Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

Guerrera’s voice came low. “Maybe I could’ve just wounded him. Maybe I didn’t have to kill him.”

  “I was there,” Bear said. “You had to kill him.”

  “No one has to do anything.”

  Bear raised his eyebrows in exasperation and looked to Tim—too philosophical for his blood.

  “You’re right,” Tim said, “You wanted this, Rey. And you got it. And it doesn’t feel like you thought it would.”

  Guerrera kept staring off into the dark corners, his eyes distant.

  “But we’re in the thick of it right now,” Tim said. “I’m sorry, but you don’t come, this case leaves without you.”

  A long pause. Tim looked at Bear. Bear grimaced, then ambled over, pausing above Guerrera. He offered his hand. It hung in the air for a while.

  Guerrera took it, pulled himself to his feet, and followed them out.

  33

  She survives thirteen months in Iraq, dies snorkeling in Cabo.” Mr. Villarosa, a distinguished man with graying sideburns and erect posture, smoothed his sleek mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “We dropped her off at LAX smiling, beautiful. She came back three days later in a casket.”

  His wife’s delicate blue eyes leaked at the corners; she’d had tissue in hand even when she answered the door. Mr. Villarosa was more stoic—he had a profile cut from stone—but the pain still showed in the creases in his upper cheeks, the rigidity of his carriage. The suffering couldn’t penetrate his façade, so it had worked on him from the inside. Tim wondered if his own erosion was as evident to a practiced eye.

  Focus on them, Timothy. You owe them that.

  Both parents, speaking nearly perfect, unaccented English, had been gracious when Tim and Bear had apologized for interrupting their Christmas afternoon. Cinnamon candles enlivened the air, and a bird was roasting deliciously in the oven, but the holiday embellishments seemed added by rote. The house was still suffused with grief. Jennifer had died October 29, less than two months ago.

  Wicker-and-glass cabinets displayed gold-rimmed china and a few pieces of dubious crystal. The carpet was plush—too plush—and bore vacuum-cleaner stripes. Porcelain sylvan figurines were arranged on doilies with great pride. When Mr. Villarosa offered that he’d run a household-appliance repair business for twenty-five years, his hand pulled toward his pocket, an instinctive move for his business card. Tim watched the impulse extinguished, brutally, the moment Villarosa recalled the meeting’s purpose.

  A glass-framed photo of Jennifer and a carefully constructed wreath decorated the lid of an off-white upright piano. A tough-looking, hefty woman with a bull neck, muscular shoulders, and shorn hair, she wore a stern face, peering out from beneath her ROTC cadet dress hat.

  “Why was she in Mexico?”

  “She won a trip there,” Mrs. Villarosa said softly. “She went with her … friend.”

  Mr. Villarosa handed them some papers with GOOD MORNING VACATIONS cheerily lettered across the top in predictable yellow. Congratulations, Ms. Villarosa, you’ve won an all-expenses-paid trip to Cabo San Lucas!!

  “Where’s her friend now?” Bear asked.

  “Back in Iraq.”

  “Were you apprised of the circumstances of her death?”

  “Yes, the army aided us in looking into it. They poked around with the hotel and the detectives down there. We were spared the details, but we were told there wasn’t anything to find out. A—what did they call it?”

  His wife answered quietly, “Shallow-water blackout.”

  Tim folded the papers into his pocket. “This is an awkward question, Mr. and Mrs. Villarosa, and I apologize, but we need to know if Jennifer ever rode with or had any relationships with bikers.”

  The man’s laugh took Tim by surprise. “No way. She was a school nerd—very straitlaced. A good, good kid.” He looked down, studying his thumbnail. Mrs. Villarosa pulled a tissue from her shirtsleeve and dabbed her eyes. “The travel company was very honorable, thank God. They got us our Jennifer delivered right to the funeral home up here. We gave her a good Catholic burial.”

  “I wish there was something better I could say,” Tim said, “but I’d like to offer my condolences. Jennifer seems like she was a lovely person.”

  Mrs. Villarosa turned her face and wept silently into her tissue. Her husband nodded. “Thank you for using her name.”

  Tim and Bear rose to leave, standing awkwardly to see if Mrs. Villarosa was going to look up so they could say good-bye.

  “Can I ask what this is about?” Mr. Villarosa asked. “It was an accidental death, that’s all.”

  Bear said gently, “I’m afraid we can’t—”

  “A girl was killed last night,” Tim said.

  “And you think it’s somehow related?”

  “We don’t know at this point. We really don’t.”

  Mr. Villarosa’s face stiffened, anguish pulling his skin taut. “If there’s anything we can do, please give us the opportunity.”

  His handshake was desperate, as if he couldn’t make himself let go.

  “We will,” Tim said.

  34

  The Impala’s steering wheel looked tiny in Bear’s grip. The marshal had been beating the drum on agency image, and after the FBI’s maneuver this morning, Bear wasn’t about to inherit his excess wrath for taking his beat-to-hell Dodge Ram to question a bereaved family. He and Tim had their windows down, letting the cool air clear their thoughts.

  Tim watched Guerrera’s St. Michael medallion sway from the rearview. “They’d just accepted it was a freak accident. Then we come in …”

  “There’s no connection.” Bear forged ahead. “None.” For a reason Tim had yet to grasp, Bear liked to get angry when he thought through a case. “We have a broke girl from Chatsworth and a first lieutenant from Sylmar. One was murdered in Simi, one was an accidental death in Mexico.”

  “So how do you explain them sharing trace evidence on the embalming table?”

  “Could be anything. I know you have an undying respect for the men and women who wear our proud uniform, but who knows what the girl did when she was home on leave? Maybe she doesn’t live up to her dad’s image. The Sinners run those clubhouses as fuckshacks. Maybe she takes a walk on the wild side, leaves a stray hair in Goat’s underwear that hitchhikes around town, winds up in the wrong place.”

  “Because Sinners love Mexican girls.”

  “Right, right, stupid theory.” Bear chewed his lip. “Plus, the girl looked like she caught every tour of the Indigo Girls, you catch my drift. Too bad the ‘friend’ is in Iraq—not that she saw shit, judging from her statement.” He adjusted the seat for the fifteenth time—still no space-enlarging technology. “It is just a hair. I mean, it’s not like they found her blood. A hair you can get anywhere. Maybe it got tracked in on someone’s shoe.”

  “Big coincidence. The hair of another dead Mexican girl?”

  “Okay,” Bear said. “Maybe the embalming table was taken from the funeral home that processed Villarosa’s body. Let’s have Thomas look into it.” He hit speed dial, but his elbow knocked the passenger chair and he dropped the phone.

  Tim scooped it up as Bear swerved and cursed. On the phone, Thomas was hurried. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try to source the embalming table. Might open up some angles.”

  Tim asked, “Where are we with the credit card?”

  “We got the subpoenas over to Visa. Chief’s statements should arrive in our fax momentarily.”

  “Okay. I also want you to check out other Mexican and Mexican-American females in and from L.A. County and Ventura County who’ve died in the past couple months.”

  “Died or been killed?”

  “Pull murders and deaths under questionable circumstances. Villarosa was a supposed accident. There’s something going on, we’re not sure what.”

  “You want me to check all dead Mexicans?”

  “Let’s say fifteen to thirty years old. And overweight.”

  “Overweight? Fatter’s harder. To kidnap, c
ontrol, and dispose. Are they killing to type? If there’s some serial-killer bullshit going on, we’d better get ready to mend fences with our buddies at the Fucking Bunch of Idiots.”

  “Mr. Hoover’s organization hasn’t risen in popularity since we left?”

  “Tannino pulled his Pacino routine on Malane for a good half hour, booted him off the task force.”

  “Any chance he coughed up where he stowed Goat before he left?”

  “Nope. And I never got the Uncle Pete files from him. The Feebs definitely haven’t shared their toys on this one.” Someone shouted something in the background, and Thomas said, “Oh, yeah, we got your film back from the lab. The prints from the Dumpster? They’re all black. Surprise, surprise. But the good news is, we might have gotten a line on Danny the Wand. A business used to sublease some shop space over in Glendale, went by Danny’s Bike ’n’ Boat Designs. Closed up in May ’03. Records are a mess, but we found a year-old forward-mail request to an address in North Hollywood. Danny Pater.”

  “That’s over our way. Give us the address. We’ll check it out on the way back.”

  Tim punched the address into the navigation system and waited a moment until the woman’s frosty automated voice set them on course.

  He called Aaronson, who’d promised to follow up with the Cabo San Lucas morgue and peruse the coroner’s report.

  “Standard diving death, far as I can tell,” the criminalist said. “Drownings are tough to unwind, but I didn’t see any red flags. I think we chalk this one up to fate’s sense of humor.”

  Tim thanked him and hung up. When traffic inevitably thickened at the 118 exchange, Bear set the magnetic light on the roof, letting the siren burp a few times as they navigated the lanes. They exited, passing through a residential area. A few of the houses had clothes displayed on lawns and across bushes, leftovers from holiday mercado-style yard sales.

  A local shock jock, in a fit of decency, had taken up Dray’s cause, fielding phone calls from sympathetic listeners. The tearful words of support from strangers made Tim at first uncomfortable, then emotional, so he changed the station. A midstream commercial promising listeners they could say good-bye to unwanted hair … forever … made the whole episode seem mildly ridiculous. Bear thankfully withheld comment.

  They found the address, a strip-mall installment nestled between a pager-and-cell-phone shop and a check-cashing operation. Bear eased past the entrance—DTW paint designs vividly airbrushed on the blacked-out windows—parked at a bent parking meter, and shoved the keys in his pocket. The navigation system feigned immense pleasure: You have arrived!

  Bear regarded the field file in his lap. “So we’re thinking this guy might—”

  The Impala’s back window shattered. The headrests blocked most of the flying glass, but jagged bits tore at Tim’s neck and ear. He and Bear tried to duck into the footwells as more bullets hollowed out the dash.

  The car’s interior was turning to shrapnel all around them as the chuffing of unseen weapons continued—the unremitting percussion of the full-auto, the sporadic pop of a handgun. Bear was hunched forward, steering wheel jammed into his cheek; they were completely pinned down. Tim saw a flash of inspiration touch Bear’s face, and then Bear reached over and tugged the trunk release. The metal lid flew up, shielding them from the onslaught and giving them momentary cover to bail out of the car.

  Bear threw his weight against his door. The Kojak light, still magnetized to the roof, whipped around the top frame, clocking Bear in the forehead and knocking him across Tim’s just-vacated seat. Set in a highkneel shooting position on the sidewalk, Tim returned fire at the starburst holes in the blacked-out windows. Only in the following silence could he hear how loudly his ears were ringing.

  Casting a glance at Bear’s dazed body sprawled across the front seats, Tim rose and sprinted to a position of cover beside the front door. He inched the door open with the barrel of his .357. A gunman lay between the tall counter and throw of chairs that constituted the reception area. His biker-long hair had fallen like a sheet over his face, his gasps making it pulse over his mouth. Blood from a chest wound continued to spread through an airbrushed jungle-design T-shirt, the widening splotch devouring pythons and panthers. Tim couldn’t recognize the downed man from his build and bearing. Still, the biker clutched a handgun—a little .32 Centennial from the looks of it. Clearly he’d been backed by meaner firepower.

  A wall behind the counter segregated the workshop proper— though, judging by the eye-watering intensity of the paint fumes, not well. Tim ran in a ducked position, kicking away the handgun and squatting over the biker as he secured his wrists with cuffs. Tim kept his eyes on the beaded curtain behind the counter. “Danny Pater?”

  The biker’s head jerked, clearing the hair to reveal eye shadow and a delicate nose. Blood colored the lips, flecked the chin. The woman on Richie Rich’s arm at the funeral.

  Tim’s eyes pulled to the framed business license on the wall: Danielle Pater.

  She coughed, her shirt fluttering above the chest wound, and died with her mouth open against the worn carpet.

  A scurry of footsteps in the back. Something toppled and made a clamor on the floor. Smith & Wesson straight-armed in front of him, Tim headed behind the counter. He paused to the side of the curtain, pulse quickening at the prospect of being in the same building as Den Laurey. The gaps between the still-rippling beads showed darkness. He reached through, groping for a light switch but having no luck.

  He gathered his courage and sprang through, landing flat-bellied against the inside wall to control the silhouette threat. He blinked hard to stimulate his night vision. Proning out made him vulnerable to ricochets, but he didn’t want to get on his feet until he had his bearings.

  A wall of paint cans protected him. A few had been knocked over, Lion’s Tongue Red puddling across the slick concrete.

  He found his feet and shouldered against a ceiling-high metal rack that held elaborately painted gas tanks. Natural light leaked around a closed door in the rear, maybe a bathroom with a window. Tim caught a giggle, and then a wide form topped with a familiar mop of hair flashed across the faint glow—Tom-Tom having fun. Tim’s aim was an instant late. He didn’t fire, not wanting to broadcast position, but his barrel must have given up a glint, because a spray of yellow erupted from the far corner, and the tanks behind him jumped and spun. He rolled maybe ten feet, winding up with a back wet with paint and his face pressed to the wheel of a Harley. The barrage of gunfire quieted, and then Tom-Tom made kissing noises at the darkness, as if calling a cat.

  Something metal clattered across the concrete, and an explosion blew the rack off its moorings. Empty tanks rained down, making an impressive racket. The brief blaze wisped off in blue curls, picking up extra mileage from the paint fumes.

  Tim watched the darkness through the spokes of the wheel. His soldier’s ear told him that two men were circling the space separately.

  A sliver of red footprint stood out between a couple of half-sprayed Harleys. Moving silently, Tim followed the trail, weaving through bikes, the drip of grease into oil pans penetrating the silence with maddening regularity. The tread impressions grew fainter. Tim reached the north wall, easing around a workman’s bench.

  A form up ahead, a pair of hands holding a Glock upright next to a cheek.

  The head turned, the faint light giving Tim an eclipse profile of the right side—choppy hair, eye patch, armband. Then Tim made out the upside-down FBI patch stitched to the jacket, a trophy for burying two bullets in Raymond Smiles’s chest as the agent had eaten dinner. Tim took aim at the block of critical mass. He pictured his target reclined on his bike, sneering at Dray, You’d better back off, bitch.

  Dray’s voice cut through Tim’s rage: He’s no good to us dead.

  Richie Rich’s pinkie ring blinked a star of light, removing all doubt, and Tim stepped forward and swung the butt of his gun into his temple. Rich grunted and collapsed, and Tim darted for cover before TomTom co
uld track his movement by Rich’s thud to the concrete. Too late he heard the pipe bomb scuttling across the floor after him like an angry rodent. He opened his mouth, exhaling hard so his lungs wouldn’t rupture with the overpressure, an instinct pounded into him in Ranger training.

  The blast slammed him against the far wall. A bank of blacked-out windows blew, permitting a sudden insurge of light, and Tim came to in a heap against the Sheetrock, covered with a film of dust.

  Breath jerking, ribs aching, torso slick with red paint or blood or both, he heard a shuffling and looked up. Still half blinded from the explosion and the sudden sun, he barely discerned the movement before him, but the tip of the auto pressing against his throat was all too clear.

  Tom-Tom dimly resolved into view, a pale, stocky outline against Tim’s still-bleached field of vision. Platinum curls, a boulder of a head set directly on broad shoulders, the amused, irrepressible grin of a misbehaving child. Stubble dusted his cheeks like white sand. Another pipe bomb protruded from his pocket like a rolled-up comic book. He looked down at Tim over the sights, one-arming the AR-15 so the stock rested against his meaty biceps.

  “Couldn’ta been worth it,” he said.

  Tim felt no fear, just the slow-motion grimness of reality setting in, and he thought, So this is where it ends.

  The sharp report of a bullet. Tom-Tom fell stiffly, as one rigid piece, revealing not Bear but Rich Mandrell. The right side of the biker’s face was swollen so badly from Tim’s blow it looked as though the skin might split.

  Rich said, “Goddamnit,” as if he’d dinged his Porsche with a shopping cart. He thrust the barrel of his Glock into Tim’s hands and said, “Cuff me. Get them on now. Handle me rough and get me the fuck outta here.”

  35

  Who the hell are you?” Bear asked.

  Richie Rich reclined on the wall-mounted bench, his shoulders and head propped against the bars. They’d put him in Cell Block’s keep-away zone, behind the holding pens for the standard fare—gangbangers and second-tier mafiosos awaiting court appearances. Additional steel doors covered the mesh gates back here, protecting the identities of the detainees. Witnesses offering testimony against high-profile defendants were stored here, as well as HIV-positive prisoners, hard cases, and juveniles. The single-occupant cells were metal wonderlands—aluminum toilets, steel-reinforced security cams, sturdy sink columns. Everything was bolted or welded down.