Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

After all the death and destruction Tim had witnessed from Croatia to South Central, he still found the Sinners' regard for human life uniquely sickening. There was no cause, not even brainwashed zealotry, behind the violence. Just greed and malice, pure and simple. Cops and rivals were obstacles to be annihilated; drug profits would be reaped even if it meant lining the pockets of dealers of mass destruction; women were reduced to test-run luggage. Dray's words returned to Tim: Everyone counts. The Sinners had banked on apathy when selecting their victims, and they'd gotten far doing it.

"So you chose Jennifer Villarosa."

Kaner made a gun with his hand and clicked off a shot in Tim's direction.

"But the army brought the heat on her," Tim continued. "Caught you off guard."

"Barely a wrinkle. They don't care much 'bout dead dykes. Poked around a bit, didn't find a thing. And we took care of that, went after fat, broke Mex bitches next. No employers who give a shit. Their families ain't got no money to fly down, ask questions, ain't got no pull on this end neither. They can't talk to a cop or they'd get their brown asses deported. Let's be honest, who gives a shit about chubby chicanas from Chatsworth?"

"I do," Tim said.

Kaner met his stare with blazing eyes. "Bravo, brother. You and no one else, 'cept maybe your friend back there." His eyes pulled to Guerrera, who was trying to look impervious despite a clenched jaw. "You know the other thing about pickin' fat broads? They're sluggish, not so frisky. Gut slows 'em down. Kinda like that bellied-out cunt cop we shot."

Tim felt his face grow hot. His mouth cottoned. "Oh, she's pretty frisky."

Kaner's face shifted. "You know her?"

Tim stared at him.

Kaner's delight showed in the gleam in his eyes. "I woulda liked to have split her like a banana, too. Filled her with cream."

Tim heard Bear coming. He turned in time to get an arm around his waist, slowing his charge, but Bear dragged him another three feet toward Kaner, and Tim had to get his other arm up to stop his roundhouse. He heard himself shouting, and then Bear threw him off and stormed away to regroup, his mighty chest heaving while Kaner laughed his ten-grit laugh.

"Oh, that's rich," Kaner said quietly, studying Tim. "You're the deputy husband." He laughed again, shaking his head with delight. "Now and then, when things ain't lookin' so hot, fate comes to the rescue."

Tim licked his dry lips. "A philosopher."

"My new hobby."

"You'll have plenty of time for it."

"Maybe so, but you lost the war. Allah's Tears is in-country, and it's here to stay. While I'm tanning in the yard at Lompoc between sets on the bench, you can philosophize about that."

Bear was muttering in the shadowed back corner-giving Kaner the idea he was getting to them was the right strategy. Still, Tim fought to regain his focus. To keep Kaner gloating, he had to continue dangling bait. "How do you know it's here?"

"I know."

"How do you know we didn't seize it at Burbank?"

Kaner leaned forward, face twisted with vindictiveness, and Tim felt a stab of excitement at what he'd reveal in his anger.

"Because-"

The door banged open, and Dana Lake stormed in, a court security officer at her heels. "What the fuck is going on here? What have you answered? What have you told them?"

"Not a thing they didn't already know." Kaner offered a fat grin. "Who gives a shit anyways? I'm just adding up life sentences."

"Listen, dipshit, if you don't want to rot away with no possibility of ever getting parole, keep your fucking trap shut."

Amazingly, Kaner heeded the advice of counsel.

Bear found a surrogate target for his anger, blasting the CSO. "Why the hell is she in here?"

The CSO offered an apologetic shrug. "We had to, man. You know how that goes."

"Get her out. He's a captured fugitive. He doesn't have the right to an-"

"You bet your ass he does," Dana said. "I'd assume you're charging him with new criminal offenses, at the very least an escape offense. He has the right to remain silent. He has the right to an attorney-"

Bear scowled and stormed out of the room. Guerrera grabbed the cardboard box and followed. Dana glared at Tim, arms crossed, one foot turned out, showing the sharp curve of her calf beneath the hem of her skirt.

Tim said quietly to the CSO, "Call in six detention enforcement officers. Have the prisoner moved to an attorney room. If he resists at all, he goes to a keep-away cell, and Ms. Lake can try her luck again later."

Passing Dana, he caught a whiff of high-end perfume. She smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Deputy Rackley. I knew we'd see eye to eye on this one."

Goddamnit. We were right fucking there. He was just about to talk." Bear grabbed the prisoner-effects box from Guerrera and threw it against the wall in Booking. Loose change and keys clattered on the floor.

Two detention enforcement officers hustled a Mexican Mafia hitman out of the room, leaving them alone. They stood still for a minute, brewing in their frustration.

Tim thumbed open his phone and got Dray's captain on the line. "The Sinners know now. I don't want to rely on hospital security anymore. Can you keep someone on her room at the hospital?" He grimaced. "I'm sure he would be."

He hung up.

Bear's eyebrow pulled up, as if attached to a string. "Mac?"

Tim nodded.

Bear blew a sigh. He crouched, his knees cracking, and began picking up Kaner's belongings and returning them to the box. He sat on the aluminum table, putting his feet on the bench seat. After a moment he smiled. "Bet you threw a scare into Malane when you pulled the. 357 in there."

"Where's Malane now?" Tim asked.

"Arguing with Dana Lake," Guerrera said.

"I wonder who wins that battle."

Bear said, "I'm putting my money on Lawzilla. You couldn't get a dime up her ass with a sledgehammer."

"Be worth a try, though," Guerrera noted from the table where he watched Tim divvying up Kaner's possessions.

Bear smirked at Guerrera's newfound bravado and slid down across from them. "Did someone track down records on the safe house?"

"Thomas and Freed." Tim tossed Bear a wallet, and he turned it inside out, checking the lining. "We've got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn't had an active line in over two years."

A metal ring held the key to Kaner's Harley and a house key that they'd already matched to the safe house's dead bolt. Guerrera ran his fingers along the cuffs of Kaner's jeans. They reeked of dirt and pepper spray. Strands of pink insulation stood out against the denim.

"What's this?" Tim reached across and tugged the waistband of the jeans, revealing markings in the front right pocket, where an object had worn the fabric. A small rectangle, clearly not a tin of Skoal. It was well defined-time on the bike had meant a lot of friction. "Which pocket was the wallet in?"

"Don't know."

Bear slid the wallet into the pocket, but it was too big to fit the frayed outline. "What's this from?" He stuck his finger through a small hole that had eroded in the pocket's top corner.

Tim bit his lip, examining the outline. He heard an echo of the words he'd just spoken-We've got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn't had an active line in over two years.

He gestured at the worn spot in the denim. "Antenna."

Guerrera and Bear looked at each other. Guerrera nosed through the remaining items in the box. "It's not in here."

"Of course not," Bear said.

Tim grabbed Kaner's keys, Bear and Guerrera trailing him out of the room.

They ducked the crime-scene tape, flashing badge at the sheriff's deputy working the sawhorses. He gave a nod reading Tim's creds, then looked up with a surprisingly soft expression. "I'm sorry about Andrea. I went through the academy with her."