Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

Walker pointed at another handwritten mark: L13ov. "What's that mean?"

"He kept one locker overnight."

"And that didn't make you suspicious? A cash drop?"

"Like I said, this is a meeting ground for all types of guys. A lot leave their gear overnight if they book again for the next day. I'd never think it was for a contract. At most I thought he was buying guns. Guys do that here, now and then, get around the bullshit waiting-period laws." Wes read Walker's anger, and his face started to quiver. "It's just for fun, really. Guys who want to shoot up at the ranges in the hills, ya know? Targets on boards, maybe an out-of-season deer or two. Nothing big. Who's that hurt?"

"What'd he do when he was here?"

Wes spoke rapidly, placating. "Normal appointment. One-hour hunt. Minimum requirement if you wanna rent a locker."

In order to locker the cash, Sickle Moon, the bag man for the deal, had to partake of the action.

Walker noted the credit-card swiper beside the computer on the rear desk. "How'd he pay?"

Wes checked the scrawl on the appointment sheet again. "Cash. Most of 'em do."

"Did he order a video?"

"Uh-uh."

"Get on your knees."

Wes blurted out, "I have an address."

"An address? Why the hell you have an address all of a sudden?"

"I always do. Look, this is a high-ticket, high-risk operation. One in five customers invites a girl out. One time in three, she goes. We gotta know who with. Believe what you want, but I know some of these girls years now. I don't want to see anything happen to one. So we shoot digitals of the clients' license plates. I got a pal on the force gives us addresses, so if a girl goes out and stays out too long, we know where to start looking. That's all. I don't tell anyone-I can't tell anyone-or that'd be the end of this place. And probably me."

"Get it."

Wes dug through a cabinet. With trembling fingers he aligned the combo on a lockbox, then dug through laser-print close-ups of license plates. He pulled one, handed it to Walker.

Walker glanced at the handwritten name above the address on the back: Ted Sands.

He slid the photo in his pocket. "On your knees."

"Oh, God." Wes let out a strident moan. "Come on, pal, I helped you as best I could. I don't know anything."

"Lace your hands behind your neck." Walker stood behind him, pressing the barrel to the wispy hair above his collar.

Wes was keening now, voice choked with snot. "I'm just a businessman. I talk a game, that's all. I talk a game, but I'm not really a player. I just like being around them. Please. Please."

Walker pulled the trigger, the hammer clicking over an empty chamber. "You're not worth the bullet."

He left Wes collapsed on the floor behind the counter, Elektra grooming herself indifferently by his head.

We're past the twenty-four-hour mark." Tannino leaned into the squad room, arms hooked on either side of the door frame so his shoulder pads, worn to supplement his five feet seven inches, jogged up on either side of his face. "What gives?"

"He's smart," Tim said.

"And?"

"Well-trained, proficient. Covers his tracks like a professional."

From across the room, Thomas called out, "Want to take him to a movie, Rack?" Assorted snickers, most of them good-natured.

"You think he's lying low?" Tannino asked.

"We'll hear from him again," Tim said. "Soon. Any chance I could talk you into that task force? We're juggling enough locations of interest that we could use the manpower."

"We could always use more manpower."

"Yeah, but we can't just pick up Jameson's trail like with Joe Fugitive. He's too strategic. He'll keep us chasing our tails. We need to work out where the trail leads and meet him there. And we need more resources to get there. Quickly."

Tannino swept a gaze across the deputies working away at their various desks. "He's one fugitive."

"No, he's a former Recon marine on a mission. And he has one big advantage over us: He knows what the mission is."

Tannino made a disgruntled noise and shoved back from the door, disappearing.

Guerrera said, "'Twenty-four-hour mark.' Think the marshal's watching too much Law amp; Order?"

Tim turned his attention back to the mess of field files before him, piled higher than his head. He'd just gotten back to the office and was trying to get an eye on the latest memos before calling an Escape Team powwow.

Bear snorted his derision at the report he was reading and tossed it atop the stack, his other hand groping blindly inside the Krispy Kreme carton for the last doughnut, which he'd eaten five minutes ago. Tim, Bear, and Guerrera had shoved their desks together, though whether the limited synergy was worth the cost of Bear's secretarial skills was doubtful. Guerrera had stepped into Miller's office, hovering over the fax machine. Tim caught his eye through the blinds and waved him over, but he held up his index finger.

"Okay, guys," Tim said. "Can I borrow your brains again?" He waited for the other deputies to gather around the union of the desks. "Pierce Jameson knows more than he's letting on. We want to dig up everything we can on his current activities. He's a businessman-Freed, we could use your eyes unraveling his finances, properties, tax records, anything that might shed light. Can you take point on that?"

"Sure. How about the mom? We could have one of the nurses put out that she had a stroke or something and needs familial consent for an operation. See if we can bait Jameson to go to the hospital and sign off. Nab him there."

"He's too sharp for the ruse."

Thomas said, "His file did say he was Mensa."

No one laughed this time. Even Freed, Thomas's partner, looked uncomfortable. Thomas withdrew from the circle of deputies, heading back to his desk. "This isn't a military command. Not everyone has to drop everything when the Troubleshooter decides he's got a hot lead."

"The marshal designated Jameson a major case," Bear said. "Or did you go off the payroll?"

"Oh, is that a designation now? 'Major case'? Where's that fall in the hierarchy-not Shit Yer Pants but above Damn Serious? Walker Jameson isn't a Top Fifteen-"

"If we don't catch him soon," Tim said, "he will be."

"— so why's he highest priority? Because Rack's working the case?"

"Over-the-walls always take precedence," Bear said.

"Jowalski, I'd think you'd be tired of carrying Rack's bags by now."

Bear crumpled up the doughnut carton and heaved it straight past Thomas and into the trash can beside his desk-not a touch of rim. "Does it ever occur to you, with your aviator sunglasses and your minivan and golden retriever, that more and more we have to go after fugitives who are better equipped than we are? Hell, better equipped than the Israeli army. Are you the one who's trained to do that?"

Guerrera hustled back out of Miller's office, handing Tim a warm fax. "Word back on stolen cars near the dump. Two vehicles were taken from the area that night. An Escalade and a Camry." As Tim glanced at the makes, models, and plate numbers, Guerrera said, "You're thinking the Escalade?"

"The Camry. Less conspicuous."

Tim handed the fax to Maybeck, who said, "Not if he's on the West Side."

"Would you get this to Dispatch, have them put out a BOLO on both vehicles? Did you get us an address for Walker's ex?"

Guerrera said, "Zim's on it."

Zimmer nodded. "Kaitlin Jameson. Sorry, got tied up with that DEA fugitive out of Georgia. I'll pull you an address right now."

"Did you talk to Tess's boss?"

"Dentist?" Guerrera said. "Nice woman, couldn't offer much. She said Tess had been on edge, but she chalked it up to her kid. I guess she had a sick son."

"Tess's kid?" A one-second lag as Tim cast his mind back to the name in Tess's letter. "Sammy. Where is he now?"