Troubleshooter Page 15

  Shoulders slumped, gun drawn but at his side, Guerrera stood over a body.

  Diamond Dog Phillips.

  Approaching, Tim noticed Guerrera’s boot pinning down a .45; he’d secured Diamond Dog’s gun but not picked it up. Tim called out, “Did you clear the area?”

  Guerrera snapped into motion. Bear cuffed Goat to a forklift and left him whimpering. Tim shined his Mag-Lite at the banks of overheads, checking that they weren’t rigged, then found a switch panel. Section by section, the warehouse flickered into light.

  After a quick search, the three met up again in the open area. Bear followed up with backup—two-minute ETA. Goat had mercifully passed out, cuffed arm dangling over his head. The deep rumble of his breathing and his pulse—when Tim checked—showed strong vitals.

  It did not surprise him when Dray weighed in.

  So I neglected to mention maiming.

  I didn’t kill him.

  Maybe not, but this is a pretty close second. Doubt he’ll be talking much with his face blown off. Next time don’t take me so literally.

  Don’t second-guess me on this one, Dray. If I don’t put him down, he shoots me or Bear or both of us. My options were limited.

  I guess you’re right. And believe me, we don’t want you ending up where I am. It’s really dull, and the food sucks.

  Goat shifted onto his back, mumbling.

  Can’t say I’m torn up inside. I mean, the guy’s biggest contribution to society is putting a tourniquet on his arm when he masturbates so it feels like someone else is yanking him off.

  Really?

  Check his case file. At least he gets points for originality.

  Tim crouched over the woman next. Her hands had contracted into claws, the finger webs already opaque. Not wanting to compromise the crime scene, he used a pocketknife to lift her snarled hair away from her features. It took some maneuvering, but he finally did. Bear, at his back, heaved a sigh. Tim looked at the familiar face, feeling a dead weight tugging on his insides. “Damn it,” he said softly. He wanted to cover her but knew he had to leave her there for CSI, bare on the concrete.

  Guerrera looked down blankly at Diamond Dog, his gun still at his side. He made a fist around his bangs, his mouth pulsing. Tim gently grasped his elbow and wrist and guided his Glock back into his hip holster, Guerrera barely noting his presence.

  Fine lacings of blood, erupted from the chest wound, had stained Diamond Dog’s T-shirt.

  “He was gonna pick you off from the shadows. Guerrera spotted him first.” Bear frowned down at the centered bullet hole, nodding approval at the shot placement. His eyes lifted to the girl, and Tim saw a glimmer of sorrow cut through the toughness. “Why the hell would you kidnap a girl from Chatsworth and cut out her stomach?”

  Torture? Satanic ritual? Diversion? Tim shook his head. “That’s what we have to figure out.”

  Guerrera’s face had gone gray. Bear returned Tim’s glance, catching his drift and nodding—get the kid some air.

  “Rey,” Tim said. “Come with me and wait for backup.”

  Once outside, Guerrera took a few hard breaths and gestured at the step. “Okay if I take a seat?”

  “Of course.”

  Guerrera squeezed one hand in the other, both trembling slightly. It took Tim a few beats to recognize what he was muttering in Spanish as the Lord’s Prayer. When Tim’s shadow blocked the light across his face, Guerrera quieted abruptly, as if catching himself.

  Tim crouched beside him, inhaling the crisp air. “You don’t kill that guy, he kills me.”

  “I know.”

  Tim took note of his sick expression. “Remember this feeling. Don’t get used to it.”

  Guerrera tilted his head, looking up at Tim. The streetlamp lighting smoothed out his skin, making him look like a college kid. He shifted his gaze quickly, embarrassed. “You have.”

  Tim rose. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

  The cavalcade made a grand entrance—black-and-whites, unmarked cars, CSI van, two ambulances, Tannino’s white Bronco bringing up the rear. Guerrera was on his feet instantly, puffing himself back up.

  Tannino hopped out, animated and mouthy. “The warehouse clear? Then get every swinging dick outta there until CSI finishes its sweep.” He took Guerrera’s gun into evidence, talking past him at Miller. “Let’s get him to the hospital. Simmer him down, maybe a sedative. And someone call the Hug Squad, get a counselor on the hook.”

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital. Rack put a hole through Chief and didn’t—”

  “Rackley,” Tannino said with undisguised ambivalence, “has been through this drill a time or two.”

  In the alley a garbage truck closed in on the Dumpster, forks sliding beneath the unit with a screech. Why was the loudest street work always conducted at 4:00 A.M.?

  Bear jogged out, breathing hard, as if he’d just finished a 5k. “I took a turn through the office in there with CSI, looks to be whistle clean. Nothing in the drawers, the closet, trash can—” He stopped short, keyed to a sudden idea, and then ran across the lot, waving his arms. The Dumpster halted midrise. The trash-truck driver rolled down his window, talked to Bear, then lowered the unit back onto the ground and backed off it. Bear flipped up the top and hoisted himself, the unit nearly tipping over as he peered inside, the very image of his nickname.

  The others watched with puzzlement.

  “He looking for a late-night snack?” Jim asked.

  Bear straddled the lip, the flashlight a yellow spray from his fist, then disappeared into the Dumpster. Tannino and Tim exchanged vaguely comic glances, and then Bear’s around-the-fingers whistle split the air. Tim headed over, Aaronson and another criminalist instinctively pulling behind him. The Dumpster was nearly empty, though it reeked and the walls had rusted in patches. Three white trash bags gathered in the far corner like fat geese, branches and leaves poking through the plastic. Bear crouched, almost sitting on his heels, peering into the sole black bag.

  Aaronson stiffened and offered the criminalists’ refrain: “Don’t touch anything.”

  Bear kept his head toward Tim, his flashlight bobbing as he clicked it back on—a variation of the no-look pool shot. Light shone into the cinched, fist-size mouth of the stuffed bag.

  Bloody rags.

  “Okay. We got it from here. Climb out over there. No, there. Thank you.” The criminalists took over, prowling the unit, exchanging abbreviations and acronyms in the murmuring voices of lovers.

  Tim and Bear arrived back at the warehouse as two fire-department medics wheeled Goat out. He’d regained consciousness, moaning quietly. Miller smirked. “Two down, three to go.”

  Jim lunged for the gurney as it passed, and it took Maybeck and Thomas to restrain him. “You piece of shit!” Shouting, he was still hoarse. “How you like it, motherfucker?”

  Tannino glowered at Jim. “Shut the hell up, Denley. Back it down.” He strode over, inserting himself between Jim and the departing gurney. To the others: “Let him go.” The deputies released Jim, but Tannino stood before him, five feet seven inches of tough; even at a head’s advantage, Jim didn’t dare make a move past him.

  The medics loaded the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Scowling, the marshal looked from Guerrera and Miller to the cluster of deputies surrounding Jim—headaches all around. “Who wants to baby-sit Scarface?”

  Malane appeared out of the tangle of personnel and vehicles. “Want me to take him for you? You guys have had a long day.”

  “Thank you, Jeff.”

  Bear shot Tim an irritated look behind Tannino’s back. Malane climbed up into the rear of the vehicle, the doors slammed, and the ambulance pulled away.

  Tannino signaled Tim with a finger, and they stepped outside the circle of men. Tannino put his back to the others. “What’s your read on Jim?”

  The others watched Tim, gleaning the conversation’s content. Anger lingered in Jim’s light blue eyes, enough to embolden him to stare.

  Tim s
aid, “He seems a little wobbly.”

  “Think I should pull him?”

  “I would.”

  “Would you pull you?”

  “Probably.”

  Tannino let out a sigh meant to illustrate executive stress. “What about in there? Was it a good shooting?”

  “Yeah. Guerrera saved my ass. Talk to Bear—he saw it.”

  “The kid can shoot. Who’da thunk it?”

  “Not you?”

  “I thought he might be all talk. You never know until you know.”

  Tim was distracted, scanning the empty parking lot.

  “What?” Tannino said.

  “We got two dead bikers and one bike.”

  “Maybe they rode in together?”

  “Sure, right after their commitment ceremony.”

  Tannino whistled Freed over. “Give a drive around the surrounding blocks. We’re missing a chopper. Check alleys, too.”

  “Diamond Dog’s bike,” Tim said. “Call someone at the post, get it tagged from our funeral surveillance shots. Goat’s hog is inside.”

  Freed nodded and withdrew. Tannino spit on the asphalt as if clearing a hair from his mouth.

  Tim said, “Don’t release Diamond Dog’s name to the press. Give up Goat, but I want until at least tomorrow on Diamond Dog.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you till noon. Move your ass and make the play. We gotta build Rome in a day here, Rackley.” Tannino shot his cuffs like an old-school gangster and squared his shoulders. He entered the warehouse. Emerged a minute later. “What the fuck is that?”

  “That seems to be the prevailing question.”

  “Sinner business or entertainment?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “Don’t think so. Just a big girl.”

  Tannino took a deep breath and walked back to the cluster of deputies. He pointed at Jim. “You. Go home. You can do light duty at the command post, but you’re done going out of pocket for this case.”

  Jim’s glare went from the marshal to Tim. He spun and headed back to his wife’s Saturn; he’d been roused from bed.

  Tannino turned his attention to Guerrera. “To the hospital. That’s not a suggestion.” Another quarter rotation brought him face-to-face with Tim. “You and Bear handle the advise-next-of-kin. Take Guerrera’s ride for a respectful showing. We don’t need you rattling up to the curb in Bear’s heap. What, Rackley? Why the face?”

  “Guerrera handled her before, the grandmother, and her English isn’t so hot. I thought maybe it might be easier for her to hear it from—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Tannino said, already heading back to his Bronco, “we’ll do ethnic outreach on the next one.”

  29

  Guerrera’s duty car was an Impala that Bear hated because of the creepy autonavigation voice—a spacewoman on ludes calling out each turn. “Left in two hundred yards.”

  Bear looked ridiculous stuffed in the driver’s seat; he didn’t do well in cars.

  Tim hadn’t done an advise-next-of-kin call since he’d received one himself from Bear the night of Ginny’s death. He thought about asking Bear to handle tonight’s, but he felt he owed Marisol’s grandmother both their presences in the face of the news.

  “The old man asked me if I thought he should yank Jim.”

  “I figured.”

  “Right turn in forty-five feet.”

  Tim looked at the camera mount on the center rearview mirror, the same model that had captured the assault on Dray. “Do I come off so coldhearted that my wife gets shot and the marshal asks me if another guy’s taking the case too personal?”

  “I think—”

  “Oops. Make a U-turn.”

  “Shaddup, lady. Jesus Christ, I want to get nagged like that, I’ll get hitched.” Bear turned the car around and got them back on course. “I think since you fucked up on that front so profoundly, the marshal bets you won’t go that route again. And more important …”

  “What?”

  “Well, you do go stone cold, Rack. When you’re mad. You don’t get stupid, and you don’t get sloppy. Stupid and sloppy are what Tannino— and the mayor, for that matter—is worried about. And frankly, if you handle business and the rest of the Sinners wind up ten toes up like Chief, I don’t think anyone’s gonna lose any sleep. But it’s gotta be clean work.” They drove a few minutes in silence, but eventually whatever thought Bear was working on got the better of him, and he said, “Jim’s an easy call to pull off the case right now. He’s not the one who the marshal—and you—should be worried about.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I dunno. Young deputy. A comer. Could go this way or that way or some other way. And—as everyone but you has noticed—idolizes you. For all the wrong reasons, I might add.”

  “Guerrera?”

  “You think?” Bear shot Tim a you’d-better-think-about-it glare and feigned a sudden absorption in the cookie-cutter triplexes flying by on his left.

  A few minutes later, they eased up to the house. Bear let the car idle, ignoring the solicitous autogal—“Next location, please.”

  Bear stared at the house, his face shifting. “Fuck. I hate this. I fucking hate this.” He bounced his forehead off the top of the steering wheel a few times. “Okay, let’s go.”

  At the door Bear’s and Tim’s painful Spanglish only made the encounter more demeaning to everyone and prolonged the agony of the revelation. Immediately the woman took in their dread by osmosis, but they had to run through “We’re siento, Marisol is muerto” three or four times until the denial-fueled hopefulness dwindled from her eyes and her composure crumbled. One of her arms flared to help her keep her balance and Tim caught it and walked her to the couch, but she refused to sit. The footrest, now re-covered in plastic, bore a few stains from their last visit.

  Tim focused hard on her hysterical Spanish and figured out she was asking variations on what he and Bear had termed the Impossible Rhetorical—“¿Cómo pudo pasar?” How could this happen? He was having a difficult time keeping his emotions in check; they came at him from hidden angles, each trailing a memory: Bear’s mud-caked boots the night he came to tell him and Dray that Ginny had been killed. The sheriff’s dispatcher’s static-laced voice announcing that a pregnant deputy had been shot point-blank. Tim’s exhaustion caught up to him in a rush, and the room seemed to close in on him—the oppressive kitchen humidity, the sticky-sweet smell of the Advent candles, the woman’s anguished sobbing.

  Everyone murdered is a son or a daughter. Cops and deputies start burning out once they acknowledge this simple fact. The awareness— the true awareness—leads to a kind of insanity, a blurred vision. So they fight it tooth and nail. They fight it with the bottle. They fight it by pushing away what is theirs with what is not. The smart ones fight it with a cynical eye and gallows humor. And some of them—sometimes the toughest of them—just decide to give up one day and eat their guns or ride motorcycles into brick walls. To acknowledge the essential humanity of each bludgeoned face, each sprawled corpse, each Dumpster baby, is to run the gauntlet with every nerve exposed. But not to acknowledge it is a kind of denial, a kind of death in itself.

  The shotgun blast that had entered Dray had also knocked Tim’s careful system of balance and countermeasure out of whack. His compartments bled into one another; his boundaries slid; his lines blurred. In the haze he sensed a barely conscious choice at hand: He could take either nothing personally or everything. He could either connect the dots between his comatose wife and the other victims or deny them all a place in his heart.

  Somewhere the woman’s halting English returned. “She will be home. She have to come home to me.”

  And Bear’s soothing murmur: “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’re so sorry.”

  She looked impossibly frail in Bear’s embrace. Tim cleared his throat and blinked away the wetness in his eyes.

  “I just make her bed again. Her bed is ready for her.” The woman tore at
her shirt, her knuckles knobby from years of hard work. She collapsed on the couch, face pressed to the cushion.

  Bear did a double take at Tim. “You all right?” he mouthed.

  Tim wiped his nose, nodded.

  “Why don’t you go to the car?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ll be finer in the car.”

  The woman’s hoarse sobbing was audible all the way down the walk.

  Bear climbed into the car twenty minutes later. Tim’s eyes and nose were rimmed red, the contrast severe against the pallid skin of his face. His breathing had settled, the calm after the storm. Bear looked more than a touch unsettled. Tim wouldn’t turn to meet his gaze, so Bear faced forward, hands on the wheel, elbows dangling. His head was ducked; he was at a loss.

  They were pointed east, and morning leaked at the horizon, a slow, orange bleed.

  Tim’s voice was cracked and quiet. “Take me to Dray.”

  30

  The waiting-room TV, suspended from a bracket in the corner, offered a virtual face blast of information. Shots within shots, subheadlines with bullet points, an Energizer Bunny crawl across the bottom: Laughing Sinner killed in Fillmore shoot-out…. Pregnant deputy shot by fugitive Den Laurey still in critical condition…. Another Cholo found dead. Authorities believe killing related to biker gang war…. AP: Mutilated female corpse discovered in former IronClad Parts warehouse….

  Tim caught a few stares from the waiting wounded, who—as a corralled TV viewership on a bureaucratic timetable—had no doubt watched grainy, zoom-lensed Deputy Rackley poking through one of the three high-profile crime scenes that had emerged last night and this morning.

  Dray was alone in her room, arrayed peacefully under the covers, her head tilted just so on the pillow. He spoke her name, half expecting her to rise and greet him. Her skin felt hard and waxy and gave off the scent of antiseptic. He missed the smell of her, and it struck him that there was no way to recapture it unless Dray reentered her life, unless she showered, sweated, ate her vast yet specific array of foods, rubbed jasmine lotion into her hands in her elaborate manner that made her look like a cartoon villain scheming. Her smell captured the combination of countless variables that were her life, that were her alive.