Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Freeze,” Bear said. “Now.”

  Den took another half step back, his shoulder brushing the blank wall by the staircase. An upside-down sheriff ’s deputy patch had been added to the filthy leather, right over the heart, a fresh addition.

  Tim’s anger flared, then burned down to a cool blue flame. He lined the sights just below Den’s collarbone tattoo, right on the clean badge. His hands were steady, as steady as they’d ever been. At fifteen feet Den didn’t have a prayer.

  “This is your last chance to live,” Tim said. “You run, you die.”

  His hands still held high, Den rubbed against the wall, like a grizzly scratching his back on a tree trunk. At the last instant, it hit Tim what he was doing, and he shouted and lunged forward as the light switch clicked on and the light-socket bomb exploded. A brilliant flash lit the room with instant, eye-scorching clarity, and BBs shot past his head. A hunk of shrapnel blew out the TV. Tim got the Mag-Lite back up while BBs were still rattling on the floor, but Den was gone.

  Bear rolled to his side, coughing. “Yawright?”

  Tim leapt to his feet. Den could’ve taken off through the garage on the Harley by now, but the door remained open, the painted bike in place. Footsteps pounded across the ceiling, and then came the smash of the second-floor window, the tinkle of falling glass, the creak of a drainpipe. Precious was barking as Tim ran out onto the veranda and Den’s shadow thundered overhead, firing down in yellow starbursts, the whole structure creaking with his weight. Tim dove behind a post, skidding on the distressed wood.

  More pounding footsteps, the latticed roof cracking as Den took flight, then the thump of his landing on the shed. Two more shots drove Tim back behind the post and Bear around the jamb.

  A rasp across shingles, a thud of boots striking dirt, the creak of the trailer gate swinging open.

  Tim sprinted around the fetid pool. Motorcycle wheels thrummed down the ramp. The cough of an engine, a gunshot, then a high, warbling howl.

  Tim’s ruthless backup plan come to fruition.

  Tim pulled to a halt in the alley. The Harley tottered a moment longer at the base of the ramp, then fell. The shotgun blast had blown off the seat, taking Den with it. He must have been half on his bike when his booby trap had blown; judging from the bloodstains, the spray of pellets had entered him to the right of his bladder on the rise.

  Somehow Den had landed on his feet. His eyes locked for an instant on the kill switch on his handlebar; he’d remembered to throw the toggle, but Tim had cut the connecting wire. Den had received the treatment intended for bike thieves—a Chief-designed shotgun blast up the frame tubing. The explosion had blown the metal box open. Two balloons filled with Allah’s Tears had rolled onto the ground, where they sat quivering.

  Den staggered to the side and sat down, his head lolling forward, a string of drool connecting his lower lip to the cracked dirt of the alley. He withdrew his hand from his jacket, and it came away artery red. He peeled back his jacket. His undershirt was soiled with blood, the fabric rippled like silt. It took him two tries to free the bowie from the sheath. The ivory handle winked in the darkness. He tried a feeble swing in Tim’s direction but collapsed onto his back, a gurgle blowing a crimson bubble at his lips.

  Tim walked over and looked down at him. Den’s limbs shook; he couldn’t muster the strength to lift his celebrated knife. The tiny rubies embedded in the butt glittered. Tim stepped on Den’s wrist, pinning his hand to the dirt. He crouched and pried the knife free.

  Den’s head lay cocked back, his eyes straining in the sockets. Tim leaned over him with the blade. He cut Dray’s new patch off the leather jacket and held it up before Den’s dying face.

  “Andrea Rackley,” he said.

  He pocketed the patch and stood. Den’s eyes glassed over, and the bubble at his lips popped. Tim stripped the guns from his body and tossed them in the dirt. He turned around, and Bear was behind him, leaning on the shack, Nextel at his side.

  The breeze shifted, bringing with it the rising cry of sirens.

  67

  Out on the street, news crews clamored at the barricades. Producers pleaded into cell phones; tungsten-halogen lights blared; sound guys hopped about, arms raised to support dangling boom mikes. Melissa Yueh herself showed up in a KCOM van that resembled a movie trailer. For high-profile stories, she’d forgo the anchor desk and roll up her sleeves. She paced outside, delicate yet ruthless, like a great cat. The public information officer had hauled a podium to the front walk and draped it in royal blue cloth in preparation for Tannino’s news conference. A Marshals’ arrest meant podium rights, which in turn guaranteed that the wooden Service seal would be front and center on all broadcasts.

  Tim stayed in the house; a new Rackley scoop had been the holy grail for reporters—especially Yueh—ever since his highly publicized release from jail. He, Bear, Guerrera, Smiles, and Malane huddled in the corner, notepads out, checking off everything that needed checking. Deputies and agents mingled, Aaronson and the other criminalists chasing them off the carpets and out of bathrooms so they could process the scene. For once the celebratory mood was unalloyed—no missing nomad, no drug bait-and-switch, no dots left to connect.

  Tannino made his triumphant entrance around 4:00 A.M. He paused in the doorway, surveying the scene until his eyes came to rest on Tim. He winked, then tilted his head in a deferential nod. He crossed and paused before Tim, looking up, his jaw set, his eyes dark and twinkling.

  Tim unholstered his .357 and offered it, butt first.

  “Any shots fired?”

  Tim shook his head.

  “Keep it.”

  The FBI brass rolled up, and the assistant chief deputy appeared at Tannino’s elbow, pulling him away. Tannino played nice with the SAC, but it was clear that once cameras rolled, the marshal would be front and center, the special agent in charge floating behind his left shoulder, Ed McMahon to Johnny, waiting to field follow-up after the bombshells flared out.

  Tim waited until Guerrera got his moment with Tannino. Then he passed by, patted Rey on the back, and said, “Good call on the decoy bike.”

  Guerrera didn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkled with a smile he didn’t let get to his mouth. Tim headed out through the splintered back door onto the veranda. Tannino shouted after him, “Mayor Strauss will be here any minute. He’d like to congratulate you, shake your hand in front of the cameras. Why don’t you stick around?”

  The assistant chief, weary from playing baby-sitter, materialized to steer Tannino back to more pressing business inside. Tim stood on the veranda for a moment, smelling the sewer smell of rotting leaves. Bear had retrieved Boston and put both dogs on a sit-stay by the rear fence. The white top of a CSI van protruded over the shed.

  Tim headed around the pool. He shot Bear an inquisitive look, and Bear nodded—he’d hang back and play primary deputy.

  Tim stepped through the rear gate. Jim stood about five feet away from the sprawled body, staring down at the man who’d helped kill his partner. Tim knew from experience that Jim was not feeling what he’d have wanted to feel. Revenge is a cheap high; it pulls up lame on the finish. Before the brutal lessons the past few years had handed him, Tim had expected to wear a he-got-his smirk through the aftermath. But it never worked out that way. There was just death, and then more death.

  The criminalists zipped Den into a body bag and lifted him onto a stretcher. Standing old-man stooped, his shoulders curved, Jim watched the body load. Passing him, Tim saw that his cheeks were wet. Jim looked up at Tim, but his eyes didn’t seem to register Tim’s presence.

  Tim walked down the dirt alley, passing behind the houses. Some of the TVs had gone to sleep. He came out the far end and stepped onto the street. The mayor’s town car had just pulled up, setting off a fireworks show of flashing bulbs and providing Tim cover for a quiet escape. Strauss emerged, holding up his hands to settle the reporters, George Clooney hitting the red carpet. As he strolled up the front walk, Tannino exited
the house to meet him at the podium. A fine orchestration.

  Melissa Yueh, with the senses of a bird-dog, somehow spotted Tim from down the block. She all but hurdled her cameraman, sprinting toward Tim, adjusting the mike on her violet lapel.

  She shouted from twenty yards away, and Tim saw the other reporters’ heads pivot. “Deputy Rackley? Can you confirm that you killed Den Laurey?”

  He quickened his step to the Explorer and climbed in. Yueh tapped the window with a cordless mike she’d produced from thin air, her breath fogging the glass. Behind her, her exhausted cameraman shrugged at Tim apologetically.

  “Was it in retaliation for the shooting of your wife?”

  He eased out, not wanting to run over her pumps. A few other news crews had closed in, reporters calling out questions. Tim nosed the Explorer through the crowd, finally pushing clear of the cables and makeup-laden faces.

  He sped along the quiet rural road, window down, letting the chill breeze clear his head. One of his field files flipped over, and crime-alert flyers danced along the backseat—the nomads’ final taste of the open road.

  At the eastern seam of the horizon, the sky lightened, almost imperceptibly, from midnight black to charcoal. He thought he was heading for home, but he wound up in a bad part of the North Valley, the Explorer navigating itself as if on autopilot.

  He parked outside the decaying apartment complex. Despite the hour, hip-hop thumped from an upstairs window. A guy sitting on his window ledge smoked a blunt, straight-brimmed Dodgers cap pulled low over his eyes. Tim got out and gathered a set of flyers from the backseat.

  He headed up the narrow walk. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete. He knocked softly on the wooden door. The sound of approaching footsteps. A curtain fluttered, and a dark face peered out through glass and security bars.

  A moment later, the deadbolts clicked and the door opened. Marisol Juarez’s grandmother stepped back, gesturing for Tim to enter. Clearly, he’d woken her. Her eyes and cheeks were dark and puffy, wisps of graying hair twisting out from her temples. She’d pulled on a loose dress, but it was twisted over her squat form. Thin ropes of fabric had been threaded through beads at the hem and knotted. A band of durable bra showed at the armhole. The dress clattered musically as she lit a few more Advent candles—a handful had been left burning—and then shuffled to the tiny couch. The plastic cover came off the footrest, the fabric of which still bore the mud from Tim’s and Bear’s boots. The smell of melting paraffin was oddly comforting.

  She tugged over a rickety chair from the kitchen and sat opposite him. Wrinkles ridged her cheeks and textured her lips. The framed photo of Marisol had been moved to the front table by the candles. Marisol had been the most overlooked victim. A female civilian. Poor. Obese. She’d had no rifle salute, no E! True Hollywood Story, not even a two-line obit in the L.A. Times. And yet she’d cracked a case that ranged from the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the beaches of Cabo San Lucas. Tim recalled Kaner’s sneering remark—Let’s be honest, who gives a shit about chubby chicanas from Chatsworth?—and then Dray’s gentle reminder: Everyone counts. And everyone counts the same. A new thought sailed into the mix: You don’t follow up on a dead broke girl from Chatsworth, alFath fills its coffers and we all hear the hoofbeats of the apocalypse.

  His hands were sweating, dampening the flyers. He spoke softly to try to keep the emotion from his voice. “These are the men who killed your granddaughter.”

  She shook her head, not understanding his English. He repeated himself, slower, as if that would help. With gestures and a few terribly pronounced Spanish words, he haltingly conveyed his meaning. “Aquí are los hombres who killed Marisol.”

  Then he set the first flyer on the footrest between them, facing the woman—Chief glaring at the camera. “Muerto,” he said.

  He laid the next flyer over Chief’s, as if dealing cards. Goat’s scarred face and etched glass eye elicited a faint cry from Marisol’s grandmother. “Preso,” he said.

  Tom-Tom appeared surprisingly good-natured in his mug shot. “Muerto.”

  Kaner’s features seemed to gather menace. “Preso.”

  And, finally, the Man himself, Den Laurey. “Muerto.”

  Tim wished he could have given her something more, but that was all he had for her. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, and when she opened them again, they were shiny with tears. She reached across the footrest and placed a warm, soft hand on his forearm. “Que Dios te bendiga.”

  Tim gathered the flyers and stood. She stayed in her chair, breathing deeply, wiping her eyes with a fold of her dress.

  He showed himself out.

  68

  The sight of Dray’s empty bed struck him like a gut punch. He stopped in the doorway, his flesh gone cold and clammy, his face tingling. The unplugged monitors and equipment, without their lights and bleeps, seemed not just lifeless but obsolete. The bed had been remade, the starched sheet creased at the top to overhang the blanket. Morning sun bled through the closed blinds, lighting the room in bands. The hospital halls were cold and empty and conveyed noise mightily; he heard a nurse at the station way down by the elevators complaining about Starbucks.

  The first emotion to penetrate his shock was rage. The cell phone in his pocket had been turned to silent since before Den’s takedown; he’d forgotten to change the ring setting. He pulled out the Nextel, saw he’d missed three calls from the hospital in the past few hours. His anger decayed swiftly, and he took a wobbly step to the side and lowered himself into the visitor’s chair.

  His hands trembled. He lifted them to his forehead, covered his eyes. I’ll be okay. Trust me. I’ll be okay.

  Her voice moved straight through him. He could practically taste her. Come on, you don’t learn anything unless you’re on your own. Let me go. Tears ran through the gaps in his fingers. He heard the plinks against the tile, one after another.

  I’m okay. I’m okay now .

  His breath caught in his throat. He stood, venturing cautiously out into the hall. Voices echoed up and down the corridor, confusing him. He moved rapidly now, almost panicked with hope, peering through doorways.

  He reached the end room on the right, and there she was, the muscular line of her back visible through the gap of her patient gown. Standing weakly between the parallel support rails, she faced away, her short blond hair streaked with sweat. She clung to the rails, her bare arms tensed. The physical therapist was at her side, grasping Dray’s arm and ignoring her complaints.

  “I’m fine. I want to do this. I’m okay. I promise.”

  Tim tried to say her name, but it tangled up before it reached his mouth. He cleared his throat, but still he sounded feeble with disbelief. “Andrea Rackley.”

  She turned her head, regarding him across the ball of her shoulder.

  The physical therapist said, “We’ve been calling you.”

  Dray couldn’t quite pivot her legs, so she left them behind, twisting so she could see him more clearly. The low bulge of her belly drifted into view. Her dry lips pursed, opened. “I missed you, Timothy.”

  He tried to smile, but it came out a half laugh. Biting her lip against the pain, she stepped around so she could face him squarely.

  Tim wiped his cheeks, still unable to move.

  Dray’s incomparable smile broke across her face, and for the first time he trusted the reality of what he was seeing. He reached to steady her through the next step.

  “Come on,” Dray said. “Let’s get me home.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to express my gratitude to:

  Ben Ahern, who taught me to ride a Harley (even, brave soul, with his credit card holding down the rental deposit).

  Bret Nelson, M.D., and Missy Hurwitz, M.D., who made house calls for Dray.

  Mike Goldsmith, former senior customs agent, who regaled me with tales of destruction and mayhem, and taught me how better to smuggle, maim, and kill.

  Jimell Griffin, deputy U.S. marshal, ARTist, and p
ublic information officer for the central district of California, who always had Tim’s back.

  Maureen Sugden, my overly competent copy editor, for never permitting me to unnecessarily split an infinitive.

  The men and women of the Morrows:

  Michael “Maddog” Morrison—national president

  Meaghan “The Machine” Dowling—chapter president

  Lisa “Hellcat” Gallagher—road captain

  George “Jacket Stainer” Bick—enforcer

  Debbie “Red Knuckles” Stier—sergeant at arms

  Libby “The Hammer” Jordan—intel officer

  Kristin Bowers, Carla Clifford, Brian Grogan, Diane Jackson, Nina Olmsted, Carla Parker, Dale Schmidt, Mike Spradlin, David Youngstrom, and Jeannette Zwart—nomads

  My other biker brethren:

  The Guma, Pine-Man, and Andiman—club treasurers

  Marc H. Glick, Stephen L. Breimer, Rich Green—the Crash Truck posse

  Jess “Garbage Wagon” Taylor—wing collector

  Rome Quezada, Diana Tynan, Julia Bannon, Sean Abbott, Al Alverson, Luis Millan, Carol Topping, and Thomas Sendlenski—1%ers through and through

  And my number one club mama, Delinah.

  About the Author

  Gregg Hurwitz is the critically acclaimed bestselling author of The Tower, Minutes to Burn, Do No Harm, The Kill Clause, and The Program. He holds a B.A. in English and psychology from Harvard University and a master’s degree from Trinity College, Oxford University. He is currently writing the next Tim Rackley novel and the screen adaptation of The Kill Clause. He lives in Los Angeles. For more information please visit www.gregghurwitz.net.