Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

"We can consider this an unofficial powwow." Off Gustavo's blank look, Rich added, "No, we won't."

"What you want?"

"You prepared the bodies?"

Gustavo nodded.

"Stomach balloons full of Allah's Tears?"

Rich's question seemed to catch him completely off guard.

"But only I know my end. I am skilled, prepare well. The bikers mess up the bodies, wreck the estomagos before. They need to learn."

Made of silicone, the intragastric balloons were durable, designed to remain inside patients for months at a time and, by extension, able to withstand embalming chemicals for a few days. Under ordinary circumstances they were filled with saline to make overweight people feel full and promote weight loss. When their utility was exhausted, the balloons were simply popped, the saline was digested, and the balloon passed. There was no proper way to extract a balloon's contents. The Sinners probably weren't going to risk the exposure of getting involved with physicians and endoscopes to finesse out the AT. Trying to improvise was not only difficult but it required skill and a coroner's stomach. Thus Diamond Dog's botched work on the dry-run corpses. And Den's neater job on Marisol Juarez.

"They talk about new guy, better with scalpel," Gustavo said. "I am done with all this. I want no more."

"So the bodies already shipped?" Rich asked impatiently.

"I don't know. They leave in morning for two hour. They talk about airport. I hear phone call when they talk."

Tim's shoulders lowered with his exhalation. At least the AT would be picked up by Jan on the other end.

"American Airlines?" Rich asked.

"I don't know."

"For LAX? Los Angeles International Airport?"

"No LAX," Gustavo said, and Tim felt the sweat on the back of his neck go clammy. "They decide not to risk."

Tim screeched up into the gas station, hopping from the Explorer before the vehicle stopped rocking. The others were at his heels as he ran to the occupied pay phone. His badge tapped the glass enclosure, but the woman inside turned her back. He took her by the elbow, gently steering her out as she screamed at him and even went so scripted as to hit him with her purse. Of course, they'd been out of cell-phone and radio range when Gustavo had blindsided them with the change of plans. There had been an uncharacteristic dearth of Border Patrol jeeps after they'd sent Gustavo flying back over the barbed wire, so Tim had floored it to the nearest gas station.

Bear and Guerrera talked the woman down while Rich crammed into the phone booth with Tim. Jan picked up her cell phone on the second ring.

"Hold all bodies coming into Burbank, Ontario, Long Beach, and San Diego." Tim said. "Right now."

"Okay." No questions asked, Jan put him on hold. He waited, baking in the refracted sun and getting an earful of "The Girl from Ipanema." He worked a hangnail with his teeth. About five minutes later, she came back on.

"You're not gonna like this."

"What?"

"Two caskets came into Burbank Airport on an American Airlines flight from San Jose del Cabo this morning. They were picked up less than an hour ago."

"Damn it." Tim hit the phone booth's siding with the heel of his hand, the plastic cracking. The woman, still arguing with Bear, got quiet and hurried to her car. "Caskets aren't spot-X-rayed at Burbank?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Burbank's not on bin Laden's short list."

"And we all know terrorists strive for predictability."

"Our resources barely cover the high-profile airports."

Rich shoved out of the booth, his palms to his forehead. Tim heard Bear ask him what was wrong.

"Sorry," Tim said.

In a quiet voice, Jan replied, "I'll track down the paperwork, get it over to the command post."

"Thank you, Jan."

Tim racked the phone gently and stared at it a moment before stepping back into the hot desert wind.

Tim asked Bear to drive; he had to sleep. His body ignored his intention. Every time he drifted off, lulled by the hum of the Explorer's wheels over asphalt, he jerked awake and ran through the string of tasks they had to begin when they returned. They were all weak suggestions; the others at least did their desperate musing silently. Rich sat in the back, watching the freeway roll past. He hadn't spoken since his cell-phone update to Malane.

They arrived in the city shortly after noon. Bear parked in an alley so Tim could get the cuffs on Rich before they cruised into Roybal. No telling where the Sinners had eyes. Though Rich said nothing, Tim kept the cuffs loose so as not to grind his raw wrists. Tim took back the wheel. He pulled into the underground lot.

"You coming back to the post?" Bear asked.

"Nah," Rich said, "can't keep me out much longer. We gotta get me behind bars again, keep things looking normal."

The men all sat as if there were something left to say. Finally Bear headed out. At Tim's nod Guerrera reluctantly followed, leaving Tim and Rich in the Explorer. Tim looked in the rearview. Rich was doing the perpetrator hunch in the backseat, leaning forward to accommodate his cuffed wrists.

Rich checked out the dashboard clock. "Dana Lake's supposed to come by in the next few hours, get me processed out."

"Need anything in the meantime?"

"Nah," Rich said.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Catch up to the boys again. Christ, we need me in there now more than ever. I'll start with some of the hangs, see if Den and Kaner send word. A lot of dirty work to be done yet. They'll need an extra set of hands."

"Be safe."

"I will." Rich jerked the hair off his face, blowing at a stubborn bang that clung to the band of his eye patch. "Listen, that fake door kick at the warehouse the boys set up for the news? After you guys got Goat? That was chickenshit. I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. We can't regulate the games the desk jockeys play for funding."

"Yeah," Rich said. "Guess not."

Across the lot a few Secret Service agents left a Bronco and headed upstairs. Business as usual. Cheap suits and bad coffee. Trying to think five moves ahead to stop the drugs, the murder, the terrorist action. The chess match continued, one big game except for the live ammo. How many of L.A. County's 10 million lives were at stake if the Prophet got his revenue stream up and running? How many lives in the state? Beyond? Once the drugs and cash dispersed, it would be nearly impossible to stem the flow. The agents and deputies could add their efforts to the great ash heap of unsuccessful wars: The War on Poverty. The War on Drugs. The War in Iraq. It would persist, the slow-motion planning, the subterranean simmer. And one day they'd awaken to find that the forces had erupted once again and all they were good for was cleaning up the mess. Jim's rambling eulogy had been embarrassing, but it wasn't entirely off the mark.

Rich cleared his throat, and Tim's focus sharpened. The band of Rich's face in the rearview mirror looked pallid, drained of blood.

"I never answered your question," Tim said. "Dray is the pregnant deputy who got shot in Moorpark. She's also my wife."

In the mirror Tim watched Rich's face alter. His eyes widened; his forehead smoothed. For a moment he looked shocked and maybe even sorrowful. Then, slowly, his face gathered itself back up into its customary squint.

"Jesus," he said.

Reaching with cuffed hands, he opened the door and climbed out.

Tim. Tim. Tim."

"Dray?"

Bear said, "No."

Tim awakened in the empty cell, clutching his pager in one hand, his phone in the other. Bear stood over him, blotting out the bright Cell Block lights. After returning Rich to his cage, Tim had gone into one of the other keep-away cells, relishing the quiet. He'd touched base with Thomas and Freed, who'd been following up at Burbank Airport for the past few hours. When he'd lain down on the plastic bench to think through his next step, he'd ended up dozing off.