Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “It will.”

  “See you whenever. If it’s before dawn, bring Yakitoriya.”

  “Yakitoriya?”

  “Don’t ask. I’m craving chicken neck.” More distant voices. “Okay. Gotta run. Be safe.”

  Tim folded the phone and got out, strolling among the gravestones. It wasn’t hard to locate Palton’s fresh carpet of sod. A blanket of lilies cascaded over a table laden with candles and bouquets. Frankie’s decade-old credential photo from the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center had been blown up and placed in a gold frame, like a signed former-celebrity eight-by-ten at a dry cleaner. His pose, stalwart and uptight, didn’t reflect his humor. He wore a suit and no smile, twenty-four years of tough with a shaving nick at his Adam’s apple. He and Janice, high-school sweethearts, would have been six years into their marriage when the photo was taken. And now he lay six feet under, collateral damage in a biker gang war.

  Tim’s mind pulled to the civilian killed in the explosion, the illegal guy in the Pontiac, but he couldn’t produce a name. He thought about Dray’s cautionary words as he’d sat perusing the field files at the kitchen table. Though he was three years older than his wife, she still had him hands down on wisdom.

  He walked up and down the rows of graves, looking for Hank Mancone’s plot. Hank was old, divorced, no kids, on the eve of retirement for five years now. Tim’s impressions of Mancone were culled strictly from elevator nods and hallway passings, and he recalled only that the deputy was cranky, pouch-faced, and smelled of stale coffee. In the post-break hysteria, Hank hadn’t played as well to the news cameras and weepy public; he was Shoshana Johnson to Palton’s Jessica Lynch. Staring at the rows of gray headstones, searching for a cushion of color like that surrounding Frankie’s grave, Tim flashed on the photos of Hank’s corpse seat-belted into the transport van. Was the crime against Frankie any worse? Did the pretty wife, the two kids, the square jaw, the specialized credentials make it any more a tragedy?

  Tim stepped between two high headstones, coming upon an older woman on her knees. A few bouquets dotted the fresh-turned soil. Tim followed her gaze to the chiseled name.

  “I’m one of Hank’s colleagues,” he said gently. “Are you his ex-wife?”

  “His sister.” She raised her eyes. They were tired and sad, though Tim would have bet they looked that way outside of cemeteries as well as in. “Were you a friend?”

  “A colleague,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know him well.”

  “Nobody did.”

  Tim let that one expire in the graveyard silence.

  “Hank was supposed to retire last year. And the year before that. Just wouldn’t. He always said he had nothing else to do.” She wiped her nose. “You reap what you sow, I guess. You stay closed off, you get less flowers at your grave. And you know what? Hank wouldn’t have minded that one bit. He wouldn’t have complained. He just wanted to drive his van and be around.”

  Tim felt an urge to give her something, to share with her his own loss, but he recognized the impulse as self-serving. His cell phone vibrated at his belt. “I’m sorry.” He started to add something in closing, but she waved him off. Her voice was more regretful than sad. “I know. I know. Me, too.”

  When Tim reached the edge of the cemetery, Bear still rattling off updates in his ear, he looked back. Mancone’s nameless sister was in the same position on her knees before the gravestone, hands folded calmly in her lap.

  11

  Photos of Sinners and deeds, taken at the afternoon funeral, already plastered the command post’s walls. Every few minutes a deputy would get up from a computer monitor and tack another paper name tag beneath a picture. Everyone worked diligently except for Jeff Malane, who stood in the corner speaking furtively into his cell phone as if conferring with a bookie.

  The clear shots Tim had captured of Den’s deed were clustered on the bulletin board at the head of the table. From his fleeting glimpses at the cemetery, Tim hadn’t recognized how beautiful she was. Lush brown hair, center-parted and flipped back from a face that was paradoxically tough and delicate. Angry cheekbones, pulled even higher by a squint. An elegant bridge of a nose that banked into a surprising pug. Shiny irises, almost cobalt. She could’ve been the eye candy in a rock-ballad video.

  Most of the other deeds and all the slags had been identified already and matched to addresses and jobs. Wristwatch Annie’s given name was Tracy White. She’d been busted a few times on prostitution beefs, freelancing for Sinner-owned massage parlors, but she’d graduated to clubhouse den mother. Some rumors had her as a pro on the side, but by most accounts she was merely a slut.

  The striker and his mystery date remained unidentified. Guerrera hung enlarged details from his photos—armband and pinkie ring— beside his full depiction.

  Tim finished scanning the updates and stood. “Gimme your attention for a minute here.” The tapping on keyboards stopped. Phone receivers pressed against chests. “Sheriff’s has the case, but that doesn’t mean that the Palmdale massacre isn’t our responsibility. Thirty-seven men were murdered.” He didn’t like the set of some of the faces looking back at him. “I don’t care if they were one-percenters. They were murdered, and they were murdered by fugitives. And that means it happened on our watch. So I don’t care if the victims are outlaw bikers or a slaughtered convent of nuns”—at this, Guerrera stiffened—“we do our jobs here, and we do them well.” Tim pointed at the photos. “Let’s carve up the names, shake some cages, and see what falls out.”

  His colleagues rustled back to work, the command post cranking into motion like an elaborate windup toy. Tim huddled with Guerrera and Bear at the end of the conference table.

  “Media attention’s through the roof,” Bear said. “This is the second-biggest mass murder in California history.”

  “What’s number one?”

  “Jedediah Lane’s attack on the Census Bureau. Heard of it?”

  “Vague recollection.” Tim blew out a breath. “We’ve got a major gang-war blowout. That, the public will see, hear, and feel. Tannino and the mayor are in press-conference hell right now. We’ve gotta stay focused on the case, keep fielding the grounders.” He turned to Guerrera. “You find anything on Lash yet?”

  “The Sinner who got his colors taken back?” Guerrera waited on Tim’s nod. “We put it out on the street, but nothing so far.”

  “I want you to run Danny the Wand through the moniker database, too. The guy’s clearly got close ties to the club.”

  Bear, contending with a burrito leak, took a moment to respond. “Already did. Got nothing. Thomas and Freed are working it, checking out bike paint stores, all that shit.”

  Tim turned to Guerrera. “Can we expect big-league retaliation from the Cholos?”

  “This afternoon seems like the club’s final coffin nail. Palmdale was the mother chapter, by far the biggest. Cholo ranks are already thinned from the war. I’d be surprised if they muster any real retaliation. The Sinners are too powerful. Especially now.”

  “What’s the motive to wipe out an entire club?”

  “Odio.”

  “Just hate?”

  “There’s no ‘just’ about hate, socio. Not among bikers.” Tim was about to express his skepticism when Thomas racked a phone and hopped up from his computer. “Our mystery deed just rang the cherries over at the Fillmore Station. Babe Donovan.” He spun the monitor to show off the JPEG of her mug shot. “She got popped for possession six months ago, squirmed off with a little help from Dana Lake. And—get this—she works for the DMV.”

  “ID heaven,” Freed said.

  Tim felt a rush of adrenaline, and he slowed himself down, thinking out the steps. “We’ll get a warrant cleared, have ESU track her user name through the DMV system whenever she logs on. If she makes any fraudulent licenses, we let ’em walk. We’ll catch up to our guys in a hurry if we know what fake names they’re using.”

  “If she was gonna generate false IDs, she would’ve done it by no
w,” Thomas said. “She’s been there three months. I doubt she’d be dumb enough to wait until after the break to make a move.”

  Tim shot a look at Frisk. His favored ESU inspector angled back a thin scowl; he still hadn’t forgiven Tim for the gymnastic ride in the back of the van during the chase. “Roger?”

  “DMV’s a mess. We can probably regulate her from here on out, but it’s doubtful we’d be able to get clear records on her prior activity. The technology over there is archaic, plus retardation is a job requirement. Ever wonder why it takes six months to process a license?”

  A court security officer stuck his head around the partition that separated the phone banks. “Rack? Uncle Pete on line four.”

  The command post fell silent.

  “Okay, send it in here.” Tim waited for the phone in front of him to blink, and he took a deep breath, hit the speaker button. “Yeah?”

  “Howdy-do, Trouble. Nice move on the municipal permission. Getting our helmets off so you could snap pictures.” Pete tut-tutted a bit. “I got some moves up my sleeve, too.”

  “So we saw.”

  “You’re a tricky dog, Trouble. I’m gonna keep an eye on you.”

  “Right back at you, big guy.”

  “Here I thought you came by the clubhouse just to give me a little static. But you had this whole other plan working all the while. Imagine that. Hmm, hey—too bad about them Cholos. El Viejo got hisself el muerto, huh?”

  His gravelly laughter cut off abruptly when he hung up the phone.

  12

  Each deputy took six names and a loaded gun. The task force had managed to tie most of the mother-chapter Sinners and deeds to a place of employment or a gas or phone bill. The key was closing in on the nomads’ likely hideouts—garages, safe houses, family members’ spare couches, utility sheds at Sinner-affiliated businesses.

  Tim’s first stop was at a renovated apartment complex in Fillmore. He circled the surrounding blocks in the government-owned Buick Regal, looking for parked choppers and finding none. The apartment was at the interior of the well-lit complex—too bright and tough on the getaway to make an ideal hiding place. A peek through various windows confirmed that both bedrooms and bathroom were empty. In the living room, a young woman—the roommate?—sat sullenly on a poufy couch, watching a CHiPs rerun and plucking at the hem of a flannel bathrobe. The carpet was strewn with clothes.

  Tim knocked, standing on the knob side until the door opened.

  “Hi. Tom Altman, building code inspector. I’m investigating some lease irregularities. You are …?”

  The girl looked unimpressed with Tim’s badge and air of urgency. “Sonia Lawrence.”

  He furrowed his brow. “I thought this apartment was leased to a Babe Donovan?”

  “Yeah, I sublet a room from her.”

  “Is she home?”

  “She’s never around. She just leaves her crap here. It’s everywhere. Look at this. Drives me nuts.”

  “She does live here?”

  Sonia coughed out a laugh, making her bangs jump. “You can try and keep tabs on Babe Donovan. I gave up that gig a long time ago.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “You just missed her. She dropped by to pick something up. There some problem with the place?”

  “No. She just didn’t return some paperwork we requested, and I wanted her John Hancock. Do you know where she went? The deadline for the documents is tomorrow. I really don’t want to have to designate the place as unsafe for habitation.”

  The roommate looked anxious. “She asked if I wanted to go over to the Rock Store. You know, that biker hangout up in the Malibu hills? She took me once. I don’t get the deal with that place.”

  “You said she dropped by to pick something up?”

  “Yeah. A big envelope.”

  Containing falsified IDs from the DMV? If Babe had managed to mole out IDs, there was at least faint hope she hadn’t gotten them to Den yet. He and Kaner had just broken out yesterday.

  “Maybe that was the paperwork I need. She take it with her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Any writing on it?”

  “I didn’t read the envelope.”

  “She say she was coming back tonight?”

  “Doubtful. I probably won’t see her for another couple weeks. That’s how she is.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Wait. If you don’t catch up to her, then what? You’re not gonna kick us out, are you?”

  “Hope not. I’ll see if I can have the building owner’s lawyer sign off on the forms first thing tomorrow. I was trying to save myself from having to deal with lawyers.”

  “You catch up to her, remind her to leave rent money for next month.”

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  A few Hells Angels sporting mad-dog goatees and trademark winged death’s head originals swigged beer and smoked joints on the picnic table in front of the Rock Store. The hundred or so weekend warriors on hand kept a respectful distance. The out-of-the-way Malibu haunt, touted on T-shirts and beer cozies as “America’s #1 Pit Stop,” drew a bizarre amalgam of customers—leather-jacket losers, bad-boy movie actors, stockbrokers on crotch rockets. A biker paraphernalia shop made up the front of the stone-composite building; the structure rambled upslope, transforming into a burger-and-beer shack that overlooked a cracked patio. Most of the bikers congregated on the throw of concrete alongside the shack or by the spotted oak that fronted the adjoining building, the pit stop’s greasy-spoon diner.

  Tim worked his way through the crowd and completed a circuit of the raised patio, doing his best to dodge white plastic lawn furniture and body odor. He spotted Babe sitting on the railing sipping at a Bud bottle, her eyes on the dark canyon road that twisted past the storefront. Solo headlights floated in from the surrounding nothingness, joining the neon glow. Bikers docked, drank their fill, and shoved off drunkenly, braving the tortuous landscape. A few guys in wheelchairs banged off hips and tables. Babe drew more than her fair share of looks, but men aborted their approaches when they spotted her colors.

  Tim grabbed a beer and leaned against the forked tree that interrupted the narrow front lot. At his back, tear-tab flyers fluttered from the bark—discount oil coolers, cheap chrome finishes, contingent-fee paralegal services. The post gave him a good vantage on Babe. Her continued focus on incoming traffic heartened him. Trouble was en route. He leaned back against the tree to feel the reassuring press of his .357 at his right kidney. An hour and a half passed tediously and without consequence.

  A guy with a weirdly full build lumbered toward him, threw a leg over a Roadster, and dug into a gut bomb of a burger, grease running down his wrist until he licked it off. Tim observed him, noting the tan knuckle spots from the gloves, the strip of worn leather on his left boot where he shifted.

  The biker shot Tim a grin full of crooked teeth. “Wanna take a ride?”

  It took Tim a moment to piece together the surprisingly high voice, the full hips, the massy chest. “Oh, no thanks. I’m waiting on someone.”

  “Too bad.” She had piercing green eyes and a thin nose, like a really pretty boy. “You don’t come here much, huh?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’re cute, that’s all. I could spread you on a cracker.”

  He laughed. “I’m an impostor. I bought my way into the club. New Harley, can’t ride it for shit. Thought I’d come down here and look at people who could.”

  Up on the patio, a couple blocked Babe’s view, so she scooted down the railing to keep the road in sight. She grabbed someone by the sleeve and asked him something. The guy held out his watch, and she nodded her thanks. Tim was beginning to share her exasperation at waiting.

  “Takes all kinds, the Rock Store does.”

  “A lot of one-percenters hang out here?”

  “Nah, don’t worry. Bikers here are mostly unaffiliated.” She nodded at the crew toking up on the picnic table. “HA shows up now
and again, but just to model the originals, make fun of the wannabes.” She winked. “That’d be me and you and everyone else here.”

  “Cholos ever blow through here?”

  “Not likely. Sinners do, whenever the heat’s high. The heat don’t think to look here because it ain’t supposed to be an outlaw joint.” On her toes, she backed up her Harley, careful to dodge the adjacent bikes. She screwed on her helmet, nodded at him, and took off into the dark of the canyon.

  When Tim looked back up at the patio, Babe had a cell phone pressed to her face. She nodded a few times, then disappeared in the crowd. Tim came off his lean against the tree and picked her up descending the stairs. She walked with a slight limp, a new injury judging by her gingerly gait. Maybe she’d been the one to leap the Jersey barriers after leaving a smoking car blocking traffic on the 10, and maybe she’d twisted an ankle doing it. Tim heard Dray’s voice, as he often did, playing devil’s advocate: Or maybe she hurt it stepping out of the tub.

  The Hells Angels noted Babe’s property jacket and bumped fists with her as she passed. She walked directly at Tim. Nervous that he’d been made, he took a pull from the bottle to hide his face. She passed so close he could smell her shampoo—something lean and foresty—and then she mounted the Harley right next to him. Starting down the road for his car, he heard her kick-start her engine behind him. He was at the wheel when she drove past, but he waited for her brake light to disappear around the sharp bend before starting the tail. He followed her through a tangle of canyon roads, keeping that same distance.

  At a wide bend, she slowed, and her free hand went inside her jacket. A manila envelope took flight, landing at the feet of a biker parked on the dirt apron. The biker crouched and flipped up his wind visor to peruse the envelope’s contents.

  Tim rolled through the turn, and his headlights swept across Den Laurey’s face.