A Knife Edge by David Rollins Page A

block.”
    “You and fifty thousand others.”
    I hoped all those thousands weren't interested in the same person I was.
    Metzler elaborated. “Seems everyone living there had a dozen relatives apiece.”
    “How many you got missing?”
    “Plenty. A lot of people are buried under a hundred thousand tons of rubble. Not many managed to get out of the Four Winds alive. It went up at nine A.M. Most everyone home at that time were mothers with small children under school age, old folk, retirees—slow movers.”
    Captain Metzler was obviously affected by the things he'd seen down at what was left of the Four Winds. His chin quivered and he had to take a moment. “Could have been worse,” he continued. “If it had been hit early in the morning, we'd have had double the casualties.”
    I nodded.
    “At last count, we had a hundred and sixty-five unaccounted for. But we were missing over two hundred and fifty yesterday, so we are finding people. You been down there?”
    I shook my head. I hadn't. I've seen enough destroyed buildings with people trapped inside to know what they looked like. “What about the Transamerica building?”
    “Superficial damage, and surprisingly few casualties. They had antiblast traffic barriers in place on the street, as well as bombproof glass on the lower floors installed recently as part of a general security upgrade.”
    “Who're you looking at? Any clues?” I asked. There were rumors and guesses. Media commentators suggested the usual suspects who get fingered every time a bomb goes off in the Western world.
    “Some seriously fucked-up nutcases. I'll let you know when we narrow it down further.”
    Something about this didn't feel right. Terrorist bombings were usually meticulously planned and executed so as to cause maximum damage to life and/or property. Sure, the Transamerica hadtaken a hit, but it was more of a jab than a knockout punch. A few doors down the road at the Four Winds, however, it was a different story. The place was completely destroyed, and intentionally, according to forensics and bomb squad people. If I didn't know better, I'd have said the bombing on the Transamerica was no more than a diversionary tactic and that the real target was the apartment building. Only, why would a terrorist organization light the blue touch paper under an apartment building? I glanced at Metzler. He was watching me think, or maybe he was listening to the cogs whirring. Whatever, I had the feeling he was holding out on me. “You want to tell me what you really think happened here?” I asked.
    Metzler's arms were so tightly wrapped around himself that he looked like he was wearing a straitjacket. He unfolded his arms, picked up a pencil, and drummed it on the edge of the table beside his leg. “OK, we have got a theory,” he said. “Actually, we're hoping it's more like a coincidence.” He continued drumming on the desk, but didn't speak. Whatever this coincidence was, it appeared to be causing him some anxiety. I gave him a little push. “Didn't someone out there,” I said, gesturing at the door, “say it was important to share?”
    He gave me a half smile. “First I want to know why the DoD is sniffing around—and who is this person you're interested in? Or perhaps I should say
was
—because if he or she was in the Four Winds, there won't be much left to have any interest in.”
    “A guy doing some work for us lived in that building. I was just following up,” I said.
    “What kind of guy? A bad guy?”
    “Jury's still out on that point.”
    “Right about now I'm just lovin' this spirit of cooperation.”
    “Sorry. National security issues.” I'd given him nothing, which was basically all I was authorized to offer.
    The captain picked up another pencil from the desk and tapped out a beat with it. “I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a lid on what I'm about to tell you, at least until this afternoon when we're releasing it as a possible motive—unless something else comes