Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"Jim, you talk to Aaronson about the embalming biz?" Bear asked.

Jim put a knee on the tabletop and tapped the pad against it. "You got your embalming fluid, preservatives, cavity fluid, preinjection solution. There's this trocar, really cool, sucks out the-"

"Stay on message."

"Sorry. Bottom line: nothing in the way of traceables. Aaronson said the bodies were prepped with customary materials. We might as well look up every mortuary in Mexico."

"Good idea," Tim said. "Let's put together a list, starting in Cabo and radiating out. Coordinate with the local police down there."

"Because they've been so helpful."

"I can help you there, you need it," Rich said.

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 03

Troubleshooter (2005)

"We do," Tim said. The Service's field office in Mexico City, consisting of two deputies, wasn't staffed to handle a major work request.

"We been working closely with the attorney general's office down there, and AFI," Rich said. The Mexican Agency of Federal Investigation had broad-ranging authority and was centrally organized, making its agents less susceptible to local corruption. "I'll ask my hook to start checking out mortuaries and funeral homes in the area. But I'd guess this is a mortician-or a doctor-working freelance." He tapped a cigarette from a pack of American Spirits, tossed it toward his lips, and caught it perfectly in the corner of his mouth. He lit a match off his thumbnail, held his first inhale, then shot a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "What happened with the hearse? The one you said was by the curb at Chief's house?"

"Gone," Miller said.

"Anything with an outdoor security cam on the block? Gas station? ATM? We review those tapes, maybe we spot it driving by. We pick up a plate, we could put it out on the street."

Tim's right thumb and forefinger went to his wedding band. His voice came fast, excited. "We don't need to."

Bear offered him a what-the-fuck eyebrow raise.

"Guerrera, you took the Impala that night, right?" Tim asked. "You parked right behind the hearse."

Guerrera smiled, realization dawning. "Our old friend, the vehicle cam."

Glad I'm good for something.

"I'll pull the tapes," Haines said, "get you a plate number."

A flicker of concern crossed Guerrera's face. "But the Impala's on an evidence hold in the impound lot off Aliso. It was shot to shit. The footage probably got Swiss-cheesed in the trunk."

Haines stood, grabbing his notepad. "Worth a check anyways."

He was almost at the door when a married couple who looked to be in their fifties entered the command post tentatively. They appeared lost, and the woman seemed deeply concerned. They were both overweight.

"I'm sorry, this is a restricted area," Haines said.

"We were told to come in," the man said with a pronounced accent. "Something about the vacation company."

"I'm sorry. Reception should've directed you to the conference room. Please come with me."

"Our daughters are okay, si?" The woman's voice took on a note of pleading. "Please tell us they okay."

"Daughters?"

"Si, Lettie y Monica Guillermo. They won a trip to Cabo San Lucas. They're down there now." The man took note of the sudden silence in the command post. His face registered dread, as if he knew before being told. "Why? Por favor, tell us what's wrong."

The wife took in the crime-scene photos pushpinned to the wall and let out a little gasp. Haines moved a step over to try to block her view. He extended his arm, steering them out into the hallway.

The command post filled with a sheepish silence. Rich put out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. An anguished cry from the hall broke the quiet. A conference room door opened and closed, and there was silence again.

Thomas rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Morning on the East Coast. I'll see if I can track down any of Chief's credit-card charges originating there."

"Sunday, day after Christmas," Rich said. "Good luck."

Tim grabbed the credit-card statements and passed them around, everyone taking one. He perused Chief's September charges. "He ship a lot from back east?"

"Chaps, clutch plates, chain drives. All under the fake name to the safe house."

"What's this one? In Florida?"

Thomas leaned over, squinting at the statement. His eyes were getting old, but he refused to buy reading glasses. "Orange mark. That means it's on my follow-up list."

"Lite Companion Inc."

"I figured it for a bike-part joint. Taillights, headlights, something."

"Spelled wrong."

"They call that," Jim said grandly, "rationalized orthography."

"They like their gear light," Thomas said. "Lite lights, ya know?"

Tim swung a monitor around and slid over a keyboard. He did a search on the company, found a Web site. He clicked the link and waited for the page to come up.

The blank screen loaded, rendering the HTML block by block.

Lite Companion(r) Intragastric Balloon System. Help your patients lose weight easily, painlessly, and without hunger pangs!

Tim felt the rush of blood at his ears, in the heat of his face. Reading his reaction, Bear hopped to his feet and came around the table to his shoulder. The others gathered behind him.

Figure 1 showed a sketch of a balloon nestled inside a stomach. The corporate logo was an abstract take on the same image, circles floating within circles. Tim pulled Aaronson's half sketch from his pocket, taken from the ripped shipping label crumpled in the bottom of Diamond Dog's cup of tobacco spit. He folded the piece of paper over where the sketch terminated and held it to the screen. The logo completed the image, filling out the circles. A perfect match.

A few excited murmurs. Someone grabbed Tim's shoulder and shook it. He clicked the "Track Your Shipment" tab. Glancing at his notepad, he typed in the code he'd copied from the shipping label: "TR425."

A clock icon spun and spun. Finally a new screen flashed up.

Your package shipped on September 3 to Funeraria Sueno del Angel, 3328 San Juan Delamonga, San Jose del Cabo, Baja California Sur, 23400, Mexico.

Navy SEALs with catchy monikers closed in on a compound, spraying fire from automatic weapons. A hostage taker took a head shot, sending out a simulated burst of PlayStation blood. Whelp hooted and raised the cordless control triumphantly in the air, almost spilling the liter of tequila between his legs. Whelp and Toe-Tag wore UBS headsets so they could communicate like soldiers over the action theme blaring from the TV speakers. They sat on the floor, shirtless, backs to the couch, guns within reach. They had on a bizarre smattering of Afghan jewelry-tribal necklaces, coin chokers, sterling cuff bracelets, Gypsy nose rings. After eating their first round of tequila worms, they'd gotten into the shipping crate that had stored Allah's Tears. Whelp sported a beaded veil, looking like Disney's idea of an unsavory belly dancer. Toe-Tag had forsaken his trademark adornment, a lapis teardrop dangling from the pierced nipple.

Behind them on the cushions, Gustavo slept a blissed-out sleep.

Just beyond the darkened windows, an AFI Spec Ops group crept forward in olive drab fatigues. They arranged themselves tactically along the funeral home's wall, M16A1s angled low-ready across their chests. Up ahead a gust rattled the screen door's hook in its eyelet.

The video-game SEALs died gruesomely, and Whelp started up a new game. He and Toe-Tag leaned as they fired, spilling tequila across their thighs.

Outside, the commander inched to one side of the screen door. The column of tightly stacked men behind him halted, boots shoved into the mud. The commander raised his gloved hand for the countdown.

One by one, his fingers descended back into his fist.