Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"We spent months getting our guy inside and couldn't risk his cover being blown," Malane said.

"There wouldn't have been a risk if you'd told us Danny the Wand's shop was a no-fly zone. But you couldn't even chance us talking to Goat Purdue. Our own prisoner?"

"We couldn't have you prying around with Rich sunk undercover in the middle of it. You know how it goes."

"Where'd you stash Goat?"

"He's no longer useful." Malane nodded at Tim. "You put a pretty good charge into his face."

"We busted our asses to nail him," Bear said, "and you snaked him."

"Nail someone else."

Tim looked at Rich. "We will."

"You want to know why everybody hates the FBI?" Tannino's voice was calm, conversational. "No forest. All trees. If ever there was a time for interagency cooperation-"

"Look," Malane said, "we're trying to work with you on this now."

"And the only reason you're not still working against us is because your fucking agent wound up in my cell block."

"It shouldn't be news to you, Marshal, that federal agencies sometimes cross agendas. You hardly would've back-burnered a Top Fifteen fugitive chase that had already claimed two of your men."

Tim spoke slowly to keep his rage tamped down. "It's claimed two of our men"-here his voice wavered-"maybe a sheriff's deputy, two civilians, thirty-eight rival bikers, and counting."

Malane met Tim's stare evenly. "Modest stakes compared with what we're up against. We cannot-will not-allow al-Fath to fill its coffers for future operations."

"And your agency's got to learn that that can't be a justification for everything."

"Look," Smiles said, "I know this is an emotional case for you. I'm sorry your marshal buddies died. But we couldn't move on the nomads early without losing the big fish. We've got a shot at rolling up al-Fath's top West Coast affiliate and dealing a death blow to an incipient drug operation. Al-Malik has to surface when the shipment arrives from Mexico. He's got to confirm to the powers that be that it penetrated our borders. He'll want to eyeball the product, put his hands on it before it gets carved up and shipped out in vials."

"We need to get beyond the bullshit," Tannino said. "So where do you suggest we go from here?"

Malane moistened his lips, then rested a hand on Rich's shoulder, the little gesture revealing a friendship between the two. "Sit him in jail until tomorrow, then let Dana Lake come to bail him out. We ask that you leave the investigation in our hands."

"We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"You need us, and even now you're too arrogant and stupid to know it. We have an inside line on this case that you need. And we'll give it to you. For what we need."

"You're playing with fire here," Smiles said. "With all due respect to the Marshals Service, you're a bit out of your depth."

Tannino started to retort, but Tim cut in with a question. "How's Marisol Juarez figure in? Why'd they cut her up?"

"I don't know." Malane shrugged. "Hobby."

"They're not gonna take a Ted Bundy time-out with everything going on."

"These guys are psychopaths," Rich said. "They need to take five minutes to pressure-valve Den Laurey's bloodlust, they'll fucking take it."

"You buy that explanation, you're even dumber than your getup. You might not want to overlook the-what did you call them?-'modest stakes'? Maybe if we pay attention to the dead little people, we might find some answers."

Rich stood up and shook out his long hair with a jerk of his neck. He addressed Tannino. "The bottom line is, I can't get my terrorist with your renegade deputy stirring up the heat. We were on course, and your guy fucked it up. You need to have your deputies stand down on the small fish. I want the Prophet. And I'm gonna get him."

Tim said, "If you think I'm gonna let Den Laurey ride if I get him in my sights, you're out of your head."

Rich's hand rasped across the stubble of his face. They'd taken his leathers and his armband, but his undershirt reeked of smoke. He took a step over and glowered down at Tim. "Next time you interfere, don't expect me to save your life."

Cocked back in his chair, Tannino looked from Smiles to Malane to Rich, and then his eyes glinted darkly, and he nodded at Tim. "Your prisoner, Rackley."

Tim rose, spun Rich around, and cinched the cuffs back on, Rich wincing at the bite of the metal. Bear and Guerrera fell into step as Tim led Rich back to his cell.

They sat in the command post awaiting word back from Tannino. He was in with the mayor right now, conference-calling the higher-ups and pretending to have some say if their task force would be subsumed by the FBI's or vice versa. Despite the Hanukkah jingles audible from the criminal clerk's screensaver down the hall, the mood was less than jolly. It was only 9:00 P.M., but it felt to Tim like the middle of the night. A check-in call to the hospital-no news means what?-only added to his sharply felt frustration. He flipped listlessly through photos of Den and Kaner, chewing on a brown swizzle stick until his molars ached.

Mounds of files overflowed the table, the floor, the empty chairs. Paperwork drooped from pushpins. The chief's assistant had dropped off crullers with red and green sprinkles, the few stale survivors collecting off-season flies in their pink box. The marshal's wife's fruitcake sat untouched on the tabletop, its pristine two-tone cellophane intact; Mrs. Tannino's baking, even when it didn't involve candied fruit and dark corn syrup, was eat-at-your-own-risk.

Scrupulously balanced human-interest holiday reports compensated for the paper-thin local news-a dulceria's Jesus cookies cried cinnamon tears; a Tarzana housewife made a giant menorah evoking the Hollywood sign; a crippled kid got his operation thanks to an Islamic charity. Even the CNN crawl had gone syrupy, bringing news of marshmallow-eating contests and a Star of David on the White House tree.

Most of the task-force members were home with their families. Slumped over the intersection of his forearms, Jim caught some shut-eye at a corner desk; light duty or not, he was in for the haul. Freed, divorced, had stayed back so Thomas could sneak dinner at home. Even if he'd wanted to leave, Bear had nowhere to go. He had his feet on the conference table, and he stared at the ceiling, his cocked-back chair doing its best to stand up to his weight. Tim checked in with the ICU doctor for the third time that day-no Christmas miracles there. He felt a stab of guilt for not going in, but Dray cut him off. The Sinners don't take a night off. You're sure as shit not going to just so you can stare at your comatose wife.

Haven't heard from you in a while, he thought.

That's because you haven't killed anyone in a while. Been, what, four hours?

I miss you.

But he heard no response.

Maybeck and Haines finally made for the door, wearing guilty expressions, though no one faulted them.

Jim raised his head at their departure. "Merry Kwanzaa."

Maybeck, white boy personified, smiled and flashed him a thumbs-up. "See you in the morning."

"If we still have the case," Tim said.

A roomful of dour faces looked back at him. From his recline, Bear grunted, and they went back to waiting for Tannino.

Guerrera finished arguing the latest girlfriend off the phone with a suddenly overplayed accent, casting embarrassed glances at the others. "I tole you not to use the work line, baby." He hung up.

Still gazing at the ceiling, Bear said, "Jean Ann?"

"Alicia."

Bear didn't quite smile, but his face shifted. He rolled his head over to face Tim. "Our boy is back."

Everyone stood when Mayor Strauss entered with Tannino. His face was hard and red, a mallard green tie loose at the collar. His breath smelled of red wine. "After extensive discussion with the East Coast, we've determined to let you and the FBI keep your respective bailiwicks. I've been pleased with your progress, and I-and Director Reyna-are disinclined to halt your progress. The FBI will, of course, continue with Operation Cleansweep simultaneously, and you are to liaise and share information. If you let your egos get in the way of the well-being of this city, you will answer to me personally. Understood?"