Troubleshooter (2005)

by Gregg - Rackley 03 Hurwitz

  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 now," 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.

  Chapter 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 store-front. 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 para-legal 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 he
re?"

  "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.

  Chapter 13

  Tim hit the brakes, and for an instant the two men regarded each other through the windshield. The split second of shock passed, and then Tim's gun was out, the PA at his lips. Den hopped onto his bike, which faced the Buick.

  "Get off that bike now!"

  Den spun the Harley in a half circle, throwing up a sheet of dust. Breaking Service policy, Tim fired a warning shot out the open window. Den revved the engine but didn't take off. Finally he turned, the insect bulge of his helmet fixed on the gun pointed at his shoulders.

  "Turn off your motor. Throw your keys to your right. No--do not put down your kickstand!"

  Den remained on his tiptoes, forced to balance the weighty bike.

  Tim alternated the PA with the push-to-talk mike of the dashboard Motorola. "Request immediate backup following high-risk motorcycle stop on Den Laurey."

  The CSO responded from the comm center downtown, his voice ratcheting high with excitement. "Where are you?"

  Tim paused, frustrated with himself. "The Malibu hills. I'm not sure exactly where--check my location with OnStar. Do we have any units available in Malibu or Simi?"

  "Hang on, lemme see who's on the air."

  Den bristled restlessly. Tim got back on the PA. "Take off your helmet. Throw it to the right. Now!" The helmet bounced once and rolled a few feet down the slope.

  The CSO came back in his ear: "It's a twenty-minute ETA."

  "Then contact the watch commander at the Malibu/Lost Hills Sheriff's Station, give him my bearings, tell him to get a few units up here ASAP. This won't wait."

  "Ten-four."

  Tim eased out of the car and stood, both hands on the .357, his wrists resting on the V created by the open door. A faint breeze blew musky canyon smells across his face--sage, eucalyptus, dirt, and leaves commingled in a marijuana-like sweetness. Despite the December night, his neck tingled with sweat. Due to the sudden nature of the encounter, Tim hadn't been able to locate the stop to his advantage. The curve left blind road in front of and behind them. At the edge of his vision ahead, the narrow road split three ways. Through traffic would be disruptive--and provide Den opportunities.

  A knucklehead engine powered Den's Harley cutaway, the row of bulky nuts on the right side sticking up like an iron fist. The front wheel was barely raked out, maybe a few degrees, flame-decorated extensions lengthening the front fork.

  Holding a shooting stance, Tim slowly approached. Den shifted slightly, his right leg tensing to take more of the bike's weight. Tim froze, a red flag rising. His eyes picked over Den's back and the motionless bike.

  Crosshairs had been etched on the left rearview mirror. The left grip, pointing back at Tim, terminated in a hole, the bore of a jerry-rigged shotgun hidden in the handlebar.

  Tim shuffled quickly to the side, out of the scatter radius, holding the gun on Den's head.

  "Put down your kickstand. Put it down! Dismount on your right. On your right."

  Den had to turn unnaturally to dismount on the wrong side, presenting Tim with a full view of his body and hands. His road-filthy jacket didn't feature the more visible rockers and flaming skull on the back, but the front bore his markings, safe from the view of drivers. A scattering of upside-down cop patches for the officers the nomads had killed. The ubiquitous 1% triangle. A rectangular in-memory-of patch, NIGGER STEVE written in block letters. Tim felt his stomach tighten when he took in the two upside-down U.S. Marshals Service patches, not yet dulled by road wear.

  Den's face, bearing a few days' stubble, remained relaxed. He offered a disarming smile. "This ain't gonna end well for you."

  The sight of the patches had put a charge into Tim; he did a poor job keeping the anger from his voice. "Turn around. On your knees. Lace your hands behind your head. Good boy, you know the drill." He eased forward, holding his .357 steady, his other hand going to the cuffs at his belt.

  Den's shoulders started shaking, and then Tim heard a low, ticking chuckle.

  The crackle of a Harley engine disrupted the night. Then another. Within seconds two Harleys materialized, skidding up on the dirt plateau to flank Den protectively. The helmeted drivers, like Den, wore plain leathers in place of their originals. The larger of the two--Kaner--showed off arms covered with ink, the Illustrated Man on growth hormones. Double-looped around his neck hung an impeccably cleaned motorcycle drive chain. Its silver links, unblackened by grease, were surprisingly elegant. Whereas Den radiated quiet menace, Kaner was all brute force--head-on posture, wide fighter's stance, chin pulled back over blocklike shoulders as if he'd just reared up to his nearly seven feet.

  A spill of white hair collected at his partner's collar beneath the helmet--Tom-Tom the towhead.

  They were too close, almost right on top of Tim. His voice came out hoarse. "Hands up! Hands up!"

  His eyes flicked to Den's discarded helmet, the tentacle of a wire mike floating below the visor to provide hands-free radio communication with the other bikers. The nomads were traveling close for protection but riding separate to stay inconspicuous.

  The night chill filled Tim's nostrils, his lungs. Keeping his gun level at Den's head, he began a cautious retreat to his car--the distance would give him a better shot at holding all three in his scope. When the other bikers moved, Tim jerked the gun to cover them, and they held up their hands casually, as if amused.

  "Lugathat," Tom-Tom said. "Guess he's got the sitwayshun under control."

  The sound of two more bikes approaching, this time from behind Tim, sped his pace. He ducked behind his open door, reaching for the mike of his radio as the bikes swept past. They stopped about ten yards back from the others, where Tim couldn't effectively cover them. Another Harley and an Indian. Chief's helmet tilted in mock greeting. The bikers turned off their engines, one after another, until the night held only a dizzying silence and a few crickets scratching their legs disharmoniously. Four helmeted heads pointed at Tim intently, the alien, eyeless stares of the dark wind visors projecting threat.

  Tim heard hi
s breath as an echo in his chest, his gun flashing left and right as he tried to keep everyone pinned down. When he spoke into the radio, he could hear the slight tremor in his voice. "I have all the Sinner nomads here. Repeat: all the Sinner nomads. I'm outnumbered and need backup immediately."

  Den lowered his hands and rose from his knees, keeping his back to Tim. His breath fogged over his shoulder. He turned slowly, his profile cut cleanly from the glow of Kaner's headlight.

  "Sheriff's gave me a ten-minute ETA." The CSO sounded a touch panicked himself. "That's the quickest we got, Rack. Want me to stay on with you?"

  Tim released the mike, the coiled cord sucking it back across the seat.

  He sighted on Den's critical mass, but the others in his periphery were moving, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Kaner tugged the drive chain from his neck and wrapped it once around his forearm like a flexible bludgeon. Tom-Tom pulled the sissy bar free from his bike, its filed points rising into view, and wielded it like a double lance. The red road flare latched to Chief's frame transformed into a pipe shotgun in his hands. Goat slid off his bike, twisting his gas cap to reveal the hunting knife welded to the inside. Tim swung his gun over to Chief, who had the only firearm, but then a handgun appeared at Den's side, pressed to his thigh.

  Tim lowered himself against the hinge of the open door, presenting as small a target as possible. Figuring he'd die either way in an exchange of shots, he aimed his .357 at Den. If lead started flying, he'd rather take out the head man before going down. Imminent death registered as a throbbing at his temples and wrists. He felt his desire to pull the trigger as a craving, maddeningly reined in by thoughts of his family and the loathsome necessity of thinking tactically in a blood standoff.

  They squared off, no one eager to start the fireworks.

  Then the Sinners pulled back to their bikes, Chief and Den keeping their weapons aimed at Tim's head. As desperately as Tim wanted the takedowns, he weighed the situation. There was no imminent threat to a civilian. If the nomads continued their ordered retreat, his life wasn't at risk. If he initiated a gunfight, he'd be able to take out one nomad at most, and at high cost.