Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"We got you in our sights now."

"Yeah, Trouble?"

The doorknob twisted behind Tim, and he turned as Dana Lake entered. A Christmas Day house call spoke to the size of the retainer checks she was depositing. She tossed her sleek briefcase onto the recently vacated card table and shoved her seventies-porn-star tinted glasses up onto her perm. "Conversation over."

"Yeah," Tim said, "it is."

"I thought I made myself clear earlier, Deputy Rackley. This afternoon I'll file a complaint with the IA division of the Marshals Service and start a record with the federal prosecutor." Dana produced a sheaf of filled-out complaint forms. "If you bully my client one more time, you'll find yourself facing a civil action for the violation of my client's constitutional rights, a restraining order, and harassment charges."

Tim kept his eyes on Uncle Pete. "You feeling harassed?"

Pete held up his hand, thumb and forefinger calibrating about a half inch of air.

"My client's feelings aren't your concern. Nor is he one of the disenfranchised slobs you're used to intimidating, and I'm not some low-rent public defender who just limped through Boalt. You push us, we push back harder. This is a different league, Deputy. Watch that the rarefied air doesn't make you light-headed." The forms disappeared back into the fine-grain leather. "In the meantime I'll be handling the substantial casework from the series of raids you and your death squad carried out last night. You keep killing Sinners, you'll pay off my mortgage."

"I'm surprised it's not already paid off."

"I meant on the house in Vail." Dana snapped her briefcase closed. "Say good-bye, Mr. Rackley. You want to see my client again, you'd better bring a warrant and formal charges."

"That," Tim said, "seems like a fair arrangement."

"Don't let the bikers hit you on your way out."

Uncle Pete grinned. "You heard the woman. Believe me, you don't want to cross swords with this bitch." He moved to smack her on the ass, but she caught his hand at the wrist and threw it away, her eyes never leaving Tim's.

Another pinkie-free mistress led Tim back downstairs. Outside, the two Sinners standing guard over Dana's platinum Jag convertible threw Tim matching glares.

He offered a grin. "Feliz Navidad."

Arush of deputies hit Tim at the command post's door.

"We got the time of death back on Meat Marquez," Thomas said. "Seventy-two hours, give or take. That puts us back to the early morning after Den and Kaner's breakout-"

"The bomb diagrams you found at Chief's?" Zimmer was animated, his voice higher than usual. "We matched the handwriting to Tom-Tom. Pulled a sample from his booking sheet in an old police report. The specs on the design for the saddlebag special that killed Frankie was in his hand, too."

"-can't link anything from Chief's to the mother chapter," Freed was saying.

"Or from the warehouse," Thomas chimed in. "Aside from Diamond Dog's dead ass, of course."

Tim waded forward into the room. Someone had hung Chief's originals on the wall, like a scalp. Four empty nails beside it awaited the other jackets.

Exemplary professionalism. You gonna let that stand, Task Force Leader?

Tim sighed and pulled Chief's jacket down, then used the hammer to pop the nails from the drywall-game over. There was no need for a speech; the others could take his implication. He turned, dusting his hands and picking up where he'd left off. "Blood match from the embalming table?"

Thomas again: "Still waiting on the lab. But they came back on the body. Surgical incisions in the stomach. Very clean, incised wounds, like from a box cutter or scalpel. Her throat laceration had some abraded edges and bridging of the connective tissue-it was cut with something bigger, a hunting knife maybe. Sounds like Den Laurey to me."

"Any organs removed?"

"Yes, but all accounted for. Stomach was sliced up pretty good."

Tim sought Freed in the cluster of men. "You locate Diamond Dog's bike last night?"

"Nope. I blanketed the area. Not a single chopper."

"Where are we with Chief's credit card?"

"Getting a warrant."

"Lean on that judge. Or find another. How's Guerrera?"

Maybeck: "Shook up and making it worse by pretending not to be."

Bear alone was sitting, a still presence in the swirls of movement. Tim dropped into the chair beside him. "Well?"

"CSI finished sorting the Dumpster trash. The bag I found was the only hit. It was stuffed with bloody rags." Bear inhaled and held his breath for a count, troubled. "They also found these loose among the other crap."

He tilted a manila envelope and a crime-scene Baggie slapped the table. It held three rolls of film. Black and white. ISO 1600. Each was numbered with a red pen.

"No latents, but CSI matched the red ink to a pen in the warehouse office. Given that the warehouse is deserted and the Dumpster gets emptied weekly, there's low odds that someone else besides Diamond Dog, Goat, and Co. tossed these in there." Bear held up his hand. "But before you get excited…"

"What?"

"They're blank. Unexposed."

Tim rocked back in his chair, disappointed. "What kind of film is it?"

"Used mostly by professionals. It's super high-speed, which yields lower resolution. Best for low-light conditions, motion, grainy arthouse shit."

"I doubt Cindy Crawford's limo was en route."

"So what, then? Snuff shots of Marisol?"

"What stopped them?"

"Maybe they used rolls four through six."

"Get it developed."

"There's nothing to see. I told you, it hasn't been shot yet."

"Just have it processed. Maybe there's a hidden image or something. Anything." Tim pivoted in his chair. "What gives on Goat?"

Malane, sitting calmly, said, "He's under hospitalization."

"Let's press him. Where is he?"

"Unconscious."

"That's not a location."

"For him it is." Malane returned Tim's gaze, stonewalling him.

"I'm getting tired of fucking around with you." At Tim's tone the room quieted. "Where's the fugitive we took into custody?"

"I can't disclose that at this time."

Bear stood and walked over to Malane so the agent had to lean back in his chair to look up at him. "I've about hit my limit. I'll ask you once: What are you up to?"

Bear's quiet voice drew Tim to his feet; the only time he worried about Bear was when he got unreasonably calm. Though Malane met Bear's eyes, he made no move to rise. Tim was unsure whether he was contemplating an answer or merely staring back, but either way Bear's patience didn't seem likely to hold.

The door banged open, and Tannino stormed in. "Get this bull-shit." He grabbed the remote from the tabletop and raised the volume on the TV in the corner.

Melissa Yueh, more shoulder-padded than usual, was wrapping her report. "-confirming, at the abandoned warehouse FBI forces stormed late last night here in Simi." Footage rolled of an FBI task force-agency initials rendered in camera-friendly yellow block letters on raid jackets-storming the empty cinder-block facility. Tim took note of the sky's coloring-dawn, probably an hour or two after the Service had cleared out. No one could question the FBI's proficiency at PR.

"You did a fucking raid simulation for the cameras?" Tannino tugged at his collar, his affect blown Archie Bunker broad. "After my guys risked their asses in there?"

Melissa Yueh egged him with her curt, newsroom delivery. "A Bureau spokesman confirmed for KCOM that this is the first arrest in the escalating turf war between the Laughing Sinners and the Cholos."

Tannino unleashed a stream of invective at Malane, some of it in English. The deputies watched, arms folded, wearing told-you-so expressions. Even Jim, who'd been sulking in the corner, perked up a bit at the dramatics. Malane stood and leaned forward into the tirade, fists on the tabletop, repeating quietly, "Take it up with my supervisor."