After the battering of the past twenty-four hours, the question hit him hard; his emotions had bled close to the surface. "We'll do everything we can."
She looked to Guerrera, who translated, and then her shoulders sank. Two skateboarders rolled past, their wheels snapping over cracks in the sidewalk.
Bear and Guerrera headed back to the rig. Tim paused on the walk and turned. Her squat, shadowy form remained at the door, candles mapping orange sheets on the walls behind her.
"Thank you." He gestured as if raising a cup to his lips. "For the tea."
Her face warmed, if only briefly, and the door swung shut.
Chapter 22
Muffled feminine whimpers found resonance in the high corners of the deserted warehouse. A leaking pipe had corroded the far wall, leaving the air musty with the bittersweet stench of mold. The soggy drywall had buckled, dragging over the nails of the studs like sloughed clothing. Partitions and cubicle walls divided up the concrete expanse into a labyrinth--narrow runs, sharp turns, cul-de-sacs. Broken-down machinery accompanied the compartmentalized work-spaces--crumpled conveyer belts, rusting metal desks, spills of bolts.
The industrial carpet lining the desk area of the office suite carved out of one corner gave over to a concrete floor slick with oil, worsened by the sweating engines of the four Harleys and the Indian. Den sat at a managerial desk, a hand rasping over his stubble-sharp jaw. Kaner, Chief, and Goat lounged in chairs opposite him; they might have been reviewing first-quarter estimates. Goat's scar cysts had flared up, the flesh on the right half of his face weeping a clear fluid. Kaner spun a finger in the links of his weighty drive-chain necklace.
Tom-Tom stood in the flimsy doorway, staring impatiently across the vast warehouse. "Thafuckizee?"
The closet door behind Den rattled. A stifled sob deteriorated into gagging sounds and moist snuffling.
The bowie knife pinned down a stack of papers to Den's left, glinting red stones lending the flame to the Sinners skull. Den picked the knife up, let it dangle between thumb and forefinger, then slowly lowered the tip to the desk blotter. He tilted the knife, letting its weight draw the point the length of the material. He leaned forward and blew, the blotter neatly halved along the blade's line. Pleased, he settled back in his chair.
A muffled screech, and again the closet door banged in the jamb.
Kaner's low growl of a voice came softly, his lips barely moving: "Let's shut her up already."
An entrance across the warehouse was announced by a bang, a column of thrown light, and the near idle of an engine. Diamond Dog rolled toward them, weaving through machinery. He drove right up into the office and killed the engine. He removed a saddlebag and tossed it onto the desk before Den, equipment rattling within.
Den flipped the reinforced-leather top, looked into it, and smiled. "Good." With a slide of his eyes, he indicated the closed closet door. "Let's get the show on the road."
Chief disappeared back into the warehouse, Tom-Tom hopping after and whooping with excitement. Kaner tugged open the closet door. Marisol Juarez lay pressed against the jamb, arms wrenched painfully behind her considerable back and bound at the wrists. A ribbon of duct tape indented her pudgy cheeks--the bordering flesh rubbed raw. Snot ran over her lips; sweat curled her dyed hair. She tried to retract into the shallow closet but had nowhere to go.
Diamond Dog considered her for a moment, then nodded. "She'll do."
Goat and Kaner lifted her effortlessly despite her weight. They propped her in a chair--she sat compliantly--and cut the tape from her wrists, ankles, and face.
She sucked deep breaths, smeared the sticky hair off her face. "Please don't rape me."
Goat laughed. "We don't do Mexi-cans."
"Why am I here?"
"To shut up," Kaner said.
He, Goat, and Diamond Dog returned to their chairs, and everyone sat quietly, almost sociably, around the desk. Marisol's eyes went to the jeweled bowie sitting on the slit blotter before her. Her chest jerked; she took in hiccups of breaths. Den looked from her to the blade, the set of his face suggesting amusement at the implicit dare.
From deep in the warehouse came a screech. Marisol stiffened as the sound grew steadily louder. Her thin beige top clung to her sweaty torso like a film.
Tom-Tom's humming carried to them--a histrionic rendition of "Here Comes the Bride" followed by a spray of laughter. Marisol watched the doorway, terrified; Den kept his focus on her, enjoying the entertainment.
The sound of metal scraping concrete reached an unbearably high-pitched wail, heralding the object's arrival.
Marisol cried out, "What did I do? Why do you want me?"
Den's mouth pulled to one side, a private grin. "We don't want you, bitch. You're just practice."
Chief backed into view, guiding a large object behind him, and then it, too, slid within the doorway's span. A stainless-steel embalming table. Tom-Tom brought up the rear, overcome with delight. "Ta-da!"
Marisol emitted a whimper from somewhere deep in her chest. "God, don't hurt me."
Den's hand moved in a blur. The blade was back on the table as if it hadn't moved. "You're already dead," he whispered.
Blood streamed from the slit, a window blind descending. Her uncomprehending eyes blinked. Her hand rose to her throat, came away red. She gurgled, and then her knees rattled against the desk and she flopped forward onto the sliced blotter. Kaner kicked out the chair, and her body shifted, then flipped back, landing on the floor.
Tom-Tom giggled, his white-blond curls swaying. Kaner and Goat each grabbed two limbs and hoisted her onto the embalming table. Blood pattered on the floor.
Den peered down at the body, fingering his blade. "Now, let's make this thing work."
Chapter 23
The command post had the tired vibe of a bar ten minutes after last call when the lights come up. The deputies on shift browsed through files, repositioned the surveillance shots tacked to the walls, and pored over crime-scene photos, their skin tinted green from exhaustion and the unforgiving overheads. Malane alone looked alert and sharp, jotting notes and chewing the inside of his cheek. Jim was slurping from his coffee mug, holding it at an odd angle. Tim realized he was covering the words on the side--SUPPORT THE MENTALLY HANDICAPPED. TAKE AN FBI AGENT TO LUNCH.
"Why grab a girl when you're on the run from the law?" Bear was agitated, as if angry at the Sinners' lack of circumspection. "I mean, literally on the run. They'd just faced off with Rack, what, an hour earlier? They knew the heat was coming."
"Race killing?" Freed offered from the far end of the conference table.
"Hate crimes are too low-rent for these guys at this stage," Bear said.
"Maybe they wanted to turn out a cutie." Thomas finished his second cup of coffee in as many minutes and tossed the Styrofoam cup across the command post. It bricked the lip of the trash can and bounced across Malane's oxblood loafers.
"These guys are too smart for that," Guerrera said. "After planning a picture-perfect break and a mass execution, they're not gonna derail for a piece of ass."
"Then what the fuck they doing with her?" Bear's meaty finger tapped Marisol's photo, borrowed from her grandmother's house.
Tim was sitting back, his eyes closed. "They picked her."
One of Bear's eyebrows went on point. "What?"
"They chose her. Lydia said they could have grabbed her first. She's smaller, easier to control. Why would you take a bigger girl?"
"I don't know." Haines shrugged skeptically. "Fetish?"
Jim fussed with the wad of cotton in his ear. "Like serial killers?"
Tim remembered Den's parting words over Dray's body--Let's practice on this heifer. The recollection threw him back into his grief, a cold-water immersion. He waited for his disgust to wash clear. "Biker-gang serial killers sound more tabloid than plausible. These guys are strategists."
Murmured acclamation. The deputies at the table sat thoughtfully, listening to the pulsing rings at the phone bank.
Dray had said that everyone counts and everyone counts the same.
Tim knew this to be true. He also knew she counted more to him than anyone else. He was supposed to carry his badge through the gray zone between those facts.
"Marisol is the key," he said. "Not Frankie. Not Mancone. Not Dray. We figure out a motive for the snatch, we're on our way." He rubbed his temples, refocusing. He'd dozed off in Bear's rig on the ride over. "All right, where else are we? Anything on Danny the Wand?"
"Still looking," Freed said. "But we got a tentative address on the deposed Sinner--Lash. A CI got word from a mechanic, matched the nickname to a billing address for a radiator. Take it or leave it. We were gonna follow it up in the morning."
"Me, Bear, and Guerrera'll take it now. Stay on the motor shops and Danny the Wand. Haines--how'd the prison interview go?"
"Like shit. Word of the break's reached the inside, given the Sinners a fresh tank of defiance. No one's talking except to gloat."
A mounted dry-erase board at the front mapped out the mother chapter's hierarchy, only a few blank slots remaining. Deeds and slags filled out the split branches. It looked like a dating tree from one of the celeb rags Dray pretended not to read in doctors' waiting rooms.
Tim did a double take at a new Magic Marker-rendered name. "You got us an ID on the striker?"
"That's right," Zimmer said. "Rich Mandrell, aka Richie Rich."
Tim's voice, beaten flat by exhaustion, managed a modicum of animation. "His tag is Richie Rich?"
"Diamond pinkie ring. Doesn't take much." Thomas flashed a grin. "Troubleshooter."
"Rich Mandrell," Bear repeated slowly, trying to place the name.
"You get anything on his date to the funeral?" Tim asked.
"Tough broad, played chaperone?" Zimmer said. "No, still can't match her. She might not even be part of the club."
Guerrera tugged her eight-by-ten surveillance shot from the wall behind him, and Tim looked over his shoulder. Her cheeks were pitted from earlier bouts with acne, but her features were clean, even pretty.
"She wasn't wearing a property jacket," Guerrera said. "And she sure as hell didn't act like a slag."
Tim said, "So who is she?"
The thoughtful silence barely had time to establish itself when Bear said, "Wait a minute." He held up his hands, as if having to stave off throngs of rock groupies. "Rich Mandrell? He that guy who popped...?"
"Raymond Smiles," Malane said. "One of ours."
Jim said, "It speaks."
His first joke--a classic Denley slam on a Feeb--caught everyone off guard. The deputies smiled, more with relief than amusement. Malane kept his eyes on Bear as if he hadn't heard or didn't get it. But then his anger seemed to get the better of him, and he turned to Jim. "Raymond Smiles was a good friend."
Jim studied Malane for a moment, then bobbed his head. "I'm sorry. That was an asshole comment. But I wasn't talking about Smiles."
Mercifully, Zimmer broke the silence. "We have the hit on a restaurant security cam." He spun his monitor around, and Tim and Bear watched the soundless MPEG video clip play. A black FBI agent sat at an elegantly set table, perfect posture emphasizing the sharp cut of his suit. He wore a red silk pocket square that blended into the blossoms of the too-high centerpiece of roses. His companion headed off, presumably for the bathroom. A moment later a man stepped into view, back to the camera. His shoulder jerked twice, and more red bloomed on Smiles's shirt, encompassing the handkerchief. Smiles fell forward into his plate. The assassin turned--same eye patch, same flash of pinkie ring, same clammy-looking flesh.
They watched it through a few more times, Tim growing unsettled. Maybe he'd just soured on reviewing footage of law-enforcement officers getting whacked.
"The hit took place October third," Zimmer said. "It seems to have gotten Richie Rich bumped from prospect to striker. Word is, he came out of the San Antonio chapter. A real bruiser. And he's another disappearing act--his last-knowns put us back to '03."
"Where are the case files?" Tim asked.
"We can't get them. We keep running into red flags, classified Feeb bullshit." Zimmer shot a sideways glare at Malane, picking up the thread of a not-so-buried disagreement. "And we're not getting much interdepartmental cooperation from our task-force liaison."
Bear directed a displeased scowl Malane's way. "Can't you play well with others?"
"Yes, but I can't break Bureau protocol. I've issued a request to try to expedite matters. That's the best I can do."
"Have we gotten the Uncle Pete files?" Tim asked. "The Continuing Criminal Enterprise stuff?"
"I've also put in a request to--"
"Stop requesting. Start doing. You're here for a reason."
"I know why I'm here, Rackley."
"Good. Then work with us. We could certainly use it."
Put a pin in the anger and use your head. Get results from this joker or get some answers.
"On second thought," Tim added, "what are you doing here?"
Malane matched Tim's calm stare. "To help. What else?"
Bear's brow was furrowed, deep ripples in shiny skin. Keeping his eyes on Malane, he said, "Freed, how 'bout that address?"
Tim rose, stretching through the pain in his lower back. He took the slip of paper from Freed and followed Bear and Guerrera out. The white face of the wall clock above the door looked down as he passed under.
Twenty-four hours since she was shot.
Chapter 24
It was nearly 2:00 A.M. when they eased up to the two-story North Hills apartment building. Pink stucco and cheap concrete had fallen away in chunks, rebar twisting from the holes like spider legs. Around cars, stoops, and rickety ovoid barbecues, men gathered in tight, menacing clusters, all glittering eyes and hands in pockets. Bing Crosby crooned holiday tunes from an eight-track deck in an off-kilter eggshell blue Karmann Ghia, an anachronism of Russian-nesting-doll proportion.
Tim, Bear, and Guerrera rolled out of Bear's Dodge Ram, and the groups seemed to hunch together. Overpowering Bing's velvet barum-ba-pum-pumming, brassy Wagnerian trills wafted from an open second-floor window. Tim picked off a slouched kid with a scruffy goatee and a cocked-back Stetson. "A biker named Lash live around here?"
"You mean the Great Mustaro?" A few of his cohorts snickered, and the kid lifted his eyes to the window screen upstairs. A curtain undulated between the mesh and a man's form in a bodybuilder flex. Thick shadow. Biceps like softballs.
Tim and Guerrera gladly let Bear lead the way. He knocked, but the classical music had reached a deafening pitch. The doorknob gave up 180 degrees. Bear leaned into the room, a hand riding his still-holstered gun.
A refrigerator of a man, naked, did deep-knee bends, exhaling prodigiously. The Sinners logo occupied his entire back, the flaming skull rippling with the movement of his muscles. SINNERS had been excised from the tattooed top rocker--a purple twist of scar tissue in its place--so his back read, ridiculously, LAUGHING...and then, beneath, FILLMORE.
On a flickering black-and-white, a hunting-cap-bedecked Elmer Fudd goosestepped through a forest to staticky Walkure accompaniment. Lash turned, revealing twinkling eyes, a nest of facial hair, and more, and grinned agreeably. He gave voice to the rising crescendo with a not-bad bass.
Tim flashed on Kaner's hulking figure facing him down on the Malibu road, the nomad's sheer size impressing itself on him anew. Huge as Lash was, Kaner still had a good four inches and hundred pounds on him.
"Mind if we turn down the TV?" Bear roared.
"What?"
"Mind if we turn down the TV?"
"What?"
This repeated a few more times until Bear resorted to sign language. The volume eased, and pleasant introductions commenced, the man shaking their hands vigorously, Tim's elbow aching with the snapping gesture. Lash seemed unsurprised by the appearance of three deputy marshals, even pleased to see them.
A circular scar stretched tight and shiny over his right biceps, pinched at the ed
ges like a Reese's peanut butter cup. The twitch at his jaw and scurrying fingers showed off a meth high in overdrive; pockmarks said it wasn't a new habit. A silver-dollar-size patch of skin at his massive left pectoral fluttered to his heartbeat, an incongruous fragility. Scabs and bruising spotted the crooks of his elbows, his wrists, between his fingers. Continuing to stretch, Lash stepped on the end of each of Bear's sentences.
"We understand you used to ride with the S--"
"Seven years of full-color-flying mayhem."
"We had a few questions--"
"No problemo, podnuhs. You pay, right? For info? I'll leak you a few words for a price. Times are tough, my friends, times are tough."
Bear fed Lash a twenty to keep the wheels greased, letting the hundred show beneath his money clip. Lash snapped it up, the bill disappeared into a drawer, and then he was stepping into a seventies-appliance-yellow wrestling singlet, bouncing on one hairy leg as he strained into the Lycra.
Bear asked, "Why'd you get kicked out?"
"Little trouble with the needle." Lash fluttered the curtain a bit, letting the breeze pull through the screen. " Scuse the ripeness, lads, enchiladas been chasin' me around the room all night."
"The club gives a shit you used drugs?" Bear asked.
His fingers picked at the fabric, readjusting it to his contours. "Loyalty to the needle is greater than loyalty to the Sinners. We could sell but not partake. That's a lot of road time with the lady calling out from the saddlebag. I never liked the 'ow' in 'willpower.' And so it goes, my friends, and so it goes."
Guerrera indicated Lash's disrupted top-rocker tattoo. "The nomads take the 'Sinners' off your back?"
"Yup. With a wire brush. I'm appreciative, actually. They could've knifed the whole backpack--infection woulda killed me for sure." He gripped his biceps, displaying the circular scar as if offering it for purchase. "Burned over my one-percenter tat with a hot spoon. I miss that one the most, cuz I saw it every day."
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