Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"A standard holding area. Nothing unusual there. If it's going straight to a service, the mortuary usually sends a hearse or van for the pickup."

"Can we get copies of all the paperwork from our three victims?"

"Absolutely. We're a bit of a mess here, but I should be able to pull it together in a few hours. What?"

"We might not have a few hours."

"Then I'll do it quicker."

"Thank you, Jan. We're gonna get you a joint Service-FBI team in here."

Jan drew her head back, wrinkling her chin. "Jesus. Really? You want to give me the full story now, Rack?"

Because the al-Fath angle was under FBI jurisdiction, Tim deferred to Rich, who scrunched up his face in an expression that was almost endearing and shook his head.

"Sorry, Jan," Tim said. "I'll tell you in a few weeks over a drink."

"The sound of this," Jan said, "we might not be around in a few weeks."

Tim's Explorer followed Bear's Ram, Rich fiddling with the radio like a teenager. AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" seemed to please him. He rocked for a while, scratching the slope of skin that formed his weak chin.

They twisted up Century Boulevard, leaving the rumble of LAX behind. At the Sepulveda intersection, fifteen glowing pylons built of steel and frosted glass sculpted a gateway to the airport. Each piece of the installation, illuminated internally by color-changing fixtures, rose a hundred feet out of the landscaping. The pylons strode down the lawned median of Century, descending to mimic an aircraft's landing or, from the other direction, ascending in symbolic takeoff. Tim watched the monoliths morph from lavender to emerald. Because of its chameleon effect, the mile-long lightwork had been dubbed "Psychedelic Stonehenge" by locals. Mayor Riordan had flipped the ceremonial switch in 2000, and ever since, the $112 million piece of marketing had greeted arrivals to L.A. The pylons had a quality that was quixotic, lavish, and seductive, much like the city itself.

Dray had once likened them to glowing tampons.

Tim's lips pursed at the memory. Dray had been in the ICU for three days now. And every day she remained under, the doctor had warned, the odds diminished for a viable return. The last three days had been nearly unbearable without her. He couldn't imagine another fifty years.

The lights transformed to a vivid orange-the same shade the sun turned the smog at dusk, making the lung-cancer risk seem worth it. Tim felt the glow on his face. The pylons had watched a lot of life go by. They'd welcomed movie stars and tourists and immigrants. They'd seen off heads of state and diplomats and extraditable war criminals. They'd looked on as girls drove past in cars and returned in hearses. They were unyielding and unmoved, like cops, like doctors, like soldiers, like any bystanders on a thoroughfare. And if Tim failed, if the task force failed, if Rich and Malane and Smiles failed, the pylons would welcome Allah's Tears to the city with the same mute indifference.

Bon Scott finished his muttering, and Rich clicked off the radio. "Who's Dray?"

A car veered into their lane, and Tim swerved and honked. By the time Rich finished yelling out the window and settled back in his seat, he seemed more pensive.

"That was some really fine investigative work," he said.

"Yeah?" Tim said. "Maybe you could've cut us in earlier, and we'd be farther along."

Rich made an irritated noise and looked out the window.

They drove a few minutes, wheels rattling over asphalt.

Then Tim said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You're the one who tracked the shit down."

"I meant for Tom-Tom. You risked your cover to save my ass."

Rich watched the cars fly by on the far side of the road, his tongue poking a mound in his cheek. "Yeah," he said with the faintest grin. "I did."

By the time they returned, the command post had kicked back into high gear. About ten minutes prior, Haines had finally synced up with the graveyard shift's watch commander at the Cabo San Lucas police department. The force had been busy that morning investigating a murder and the disappearance of an American girl, Lettie Guillermo. She'd been staying at the Costa Royal as part of a complimentary trip issued by Good Morning Vacations. A witness, who charitably described her as gordita, reported seeing her book a snorkeling trip from a street vendor. The boat had been found in a nearby cove, the diver killed gruesomely with a gaff. No sign of Lettie Guillermo.

"You track down her parents?" Tim asked.

"They're coming in," Haines said. "Merry fucking Christmas."

Tim checked his watch: 4:30 A.M., December 26. Three days since the paramedics had carried Dray off the asphalt.

"We can use them." Rich glanced around at the morose faces. "Hey, we were all thinking it, I just said it."

"That's why I'm bringing them in," Haines said. "But I'm not sure they'll be useful. The dead diver, you know?"

"What?" Tim asked.

"Well, the Sinners no longer care about keeping things clean in Cabo by staging an accidental death. That means this isn't another dry run. It's the run."

"Unless things went bad. I mean, unplanned bad. But point taken."

"So I doubt they're gonna bother having Good Morning Vacations inform the parents. They have the body they need. They can forge documents-we know they're good at it-ship the girl in under a false name, and dump it when they're done. Why do the extra work of coordinating with a family and risking the extra exposure?"

"But killing her instead of posing it as an accident sends up a flare," Tim said. "Why would they risk that?"

"First, another accidental death of a Hispanic SoCal girl in Cabo would almost be more conspicuous. This breaks the pattern. And second, the Sinners have no idea we're onto the body-packing scheme. An American girl goes missing in Mexico, everyone assumes she's been kidnapped or killed locally. The last place anyone's gonna look for her body is at the American Airlines baggage claim getting smuggled back into the U.S. in a coffin." Haines held up his hands. "Look, of course we'll monitor the parents, see if they're contacted, I'm just saying let's not pop any bottles of Cristal."

"Has this opened up any more inroads into Good Morning Vacations?"

"No, nothing's tracking." Thomas threw down his pen on the conference table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his face. It emerged from his hands red, the hairs of his mustache tweaked up. "The hotel's a spring-break college shithole. We could barely get the basics."

"How about the paperwork from Jan Turaski?" Tim asked.

With the help of Malane and additional FBI support, Jan had managed to produce the CBP records with alacrity. Malane had, surprisingly, rushed copies of all documents over to the command post. Rich's hushed call from the phone banks might have had something to do with that.

"Everything looks airtight," Freed said. "Fraudulent top to bottom, but they got real seals and forms from the health department down there. The funeral home on the letterhead-surprise, surprise-doesn't exist, nor does the embalmer who signed off on the body."

"How about shipment payments?" Tim asked.

"Just like the passenger tickets, casket fees were paid by check from a dead-end account. We're still on it, but the forecast is cloudy, chance of rain."

"Don't be so dreary," Maybeck said. "All we have to do is wait till the package lands, then nab 'em coming in to pick it up."

"Right," Rich said. "Because Den Laurey and Lance Kaner are gonna ride their Harleys into LAX for a pickup. Hell, maybe the Prophet'll show, too, with a T-shirt says 'Kiss Me, I'm an Islamic Fundamentalist.'"

Jim chuckled, and then a few of the others joined in, Maybeck offering each a good view of his middle finger.