Gregg Hurwitz - Troubleshooter

More pounding footsteps, the latticed roof cracking as Den took flight, then the thump of his landing on the shed. Two more shots drove Tim back behind the post and Bear around the jamb.

A rasp across shingles, a thud of boots striking dirt, the creak of the trailer gate swinging open.

Tim sprinted around the fetid pool. Motorcycle wheels thrummed down the ramp. The cough of an engine, a gunshot, then a high, warbling howl.

Tim's ruthless backup plan come to fruition.

Tim pulled to a halt in the alley. The Harley tottered a moment longer at the base of the ramp, then fell. The shotgun blast had blown off the seat, taking Den with it. He must have been half on his bike when his booby trap had blown; judging from the bloodstains, the spray of pellets had entered him to the right of his bladder on the rise.

Somehow Den had landed on his feet. His eyes locked for an instant on the kill switch on his handlebar; he'd remembered to throw the toggle, but Tim had cut the connecting wire. Den had received the treatment intended for bike thieves-a Chief-designed shotgun blast up the frame tubing. The explosion had blown the metal box open. Two balloons filled with Allah's Tears had rolled onto the ground, where they sat quivering.

Den staggered to the side and sat down, his head lolling forward, a string of drool connecting his lower lip to the cracked dirt of the alley. He withdrew his hand from his jacket, and it came away artery red. He peeled back his jacket. His undershirt was soiled with blood, the fabric rippled like silt. It took him two tries to free the bowie from the sheath. The ivory handle winked in the darkness. He tried a feeble swing in Tim's direction but collapsed onto his back, a gurgle blowing a crimson bubble at his lips.

Tim walked over and looked down at him. Den's limbs shook; he couldn't muster the strength to lift his celebrated knife. The tiny rubies embedded in the butt glittered. Tim stepped on Den's wrist, pinning his hand to the dirt. He crouched and pried the knife free.

Den's head lay cocked back, his eyes straining in the sockets. Tim leaned over him with the blade. He cut Dray's new patch off the leather jacket and held it up before Den's dying face.

"Andrea Rackley," he said.

He pocketed the patch and stood. Den's eyes glassed over, and the bubble at his lips popped. Tim stripped the guns from his body and tossed them in the dirt. He turned around, and Bear was behind him, leaning on the shack, Nextel at his side.

The breeze shifted, bringing with it the rising cry of sirens.

Out on the street, news crews clamored at the barricades. Producers pleaded into cell phones; tungsten-halogen lights blared; sound guys hopped about, arms raised to support dangling boom mikes. Melissa Yueh herself showed up in a KCOM van that resembled a movie trailer. For high-profile stories, she'd forgo the anchor desk and roll up her sleeves. She paced outside, delicate yet ruthless, like a great cat. The public information officer had hauled a podium to the front walk and draped it in royal blue cloth in preparation for Tannino's news conference. A Marshals' arrest meant podium rights, which in turn guaranteed that the wooden Service seal would be front and center on all broadcasts.

Tim stayed in the house; a new Rackley scoop had been the holy grail for reporters-especially Yueh-ever since his highly publicized release from jail. He, Bear, Guerrera, Smiles, and Malane huddled in the corner, notepads out, checking off everything that needed checking. Deputies and agents mingled, Aaronson and the other criminalists chasing them off the carpets and out of bathrooms so they could process the scene. For once the celebratory mood was unalloyed-no missing nomad, no drug bait-and-switch, no dots left to connect.

Tannino made his triumphant entrance around 4:00 A.M. He paused in the doorway, surveying the scene until his eyes came to rest on Tim. He winked, then tilted his head in a deferential nod. He crossed and paused before Tim, looking up, his jaw set, his eyes dark and twinkling.

Tim unholstered his. 357 and offered it, butt first.

"Any shots fired?"

Tim shook his head.

"Keep it."

The FBI brass rolled up, and the assistant chief deputy appeared at Tannino's elbow, pulling him away. Tannino played nice with the SAC, but it was clear that once cameras rolled, the marshal would be front and center, the special agent in charge floating behind his left shoulder, Ed McMahon to Johnny, waiting to field follow-up after the bombshells flared out.

Tim waited until Guerrera got his moment with Tannino. Then he passed by, patted Rey on the back, and said, "Good call on the decoy bike."

Guerrera didn't say anything, but his eyes crinkled with a smile he didn't let get to his mouth. Tim headed out through the splintered back door onto the veranda. Tannino shouted after him, "Mayor Strauss will be here any minute. He'd like to congratulate you, shake your hand in front of the cameras. Why don't you stick around?"

The assistant chief, weary from playing baby-sitter, materialized to steer Tannino back to more pressing business inside. Tim stood on the veranda for a moment, smelling the sewer smell of rotting leaves. Bear had retrieved Boston and put both dogs on a sit-stay by the rear fence. The white top of a CSI van protruded over the shed.

Tim headed around the pool. He shot Bear an inquisitive look, and Bear nodded-he'd hang back and play primary deputy.

Tim stepped through the rear gate. Jim stood about five feet away from the sprawled body, staring down at the man who'd helped kill his partner. Tim knew from experience that Jim was not feeling what he'd have wanted to feel. Revenge is a cheap high; it pulls up lame on the finish. Before the brutal lessons the past few years had handed him, Tim had expected to wear a he-got-his smirk through the aftermath. But it never worked out that way. There was just death, and then more death.

The criminalists zipped Den into a body bag and lifted him onto a stretcher. Standing old-man stooped, his shoulders curved, Jim watched the body load. Passing him, Tim saw that his cheeks were wet. Jim looked up at Tim, but his eyes didn't seem to register Tim's presence.

Tim walked down the dirt alley, passing behind the houses. Some of the TVs had gone to sleep. He came out the far end and stepped onto the street. The mayor's town car had just pulled up, setting off a fireworks show of flashing bulbs and providing Tim cover for a quiet escape. Strauss emerged, holding up his hands to settle the reporters, George Clooney hitting the red carpet. As he strolled up the front walk, Tannino exited the house to meet him at the podium. A fine orchestration.

Melissa Yueh, with the senses of a bird-dog, somehow spotted Tim from down the block. She all but hurdled her cameraman, sprinting toward Tim, adjusting the mike on her violet lapel.

She shouted from twenty yards away, and Tim saw the other reporters' heads pivot. "Deputy Rackley? Can you confirm that you killed Den Laurey?"

He quickened his step to the Explorer and climbed in. Yueh tapped the window with a cordless mike she'd produced from thin air, her breath fogging the glass. Behind her, her exhausted cameraman shrugged at Tim apologetically.

"Was it in retaliation for the shooting of your wife?"

He eased out, not wanting to run over her pumps. A few other news crews had closed in, reporters calling out questions. Tim nosed the Explorer through the crowd, finally pushing clear of the cables and makeup-laden faces.

He sped along the quiet rural road, window down, letting the chill breeze clear his head. One of his field files flipped over, and crime-alert flyers danced along the backseat-the nomads' final taste of the open road.

At the eastern seam of the horizon, the sky lightened, almost imperceptibly, from midnight black to charcoal. He thought he was heading for home, but he wound up in a bad part of the North Valley, the Explorer navigating itself as if on autopilot.