Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Fifteen hours in the saddle?” Guerrera said. “That’s nothing for guys used to cross-country biker runs. They love it.”

  “Villarosa’s death was an accidental,” Bear said.

  “Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to,” Tim said.

  The FBI agents bristled impatiently. The theory sounded thin even to Tim’s own ears.

  Malane produced a new border report. “Toe-Tag and Whelp crossed over again yesterday morning.”

  “You hold them?” Tannino asked.

  “What charges?”

  “You follow them?”

  An embarrassed silence. Finally Rich said, “They played musical vehicles in a parking garage. Mexican agents lost ’em outside San Antonio del Mar.”

  “Didn’t you have Border Patrol put transmitters on them?” Tim asked.

  “Sure.” Smiles’s lips got tight. “On the bikes they ditched.”

  “So they’re receiving the package in Tijuana as we speak?”

  “Unless they’re decoys,” Rich said. “All we know, they just swung through for a donkey show and some ’tang.”

  “So what do you have on the smuggling operation?” Tim asked. “I mean actually have. How much of this is hypothetical?”

  “I’ve been able to pick up some low-res intel without getting a lot of specifics.”

  “That’s really helpful,” Bear said. “While you’re at it, why don’t you raise the threat level to fuchsia and urge citizens to exercise caution?”

  “They were bringing me inside. All the way.” Rich stood up, angry, and Bear came off the wall a step to match him. “I was right on the verge—days away, maybe hours. I already had the distribution center nailed down—Danny the Wand’s shop. She draws Sinners from all over the county. Oh, I’m sorry. She drew Sinners from all over the county. Because that lead is gone.”

  His anger seemed undercut by something softer, maybe sadness. Tim wondered—as he had when Rich had paused over Danielle’s body on their way out of the shop—if Rich had gone beyond role-playing in his undercover relationship with her.

  “And guess what happened there?” Rich continued. “You guys came storming in during the preshow, guns ablaze, fucking up the game plan.”

  Tannino rose and set his fists flat-knuckled on the desktop. “You trip through our sanctioned investigation and have the audacity to blame us for stepping on your dick? You should have alerted us that the shop was a hot spot. And your liaison”—Tannino’s head snapped over to Malane— “did nothing in our meetings besides sneer and play hide-the-files. How many resources were we supposed to burn chasing these pricks with half the facts and you letting air out of our tires?”

  “We spent months getting our guy inside and couldn’t risk his cover being blown,” Malane said.

  “There wouldn’t have been a risk if you’d told us Danny the Wand’s shop was a no-fly zone. But you couldn’t even chance us talking to Goat Purdue. Our own prisoner?”

  “We couldn’t have you prying around with Rich sunk undercover in the middle of it. You know how it goes.”

  “Where’d you stash Goat?”

  “He’s no longer useful.” Malane nodded at Tim. “You put a pretty good charge into his face.”

  “We busted our asses to nail him,” Bear said, “and you snaked him.”

  “Nail someone else.”

  Tim looked at Rich. “We will.”

  “You want to know why everybody hates the FBI?” Tannino’s voice was calm, conversational. “No forest. All trees. If ever there was a time for interagency cooperation—”

  “Look,” Malane said, “we’re trying to work with you on this now.”

  “And the only reason you’re not still working against us is because your fucking agent wound up in my cell block.”

  “It shouldn’t be news to you, Marshal, that federal agencies sometimes cross agendas. You hardly would’ve back-burnered a Top Fifteen fugitive chase that had already claimed two of your men.”

  Tim spoke slowly to keep his rage tamped down. “It’s claimed two of our men”—here his voice wavered—“maybe a sheriff ’s deputy, two civilians, thirty-eight rival bikers, and counting.”

  Malane met Tim’s stare evenly. “Modest stakes compared with what we’re up against. We cannot—will not—allow al-Fath to fill its coffers for future operations.”

  “And your agency’s got to learn that that can’t be a justification for everything.”

  “Look,” Smiles said, “I know this is an emotional case for you. I’m sorry your marshal buddies died. But we couldn’t move on the nomads early without losing the big fish. We’ve got a shot at rolling up al-Fath’s top West Coast affiliate and dealing a death blow to an incipient drug operation. Al-Malik has to surface when the shipment arrives from Mexico. He’s got to confirm to the powers that be that it penetrated our borders. He’ll want to eyeball the product, put his hands on it before it gets carved up and shipped out in vials.”

  “We need to get beyond the bullshit,” Tannino said. “So where do you suggest we go from here?”

  Malane moistened his lips, then rested a hand on Rich’s shoulder, the little gesture revealing a friendship between the two. “Sit him in jail until tomorrow, then let Dana Lake come to bail him out. We ask that you leave the investigation in our hands.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need us, and even now you’re too arrogant and stupid to know it. We have an inside line on this case that you need. And we’ll give it to you. For what we need.”

  “You’re playing with fire here,” Smiles said. “With all due respect to the Marshals Service, you’re a bit out of your depth.”

  Tannino started to retort, but Tim cut in with a question. “How’s Marisol Juarez figure in? Why’d they cut her up?”

  “I don’t know.” Malane shrugged. “Hobby.”

  “They’re not gonna take a Ted Bundy time-out with everything going on.”

  “These guys are psychopaths,” Rich said. “They need to take five minutes to pressure-valve Den Laurey’s bloodlust, they’ll fucking take it.”

  “You buy that explanation, you’re even dumber than your getup. You might not want to overlook the—what did you call them?—‘modest stakes’? Maybe if we pay attention to the dead little people, we might find some answers.”

  Rich stood up and shook out his long hair with a jerk of his neck. He addressed Tannino. “The bottom line is, I can’t get my terrorist with your renegade deputy stirring up the heat. We were on course, and your guy fucked it up. You need to have your deputies stand down on the small fish. I want the Prophet. And I’m gonna get him.”

  Tim said, “If you think I’m gonna let Den Laurey ride if I get him in my sights, you’re out of your head.”

  Rich’s hand rasped across the stubble of his face. They’d taken his leathers and his armband, but his undershirt reeked of smoke. He took a step over and glowered down at Tim. “Next time you interfere, don’t expect me to save your life.”

  Cocked back in his chair, Tannino looked from Smiles to Malane to Rich, and then his eyes glinted darkly, and he nodded at Tim. “Your prisoner, Rackley.”

  Tim rose, spun Rich around, and cinched the cuffs back on, Rich wincing at the bite of the metal. Bear and Guerrera fell into step as Tim led Rich back to his cell.

  36

  They sat in the command post awaiting word back from Tannino. He was in with the mayor right now, conference-calling the higher-ups and pretending to have some say if their task force would be subsumed by the FBI’s or vice versa. Despite the Hanukkah jingles audible from the criminal clerk’s screensaver down the hall, the mood was less than jolly. It was only 9:00 P.M., but it felt to Tim like the middle of the night. A check-in call to the hospital—no news means what?—only added to his sharply felt frustration. He flipped listlessly through photos of Den and Kaner, chewing on a brown swizzle stick until his molars ached.

  Mounds of files overflowed th
e table, the floor, the empty chairs. Paperwork drooped from pushpins. The chief’s assistant had dropped off crullers with red and green sprinkles, the few stale survivors collecting off-season flies in their pink box. The marshal’s wife’s fruitcake sat untouched on the tabletop, its pristine two-tone cellophane intact; Mrs. Tannino’s baking, even when it didn’t involve candied fruit and dark corn syrup, was eat-at-your-own-risk.

  Scrupulously balanced human-interest holiday reports compensated for the paper-thin local news—a dulcería’s Jesus cookies cried cinnamon tears; a Tarzana housewife made a giant menorah evoking the Hollywood sign; a crippled kid got his operation thanks to an Islamic charity. Even the CNN crawl had gone syrupy, bringing news of marshmallow-eating contests and a Star of David on the White House tree.

  Most of the task-force members were home with their families. Slumped over the intersection of his forearms, Jim caught some shuteye at a corner desk; light duty or not, he was in for the haul. Freed, divorced, had stayed back so Thomas could sneak dinner at home. Even if he’d wanted to leave, Bear had nowhere to go. He had his feet on the conference table, and he stared at the ceiling, his cocked-back chair doing its best to stand up to his weight. Tim checked in with the ICU doctor for the third time that day—no Christmas miracles there. He felt a stab of guilt for not going in, but Dray cut him off. The Sinners don’t take a night off. You’re sure as shit not going to just so you can stare at your comatose wife.

  Haven’t heard from you in a while, he thought.

  That’s because you haven’t killed anyone in a while. Been, what, four hours?

  I miss you.

  But he heard no response.

  Maybeck and Haines finally made for the door, wearing guilty expressions, though no one faulted them.

  Jim raised his head at their departure. “Merry Kwanzaa.”

  Maybeck, white boy personified, smiled and flashed him a thumbsup. “See you in the morning.”

  “If we still have the case,” Tim said.

  A roomful of dour faces looked back at him. From his recline, Bear grunted, and they went back to waiting for Tannino.

  Guerrera finished arguing the latest girlfriend off the phone with a suddenly overplayed accent, casting embarrassed glances at the others. “I tole you not to use the work line, baby.” He hung up.

  Still gazing at the ceiling, Bear said, “Jean Ann?”

  “Alicia.”

  Bear didn’t quite smile, but his face shifted. He rolled his head over to face Tim. “Our boy is back.”

  Everyone stood when Mayor Strauss entered with Tannino. His face was hard and red, a mallard green tie loose at the collar. His breath smelled of red wine. “After extensive discussion with the East Coast, we’ve determined to let you and the FBI keep your respective bailiwicks. I’ve been pleased with your progress, and I—and Director Reyna—are disinclined to halt your progress. The FBI will, of course, continue with Operation Cleansweep simultaneously, and you are to liaise and share information. If you let your egos get in the way of the well-being of this city, you will answer to me personally. Understood?”

  Nods and assorted affirmative mumbles. Tannino added, looking to City Hall for confirmation, “And the Bureau’s agents are under the same orders.”

  “Now”—the mayor reverted to politician—“has anyone fed you boys some turkey?”

  “We’re fine, thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Miller said.

  Strauss nodded and exited, as Bear stared at Miller resentfully.

  Tannino paused behind him at the door. “Someone eat a slice of the fucking fruitcake before the wife comes in.” No one moved, and he sighed a tired marital sigh. “Bear, dispose of the thing, would you?”

  The door slammed behind him.

  Tim exhaled, relieved, and a few of the guys exchanged solemn high fives.

  “Next move?” Freed asked.

  “Jim, you’ve got a hook at Border Patrol, right?” Tim asked. “Get him on the horn. I want to know all the border-crossing data they logged on our boys at San Ysidro–Tijuana. What they were riding, plate numbers, the whole nine yards.”

  Bear thunked his chair back to an upright position. “What if those shitheads are decoys, like Rich said? I mean, the AT could already be here. It might be hitting the streets as we speak.”

  For the first time since the shooting, Guerrera spoke decisively. “I know how we can find out.”

  37

  Bear looked right at home behind the wheel of his Dodge Ram, though Guerrera had to squeeze between him and Tim on the bench seat. The Sinners’ clubhouse sat up the street, a sprawling monstrosity behind barbed wire. From inside came women’s cackling, speaker bursts of heavy metal, and the occasional tinkle of shattering bottles.

  Bear dug in the plastic gas-station bag at his feet and came out with a quart of eggnog and some Styrofoam cups. He poured, and the deputies toasted.

  “Merry and happy,” Bear said, the same three words he offered each year at Tim and Dray’s kitchen table before wordlessly ingesting half their Christmas ham.

  Guerrera added, “Y rezos para la salud de su esposa.”

  They drank.

  A Sinner stumbled outside and hopped onto his bike, his deed mounting up behind him. They motored off. Bear raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Guerrera, but Guerrera shook his head.

  “He’s double-packing.”

  “So what?”

  “If a guy’s on club business, he leaves his deed behind to call lawyers and bail bondsmen in case he winds up in the clink.”

  A moment later a solo Sinner exited the clubhouse and drove off. Bear followed the bike at a good distance, picking up the plate and radioing Freed at the command post to have him ID the biker from the database. He came back as Fritz, a mother-chapter member of no special distinction.

  “Wait till we get to that stretch of flat road up ahead.” Guerrera’s directives were crisp; having recovered from the post-shooting haze, he seemed emboldened. “Not yet … not yet. … Now hit the siren.”

  Bear gave the siren a few bursts, and Fritz gradually pulled over. Tim and Guerrera waited in the Dodge while Bear searched the bike and the disaffected Sinner. Fritz offered Bear a few choice words about police intimidation and sped off. The charade over, Bear returned to the Dodge. Tim and Guerrera climbed out as he neared, each with a flashlight. Bear pulled the truck around, rolling slowly behind them and shining the headlights on the tufts of roadside chaparral to aid their search. Finally Guerrera came up with a packet of white flake. “Still looks like good old-fashioned meth to me.”

  Bear stuck his head out the window over the V of his elbow. “Crystal?”

  “Nah. Shit chalk. We’ll have to lab it, but looks like a battery-acid and cough-medicine special.”

  Tim pulled another few packets from where they’d landed in a tangle of elephant grass. Guerrera held the Ziploc up to the headlight’s glare. “Doubt they’d be selling this shit if they had the real deal incountry. They’d get the AT on the streets ASAP.”

  “They can’t sell both?” Bear said.

  Guerrera colored, then matched the edge in Bear’s tone—something Tim had not known him to do before. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “All we know is that they’re still running meth,” Tim said. “Let’s get our ears to the ground, see if we can pick up if a hot new shipment’s crossed the border. Right now we can’t be sure.”

  Guerrera had already climbed in; the truck sat idling, waiting. Bear cracked a grin. “Why don’t we ask the Great Mustaro?”

  They pulled up to the pink-stucco apartment building and climbed out. Christmas had thinned the clusters of men around the neighboring stoops, but a few holdouts remained. Backward baseball caps and brown-bagged bottles. One of the guys flipped them off, and Bear nodded and tapped him a salute.

  They climbed the stairs, reaching Lash’s place at the end of the hall.

  Take-out menus had accumulated on the doorknob, the fallen surplus covering the mat like leaves. When Tim glanced up,
Bear’s face was tight. He pointed to the closed casement window. About fifteen black flies crawled along the seams, eager to get in. The breeze shifted, and Guerrera’s face wrinkled.

  The three deputies stood silently before the chipped door, bathed in a throw of rusty light from the flickering overhead. Eminem’s fricatives were barely audible from a street boom box. They took a quiet moment. It wasn’t much, but it was the most Lash was going to get.

  Bear removed his pick set from his back pocket and jogged the rake and the tension wrench up from the vinyl case like cigarettes from a pack. Tim took them and went to work on the lock. The door clicked, and the three stepped in to greet the body.

  38

  They stood back out on the street, breathing the dark air. Tim couldn’t recall being more relieved to turn over a crime scene to CSI. The humidity had gotten to him. And the smell. They were indistinguishable, a paste on the skin. Bear and Guerrera flapped the bottom hems of their T-shirts, airing them out. Guerrera still looked a touch queasy, but he managed a stoic façade. The local would-be hoods had come out to watch the body bag load as if the scene were a sporting-event finale. They clutched cans of beer and pointed, and in not one of their faces did Tim note fear or consternation.

  Den and Kaner had taken their time with Lash, twenty-five puncture wounds in all. Judging from the seepage on the kitchen linoleum, he’d been alive for most of it; they’d wanted him to talk. Den’s knife work was surgeon precise, as touted, dodging arteries and bones until the decisive nick of the femoral artery. Tim tried to take a positive from it—the torture’s escalation could be read as a sign of Den and Kaner’s frustration after losing Chief, Goat, and Tom-Tom. But still he felt the gnawing of a quiet, determined guilt. He, Bear, and Guerrera had found Lash, and they’d pressed him. He’d been willing—happy, even— to inform, but that almost made it worse.

  Freed emerged from the building, his thin face covered with a sheen of sweat. He nodded once. “All right, then. I’ll take over here. Miller’s holding down the post, Thomas is wrapping up at home.”