“Right, Kip. That’s what I’m saying.”
“It doubles the risk.”
“It also doubles the reward.”
Stenzel knew this was wrong. From a cost-benefit standpoint, there was no justification for this course of action. It was highly unwise.
“I don’t see any percentage in eliminating Sinclair,” he said. “Just let her go. She’ll be out of town, and no one will ever find her.”
“No one will find her,” Reynolds agreed, “but not because she’s out of town. What do I have on schedule for tonight?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I want to make sure my night is free.” Reynolds smiled. “You didn’t think I was just going to have Sinclair blipped, did you? Uh-uh. Andrea gets a bullet in the head. No hard feelings there. Sinclair is a different story. That bitch owes me a good time.”
Stenzel felt his gut tighten. He had trouble forming words. “That’s a serious error, Jack. You’re not thinking strategically.”
“Fuck strategy.”
“You’re already pushing the envelope. You want to stay as far away from the actual ... resolution of the problem as possible.”
“No, I don’t. Let me tell you how it’s going to go down.”
“No, Jack.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Stenzel turned away. “Whatever you have in mind, I don’t want to know about it.”
“You don’t want to know about it? You don’t want to know?” Reynolds flung his glass. It shattered against a wall. “You need to know. You’re going to know.”
“Okay, Jack.” Stenzel’s mouth was dry. “Okay.”
Reynolds rounded the desk and stared him down. His mouth was twisted in an indecipherable shape that could have been a grimace or a smile. His eyes were narrowed and unblinking.
“My friend grabs Sinclair and takes her to Santa Ana. He runs a motorcycle repair shop. Lots of power tools.”
With a distant part of his mind, Stenzel wondered if he had ever allowed himself to know, really know, that his employer was a sociopath. It should have been obvious. There had been more than enough hints—the mood swings from affability to rage, the inner coldness, the shameless manipulations. And on some level he had seen it. But he had never put his knowledge into words. He had never wanted to. Perhaps because he saw so much of himself in Jack Reynolds, or so much of Reynolds in him.
“Of course,” Reynolds added, “the party won’t get started till I arrive.”
“You’re saying you ... want to watch?” Stenzel asked, holding his voice level.
“Not just watch. I’m a hands-on guy.”
The images this statement suggested were more than Stenzel could stand. He tried one last time to get through. “Jack, this is not a good idea. This is one task you definitely want to delegate.”
“Wrong. I want to get up close and personal. I want to look into her eyes. I want to break her. I want her to die knowing I won and she lost.”
“Why?” Stenzel asked, hearing the inane pointlessness of the question even as he uttered it.
“Because I always win. Always. She should’ve remembered that. And you, too, Kip. You should remember it, too.”
“I will, Jack.”
“So we’re together on this?”
“We’re on the same page.”
“Great.” Reynolds clapped his hands, smiling—a real smile now, not a frightening parody. “Then let’s get back outside. Can’t keep my constituents waiting too long.”
He left the office. Stenzel followed slowly, telling himself not to be afraid.
37
Fast Eddie’s was essentially what Tess had expected, though at one p.m. it lacked the raucous atmosphere it would no doubt offer after dark. The pool tables were unused, most of the chairs were unoccupied, with only a few all-day drinkers lounging in the corners. Behind the bar a large man was scowling at a wall-mounted TV set that was showing an auto race.
Tess approached the bar, aware that every eye in the establishment had turned her direction—even the bartender’s, though he did his best to look uninterested. She leaned on the bar and let him take his time coming over to her. She pegged him as an ex-con—it was hard to say how, but there was something about the his physique, the prison-buffed muscles that had turned to fat, and the set of his jaw, as if he had learned to keep his feelings hidden from anyone in authority.
“You Eddie?” she asked.
“What?”
“Fast Eddie’s is the name of this place. Is that you?”
“There’s no Eddie. It’s just a name. Because of the pool tables.”
Tess didn’t get it. “Pool tables?”
“Like in the movie. The Hustler, Paul Newman, you know?”
She didn’t know. Was everybody in the state of California a movie nut? Maybe Abby was right. Maybe she ought to start renting tapes, or DVDs, or whatever.
“All right, then,” she said, “so what’s your name?”
“Don’t got one.”
“Everyone has a name.”
“All I got is a nickname.”
“What is it?”
“Biscuit.”
She looked him over. He was well over six feet tall and had to weigh in at no less than 275 pounds. “Biscuit?” she said skeptically.
“Some joker said I was only a biscuit away from weighing three hundred. Name stuck.”
“Fair enough. I’m Special Agent McCallum, FBI.” She allowed him a glimpse of her creds. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I already been asked a lot of questions.”
“They took you down to the police station, right?”
He lifted his meaty shoulders. “It’s not like I ain’t been there before.”
“And you didn’t cooperate. I’m not surprised. Why would you say anything that would get one of your buddies in trouble?”
“I don’t know what buddies you’re talking about.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t know anything at all.”
“That’s right. Now, are you gonna buy something to drink, or are you just wasting my time?”
“I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”
“Then piss off.” He started to move away.
There were a lot of ways she could handle this. Intimidation was one possibility, but she assumed that the interrogators at the police station had already given it their best shot. She decided to try sweet reason instead.
“I can’t say I blame you,” she said mildly.
He looked at her. “Blame me for what?”
“For keeping your mouth shut. The people who talked to you at the police station were working on the assumption that Dylan Garrick was killed by one of his fellow Scorpions. And you don’t want to give them anything that would help them nail one of your friends.”
“I don’t got no friends.”
“One of your customers, then. Your clientele.”
“Clientele. Fuck, I ain’t got no clientele neither. What you think this is, a fucking hair salon?” He turned aside. “I’m telling you what I told the cops. I don’t know shit about anything they was asking.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why the fuck are you still here?”
“Because I think you may know something important, only it’s not what the police were interested in. See, I’m working on a different theory of the case. I don’t think Dylan’s hit was an inside job. I don’t think the Scorpions had anything to do it. I think it was somebody else.”
This got his interest, just a little. “Another gang?”
“Not a gang. I think Dylan may have been shot by a woman he was with. A woman he picked up last night here.”
“A woman? Some hooker, you mean?”
“The woman I have in mind is more of a vigilante. A private operator with an agenda of her own.”
“This woman got a name?”
“She usually goes by Abby. She may have started a conversation with you.”
“She the talkati
ve type?”
Tess winced. “Very.”
“We didn’t get no talkative women in here last night.”
“Last night she may not have been in the mood for talk. I think she may have been, well, stalking Dylan Garrick.” It seemed odd to imagine Abby as a stalker, yet that was the only word for it.
“Is that so?” the bartender said.
“I could be wrong. Actually, I hope I am. Maybe you can help me find out one way or the other.”
“I don’t know why you think I’d want to help you do anything.”
“Because, Biscuit, you and I are on the same side. You don’t want your friends to go down for Dylan’s murder. If I can prove somebody else did it, they’re in the clear.”
“You’re feeding me a line of bullshit. They sent you in here to work on me some more because I wouldn’t give them anything. It ain’t gonna work. So fuck off.”
“You’re difficult person to reason with.”
“Figured that out, did you?”
“You think I’m running some kind of game on you. You’re wrong. I’m not in tight with the local police or even the local feds. I’m in from out of state, and I’m pretty much on my own, just following up a hunch that nobody else needs to know about.”
“So you’re the Lone Ranger.” He snorted. “Feds never work alone. They’re like ants in a pantry. If you see one, you know there’s got to be more.”
“Ever hear of Mobius?” she asked.
He paused, confused by the change of topic. “Nutcase with the nerve gas, the one who had L.A. shittin’ its trousers a few years ago?”
“That’s right. How about the Rain Man?”
“Kidnapper, put women in the storm drains and let them drown. Yeah, I’ve heard of them both. I read the papers now and then. So what?”
“If you read the papers, you ought to remember that I was involved in both cases. I came in from out of state, just like I’m telling you. And I worked alone.”
“Show me your ID again.”
She reopened her black leather credential case to reveal her gold badge and, under plastic, her photo and signature, along with her personal agent number and the signature of the FBI director.
Biscuit hesitated, then reluctantly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pair of reading glasses, which he perched on his battered nose. He caught her glance and mumbled, “We’re all getting older every day.” He studied the credentials. “Fuck, what d’ya know. You are her. I didn’t, you know, register the name before. They got you working this piece-of-shit case?”
“It’s tied in to something bigger.”
“Huh.” He appraised her with new respect. It occurred to Tess that her supposedly legendary status in the greater L.A. area was finally working to her advantage. “So you are the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. You took out Mobius and that rain guy all by yourself.”
“That’s right.”
“Got a set of balls on you, don’t you?”
Tess ignored the question, assuming it to be rhetorical. “So you know I’m telling you the truth when I say I’m working an angle nobody else has picked up on. I don’t care what the police wanted to hear you say. They weren’t asking you about any woman who left with Garrick last night, were they?”
“No.”
“That’s all I want to know about. Did you see Garrick leave?”
“Yeah. I saw him.”
“Did he leave alone?”
“No.”
“Who was he with?”
“You really think I’m gonna tell you?”
“I’m hoping.”
“Well, keep on hoping, but it ain’t going to happen. Shit, you think I want to see my name in the goddamn newspapers?”
“I’ll keep you out of it.”
“Yeah, right, you will. Until you write some fucking best-selling book about it or sell your story to cable TV. No way, darling.”
Apparently her notoriety wasn’t such an asset, after all. “Just tell me if he was with a man or a woman.”
“Hey, all I know, it was one of them cross-dressers.” Biscuit laughed. “Put that in your book, why don’t you?”
He wouldn’t talk. She had wasted her time. She handed him a card with her cell phone number. “If you change your mind,” she said simply.
He flicked the card into a wastebasket. “I won’t.”
She started to walk away. His voice stopped her.
“Hey. I ask you something?”
She turned back to him. “Sure.”
“When you whacked the bad guys—you feel good about it after? Like, was it a rush?”
“No. I only felt good that I survived.”
“Yeah. That’s how was for me, too.” She recognized this as an admission that he had killed at least once. She said nothing. “I just wondered. Because everybody else, you know, they say it’s a trip. They say it’s like getting high. And I always tell ’em I feel like that, too. But I don’t. I thought maybe it was just me.”
“It’s not just you.”
He nodded and turned his back on her. Tess wondered if she should ask again for his help. But it was useless. In the end, she was the enemy, no matter what they shared.
She asked herself if Abby, too, saw her as an enemy, to be manipulated and cajoled, but never trusted. Perhaps she did.
And perhaps, from her standpoint, she was right. Because Tess still intended to learn what Abby had done last night. She would find a way. Somehow.
And if her suspicions proved correct, she would take Abby down.
38
Shanker knelt in the rear compartment of his van, arranging a small arsenal of illegal firearms under a pile of blankets. No way he would need all this firepower, but he didn’t know exactly what the Man had in mind for tonight, and his orders were to come heavy. He was debating whether or not to include the sawed-off shotgun he’d taken from a dead Mexican twenty years ago, a prized possession and one he ordinarily wouldn’t bring into combat, when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered impatiently, annoyed at the distraction. “Yeah?”
“Ron, can you talk?”
The voice he heard belonged to Marvin Bonerz, an ex-con who’d done six years in Soledad for murder in the second, but who was known to his associates as Biscuit.
“A little busy right now,” Shanker said.
“But can you talk?”
Shanker realized he was being asked whether or not he was still in police custody. “I can talk. They cut me loose.”
“Me, too.”
“So what’s up?”
“Just wanted to pass on some news. There was a fed in here a few minutes ago, trying to pump me. Lady fed, McCallum—you might have heard of her—”
“I haven’t. What’s your point? The feds are talking to everybody today. This isn’t exactly a hot news item.”
“Thing is, she’s working the case from a different angle. She thinks the hit on Dylan wasn’t gang-related. She thinks the shooter was some woman Dylan picked up last night.”
For some reason Shanker couldn’t quite identify, this information piqued his interest. He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “What woman?”
“Some bimbo, dressed real trashy. He left with her. I didn’t think nothing of it.”
“Why would some whore at Fast Eddie’s want to ice one of our guys?”
“I asked her the same thing. McCallum says the woman she’s thinking of ain’t no whore. She’s, like, a vigilante. Some kind of private operator.”
“Sounds like a load of bullshit.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too. Except for one thing. The woman who went home with Dylan, she got hit on by a few other guys and gave them all the brush-off. Zero interest. I pegged her for a dyke. Then Dylan comes over to chat her up, and in five minutes they’re outta here. Like she was waiting for him, maybe.”
“Seems thin.”
“Well, I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks.”
“I di
dn’t really think it was this Abby, anyhow.”
Shanker frowned. “What was that?”
“I said I didn’t think she did it.”
“You called her Abby.”
“That’s the name McCallum had for her.”
Shanker shut his eyes. He remembered a conversation with the Man in the office of his shop yesterday afternoon.
I’ll be teaching Abby a few lessons about loyalty.
On the phone, minutes ago, Reynolds used the same words.
It was Abby he meant to take care of tonight. The same Abby—had to be—that the FBI woman was looking to nail for Garrick’s murder.
“You there, Ron?” That was Biscuit. Shanker had forgotten about him.
“The FBI agent,” Shanker said, “she was working this angle pretty hard, huh? So there’s a bunch of feds out looking for this Abby right now?”
“Not a bunch. Just one. McCallum. She’s working it alone.”
“She can’t be.”
“She is. It’s her style. She’s famous, Ron. If you would ever read the newspapers—”
“I only read the sports.” This wasn’t true. Shanker read the comics page, too, but never admitted it. “You really think McCallum is flying solo?”
“Looks that way.”
Shanker was thinking fast. If McCallum picked up Abby for questioning, then he and Reynolds wouldn’t be able to get her tonight. And Abby had worked for the Man before quitting. Under interrogation, there was no telling what she might say, especially if she was facing a homicide rap for Dylan Garrick. If she named Reynolds as her employer, the congressmen would be the next one questioned. That might be what McCallum was really after. If Reynolds was brought in, it wouldn’t be long before the whole goddamned thing was out in the open.
But if McCallum didn’t find Abby by six o’clock tonight, it would be too late. Abby would be gone for good. She wouldn’t be talking to anybody.
“You got any way to get in touch with McCallum?” Shanker asked.
Biscuit sounded puzzled. “She left her card. I tossed it. But I can dig it out of the trash.”
“Call her. Set up a meeting, just you and her. When she shows up, kill her.”
On the other end of the line, Biscuit drew in a harsh breath. “Fuck, man. She’s goddamned FBI.”
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