, then got lost a moment, reflecting on what she’d just seen. “Pretty tough, that guy, huh?” she said finally.

  Pete agreed. “I saw what happened. You made an excellent shot. He popped up like a daisy after falling off that bike. I don’t think I could have done that. And then have the presence of mind to take that shot at you. Ballsy.”

  Nora cringed, remembering how he’d made eye contact with her. His eyes had been hard and angry. She could not recall their color. It bothered her.

  “Who does that, though?” Pete asked.

  “Huh? Which part?”

  “Robbing a bank. It’s the age of the Internet. I thought we were all just raiding each other’s checking accounts now or charging shit up on strangers’ Visa cards.”

  Nora smiled despite herself. She didn’t know. She had never dealt with robbers. At least not since she was around six or seven, when she’d proved herself a virtually uncatchable robber in Coxe Park.

  “That was a legit bank heist,” Pete said. “Like in a movie.”

  Nora gazed at him bemusedly. “I swear sometimes you sound twelve to me.”

  Pete smiled. “Part of my charm.”

  Anna walked up to report that what was left of the bank guard’s body was being retrieved from the scene. She plunked herself down on the curb next to Nora. “You okay there?”

  Nora nodded. “Fine. Do we have tape yet?”

  “Yes, it’s being taken to the office now. As soon as you’re ready, Pete, we should go. But Nora, we’ll take you home first.”

  “I’m fine,” she protested. “I want to come.”

  “You’re covered in bandages and your shirt is in shreds.”

  Nora pursed her lips. “Pete was about to gallantly hand me his blazer.”

  Obediently, Pete shrugged out of his blazer and handed it to Nora. Anna shook her head. “Double-teaming me already? Good. I like the bonding.”

  “We got numbers yet?” Pete asked.

  Anna nodded. “They let the branch manager walk out with the two tellers. She said the haul was probably slightly north of 900 K.”

  Pete whistled, extending his hand to Nora who allowed him to help her up from the curb.

  The three started walking south on State toward the office. Sheila was standing on the sidewalk, speaking to the police officers who came and went. Their office had no bomb squad. As with so many other things, they relied on the local talent. There were five police officers—three from the Erie Police Department, one from the Sheriff’s Department, and one from a suburb called Millcreek. Sheila watched as they trolled through the wreckage, one ear pressed against her BlackBerry, the other tilted toward whoever came up to report back to her.

  Nora’s eye fell on the cop standing with her. He had taken off the ballistic helmet and Kevlar jacket of the bomb disposal suit, but still wore the bulky, steel-plated pants and over-shoes. His sweat-soaked T-shirt redundantly proclaimed the words “Bomb Squad.” Sweat streamed from a thick shock of gray-streaked blond hair. He wore his badge around his neck on a lanyard that flopped against his prominent gut. He nodded at the trio. “Hey, Anna. Pete.” He nodded at Nora. His blue eyes were tired, his face grave.

  “Nora Khalil,” Anna said, by way of introduction. “New kid. Nora, Abe Berberovic.”

  “Nora. Hi.”

  “What do you think, Abe?” asked Pete.

  “Not much to think. It’s pretty straightforward. Easiest home bomb ever. Ammonium nitrate, fuel oil. Witnesses say they heard a gun fired. I assume they shot it with an incendiary bullet as they walked out.”

  “Tracer? He shot a tracer at me,” Nora volunteered quickly.

  “Yes,” Abe nodded. “I’d figured that’s what ignited the fuel tank on that motorcycle. You okay?”

  Nora nodded.

  “Well, the bank guard wasn’t as lucky. They let the two tellers and the manager go, but they’d strapped the guard to the bomb.”

  The agents nodded somberly. Abe wriggled out of the rest of his suit, then went to place it in the armored bomb squad vehicle. Then, he fell into step with them, wiping his flushed, sweat-streaked cheeks fruitlessly against the wetter sleeves of his T-shirt. “I’ll come back and look at the tapes with you. But I assume we’ll see these guys walk in with a big bag of some sort. I’m guessing they knew that the armored car would be coming to collect today.”

  “Still, they had to know that no homemade bomb could break through a bank vault,” Sheila was saying.

  “Certainly,” Abe agreed.

  “Then why bomb it if they had already gotten the money at gunpoint?”

  The cop shrugged. “That’s going to be your driving question, I reckon.”

  Sheila sighed. Then she dropped back to walk next to Nora. “Pursuing rifle-toting bank robbers on foot and without Kevlar, Agent Khalil?”

  The mispronunciation made Nora’s skin crawl, but she nodded, waiting.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Sheila’s tone was terse, irritated. “Not my favorite move.”

  Nora said nothing.

  “Still, I appreciate what you were able to do. At least we have one vehicle. You didn’t harm any civilians.” Sheila paused in her walking. “Even so, you drew his fire and put many in harm’s way.”

  Nora looked at her boss. She bit back several different responses. Sometimes … you just go. She’d learned it from five years on Philly streets. Sometimes you just click into gear and there’s no thinking, there’s no calculating. You just go.

  Sheila didn’t look like someone who had ever felt it. Sheila looked like she and her desk were inseparable. Nora knew she was flustered now because this bank robbery was the biggest thing that had ever happened in Erie and she was worried about how to manage it.

  They had arrived at the building that housed their office. Before entering, Nora cast a glance over her shoulder at the blackened maw of the bank’s front lobby. She recalled the biker’s hard eyes. She decided that Sheila’s worry was well-founded.

  * * *

  Abe Berberovic was in love with Anna. It took about thirty seconds after they all sat down to go over the tapes for Nora to observe this. First surprised, then bemused, she took to watching his eyes skate over Anna’s face. No one else seemed to notice. They all sipped at the coffee Maggie brought them as Pete booted up the laptop and tried to sort out the operating system required to display the footage rendered by the bank security cameras.

  Nora had known better than to ask Maggie for tea; she was clearly pissed that, on a day when she had elected to stay later than usual to finish up some work, she had gotten roped into staying extra late. The explosion and loss of life thing apparently left the woman wholly indifferent.

  But when Nora realized Abe wasn’t touching his coffee either, she said, “I’m going to make some tea. Abe?”

  He looked up at her, his tired eyes kind. “Yes, actually. Sounds great.”

  Without looking up from the report she was filling out, Anna said, “Nora, you should put mint in Abe’s, too.” This was said so casually that Nora’s suspicions were immediately confirmed.

  The crinkles around Abe’s eyes intensified now as he recognized Nora’s look of comprehension.

  Smiling, Nora took an extra moment to stop by her locker. Her old blue backpack still held the Penn T-shirt Ahmad had given her the day he got his acceptance letter. She dug for it and then headed for the restroom. Cautiously she slid out of Pete’s blazer and her tattered Oxford shirt, twisting right and left to get a full sense of the bandaging job the EMT had done. There were half a dozen small burns, the largest being on her lower back. She felt grateful none of the hot metal had rained down on her face; she had curled herself into the tightest ball she could—that Quantico training kicking in. The most annoying o
f the burns was on the back of her neck, just below her chignon. She would have to wear her hair higher, as already the friction of the thick knot of hair against the bandage was uncomfortable. She tugged the elastic out and let loose the tumble of curls. Her hair smelled acrid. She gathered it into a quick ponytail for now, and headed back to the conference room.

  By the time she came back with their teas, the footage of the robbery was ready to play.

  It had all happened very, very fast. One of the men had smashed the lobby door with the butt of his rifle and then all three burst in. One was indeed carrying a huge duffle. While the first man subdued the startled guard and began duct-taping him to the duffle itself, the other two held the three female employees at gunpoint. It seemed clear that all of the men were shouting and gesturing. Once the guard was bound to the duffle, all three men leapt over the teller counters and a rapid exchange ensued with the bank manager and both tellers. Two men began stuffing their backpacks with the money sacks which had evidently just been taken out of the vault for armored car pickup, while the tallest man aimed his weapon at the women. Each woman stood with raised, trembling hands, her gaze riveted on the rifle that swung back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. Finally, their backpacks zipped, all three men shooed the women out through the broken glass doors and into the street. Upon exiting, the tallest man whirled, pointed his rifle at the duffle bag and fired.

  The streaking bullet was visible even on the black and white tape.

  And then blackness.

  Sheila looked around the room at them, then said, “Pete, please play it again.”

  Pete moved the cursor back to the beginning. This time, when the men entered the lobby, Anna said, “Pause.”

  Pete paused the feed.

  She was frowning, watching the video from over the rims of her reading glasses as she made notes on the legal pad in front of her. “Can you zoom in?”

  The faces on the screen were grainy, but for the most part clear.