Last shot tr-4 Read online

  A nod.

  "Okay. Get outta here."

  Sam ran from the room. Walker pulled the sundress free. One thin cornflower blue strap had been torn. A rip extended the side slit.

  Had Tess been raped in this dress? Just mauled? He thought of his sister, like all those skinny, scared kids hauled to Boss's cell.

  The assailant had lent her the car to get home. Gentlemanly. She'd ridden away from the shoot, jacket zipped to her chin so Sam wouldn't know. And then, ever mindful, she'd stored the evidence, readying for a counterattack she hadn't lived to make.

  Walker shouldered against one of the broken closet doors, clutching the puddle of fabric in both hands. His head hummed, the sound the power lines give off over a desert road where nobody lives important enough to complain.

  He balled the dress and stuffed it back into the closet. It took his legs a moment to respond, and then he walked out.

  For once Sam's TV was dark. He sat on the floor, knees poked up into his T-shirt like he was cold. Walker paused at his doorway. Looked back. Gave him a little nod.

  Sam nodded back.

  Chapter 45

  Through the humid night air, Tim and Bear could hear the popping of ammo and the strained shouts of hunters stalking prey. Darkness had settled over the Ballona Wetlands, the largest habitat of its kind in Los Angeles. A decades-old struggle between developers and environmentalists had resolved for the time being with the city relinquishing a few scattered parcels to environmentally friendly businesses. Industry's encroachment was nothing new; the Spruce Goose had been constructed on these very wetlands back when Howard Hughes held the deed.

  An Olds Cutlass Supreme from the seventies was parked by the awning, looking postcard pristine with its broad, smooth hood, a sparkling powder blue coat, and a restored white soft top devoid of bird shit-no small feat in the wetlands. The license plate inquired provocatively, RUGAME?

  Behind the building, green netting enclosed the fifteen-acre preserve. Tim and Bear walked along the perimeter, peering in, their shoes sinking in mud. The hunt-zone motif was Disneyland jungle-wide fronds, pump waterfalls, mud wallows, camo-splattered boxing heavy bags feathered with leaves and swinging like mini-golf distractions. Tim caught a flash of flesh deep in the foliage, the frenzied run of the outgunned, and then the chuffing of four men, hunting in pairs, closing the distance.

  By the time he and Bear retraced their steps to the entrance, his cuffs clung wetly to his ankles. They stepped into the lounge and took a moment getting their bearings, Bear readjusting the star on his belt like an old-school deppity. The roomful of men hummed with the locker-room and private-club glee of the unsupervised. A focused gentleman at the bar practiced a spin move into the holster, dropped his paintball gun, and patiently set up for another try. Thumbtacked to the bamboo wainscoting were flyers advertising used equipment, martial arts classes, and car pools to gun shows and paintball tournaments.

  "Car pools?" Tim read incredulously.

  Bear said, "Hard to get around when you live with your mom."

  Three middle-aged guys with aggressive sideburns were oohing and aahing over a new scope, ignoring the woman with porn-star dimensions nestling into the lap of a self-satisfied gentleman. Evidently hard feelings didn't persist after the pursuit. Not when there was recompense for making nice.

  One of the lap dancee's clean-cut cohorts did a double take at Tim.

  Tim offered him a curt nod. "Your Honor."

  The justice hastened for the exit, reseating his tie and frowning severely as if on to weighty matters. Tim and Bear pressed on past the tiki zone. An undulating gauze curtain led back to the preserve. In the rear office, which doubled as a staging area, a group of eager weeknight warriors, tacked up from camo socks to face paint, endured an orientation; their group hunt was about to kick off.

  Someone was streaming an MPEG from Iraq on his PalmPilot, sharing the footage with a cluster of onlookers. Tim recognized the distinctive percussion of twenty mike-mike rounds, the whooping blades of either an Apache attack helo or a Cobra Gunship. "Check it out," the ringleader said. "The terrorist pops back into view and"-assorted cries and exclamations drowned him out-"just disintegrates."

  From all sides carried snatches of other conversations, rife with buzzwords.

  "— got a new Violent bolt for his Intimidator. The bad boy's Teflon, so the internal diameter stays nice and smooth-"

  One voice, notable for its high tenor, stood out from the cacophony. The hefty presenter in the staging area paced in front of the rookie shooters like a drill sergeant. "No shooting under five meters. No head shots. Don't aim for the genitalia. Bouncers don't count-only bursts. Everyone sign your waivers?"

  A price board behind the counter announced the fifteen-hundred-dollar entry fee. To the side a video tech gone bulky with elbow and knee pads adjusted the settings on his digital camera.

  Tim knew before he saw the name on the speaker's nickel badge. Wes Dieter's discerning gaze snagged on one of his charges. "Get your barrel plug in, pal. This isn't a game."

  Bear couldn't stifle a guffaw, and five pairs of night-vision goggles swiveled toward them. "Hey, man," one of the paintballers said, gesturing at Tim, "it's the Troubleshooter." A few of the guys offered waves, and one chucked Tim's shoulder. Tim caught Wes staring, too-that odd blend of reverence and disquiet.

  Good to know his fame had reached such rarefied circles.

  Wes returned his focus to the men before him. "You boys ready to hunt some pussy?" A chorus of cheers. "Candy Racer, you're on!"

  A side door banged open, and out paraded an Asian woman with flawless tanned skin and breasts too high and hard to have been factory equipment. She wore goggles, low-cut tennis socks with lime-green poofs at the heels, black Pumas, and that was it.

  Bear's mouth finally got the better of him. "Can't you at least give the girl a helmet?"

  Wes cast a know-it-all gaze in his direction. "Deers don't wear helmets, do they?"

  "I believe it's 'deer.'"

  "What?"

  "The plural of 'deer' is 'deer.'"

  "I said 'deer.'"

  A couple of the men nodded in agreement, eager to get on the range. Bear looked to Tim, and Tim shrugged. Bear pretended to be peeved, blowing a jet of air where his bangs would be if he didn't have cropped Polish hair.

  Wes walked over and stroked Candy Racer's well-toned flank, then administered it a jockey's smack. To whoops and cheers, she sprinted off into the preserve, the gauze curtain whistling around her. "Remember, boys, she gets a two-minute lead."

  "Last I checked," Bear said, as it became increasingly clear who was going to have to play good cop this round, "deer don't wear goggles either."

  "You're a perceptive guy and a shrewd grammarian," Wes said, minding his stopwatch. "But city business services came down on me. We used to be able to shoot the girls anywhere on their bods, too, but then we had to add regs. We still do our best to simulate natural conditions."

  "Of what?" Bear said. "Berserking Vikings in the Amazon Basin?"

  "We're an environmentally sound business."

  "Jungle orchids being indigenous to the Ballona Wetlands."

  "Hey, they like green, they got green." Wes clicked his stopwatch ahead of schedule and said, with a tough-guy delivery, "Game on." He waved on the paintballers, who shuffled eagerly off into the preserve, barking code words. "It's bad enough the fuckin' Christians are cracking down. I don't need Johnny Law harassing me in front of my clients. You here on official business, or just to express your personal views on the morality of leisure?"

  Before Bear decided to wax poetic with synonyms for "clients," Tim said, "We're working a murder investigation that points here." He flashed a picture of Tess without asking a follow-up question, just to see what he could read in Wes's face.

  Wes's eyes snagged on the photograph an instant, and then he shuffled back behind the counter and plugged a few paintball guns into an automatic washer, seating the water nozzles into the gun bar
rels. A fat tabby leapt up from a hidden crouch, purring and parading across his shoulders. "What pointed you here?"

  "Paint. My guy traced it to your place. You make your own paint-balls?"

  "Have 'em made, sure. I need to, place like this, bare flesh and all. Besides, hard-shell mishaps can get expensive. A paintball ricochets around enough, it hits the guy with the most expensive lawyer."

  The cat's face spread in a hiss that made Bear take a step back. Wes smiled and glanced down at his clipboard. He clicked on a loudspeaker, and his high-pitched voice echoed through the building: "Santa Monica Blood Warriors on deck. Start suiting up at the half hour. Tunnel Rat, you're in the hole." He hefted himself onto a barstool, the cat taking flight to the back counter.

  Mounted above a computer monitor was a trophy shot of Wes in the preserve. One boot rested on the sweat-slick rump of a naked, prostrate black woman Tim recognized from semipro beach volleyball tournaments sometimes aired on the local sports channels. The blatant misogyny and-accidental? — racist overtones must have brought an inadvertent scowl to Tim's face, because Wes looked at him, a touch self-conscious in the face of the Troubleshooter's judgment, and said, "Hey, man, these chicks take home three hundo a run, a cool half grand if they don't get hit. Beats waitressing for tips."

  "Socially responsible of you to keep them off the mean streets," Bear said.

  "I provide people with a little diversion, and a very good income to some just-about-unemployable women. And-unlike your jobs-it's fun. You see, in here I'm king. Four-time course champion. I can hit an ace of spades with a nine mil at twenty yards."

  "That's great if you get attacked by a bridge club."

  Tim wheeled on Bear. "Take out the tampon, Jowalski. If some dumb broad wants to get shot in the tits for three hundred bucks a pop, who gives a shit?"

  Bear raised his hands-a classic What do I need it for? — and walked out.

  After the front door slammed, drawing giggles from two of the quarry-turned-strippers, Tim pivoted back to the counter. "Sorry 'bout that. He's a former bull cop. Old dog, old tricks. He hasn't figured out that when you need answers from people, you don't bust their balls first. We're dependent on guys like you to make headway, you know? We're not writing speeding tickets here. Jesus Christ."

  "Hey, whatever. Don't worry about it. I'm used to dealing with assholes."

  "I bet you see all kinds through here."

  Wes said, "Believe me."

  "'Nam vets?"

  "Oh, yeah. Now and then. Old guys, but man, are they mean. Former law enforcement, too. Rich college kids-mostly USC. Lotta Persians. We get some guys training for tourneys, like the squad that just deployed to the preserve."

  Tim leaned over the counter conspiratorially, setting his weight on his elbow. "Anyone…shadier?" The pause was a beat too long, giving Wes too much time from brain to mouth, so Tim offered his hand. "Tim Rackley."

  "I know who you are." Wes thumbed out his badge from his shirt so Tim could read his name. "And I'd be happy to help a stand-up dude like yourself."

  "Look, Wes, you're the owner. A guy like you, a big shot here, well liked-you got your finger on the pulse. Who comes through here?"

  Wes cast a glance around, then lowered his voice to match Tim's. "We get some Soldier of Fortune types, sure. A lotta whispered conversations at the bar. This place is the real deal. A place to get stuff, ya know? But I got a good thing here-count those guys. Each one is paying fifteen hundo. Overhead, dick. I walk out with forty, fifty K a week. Your partner would call me a less-than-model citizen-but I'm paying my taxes and putting it away, not jeopardizing my retirement just to know what deals get made here."

  "No fuckin' way. Not with hard-core operators moving through. That'd be like making me responsible for what every guy in my platoon did on liberty."

  "Exactly. I can't see every inch of this operation. I make sure I don't. But you know, a guy's been around, like me, a guy hears things. Whispers."

  "Right. Like maybe one of these boys"-a wave at the crowded lounge-"takes his hunting to the next level?"

  Wes glanced around, having a hard time keeping the glint of pride from showing in his eyes. "I've heard hits come through here. I think it's all bullshit. What have you been told?"

  Tim held a poker face. "We've got solid evidence implicating Game."

  Wes took this in with a regretful nod. "Maybe a money drop got set up here-the jury's still out. That guy Sands all over the news-got his head blown off in Bel Air?" He hesitated a moment. "He was in here. June sixth. Rented two lockers. Left a briefcase in one overnight. Maybe he was the cash courier, maybe not. Maybe someone came in here after, picked up the cash and the contract."

  "Who?"

  "I'm a computer guy at heart, so I bounced through the right chat rooms for a little follow-up."

  "Which sites?"

  "The usual BS. Mercenary forums. Silencer chat rooms. Militia sites, you know." Wes jotted down several URLs, and Tim pocketed the slip of paper, knowing that Guerrera would likely surf around and find little more than wannabes jawing off behind the protection of virile screen names. "The topic's in the wind, all right," Wes continued. "People giving theories anonymously."

  "What name's being bandied about?"

  Wes actually looked both directions before leaning across the counter and putting his mouth inches from Tim's ear. He smelled of coconut lotion. "The Piper." He settled back on the barstool, the cat jumping into his lap. "No one knows who the guy is. I coulda seen him here like every week and not known it. The guy's stone cold, I heard. Stays remote, can only be contacted through the Internet. The chat rooms I gave you? Like those, but ones that guys like us can't even find."

  "Is that all you know?"

  "Like I said, I don't know anything. That's what's in the wind."

  Tim showed Wes a photo of Walker. "Seen this guy?" He watched Wes closely, but he remained impassive. "Uh-uh."

  "Let me know if you do." Tim pocketed the picture. "I'll need a list of your employees and clients. We won't let leak that you slipped it to us."

  Wes's face reddened. "Employees, sure, but you think we keep a client list here? Not with this business. I'd be finished."

  "You knew Ted Sands by name, and I doubt he ambled up with his briefcase full of cash and gave his driver's license as collateral to reserve the lockers. Can't exactly recognize him from the picture the Times ran either. Even if the names your clients sign on your waivers are bullshit-which I'm sure they are-and even if the occasional credit card you run traces to an offshore account or a shell corp-which it might-I know you keep different records for when you need blackmail leverage on a powerful client or for when the girls rent out after hours. If not, you'd be a fool and an incompetent pimp, and we both know you're neither."

  "I don't have shit." Some of Wes's swagger was returning, along with the first premonition that he might have been duped. "And if you serve on me, you won't get anything either. There's nothing to get."

  Tim straightened up. "Listen to me closely, Wes. You're gonna get me those names, and you're going to do it right now while I wait. And I'm not waiting long."

  Wes affected a casual sneer, but his voice came out higher than usual. "Or else?"

  "We will tear apart every square foot of your operation, and we'll do so with vigor and pleasure. I will call my buddy at the IRS, my brother-in-law who's a comer in the Office of Finance, and my niece who's a lesbian feminist in the U.S. Attorney's Office looking to make a name. We will write you up, tie you up, and drag you into court for nuances of the law you've never heard of, right down to the missing side view on your Oldsmobile out front. I will post federal agents outside your property to tip their hats to all the ministers and judges who come in here to shoot naked girls' flanks. By the time the news crews catch wind, there won't be space for their vans to park. You think that'll go over swell with your 'clientele'? Look at me." Tim snapped his fingers, terminating the drift of Wes's dismayed eyes. "I will ruin your life. I will eat you f
or lunch and come back for seconds. There is a murder investigation we have traced here, and I will see the law do right by that victim if I have to burn you and every other woman-hating shitheel who's plunked down a dime in this fuckhole."

  Wes's mouth had creaked slightly open. A line of sweat glistened in the strands of his scraggly mustache. Tim's voice had not raised a notch.

  Tim said, "I will be patient until I leave this room. Now, you give me those names to make me go away happy or your carefree life ends in"-he reached over the counter and retrieved Wes's stopwatch-"five minutes."

  Thirty-seven seconds passed, and then Wes slid off the barstool, falling onto his feet. He fussed at the computer with the lethargic motions of the chronically depressed and printed an employee list, then retrieved a lockbox from a cabinet and removed a mound of license-plate photos, some with names and addresses written flash-card style on the backs. He dumped the pictures into a plastic bag with the spreadsheet and handed them over at exactly 4:23.

  Tim tossed him the stopwatch and left, nodding politely to the ladies at the bar on his way out the door. As he pulled in his first lungful of fresh wetland air, Bear eased the Explorer around, meeting him under the awning like a well-trained valet.

  Chapter 46

  At half past nine in the morning, the electricity kicked back on. The TV blared; the cheap chandelier over the kitchen nook flickered to life; a square worker's fan by the garage door revved up so fast it blew itself over.

  At the commotion Walker had sprung from the floor up over the couch into the best position of cover the family room afforded; he found himself in a high-kneel shooting stance, his Redhawk trained on the front door. He returned his revolver to the back of his jeans and rose.

  He unplugged the fan, which was rattling its death throes against the floorboards, then turned off the lights and the garbage disposal, which was roaring its waterless displeasure. He couldn't locate a remote, so he thumbed down the volume on the TV itself, leaving the morning anchor to murmur in the background about Gaza settlements.