Cut back to Frye in his car, trying to hold it together inside the fogged-up windows. He can see three suited-up bomb squad guys approaching, and nervously urges them to hurry as they get to work, with less than six minutes on the timer. His cell phone rings, and this time he seems a little more receptive. Of course it's Cross, asking, "Were you on the Bridge of the Americas last night?" Frye says he was there at the office all day. "I'm not sure how that's going to help me get out of the car," he ventures, as though Cross gives a shit about that. She also asks if he knows Judge Gates. "She's from, like, cases and stuff," he babbles, clearly not concentrating on the question. Selfish prick.
The bomb squad guys are inserting a long, narrow remote camera into the car to examine the device, while Cross keeps asking Frye about whether he knows a Christina Fuentes or has ever written about Judge Gates. He's freaking out and wondering why she's asking him all this shit when he's about to get blown up, and when the timer abruptly jumps from three minutes to two -- which is totally not fair -- the bomb squad commander gives the order to fall back. Frye is left sitting there alone in his car while the bomb squad guys retire, one of them walking backward with his hands spread helplessly all, "Tough break, broham." "There's still time," he tells Cross, begging her to order the bomb squad guys back to work. I never cared for this actor in his early career, but now I'm watching him convincingly simulate the way one's lungs refuse to work properly when one is having a nightmare, and I'm quite impressed. Cross repeats, "You must talk to me. Everything will just stop. The body will feel no pain." Whoa, look who's bringing the empathy!
She tells him someone used his car to dump two bodies on the bridge, and as suspected, this is the first he's heard of it. She asks who would to this to him. Hell, who frames anyone for murder and then blows them up the next day? "I screwed over so many people," he says tearfully. She tells him not to look at the time. "Okay," he sobs, and puts his hands over his ears, which I'm sure will help.
Outside, everyone gets down, and the timer counts off its final seconds to zero. Whereupon the car... unlocks its own doors. The phone that was a timer now switches to a screen notifying receipt of a new message. Frye opens the door and spills out onto the floor of the parking ramp, sobbing. And then the car blows up. No, not really, he's fine. As anyone who recognized Matthew Lillard knew he would be. It remains to be seen whether he will continue to be a dickwad.