Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

Since the new victim-and first actual drug carrier-would be dead, she certainly couldn't pass the drugs through her system like a body packer; the AT packages would have to be cut out of her. The task force was desperate to get a lock on her but had no way of identifying her. If the Sinners had sent her to Cabo on the free-vacation ruse, as Tim suspected, they'd wised up, dispensing with the traceable promotion code when booking her ticket. Tim knew only that the woman the Sinners would single out for this ultimate task would be overweight, to accommodate and disguise the drugs stored in her dead belly.

Aaronson had offered the best explanation for why the dry-run victims were also obese, despite having no drugs to conceal in their bodies. Their corpses would provide practice for the Sinners on the receiving end to learn how to navigate through excessive abdomen fat. Because the heroin was liquid, there'd be little room for error on the extraction-a misjudged incision would pop the package, spilling Allah's Tears throughout the corpse's innards. After being used as dissection fodder, the women would be stitched back up and turned over to their grateful families for burial or cremation, thereby preserving the Cabo scheme for another round.

Marisol Juarez, whom the Nomad Sinners had picked up in Chatsworth on December 22, seemed to shore up Aaronson's theory. Den had implied that she was the practice "heifer." The body hadn't been disemboweled, but the intestines had been exposed and the stomach sliced open. Den, the new cutter, had been rehearsing for when the stakes were higher, for when he'd be unable to afford a stray slip of the knife.

Tannino was working up a press statement now, warning the public and soliciting information about Good Morning Vacations. He was weighing whether to put it out in the upcoming news cycle or sit on it a few days. Obviously a media statement would alert the Sinners, probably causing them to abort the mission. The task force had nailed down quite a few of the variables, and the marshal was understandably reluctant to blow an opportunity to trap Den and Kaner and seize the drugs. Still, there were lives at stake.

The next victim, the carrier for Allah's Tears, was probably vacationing in Cabo right now, under the watchful eyes of Toe-Tag and Whelp.

Time to liaise with the Feebs.

"Jesus Christ, Dray, they've been nothing but detrimental," Tim muttered.

Guerrera paused, his back to Tim. He turned. "What?"

Tim waved him off.

Forgive and forget. And fast. You can't afford to play Lone Ranger. Not with what's riding on this one. You need to pool intel.

We have the intel.

Then maybe they need it. Or maybe they've got the missing jigsaw pieces. So you've got info on their case-you think they don't have their own dirt on the Sinners? Quit pissing in the corners and work together.

Bear stripped the rubber gasket from the casket seal, Aaronson gave the chisel a final whack, and the lock caved through the softened wood. The lid hopped an inch or two, the odor sending Bear, Guerrera, and Maybeck back a few steps. Tim moved forward as Aaronson threw the coffin open.

The face had rotted first, as faces do, but the combination of the sturdy casket, the cool ground, and the embalming had left the body surprisingly intact. Guerrera and Maybeck coughed, but Aaronson leaned in, unperturbed, and went at the soiled clothes with paramedic shears. Though Tim's eyes were watering, he stepped forward as the criminalist beckoned him closer.

"Now, with a drowning there should be minimal marks on the body," Aaronson said. "The corpse wasn't autopsied, so we shouldn't find any Y-pluck incisions." He peeled back the two sliced halves of Jennifer Villarosa's service jacket, revealing a dress shirt. "The trocar and cannula used during the embalming process to puncture the body cavities for fluid aspiration leave only a small circular scar in the upper…"

The shears ran up the length of the shirt, revealing a tight-fitting plastic undergarmet, like a toddler's onesie, no doubt superglued into place before her body was turned over to the Sylmar funeral home to be dressed in her uniform. Another slide of the shears, and all at once Jennifer Villarosa's considerable stomach came into view, incisions and sutures traversing the loose gray flesh like railroad tracks. Aaronson crouched to take in the scene up close and personal. The abdomen had been punctured several times with sloppy slashes. Even the stitches had been hastily tied. No wonder Den's knifework was now required.

Still bent over the corpse, Aaronson muttered, "I'd say you've got your probable cause."

Ready to answer some questions, scumsuck?" Bear grabbed Rich by the hair and the union of his cuffs and slammed him against the cell block's wall. The detention enforcement officer buzzed the door, and Guerrera held it open. Bear shoved Rich out into the hall and walked him into an empty conference room. Tim unlocked the cuffs, and Rich stared at the three of them, rubbing his wrists, his face red.

"Christ, I know you're covering my ass, but go easy on the method acting."

"I'm not acting," Bear said.

"We've got information," Tim said.

Bear said, "You want to work together or you want to play your Feeb games?"

Rich's eye darted around. "You talk to Malane?"

"He's a paper-pushing prick."

"We've been ordered to liaise with the FBI," Tim said. "We're running down some leads. If someone's gotta ride along with us, we'd prefer to deal with a field operator. You can coordinate with your team from there and nail the Prophet. What we want is your intel on the bikers." He crossed his arms. "You get your guy, I get mine."

Rich cocked his head, a fall of hair blocking his good eye. "Why you so hot for Den Laurey? Want a Top Fifteen on your resume?"

Bear said, "He has three."

Rich started to respond, but Tim cut him off. "What's it gonna be?"

Rich held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Okay."

"Where's Goat?"

"We're holding him in the Federal Building in Westwood. He's drugged up, under heavy medical supervision. We haven't been able to get shit out of him-he's too scrambled. What's your information?"

"Not yet," Tim said. "I know you've been working Uncle Pete."

Rich bounced his head from side to side as if debating whether to give up the goods. "We intercepted some of Uncle Pete's cell-phone transmissions, but I'm not at liberty to disclose-"

"Then we're not at liberty to take you along." Bear snatched the cuffs from Tim and descended on Rich.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. We know he's in on the drugs. But we need to let it play out."

"So you can get the Prophet?" Tim asked.

"And because we need material evidence to make a case against Uncle Pete. We need the drugs, or else all we've got are recorded conversations about shit that we can't prove happened."

"You got enough for a warrant?" Guerrera asked.

"Again, not without material evidence to support the recordings."

Bear said, "Maybe we get a warrant. We're tighter with the bench."

Rich laughed. Even in the brighter light, his skin looked yellow. "Dana Lake'll put her pump so far up your ass you'll taste the Gucci logo. And besides, the evidence isn't with Uncle Pete. Or at the clubhouse. He's too smart for that. That's the whole reason he has the nomads. This ain't about warrants and kicking down doors."

Bear made an aggravated noise. Guerrera raised his hands when Tim glanced at him-your call. Down the corridor two prisoners were having a mouth-off in opposing cells, yo' mamas flying like shrapnel.

Rich grew uneasy from the pause-he wanted back in. "Help us get the drugs, and we'll sink Uncle Pete." He eyed Tim. "And you can get Den in the process."

Tim chewed his lip, still deciding. Finally he turned for the door. "Let's take a ride."