Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

He walked up and down the rows of graves, looking for Hank Mancone's plot. Hank was old, divorced, no kids, on the eve of retirement for five years now. Tim's impressions of Mancone were culled strictly from elevator nods and hallway passings, and he recalled only that the deputy was cranky, pouch-faced, and smelled of stale coffee. In the post-break hysteria, Hank hadn't played as well to the news cameras and weepy public; he was Shoshana Johnson to Palton's Jessica Lynch. Staring at the rows of gray headstones, searching for a cushion of color like that surrounding Frankie's grave, Tim flashed on the photos of Hank's corpse seat-belted into the transport van. Was the crime against Frankie any worse? Did the pretty wife, the two kids, the square jaw, the specialized credentials make it any more a tragedy?

Tim stepped between two high headstones, coming upon an older woman on her knees. A few bouquets dotted the fresh-turned soil. Tim followed her gaze to the chiseled name.

"I'm one of Hank's colleagues," he said gently. "Are you his ex-wife?"

"His sister." She raised her eyes. They were tired and sad, though Tim would have bet they looked that way outside of cemeteries as well as in. "Were you a friend?"

"A colleague," he repeated. "I'm sorry. I didn't know him well."

"Nobody did."

Tim let that one expire in the graveyard silence.

"Hank was supposed to retire last year. And the year before that. Just wouldn't. He always said he had nothing else to do." She wiped her nose. "You reap what you sow, I guess. You stay closed off, you get less flowers at your grave. And you know what? Hank wouldn't have minded that one bit. He wouldn't have complained. He just wanted to drive his van and be around."

Tim felt an urge to give her something, to share with her his own loss, but he recognized the impulse as self-serving. His cell phone vibrated at his belt. "I'm sorry." He started to add something in closing, but she waved him off. Her voice was more regretful than sad. "I know. I know. Me, too."

When Tim reached the edge of the cemetery, Bear still rattling off updates in his ear, he looked back. Mancone's nameless sister was in the same position on her knees before the gravestone, hands folded calmly in her lap.

Photos of Sinners and deeds, taken at the afternoon funeral, already plastered the command post's walls. Every few minutes a deputy would get up from a computer monitor and tack another paper name tag beneath a picture. Everyone worked diligently except for Jeff Malane, who stood in the corner speaking furtively into his cell phone as if conferring with a bookie.

The clear shots Tim had captured of Den's deed were clustered on the bulletin board at the head of the table. From his fleeting glimpses at the cemetery, Tim hadn't recognized how beautiful she was. Lush brown hair, center-parted and flipped back from a face that was paradoxically tough and delicate. Angry cheekbones, pulled even higher by a squint. An elegant bridge of a nose that banked into a surprising pug. Shiny irises, almost cobalt. She could've been the eye candy in a rock-ballad video.

Most of the other deeds and all the slags had been identified already and matched to addresses and jobs. Wristwatch Annie's given name was Tracy White. She'd been busted a few times on prostitution beefs, free-lancing for Sinner-owned massage parlors, but she'd graduated to clubhouse den mother. Some rumors had her as a pro on the side, but by most accounts she was merely a slut.

The striker and his mystery date remained unidentified. Guerrera hung enlarged details from his photos-armband and pinkie ring-beside his full depiction.

Tim finished scanning the updates and stood. "Gimme your attention for a minute here." The tapping on keyboards stopped. Phone receivers pressed against chests. "Sheriff's has the case, but that doesn't mean that the Palmdale massacre isn't our responsibility. Thirty-seven men were murdered." He didn't like the set of some of the faces looking back at him. "I don't care if they were one-percenters. They were murdered, and they were murdered by fugitives. And that means it happened on our watch. So I don't care if the victims are outlaw bikers or a slaughtered convent of nuns"-at this, Guerrera stiffened-"we do our jobs here, and we do them well." Tim pointed at the photos. "Let's carve up the names, shake some cages, and see what falls out."

His colleagues rustled back to work, the command post cranking into motion like an elaborate windup toy. Tim huddled with Guerrera and Bear at the end of the conference table.

"Media attention's through the roof," Bear said. "This is the second-biggest mass murder in California history."

"What's number one?"

"Jedediah Lane's attack on the Census Bureau. Heard of it?"

"Vague recollection." Tim blew out a breath. "We've got a major gang-war blowout. That, the public will see, hear, and feel. Tannino and the mayor are in press-conference hell right now. We've gotta stay focused on the case, keep fielding the grounders." He turned to Guerrera. "You find anything on Lash yet?"

"The Sinner who got his colors taken back?" Guerrera waited on Tim's nod. "We put it out on the street, but nothing so far."

"I want you to run Danny the Wand through the moniker database, too. The guy's clearly got close ties to the club."

Bear, contending with a burrito leak, took a moment to respond. "Already did. Got nothing. Thomas and Freed are working it, checking out bike paint stores, all that shit."

Tim turned to Guerrera. "Can we expect big-league retaliation from the Cholos?"

"This afternoon seems like the club's final coffin nail. Palmdale was the mother chapter, by far the biggest. Cholo ranks are already thinned from the war. I'd be surprised if they muster any real retaliation. The Sinners are too powerful. Especially now."

"What's the motive to wipe out an entire club?"

"Odio."

"Just hate?"

"There's no 'just' about hate, socio. Not among bikers."

Tim was about to express his skepticism when Thomas racked a phone and hopped up from his computer. "Our mystery deed just rang the cherries over at the Fillmore Station. Babe Donovan." He spun the monitor to show off the JPEG of her mug shot. "She got popped for possession six months ago, squirmed off with a little help from Dana Lake. And-get this-she works for the DMV."

"ID heaven," Freed said.

Tim felt a rush of adrenaline, and he slowed himself down, thinking out the steps. "We'll get a warrant cleared, have ESU track her user name through the DMV system whenever she logs on. If she makes any fraudulent licenses, we let 'em walk. We'll catch up to our guys in a hurry if we know what fake names they're using."

"If she was gonna generate false IDs, she would've done it by now," Thomas said. "She's been there three months. I doubt she'd be dumb enough to wait until after the break to make a move."

Tim shot a look at Frisk. His favored ESU inspector angled back a thin scowl; he still hadn't forgiven Tim for the gymnastic ride in the back of the van during the chase. "Roger?"

"DMV's a mess. We can probably regulate her from here on out, but it's doubtful we'd be able to get clear records on her prior activity. The technology over there is archaic, plus retardation is a job requirement. Ever wonder why it takes six months to process a license?"

A court security officer stuck his head around the partition that separated the phone banks. "Rack? Uncle Pete on line four."

The command post fell silent.

"Okay, send it in here." Tim waited for the phone in front of him to blink, and he took a deep breath, hit the speaker button. "Yeah?"

"Howdy-do, Trouble. Nice move on the municipal permission. Getting our helmets off so you could snap pictures." Pete tut-tutted a bit. "I got some moves up my sleeve, too."