Chessfield Park was awash with summer sunshine in the late afternoon as pigeons walked in diagonal lines, like sentries, guarding the park path. Birdseed scattered and their patrol duty was neglected by involuntary eating, followed by chaotic cooing. Gregson gave the bird lady money and grabbed another handful of seeds.
“Did you hear what I just told you?” Murphy asked.
“Yeah, somebody wants to blow up a building full of people,” Gregson said.
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“There is always someone who wants to blow up the city. What makes you think this threat should be taken seriously?”
“The words, something about the words. You can just tell when someone means business.”
“Is that what you told the Director?”
“Of course not. The accountants are running the Bureau these days and unless they fear for their bottom line, resources don’t get attached to threats.”
“Then how are you going to find this bomber before the bomb goes off?”
“Well, if you can’t find the bomber until the bomb explodes, why don’t we go play golf?”
“You just ran a marathon.”
“I know; you’ll have an advantage when we bet; say, three-to-one odds?”
The world’s most complex problems are always simpler on the golf course, and perhaps that’s why presidents play golf. Gregson teed up his shot like it was the most important problem in the world, squinting into the sun, concentrating. “When did you say this bomb was going to go off?”
“Within 24 hours.”
“So, how much time do we have left?”
“About four hours.”
“That should be enough time for us to finish our round of golf, don’t you think?” Gregson swung, launching his ball into oblivion.
Waiting for an explosion is a lot like waiting for the fourth of July; it always happens early; So, on thirteen, it went off. BOOM! Car alarms sounded in the distance.
“You can owe me,” Gregson said.
“I don’t owe you anything; the deal was for 18. Now let’s catch this bomber. Hopefully he’s crazy, the crazy ones always leave evidence behind.”