License to Thrill

disheveled, which struck her as funny for some reason, and she smiled up at him. He leaned closer, tilted his head and winked at her, but his eyes were still clouded with concern.
    The paramedics arrived and shuffled her onto a stretcher, then rolled her into an ambulance. She wasn't sure if James had accompanied her until she felt his hand on her socked foot. Where were her shoes?
    Then they were moving and she could make out the lower pitch of the siren through the shrill hum drilling through her head. A blue-coated paramedic leaned over her and said something once, then twice, but she didn't understand him. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, sounds around her began to filter in—the bass of the ambulance engine, the muted voices of James and the paramedic talking. She grunted to see if she could hear herself, a noise that brought James and the paramedic back to her side.
    "James?" she yelled—at least it sounded like a yell, except hollow and echoing. His lips moved, then his face blurred as darkness crept over her, and he slipped away.

    *****

    Tenner's face was grim as he walked into the deserted waiting area where James stood fidgeting, pacing—anything to keep from screaming in frustration.
    "It was a pipe bomb in the van, wasn't it?" James asked from across the room.
    The detective nodded and expelled a noisy breath, dragging his hand through his sparse hair. "How's Ms. McKray?"
    "Lots of cuts and bruises and a mild concussion, but the doctors say she'll be fine." James massaged his neck, then rolled his shoulder. "A few steps closer to the van and she would’ve been—" He stopped, unable to say the word.
    "How about you?" Tenner asked. "Looks like you got nicked yourself."
    James touched the bandage at his temple and scoffed. "It's just a scratch—I let them dress it to be near Kat."
    "What the devil happened?"
    The fury and helplessness he'd managed to hold at bay ballooned in his chest, threatening to break him apart. "Bloody hell, man, she was almost killed right in front of me, that's what happened!" Then he turned and slammed his hand into the wall and leaned against it as the blessed, comforting pain subsided.
    He heard the detective walk closer, then the creak of a chair being filled with a big body. "Won't do her no good if you go bustin' yourself up, son."
    James closed his eyes, then sighed and slowly turned around, massaging his knuckles. "I did that for myself, not for Kat."
    "I need to file a report," Tenner said gruffly.
    Lowering himself into a vinyl seat across from Tenner, James nodded.
    "A woman called a local newspaper and claimed responsibility for the bomb."
    Astonishment washed over him. "What?"
    "The guy said she sounded Asian—maybe Chinese. Some rambling message about abortion clinics—there's been a rash of small bombings lately... no fatalities, though."
    James frowned in confusion. "This was some kind of random political statement?"
    Tenner frowned. "In my opinion, no. I'd say someone wanted to kill Ms. McKray and made the phone call to throw us off, or some nut took it upon herself to claim the bombing. Now, tell me what happened."
    James took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and repeated every detail he could recall from the time Tenner had left them alone in the gallery to the time of the explosion.
    "Did you see anyone hanging around the parking lot?"
    "No."
    "How about anyone pulling away in a vehicle when you came outside?"
    "No."
    Tenner grunted. "You're both damned lucky, if you ask me."
    "How could someone plant a bomb in her van—wasn't it searched when they towed it in?"
    "Yep, clean as a whistle."
    "How about before it was towed back?"
    "Can't be sure, but anyone who would sneak into a police impound lot and plant a pipe bomb has got gonads the size of my bowling ball."
    "So the bomb was planted after the van was returned to the gallery?"
    "That'd be my guess."
    "Has the area been sealed and everyone questioned?"
    Tenner nodded. "Yep, but now the case has been handed over to the bomb squad, and the FBI will probably step in. My squad car, along with every other car on the lot, was confiscated for evidence. That security guard Carl Jays had come by to pick up his paycheck—his Lexus was carrying a high-priced cargo."
    "Drugs?"
    "Yep. Did all his dealing at night—working midnight shifts at art galleries was the perfect cover."
    "So he didn’t have anything to do with the break-in?"
    "Looks that way."
    "So we’re down one