Troubleshooter Page 25

  He was massive, overflowing the chair. A shadow cut his face in half. Same shock of black hair from the photos, same fleshy ears, like cuts of meat, laid flat to the skull. His forearms were like bars, barely tapering at the wrists. The cuffs rustled against the chair when he stirred, detention wind chimes. The windowless room smelled of his sweat, strong and musky.

  Tim took a step closer. Finally at close quarters with a Sinner nomad. Tim’s first chance to address one of the outlaws present when Dray had been shot. He forgot about Tannino and Malane behind the mirror; he forgot about everything but himself and Kaner and the brief stretch of concrete separating them. His anger made him numb; it altered his depth perception so he saw Kaner’s features as juts and recesses.

  He drew his gun, aiming at Kaner’s head. Kaner regarded him with curiosity.

  Tim tossed the keys to Guerrera. “Uncuff him.”

  Guerrera looked at Tim with concern and maybe a little excitement.

  “Temper tantrum’s over,” Tim said. “We’re all grown-ups here. We can share the sandbox. Can’t we?”

  Disheveled from his struggling, Kaner settled back in his chair and smirked. “Sure thing.” His larynx sounded one step short of cancerous.

  Guerrera freed his wrists from behind but left his ankles cuffed to the chair legs. Tim kept his .357 raised until Guerrera had moved out of Kaner’s reach, then lowered it. Kaner rubbed his left wrist, where the handcuff had drawn blood during the in-cell takedown. Dangerous eyes gleamed through the wisps of hair.

  “You might have noticed we were looking for you,” Tim said. “Where you been?”

  Kaner offered a docile grin. “Oh, here and there.”

  “Is that right.”

  It was odd to have hostility and civility juxtaposed so quickly.

  “Where’s Den Laurey?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “I know you’re coordinating plans. Where is he?”

  “Hey, man, we do our own thing. I don’t know where he holes up, he don’t know where I do. That way one of us gets popped, the other’s in the clear.” He ran a strangely wide, flat tongue across his teeth.

  “I don’t believe you. I think you know where Den Laurey is. I think you know where he sleeps.”

  “Why you so fixated on the Man?”

  “I want to send him flowers.”

  “You can’t catch the Man. The Man’s an apparition. Only reason you got him last time is he didn’t know you were looking. But now, hell, you can’t do nothin’ but ride his wake.”

  Bear tried a new tack, probably because Tim wasn’t making headway. “That T-shirt supposed to keep the boys off your back in the pen? Maybe we put you in general pop at MDC, let you play catch-up with a few Cholo Rovers.”

  “You dumb fuck. There’s no rival clubs in prison. On the inside we’re all brothers.”

  “Even the spics?” Guerrera asked. “I’m not sure they’d agree after the Palmdale massacre.”

  “ ‘The Palmdale massacre.’ ” Kaner sucked his teeth. “Got a ring, don’t it?”

  Bear poked around in the cardboard box. “Hey, guess what we got in here?”

  “Michael Jackson’s nose.”

  Bear withdrew Kaner’s drive chain. He whipped the concrete floor with it. Kaner regarded him, a hint of nervousness creasing his features. But Bear turned away, looping the drive chain around his neck and admiring himself in the one-way. “What do you think?”

  Kaner’s face rearranged itself into a sneer.

  “I think it’s a great look,” Bear continued, still preening in the mirror. “But how do you get around your grease problems? Ajax? Bleach? Or do you order direct from the Village People?”

  Kaner smirked at some private thought. “You hate me because I’m different. I hate you because you’re all the same.”

  “No,” Tim said, “we hate you because you kill people.”

  Kaner shrugged. “Trample the weak, hurdle the dead.”

  “You should start a bumper-sticker factory,” Bear said. “All these aphorisms. How do you guys come up with them? Do you sit around the clubhouse, going, ‘Stomp on the weak, leap over the dead. No, that’s not right. It just doesn’t sing.’ ”

  “Let’s get something straight. I’m not gonna tell you shit. No matter what. So all this business”—Kaner waved a hand around— “you ain’t gonna get a rise outta me.”

  “Hey, wait,” Bear said, still doing his shtick. “Something’s missing.” He dug through Kaner’s personals in the cardboard box, then halted, snapping his fingers. “Hey, I know.”

  He strolled out into the hall and returned with an article of clothing encased in dry-cleaning wrap. He hung it on the door and stripped away the cellophane to reveal Kaner’s originals. The collar had been starched, and the leather was now pristine; even the patches seemed to shine.

  Kaner made a noise like a gurgle deep in his throat and charged off the chair. The ankle cuffs held firm, and he slapped against the floor, where he seemed to remember his predicament. Calmly, though without grace, he restored himself to the chair, his eyes eerily calm.

  He gestured with a flick of his chin. “That’s a declaration of war.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Bear said. “We’re already at war, motherfucker.”

  Tim pushed forward, hard, trying to keep Kaner off balance. “We know about Allah’s Tears. About Good Morning Vacations. About the girls. About the corpses. We know about everything.”

  Kaner couldn’t keep the surprise from his face, but he covered quickly, a scowl tightening his features. “Not everything,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

  “That’s a helluva scheme Uncle Pete dreamed up,” Tim said. “Who’s saying Uncle Pete knows shit?”

  “I am. It took us a while to figure out what you guys were up to, but we did.”

  “No shit it took a while. No one misses a spic bitch. Not even spics. They don’t got no respect for their property, not like we do. No one fucks with my deed. No one.”

  “Not like you can fuck with Mexican girls.” Tim moved closer, getting in Kaner’s space, cutting off his view of Bear and Guerrera. A mano a mano confrontation. Whether Kaner talked or not, he was going away for life. His ass was already nailed on the escape offense and resultant murders. He had nothing to lose. If Tim pushed him hard enough, he hoped he could get him to flaunt his superiority.

  “Damn straight.”

  “But you dumb fucks picked them at random. No plan.”

  “At random,” Kaner repeated with disdain. “At random? Then why’d it take you so long to catch on? I’ll tell you why: We dodged all the triggers.”

  “What triggers?”

  “The triggers that make people notice. We needed chunky ones, but we knew to steer clear of pregnant broads. Brings too much static. Look what happened with Laci Peterson. Who needs that mess? You don’t give people a reason to give a shit in this country, they won’t. That knocked-up deputy’s on every channel. Kill a pregnant bitch, you got a news story. Kill a fat Mexican broad, hell, you got a statistic.”

  After all the death and destruction Tim had witnessed from Croatia to South Central, he still found the Sinners’ regard for human life uniquely sickening. There was no cause, not even brainwashed zealotry, behind the violence. Just greed and malice, pure and simple. Cops and rivals were obstacles to be annihilated; drug profits would be reaped even if it meant lining the pockets of dealers of mass destruction; women were reduced to test-run luggage. Dray’s words returned to Tim: Everyone counts. The Sinners had banked on apathy when selecting their victims, and they’d gotten far doing it.

  “So you chose Jennifer Villarosa.”

  Kaner made a gun with his hand and clicked off a shot in Tim’s direction.

  “But the army brought the heat on her,” Tim continued. “Caught you off guard.”

  “Barely a wrinkle. They don’t care much ’bout dead dykes. Poked around a bit, didn’t find a thing. And we took care of that, went aft
er fat, broke Mex bitches next. No employers who give a shit. Their families ain’t got no money to fly down, ask questions, ain’t got no pull on this end neither. They can’t talk to a cop or they’d get their brown asses deported. Let’s be honest, who gives a shit about chubby chicanas from Chatsworth?”

  “I do,” Tim said.

  Kaner met his stare with blazing eyes. “Bravo, brother. You and no one else, ’cept maybe your friend back there.” His eyes pulled to Guerrera, who was trying to look impervious despite a clenched jaw. “You know the other thing about pickin’ fat broads? They’re sluggish, not so frisky. Gut slows ’em down. Kinda like that bellied-out cunt cop we shot.”

  Tim felt his face grow hot. His mouth cottoned. “Oh, she’s pretty frisky.”

  Kaner’s face shifted. “You know her?”

  Tim stared at him.

  Kaner’s delight showed in the gleam in his eyes. “I woulda liked to have split her like a banana, too. Filled her with cream.”

  Tim heard Bear coming. He turned in time to get an arm around his waist, slowing his charge, but Bear dragged him another three feet toward Kaner, and Tim had to get his other arm up to stop his roundhouse. He heard himself shouting, and then Bear threw him off and stormed away to regroup, his mighty chest heaving while Kaner laughed his ten-grit laugh.

  “Oh, that’s rich,” Kaner said quietly, studying Tim. “You’re the deputy husband.” He laughed again, shaking his head with delight. “Now and then, when things ain’t lookin’ so hot, fate comes to the rescue.”

  Tim licked his dry lips. “A philosopher.”

  “My new hobby.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for it.”

  “Maybe so, but you lost the war. Allah’s Tears is in-country, and it’s here to stay. While I’m tanning in the yard at Lompoc between sets on the bench, you can philosophize about that.”

  Bear was muttering in the shadowed back corner—giving Kaner the idea he was getting to them was the right strategy. Still, Tim fought to regain his focus. To keep Kaner gloating, he had to continue dangling bait. “How do you know it’s here?”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know we didn’t seize it at Burbank?”

  Kaner leaned forward, face twisted with vindictiveness, and Tim felt a stab of excitement at what he’d reveal in his anger.

  “Because—”

  The door banged open, and Dana Lake stormed in, a court security officer at her heels. “What the fuck is going on here? What have you answered? What have you told them?”

  “Not a thing they didn’t already know.” Kaner offered a fat grin. “Who gives a shit anyways? I’m just adding up life sentences.”

  “Listen, dipshit, if you don’t want to rot away with no possibility of ever getting parole, keep your fucking trap shut.”

  Amazingly, Kaner heeded the advice of counsel.

  Bear found a surrogate target for his anger, blasting the CSO. “Why the hell is she in here?”

  The CSO offered an apologetic shrug. “We had to, man. You know how that goes.”

  “Get her out. He’s a captured fugitive. He doesn’t have the right to an—”

  “You bet your ass he does,” Dana said. “I’d assume you’re charging him with new criminal offenses, at the very least an escape offense. He has the right to remain silent. He has the right to an attorney—”

  Bear scowled and stormed out of the room. Guerrera grabbed the cardboard box and followed. Dana glared at Tim, arms crossed, one foot turned out, showing the sharp curve of her calf beneath the hem of her skirt.

  Tim said quietly to the CSO, “Call in six detention enforcement officers. Have the prisoner moved to an attorney room. If he resists at all, he goes to a keep-away cell, and Ms. Lake can try her luck again later.”

  Passing Dana, he caught a whiff of high-end perfume. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Deputy Rackley. I knew we’d see eye to eye on this one.”

  53

  Goddamnit. We were right fucking there. He was just about to talk.” Bear grabbed the prisoner-effects box from Guerrera and threw it against the wall in Booking. Loose change and keys clattered on the floor.

  Two detention enforcement officers hustled a Mexican Mafia hitman out of the room, leaving them alone. They stood still for a minute, brewing in their frustration.

  Tim thumbed open his phone and got Dray’s captain on the line. “The Sinners know now. I don’t want to rely on hospital security anymore. Can you keep someone on her room at the hospital?” He grimaced. “I’m sure he would be.”

  He hung up.

  Bear’s eyebrow pulled up, as if attached to a string. “Mac?” Tim nodded.

  Bear blew a sigh. He crouched, his knees cracking, and began picking up Kaner’s belongings and returning them to the box. He sat on the aluminum table, putting his feet on the bench seat. After a moment he smiled. “Bet you threw a scare into Malane when you pulled the .357 in there.”

  “Where’s Malane now?” Tim asked.

  “Arguing with Dana Lake,” Guerrera said.

  “I wonder who wins that battle.”

  Bear said, “I’m putting my money on Lawzilla. You couldn’t get a dime up her ass with a sledgehammer.”

  “Be worth a try, though,” Guerrera noted from the table where he watched Tim divvying up Kaner’s possessions.

  Bear smirked at Guerrera’s newfound bravado and slid down across from them. “Did someone track down records on the safe house?”

  “Thomas and Freed.” Tim tossed Bear a wallet, and he turned it inside out, checking the lining. “We’ve got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn’t had an active line in over two years.”

  A metal ring held the key to Kaner’s Harley and a house key that they’d already matched to the safe house’s dead bolt. Guerrera ran his fingers along the cuffs of Kaner’s jeans. They reeked of dirt and pepper spray. Strands of pink insulation stood out against the denim.

  “What’s this?” Tim reached across and tugged the waistband of the jeans, revealing markings in the front right pocket, where an object had worn the fabric. A small rectangle, clearly not a tin of Skoal. It was well defined—time on the bike had meant a lot of friction. “Which pocket was the wallet in?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Bear slid the wallet into the pocket, but it was too big to fit the frayed outline. “What’s this from?” He stuck his finger through a small hole that had eroded in the pocket’s top corner.

  Tim bit his lip, examining the outline. He heard an echo of the words he’d just spoken—We’ve got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn’t had an active line in over two years.

  He gestured at the worn spot in the denim. “Antenna.”

  Guerrera and Bear looked at each other. Guerrera nosed through the remaining items in the box. “It’s not in here.”

  “Of course not,” Bear said.

  Tim grabbed Kaner’s keys, Bear and Guerrera trailing him out of the room.

  They ducked the crime-scene tape, flashing badge at the sheriff ’s deputy working the sawhorses. He gave a nod reading Tim’s creds, then looked up with a surprisingly soft expression. “I’m sorry about Andrea. I went through the academy with her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “It’s been four days.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Tim studied a shattered bottle in the gutter, feeling the familiar dread twist his gut. “I don’t know.”

  The deputy nodded severely, lips pursed, and Tim, Bear, and Guerrera headed for the house. Tim used Kaner’s key to unlock the dead bolt, and they made their way upstairs. Though several of the windows had been left open, pepper aftermath spiced the air. Tim pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, and Bear and Guerrera followed suit. The second floor was a mess, the ceiling eroded from the bullets, plaster hanging down from the punctures like the fringes of flesh wounds. The spent canisters lay among the wreckage. As they headed to the bathroom, white dust clu
ng to their boots and the cuffs of their jeans.

  The criminalists had left a ladder beneath the attic hatch in the bathroom; they probably wanted to let the attic air out more before crawling around the closed space. Looking up at the dark square, Tim shook off a shiver recalling the mirrored glimpse he’d caught of Kaner’s shook off a shiver recalling the mirrored glimpse he’d caught of Kaner’s caliber ventilation and the shattered window, the space wasn’t as dark as before, but the air was thick and oppressive. Bent at the waist, Tim shuffled forward, rods of light playing across him like a disco effect. Mindful of his weight and the aerated footing, Bear was careful to balance on the joists. Brass casings shimmered in the insulation, nestled like eggs.

  They searched for about twenty minutes, until Tim’s eyes were watering and Guerrera developed a repetitive one-note cough. Tim’s breath had moistened the collar of his shirt, still pulled up over his nose. The humidity and dust were making his head throb, and the flickering fingers of light were playing tricks with his eyes.

  Guerrera finally said, “I need to go grab a gas mask.” He headed for the hatch, stumbling over a raised corner of insulation.

  Bear pulled back the pink strip. Lying against the plywood was a smashed cell phone.

  The service rep, Bryant by his name tag, regarded the shattered cell phone skeptically. The top of the fold-down had been ripped off, the LED screen shattered. The battery was bent out of shape and the casing twisted.

  Having progressed through a salesman and a store manager, they were finally backstage at the downtown Sprint PCS store on South Flower Street, blocks from the command post.

  “Dude, we got some great deals on new phones.”

  “We need the information off this phone,” Tim said. “We don’t need it to work—”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “—we just need to get what’s on it.”

  “Looks like someone didn’t want you to get what’s on it.” Off Bear’s look, Bryant said, “Right. Right. Okay.” He scratched the tuft of hair protruding from the top of his visor. “Lemme get Larry. He does some next-level shit.”