Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“I will, Jack.”

“So we’re together on this?”

“We’re on the same page.”

“Great.” Reynolds clapped his hands, smiling-a real smile now, not a frightening parody. “Then let’s get back outside. Can’t keep my constituents waiting too long.”

He left the office. Stenzel followed slowly, telling himself not to be afraid.

Fast Eddie’s was essentially what Tess had expected, though at one p.m. it lacked the raucous atmosphere it would no doubt offer after dark. The pool tables were unused, most of the chairs were unoccupied, with only a few all-day drinkers lounging in the corners. Behind the bar a large man was scowling at a wall-mounted TV set that was showing an auto race.

Tess approached the bar, aware that every eye in the establishment had turned her direction-even the bartender’s, though he did his best to look uninterested. She leaned on the bar and let him take his time coming over to her. She pegged him as an ex-con-it was hard to say how, but there was something about the his physique, the prison-buffed muscles that had turned to fat, and the set of his jaw, as if he had learned to keep his feelings hidden from anyone in authority.

“You Eddie?” she asked.

“What?”

“Fast Eddie’s is the name of this place. Is that you?”

“There’s no Eddie. It’s just a name. Because of the pool tables.”

Tess didn’t get it. “Pool tables?”

“Like in the movie. The Hustler, Paul Newman, you know?”

She didn’t know. Was everybody in the state of California a movie nut? Maybe Abby was right. Maybe she ought to start renting tapes, or DVDs, or whatever.

“All right, then,” she said, “so what’s your name?”

“Don’t got one.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“All I got is a nickname.”

“What is it?”

“Biscuit.”

She looked him over. He was well over six feet tall and had to weigh in at no less than 275 pounds. “Biscuit?” she said skeptically.

“Some joker said I was only a biscuit away from weighing three hundred. Name stuck.”

“Fair enough. I’m Special Agent McCallum, FBI.” She allowed him a glimpse of her creds. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I already been asked a lot of questions.”

“They took you down to the police station, right?”

He lifted his meaty shoulders. “It’s not like I ain’t been there before.”

“And you didn’t cooperate. I’m not surprised. Why would you say anything that would get one of your buddies in trouble?”

“I don’t know what buddies you’re talking about.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t know anything at all.”

“That’s right. Now, are you gonna buy something to drink, or are you just wasting my time?”

“I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”

“Then piss off.” He started to move away.

There were a lot of ways she could handle this. Intimidation was one possibility, but she assumed that the interrogators at the police station had already given it their best shot. She decided to try sweet reason instead.

“I can’t say I blame you,” she said mildly.

He looked at her. “Blame me for what?”

“For keeping your mouth shut. The people who talked to you at the police station were working on the assumption that Dylan Garrick was killed by one of his fellow Scorpions. And you don’t want to give them anything that would help them nail one of your friends.”

“I don’t got no friends.”

“One of your customers, then. Your clientele.”

“Clientele. Fuck, I ain’t got no clientele neither. What you think this is, a fucking hair salon?” He turned aside. “I’m telling you what I told the cops. I don’t know shit about anything they was asking.”

“I believe you.”

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

“Because I think you may know something important, only it’s not what the police were interested in. See, I’m working on a different theory of the case. I don’t think Dylan’s hit was an inside job. I don’t think the Scorpions had anything to do it. I think it was somebody else.”

This got his interest, just a little. “Another gang?”

“Not a gang. I think Dylan may have been shot by a woman he was with. A woman he picked up last night here.”

“A woman? Some hooker, you mean?”

“The woman I have in mind is more of a vigilante. A private operator with an agenda of her own.”

“This woman got a name?”

“She usually goes by Abby. She may have started a conversation with you.”

“She the talkative type?”

Tess winced. “Very.”

“We didn’t get no talkative women in here last night.”

“Last night she may not have been in the mood for talk. I think she may have been, well, stalking Dylan Garrick.” It seemed odd to imagine Abby as a stalker, yet that was the only word for it.

“Is that so?” the bartender said.

“I could be wrong. Actually, I hope I am. Maybe you can help me find out one way or the other.”

“I don’t know why you think I’d want to help you do anything.”

“Because, Biscuit, you and I are on the same side. You don’t want your friends to go down for Dylan’s murder. If I can prove somebody else did it, they’re in the clear.”

“You’re feeding me a line of bullshit. They sent you in here to work on me some more because I wouldn’t give them anything. It ain’t gonna work. So fuck off.”

“You’re difficult person to reason with.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

“You think I’m running some kind of game on you. You’re wrong. I’m not in tight with the local police or even the local feds. I’m in from out of state, and I’m pretty much on my own, just following up a hunch that nobody else needs to know about.”

“So you’re the Lone Ranger.” He snorted. “Feds never work alone. They’re like ants in a pantry. If you see one, you know there’s got to be more.”

“Ever hear of Mobius?” she asked.

He paused, confused by the change of topic. “Nutcase with the nerve gas, the one who had L.A. shittin’ its trousers a few years ago?”

“That’s right. How about the Rain Man?”

“Kidnapper, put women in the storm drains and let them drown. Yeah, I’ve heard of them both. I read the papers now and then. So what?”

“If you read the papers, you ought to remember that I was involved in both cases. I came in from out of state, just like I’m telling you. And I worked alone.”

“Show me your ID again.”

She reopened her black leather credential case to reveal her gold badge and, under plastic, her photo and signature, along with her personal agent number and the signature of the FBI director.

Biscuit hesitated, then reluctantly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pair of reading glasses, which he perched on his battered nose. He caught her glance and mumbled, “We’re all getting older every day.” He studied the credentials. “Fuck, what d’ya know. You are her. I didn’t, you know, register the name before. They got you working this piece-of-shit case?”

“It’s tied in to something bigger.”

“Huh.” He appraised her with new respect. It occurred to Tess that her supposedly legendary status in the greater L.A. area was finally working to her advantage. “So you are the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. You took out Mobius and that rain guy all by yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Got a set of balls on you, don’t you?”

Tess ignored the question, assuming it to be rhetorical. “So you know I’m telling you the truth when I say I’m working an angle nobody else has picked up on. I don’t care what the police wanted to hear you say. They weren’t asking you about any woman who left with Garrick last night, were they?”