A middle-aged woman—a physical therapist by her ID card—entered and introduced herself. She was heavyset and to the point. “The nurses in the CWA told me you’re the guy. In charge of catching those bikers? I have a daughter who lives out in Simi….” Her thought trailed off into a dark corner. “You catch those guys.”
She pulled the sheets off Dray and rearranged her body with practiced, no-nonsense movements. Dray’s arms looked thin, dwarfed by her belly.
“How’s she doing?” Tim asked.
“Still not arousable to stimuli. No purposeful movements. The doc says the baby’s going strong, so that’s good.”
She grasped Dray’s calf and foot and rocked the leg, as if shaking off dust, then bent it back. She repeated the motion a few times before switching legs. He watched her work. Seeing Dray animated, even falsely, gave him a stab of irrational hopefulness.
Tim cleared his throat. “What can I expect here?”
“There are significant variations based on the nature of the injury—”
“No bullshit,” he said softly. “Please.”
She paused and regarded him, Dray’s foot in hand, before returning to her task. For a moment Tim thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then, without looking up, she said, “I can’t speak to brain damage. My area of expertise is muscle atrophy. She has a week or two before there’s appreciable deterioration. Rehabilitation gets harder after that. And, you know, the likelihood that …”
“That she won’t be able to.”
The physical therapist contemplated Dray’s leg bends with renewed focus. Tim watched the knee rise, fall, rise.
Think this is the best use of your time?
“Shut up, Dray.”
The therapist caught his murmur, raised an eyebrow in his direction.
I miss you, too, babe, but you have more important things to do than watch me play cadaver Twister.
Tim watched the physical therapist rotate Dray’s foot in precise circles.
So you won’t leave?
Not right now.
Make yourself useful, then.
The therapist placed Dray’s heel on her own shoulder and elevated the leg to stretch the hamstring, her fingers laced to brace the knee straight. She finished and jotted a few notes on her clipboard.
“Can I?”
She looked up at Tim, surprised. Her eyes twinkled with a sad grin that never made it to the rest of her face. “Of course, hon.”
Tim set his holstered gun on the neighboring chair and rose. The therapist paused at the door, monitoring him before withdrawing.
Tim started at the beginning of the routine. Dray’s bare sole fit perfectly, as always, in the curve of his hand. He’d stretched her enough, before their early-morning runs, to note that her muscles were now tight and cranky. He rotated her arms, compressed her shoulders, kneaded her neck.
He kissed her cool lips before slipping on his holster and heading back to work.
31
Wristwatch Annie shoulder-slumped against the chain-link outside the Sinners’ clubhouse, twisting a high heel into the curb and negotiating with a guy in a gray Pinto who was leaning across his passenger seat, john style. Despite the weather she wore a miniskirt, her leather jacket huffing around her shoulders.
When Tim slammed the door of the Explorer and headed across the street, the guy sped off. Despite having grabbed no more than a few hours’ sleep, Tim felt surprisingly lucid.
Annie dropped a Baggie to the curb and slid it back with her heel until it slipped through the sewer grates. She smiled sweetly at Tim, showing off matching shelves of creative dentition.
Tim nodded at the grate through which the drugs had made their getaway. “Crank or heroin?”
Her eyes had the infinity stare, pupils dilated wider than the morning sun allowed. “Just sugar, sugar.”
“You’d better be careful. I’ll write you up for littering.”
She returned his smile. “You’re a naughty boy. Go to my room.”
“How’d you get the name Wristwatch Annie?”
“You really wanna know?”
He’d fallen into his and Dray’s bed last night grateful for his exhaustion; he’d been unable to muster the energy to be mournful. The light had never made it on, so he’d barely distinguished the house as his home—he’d entered a dark box, slept, and left while the air was still slate at the windows. Knowing he was on the Sinners’ hit list, he’d gone as he’d come, over the back fence, a fugitive on his own property.
A Christmas morning very different from the one he would have chosen to wake up to. Annie’s game attitude lightened it up, for a moment.
It required three separate parties to escort Tim through the yard and clubhouse upstairs to Uncle Pete’s room. Hound Dog, looking displeased beneath his fluffy topknot, balanced atop a card table. Sitting on what looked like a reinforced piano bench, Uncle Pete revved up an electric razor and sculpted the poodle’s tail pom-pom. Curls of white hair clung to Uncle Pete’s forearms and lay like shorn wool at his feet. The dog’s lip wrinkled into a soundless growl at Tim’s appearance.
Ash-laden cigarette dangling aesthetically from the corner of his mouth, Uncle Pete flicked the razor at the dog’s underbelly. His arm jiggled; stretch marks interrupted his biceps tattoo like vertical blinds. He wore a black shirt with white block letters across the chest: DEEP THINKER. Aphoristic T-shirts seemed a bikerwear staple.
“This here”—Pete leaned back, admiring his work—“this here’s the English-saddle clip. Standard poodles are like Harleys—well-designed machines. Waterfowl retrievers. Truffle hunters. Vaudeville performers. They’re the smartest dogs, you know that? Clean, too. They don’t shed. You leave that to us, don’t you, Hound Dog?”
In response the poodle made a sound like a whinny.
Uncle Pete’s eyes finally pulled north, taking in Tim. “Where’s your backup? The spic and the muscle? Ain’t you worried we gonna carve you up?”
“Not a bit.”
Pete pinched his cigarette like a joint, sucking a final inhale. The ash fell across his chest, and he brushed it to the carpet with a few delicate flicks of his hand.
“Diamond Dog showed up dead,” Tim said. “Wouldn’t you know it, he was running with Goat.”
A flicker of alarm showed in Uncle Pete’s face before receding beneath his usual calm. It was only an instant, but it was precisely what Tim was looking for.
“No matter how I try to keep those boys away from trouble …” Pete shook his head. “Ain’t it the damnedest thing?”
“The damnedest.”
Uncle Pete lifted Hound Dog off the card table, the dog licking his face until he set him down.
“Diamond Dog’s one of yours,” Tim said. “Not a nomad. This case is at your doorstep now. Thought I’d give you a knock-and-notice.”
“Characteristically thoughtful.”
“Just another service we provide to taxpaying citizens.”
Uncle Pete puffed out his cheeks with a troubled sigh. “Shucks, that is bad news about Dog. A lot of my mother-club boys are discipline problems. Impervious to reform, no matter how we try. Now and then they run with the wrong crowd, choose a lifestyle that’s socially irresponsible. You let me know if there’s any way I or the Laughing Sinners can be of assistance. Deputy.” His head was pulled back contemptuously, the stick of braided beard pointing at Tim like a gun barrel. “In the meantime I’d recommend you watch yourself. These are some deep, dark rabbit holes you’re scurrying down. Keep up the pace, some of the boys might be inclined to start shooting back.”
“We got you in our sights now.”
“Yeah, Trouble?”
The doorknob twisted behind Tim, and he turned as Dana Lake entered. A Christmas Day house call spoke to the size of the retainer checks she was depositing. She tossed her sleek briefcase onto the recently vacated card table and shoved her seventies-porn-star tinted glasses up onto her perm. “Conversation over.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, “it
is.”
“I thought I made myself clear earlier, Deputy Rackley. This afternoon I’ll file a complaint with the IA division of the Marshals Service and start a record with the federal prosecutor.” Dana produced a sheaf of filled-out complaint forms. “If you bully my client one more time, you’ll find yourself facing a civil action for the violation of my client’s constitutional rights, a restraining order, and harassment charges.”
Tim kept his eyes on Uncle Pete. “You feeling harassed?”
Pete held up his hand, thumb and forefinger calibrating about a half inch of air.
“My client’s feelings aren’t your concern. Nor is he one of the disenfranchised slobs you’re used to intimidating, and I’m not some lowrent public defender who just limped through Boalt. You push us, we push back harder. This is a different league, Deputy. Watch that the rarefied air doesn’t make you light-headed.” The forms disappeared back into the fine-grain leather. “In the meantime I’ll be handling the substantial casework from the series of raids you and your death squad carried out last night. You keep killing Sinners, you’ll pay off my mortgage.”
“I’m surprised it’s not already paid off.”
“I meant on the house in Vail.” Dana snapped her briefcase closed. “Say good-bye, Mr. Rackley. You want to see my client again, you’d better bring a warrant and formal charges.”
“That,” Tim said, “seems like a fair arrangement.”
“Don’t let the bikers hit you on your way out.”
Uncle Pete grinned. “You heard the woman. Believe me, you don’t want to cross swords with this bitch.” He moved to smack her on the ass, but she caught his hand at the wrist and threw it away, her eyes never leaving Tim’s.
Another pinkie-free mistress led Tim back downstairs. Outside, the two Sinners standing guard over Dana’s platinum Jag convertible threw Tim matching glares.
He offered a grin. “Feliz Navidad.”
32
A rush of deputies hit Tim at the command post’s door. “We got the time of death back on Meat Marquez,” Thomas said. “Seventy-two hours, give or take. That puts us back to the early morning after Den and Kaner’s breakout—”
“The bomb diagrams you found at Chief’s?” Zimmer was animated, his voice higher than usual. “We matched the handwriting to TomTom. Pulled a sample from his booking sheet in an old police report. The specs on the design for the saddlebag special that killed Frankie was in his hand, too.”
“—can’t link anything from Chief’s to the mother chapter,” Freed was saying.
“Or from the warehouse,” Thomas chimed in. “Aside from Diamond Dog’s dead ass, of course.”
Tim waded forward into the room. Someone had hung Chief’s originals on the wall, like a scalp. Four empty nails beside it awaited the other jackets.
Exemplary professionalism. You gonna let that stand, Task Force Leader?
Tim sighed and pulled Chief’s jacket down, then used the hammer to pop the nails from the drywall—game over. There was no need for a speech; the others could take his implication. He turned, dusting his hands and picking up where he’d left off. “Blood match from the embalming table?”
Thomas again: “Still waiting on the lab. But they came back on the body. Surgical incisions in the stomach. Very clean, incised wounds, like from a box cutter or scalpel. Her throat laceration had some abraded edges and bridging of the connective tissue—it was cut with something bigger, a hunting knife maybe. Sounds like Den Laurey to me.”
“Any organs removed?”
“Yes, but all accounted for. Stomach was sliced up pretty good.”
Tim sought Freed in the cluster of men. “You locate Diamond Dog’s bike last night?”
“Nope. I blanketed the area. Not a single chopper.”
“Where are we with Chief’s credit card?”
“Getting a warrant.”
“Lean on that judge. Or find another. How’s Guerrera?”
Maybeck: “Shook up and making it worse by pretending not to be.”
Bear alone was sitting, a still presence in the swirls of movement. Tim dropped into the chair beside him. “Well?”
“CSI finished sorting the Dumpster trash. The bag I found was the only hit. It was stuffed with bloody rags.” Bear inhaled and held his breath for a count, troubled. “They also found these loose among the other crap.”
He tilted a manila envelope and a crime-scene Baggie slapped the table. It held three rolls of film. Black and white. ISO 1600. Each was numbered with a red pen.
“No latents, but CSI matched the red ink to a pen in the warehouse office. Given that the warehouse is deserted and the Dumpster gets emptied weekly, there’s low odds that someone else besides Diamond Dog, Goat, and Co. tossed these in there.” Bear held up his hand. “But before you get excited …”
“What?”
“They’re blank. Unexposed.”
Tim rocked back in his chair, disappointed. “What kind of film is it?”
“Used mostly by professionals. It’s super high-speed, which yields lower resolution. Best for low-light conditions, motion, grainy arthouse shit.”
“I doubt Cindy Crawford’s limo was en route.”
“So what, then? Snuff shots of Marisol?”
“What stopped them?”
“Maybe they used rolls four through six.”
“Get it developed.”
“There’s nothing to see. I told you, it hasn’t been shot yet.”
“Just have it processed. Maybe there’s a hidden image or something. Anything.” Tim pivoted in his chair. “What gives on Goat?”
Malane, sitting calmly, said, “He’s under hospitalization.”
“Let’s press him. Where is he?”
“Unconscious.”
“That’s not a location.”
“For him it is.” Malane returned Tim’s gaze, stonewalling him.
“I’m getting tired of fucking around with you.” At Tim’s tone the room quieted. “Where’s the fugitive we took into custody?”
“I can’t disclose that at this time.”
Bear stood and walked over to Malane so the agent had to lean back in his chair to look up at him. “I’ve about hit my limit. I’ll ask you once: What are you up to?”
Bear’s quiet voice drew Tim to his feet; the only time he worried about Bear was when he got unreasonably calm. Though Malane met Bear’s eyes, he made no move to rise. Tim was unsure whether he was contemplating an answer or merely staring back, but either way Bear’s patience didn’t seem likely to hold.
The door banged open, and Tannino stormed in. “Get this bullshit.” He grabbed the remote from the tabletop and raised the volume on the TV in the corner.
Melissa Yueh, more shoulder-padded than usual, was wrapping her report. “—confirming, at the abandoned warehouse FBI forces stormed late last night here in Simi.” Footage rolled of an FBI task force— agency initials rendered in camera-friendly yellow block letters on raid jackets—storming the empty cinder-block facility. Tim took note of the sky’s coloring—dawn, probably an hour or two after the Service had cleared out. No one could question the FBI’s proficiency at PR.
“You did a fucking raid simulation for the cameras?” Tannino tugged at his collar, his affect blown Archie Bunker broad. “After my guys risked their asses in there?”
Melissa Yueh egged him with her curt, newsroom delivery. “A Bureau spokesman confirmed for KCOM that this is the first arrest in the escalating turf war between the Laughing Sinners and the Cholos.”
Tannino unleashed a stream of invective at Malane, some of it in English. The deputies watched, arms folded, wearing told-you-so expressions. Even Jim, who’d been sulking in the corner, perked up a bit at the dramatics. Malane stood and leaned forward into the tirade, fists on the tabletop, repeating quietly, “Take it up with my supervisor.”
A court security officer yelled over the commotion. “CSI line four.”
Tim pointed and mouthed, “Other room.” He pulled Bear
—who was relishing the confrontation—toward the door. On his way past the marshal, Tim leaned over and said, “He also took Goat to an undisclosed location. We have no access to our prisoner. Take that up with his supervisor, too, please.”
They could hear Tannino’s shouts all the way down the hall. They ducked into an empty conference room, and Bear knuckled the blinking light, then the speakerphone button.
Aaronson’s voice came through. As usual he was distracted, speaking slowly. “I was processing the embalming table, right? And I picked up this hair tangled in the gutter drain. It was black, not dyed orange like the others, so I ran the follicle—short tandem repeats to check the DNA. We got these new kits from Cofiler, they’re much faster—”
“Aaronson,” Bear said. “The DNA.”
“Well, it doesn’t belong to Marisol Juarez. It belongs to another woman who recently died. Jennifer Villarosa.”
“Why’s Villarosa’s DNA on record?” Bear asked. “She a felon?”
“A soldier. They got her DNA in the system before Iraq, the optimists.”
“How’d she die? And when?”
“Accidental, two months ago. But the really weird thing is …”
“Yeah?” Tim and Bear asked together.
“She died in Mexico.”
Guerrera was sitting cross-legged in the unlit basement, little more than a round shadow against the dark workout mats. He was hunched over, as if in prayer, his fingertips rimming his forehead at the hairline.
His eyes were focused on the rubber; he hadn’t raised his head at Tim and Bear’s entrance.
“We need you to take point upstairs. Let’s go—we’ll ride up with you, fill you in.” Guerrera stayed motionless, so Tim repeated, “Let’s go.”
Troubleshooter Page 16
