Gregg Hurwitz: Troubleshooter

He parked outside the decaying apartment complex. Despite the hour, hip-hop thumped from an upstairs window. A guy sitting on his window ledge smoked a blunt, straight-brimmed Dodgers cap pulled low over his eyes. Tim got out and gathered a set of flyers from the backseat.

He headed up the narrow walk. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete. He knocked softly on the wooden door. The sound of approaching footsteps. A curtain fluttered, and a dark face peered out through glass and security bars.

A moment later, the deadbolts clicked and the door opened. Marisol Juarez's grandmother stepped back, gesturing for Tim to enter. Clearly, he'd woken her. Her eyes and cheeks were dark and puffy, wisps of graying hair twisting out from her temples. She'd pulled on a loose dress, but it was twisted over her squat form. Thin ropes of fabric had been threaded through beads at the hem and knotted. A band of durable bra showed at the armhole. The dress clattered musically as she lit a few more Advent candles-a handful had been left burning-and then shuffled to the tiny couch. The plastic cover came off the footrest, the fabric of which still bore the mud from Tim's and Bear's boots. The smell of melting paraffin was oddly comforting.

She tugged over a rickety chair from the kitchen and sat opposite him. Wrinkles ridged her cheeks and textured her lips. The framed photo of Marisol had been moved to the front table by the candles. Marisol had been the most overlooked victim. A female civilian. Poor. Obese. She'd had no rifle salute, no E! True Hollywood Story, not even a two-line obit in the L.A. Times. And yet she'd cracked a case that ranged from the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the beaches of Cabo San Lucas. Tim recalled Kaner's sneering remark-Let's be honest, who gives a shit about chubby chicanas from Chatsworth?-and then Dray's gentle reminder: Everyone counts. And everyone counts the same. A new thought sailed into the mix: You don't follow up on a dead broke girl from Chatsworth, al-Fath fills its coffers and we all hear the hoofbeats of the apocalypse.

His hands were sweating, dampening the flyers. He spoke softly to try to keep the emotion from his voice. "These are the men who killed your granddaughter."

She shook her head, not understanding his English. He repeated himself, slower, as if that would help. With gestures and a few terribly pronounced Spanish words, he haltingly conveyed his meaning. "Aqui are los hombres who killed Marisol."

Then he set the first flyer on the footrest between them, facing the woman-Chief glaring at the camera. "Muerto," he said.

He laid the next flyer over Chief's, as if dealing cards. Goat's scarred face and etched glass eye elicited a faint cry from Marisol's grandmother. "Preso," he said.

Tom-Tom appeared surprisingly good-natured in his mug shot. "Muerto."

Kaner's features seemed to gather menace. "Preso."

And, finally, the Man himself, Den Laurey. "Muerto."

Tim wished he could have given her something more, but that was all he had for her. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, and when she opened them again, they were shiny with tears. She reached across the footrest and placed a warm, soft hand on his forearm. "Que Dios te bendiga."

Tim gathered the flyers and stood. She stayed in her chair, breathing deeply, wiping her eyes with a fold of her dress.

He showed himself out.

The sight of Dray's empty bed struck him like a gut punch. He stopped in the doorway, his flesh gone cold and clammy, his face tingling. The unplugged monitors and equipment, without their lights and bleeps, seemed not just lifeless but obsolete. The bed had been remade, the starched sheet creased at the top to overhang the blanket.

Morning sun bled through the closed blinds, lighting the room in bands. The hospital halls were cold and empty and conveyed noise mightily; he heard a nurse at the station way down by the elevators complaining about Starbucks.

The first emotion to penetrate his shock was rage. The cell phone in his pocket had been turned to silent since before Den's takedown; he'd forgotten to change the ring setting. He pulled out the Nextel, saw he'd missed three calls from the hospital in the past few hours. His anger decayed swiftly, and he took a wobbly step to the side and lowered himself into the visitor's chair.

His hands trembled. He lifted them to his forehead, covered his eyes.

I'll be okay. Trust me. I'll be okay.

Her voice moved straight through him. He could practically taste her.

Come on, you don't learn anything unless you're on your own. Let me go.

Tears ran through the gaps in his fingers. He heard the plinks against the tile, one after another.

I'm okay. I'm okay now.

His breath caught in his throat. He stood, venturing cautiously out into the hall. Voices echoed up and down the corridor, confusing him. He moved rapidly now, almost panicked with hope, peering through doorways.

He reached the end room on the right, and there she was, the muscular line of her back visible through the gap of her patient gown. Standing weakly between the parallel support rails, she faced away, her short blond hair streaked with sweat. She clung to the rails, her bare arms tensed. The physical therapist was at her side, grasping Dray's arm and ignoring her complaints.

"I'm fine. I want to do this. I'm okay. I promise."

Tim tried to say her name, but it tangled up before it reached his mouth. He cleared his throat, but still he sounded feeble with disbelief. "Andrea Rackley."

She turned her head, regarding him across the ball of her shoulder.

The physical therapist said, "We've been calling you."

Dray couldn't quite pivot her legs, so she left them behind, twisting so she could see him more clearly. The low bulge of her belly drifted into view. Her dry lips pursed, opened. "I missed you, Timothy."

He tried to smile, but it came out a half laugh. Biting her lip against the pain, she stepped around so she could face him squarely.

Tim wiped his cheeks, still unable to move.

Dray's incomparable smile broke across her face, and for the first time he trusted the reality of what he was seeing. He reached to steady her through the next step.

"Come on," Dray said. "Let's get me home."