Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“It’s no big deal to zipper a fed. They act like they’re ten feet tall, but they bleed like anybody else. And this one’s a woman. That makes it double easy.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“You are today.”

“Can’t you get somebody else?”

“It’s you she made contact with. If you set up a meeting, it’s you she’ll be expecting. So you get to pull the trigger on her. Nothing fancy, just one round in the head. You can nail her before she knows what’s happening. Okay?”

“Okay, Ron. Okay. God damn, I never thought I’d have to do this shit again.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle, Biscuit. It’ll come right back to you. Just make sure you drop her before she gets a chance to drop you.”

Shanker ended the call, hoping he’d made the right decision. When McCallum turned up dead, every law enforcement officer in southern Cal would be hauling in suspects. It would get ugly. The situation might spin out of control.

But maybe he could start to set things right in a few hours, when he met the Man at the hotel.

He decided he’d better bring that sawed-off shotgun, and whatever else he had left in his wall safe.

Shit, bring it all.

Tess had returned to the crime scene and was thinking of reinterviewing the tenants when her cell phone rang. Caller ID showed a number with a local area code.

“McCallum,” she answered.

“It’s me.”

She heard the growly voice of the bartender from Fast Eddie’s, the last person she’d expected to hear from.

“Hey, Biscuit,” she said warily.

“I gave it some thought. Maybe I can help you out, after all.”

“Okay. So did a woman hook up with Dylan last night?”

“Yeah. They left together.”

“Can you describe her?”

“I’m no good at descriptions.”

“How about if you look at some pictures?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. But not in the bar. The place is already starting to fill up. People can’t see me talking to you, looking at a six-pack.”

A photo six-pack, he meant. Police terminology for a cluster of mug shots shown to a witness or an informant. She wasn’t surprised he knew the term.

“Is there someplace private we can meet?” she asked.

“There’s an alley out back, behind Fast Eddie’s.”

“Would you be willing to meet me there?”

“Yeah, okay. I can’t leave the bar now, though. There ain’t nobody to cover for me. By three o’clock a couple of waitresses will be here. They can handle things while I step outside.”

“I understand.” Tess needed time, anyway. She didn’t have any other photos to show him. “So three p.m. is okay?”

“Three, or a little after. In the alley.”

His hedging on the time made her suspicious. “You’re not going to stand me up, are you, Biscuit?”

“I bet you’re not a lady who gets stood up too often.”

“And I don’t want to start now.”

“I’ll be there.”

Tess drove to the resident agency on Civic Center Drive in downtown Santa Ana. She showed her ID at the door to the third floor suite and brushed off an offer of assistance from a bored duty agent. In a back room she used a secure computer connection to access the California DMV database, where she found Abby’s driver’s license. She printed the photo, then trolled the database at random for female names, compiling five photos of other women who bore no resemblance to Abby. The six printouts would make a decent collection. If Biscuit selected Abby’s picture out of the six, there would be no doubt that she had been to the bar.

Ordinarily the photos would go in the pockets of a display sheet, but Tess didn’t have time for anything fancy. She dropped the printouts into a manila envelope from a supply cabinet, then did her best to clear the history of her searches from the PC.

The duty agent checked on her as she was finishing up. “You’re certain I can’t be of help?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Is Agent Crandall around?” Enough time had passed that she might be able to smooth things over.

“Crandall? No, he left. Went back to L.A.”

Tess frowned. “He couldn’t. I’m his ride.”

“He hitched a ride with one of our guys who was heading up there about an hour ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got his cell number if you need it.”

“No, that’s all right. I just thought… Never mind.”

I just thought he would wait for me, she almost said.

Apparently he hadn’t wanted to be in the same car with her during the long ride back to the L.A. office. Either that, or he hadn’t trusted her to pick him up.

The Bureau car felt lonely and too big as she headed over to Fast Eddie’s. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive north.

She arrived at the bar shortly before three and parked near the alley. It offered privacy, all right. A little too much privacy, perhaps. On one side loomed the rear wall of the bar, on the other the windowless backside of a strip mall. She wasn’t thrilled about the situation. There was a reason FBI agents normally worked in pairs.

She removed her Sig Sauer 9mm from its crossdraw holster and placed it in her jacket’s side pocket. In Denver she customarily wore a trench coat with a special side pocket for her weapon, but L.A. in summer was too warm for the coat. Even so, she felt safer with the gun at her side. In an emergency she could draw from the hip faster than from the shoulder.

She entered the alley, carrying the envelope in her left hand, leaving her right arm unencumbered. As she walked, she let her right hand brush against the jacket, feeling the weight of the gun. It printed against the fabric, but she didn’t care.

A few minutes after three, the back door of the bar opened, and the bartender appeared about five yards from her. Instead of coming forward, he just stood there in an angle of shadow thrown by the wall. It seemed odd that he would stay in the shadows. Maybe he was just afraid of being seen-but there was no one to see him.

And he was wearing a nylon jacket, unzipped. The day was warm. He didn’t need a jacket any more than she did. She wore hers to conceal a weapon. He might be doing the same.

“Biscuit,” she said.

“Hey.” He sounded more affable than before, and that was another thing that bothered her.

Her senses were heightened. She was aware of details that would normally escape her notice. A scrap of plastic scudding along the alley floor. The chatter of a bird. The heat of the sun on her face as she walked toward him, and then the coolness of the shade.

Above all, his hands. The hands were what could get you killed.

His hands were empty and open, at his sides. He made no move to strike when she came within range.

“I have some photos for you to look at,” she said.

It would have been natural if he’d moved out of the shade for more light, but he stayed put, as if he wanted the additional cover the building’s shadow afforded. “Okay, no problem.”

“Why’d you change your mind about helping me?”

“I thought about what you said. How we’re on the same side. If some bitch offed Dylan, I want to help nail her for it.”

This was plausible enough, but the way he said it wasn’t convincing. It seemed rehearsed, mechanical.

And he was calm. Too calm. Like a man who had switched into the mode of an automaton, shutting down his feelings. A man who might be readying himself to kill.

“Well,” she said, her voice level, “take a look.”

She handed him the envelope. This was a moment of risk. He could grab her by the arm, grapple with her, try to get her in a choke hold.

But he merely took the item from her. He undid the flap, then shifted the envelope to his left hand and reached into his jacket.