"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 bull-shit." 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."
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.
Chapter 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 fore-finger. "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 facade, 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.
Chapter 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, control, 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 high-kneel shooting position on the sidewalk, Tim returned fire at t
he star-burst 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.
Troubleshooter (2005) Page 16
