Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

"I said the mutt sure as hell runs an airtight operation."

Tim curled his index finger into his thumb and held up his hand. Closing one eye, he sighted on Bear through the tiny O. "This big. We just need an opening this big."

Bear gathered his papers and rose. "What if he didn't leave one?"

Tim grabbed a sandwich and holed up in the Cell Block comm center. The mood was grave. One of the on-shift detention enforcement officers sported a fresh shiner. Tim didn't ask.

He called Dray's cell and caught her on patrol with Mac. The foul yellowtail had finally finished paddling through her system; she spoke around mouthfuls of chili fries. The doctor had told her to take the day off and eat bland foods, directives that stood a stray dog's chance in Nam Dinh. She told Tim that the Asshole Car was cramping her Blazer in the garage, her implicit way of apologizing for her reaction to his ill-advised adjective last night. He informed her that a Hummer alone could accommodate his unwillowy build.

Logging a call to the sheriff's department, Tim asked the resource analyst to run Skate Daniels through the moniker database. For approximate age he guessed thirty-five, and he told the analyst to focus on L.A. County. Within ten minutes the identifiers and photo of the sole candidate checked into Tim's e-mail box. Skate's beauty-pageant features scowled out from the jpeg. Though in the mug shot he had a bit more tread on the tires, he looked dirtier and somehow unwound. Something, maybe The Program, had reined him in, given him focus. Tim played digit shuffle next, running Skate's SID, FBI, and Social Security numbers through an obstacle course of databases. As he clicked down the screen, his eyes locked on an entry, and he was hit with the minirush he got when a lead panned.

2-23-03. Daniels stopped for speeding violation at 6th and Hill in a red Mustang, license 9CYT683, passenger Randall Kane.

A few more keyboard gymnastics snared him Randall's identifiers, and, using county booking to round out both his and Skate's criminal histories, Tim printed and perused. His exhaustion made for blurry reading.

Both men proved to be habitual violent offenders who'd acquainted themselves with the edge of the penal system but never taken a big fall. Between them they'd caught some charges, everything from armed robbery to gross-misdemeanor sexual conduct to felony false imprisonment. They'd rolled through a few trials, copped a handful of pleas, and served a number of short stints. Seasoned in lawlessness but currently off parole, they were ideal knockdown men for Betters. Like the rest of his operation, they provided no legal pretext for further investigation.

A bang snapped Tim's head up from the monitor. Two feet from him, a felon howled, his mouth, cheek, and weak goatee smeared up against the bulletproof glass like a wet stain. Guerrera, forearm thick with tensed muscle, yanked the hefty prisoner back and threw him down the corridor, where three detention-enforcement officers subdued him handily.

Guerrera wiped a thin trickle of blood from his nose. "Try that shit with me again, hijo de puta, I'll use your nutsack for a speed bag." He stomped out of the cell block, muttering in Spanish.

Tim tied up a few loose ends online, then called Glen Bederman, apologizing for bothering him at home.

"How did you get this number? It's unlisted." A brief pause. "Okay, foolish question. What can I do for you?"

"Does the name Terrance Betters mean anything to you?"

"No. Why?"

Tim told him. Halfway through his account, he heard the creak of a chair absorbing Bederman's weight. When he finished, Bederman made a strangled little sound of disbelief. "I can't say I've ever heard of someone as ill prepared as you coming unmarked out of a twenty-four-hour induction session." He released a sigh. "Relieved as I am that you didn't throw the poor girl into a sack, I have to tell you – that was a reckless thing you did, going there."

"I'm about to do something worse. Monday I'm going undercover for a three-day retreat. I'd really like to see you before. Can I?"

"At this point I'd meet with you just out of curiosity. I have some appointments at my house tomorrow morning, but how about ten?" His tone took on an ironic edge. "I trust you'll be able to locate it on your own."

Tim thanked him and hung up, folding the papers into his pocket as he passed out through the security doors. Guerrera squatted in the hall, arms between his bowed legs, catching his breath. He gripped one hand with the other, turning it slightly. He looked up and shot Tim a wink. "Hey, Rack."

"Didn't you get the memo?"

Guerrera raised a single eyebrow with a slick proficiency that suggested practice, then the quarter dropped and he laughed. "Oh, about not talking to you. Actually, it was an informational video they circulated. How to snub you at the watercooler. Shit like that."

He shifted his arm and grimaced. His elbow was out of joint, the displaced bone leaving a pocket of skin at the tip. Tim crouched, and Guerrera relinquished his forearm to him hesitantly. Tim gripped it and tugged gently. The bone slid in its sheath and clicked home. Guerrera let his breath out through his teeth in a hiss, then laughed again. Sweat sparkled along his dense hairline. "Thanks, socio."

Tim slapped him on the good shoulder and rose. He was walking away when Guerrera called after him. "They're mad the way people got mad at Pete Rose, you know. They feel betrayed because they believed in you."

Tim nodded, taking it in. "And you?"

Guerrera shrugged. "You were behind the trigger on the first shooting I was at." His accent turned "shooting" to "chuting." "The Martia Domez raid. You pulled some shit there the movies haven't thought up yet. I watched you after when my hands were shaking. You were as calm as a sleeping cat." He rotated his wrist slowly over, then back. "You taught me, socio, without teaching me. The way I see it, being mad don't buy me shit."

Guerrera turned his focus back to his arm. Tim watched him twist it gingerly for a few moments, then withdrew, heading to the elevators.

Janie shook her awake. "Guess what? Guess what?"

Leah sat up in bed. A lifelong habit she'd yet to extinguish directed her torpid gaze to the clockless nightstand. Judging from the shade of gray muting the scraggly elm outside her window, it was around six. Even though he rarely attended, TD preferred breakfast to be served early. Between that and the stacks of GrowthWork the Pros had to complete every night, she didn't know how he expected them to get any sleep. She'd been so busy and exhausted she'd hardly had time to think, let alone reflect on her unsettling collision with Tom Altman or whoever he was.

"Well, guess! Oh, never mind. I'll tell you." Janie pressed her arms to her chest, fists shoved chinward, a cheerleader anticipating kickoff. "TD gave me the Scottsdale ambassadorship. I beat out Lorraine and Chad! Isn't that great?"

Leah felt a stab of envy. Her voice was still croaky. "Fantastic."

"I'll be the first ambassador – after Stanley John, of course, but he was a given. He's getting Cambridge. TD says Boston is almost as fertile a town as L.A. And guess what else?"

Leah swung her legs out of bed and blinked hard, fighting for alertness. She had to dig her nails into the dresser drawer to pull it open; both knobs had fallen off.

"Recruitment's on track to get a thousand Neos to the Next Generation Colloquium." Janie stood behind Leah, stroking her hair into place. "I'm moving out to take over Cottage Three. I gave you a high weekly report – I didn't even mention your rash hasn't improved."

"Listen, Janie, there was something I wanted to ask you about." Janie's unblinking stare made her uncomfortable, but she forged ahead. "Do you think some of the methods we use at the colloquiums are – I don't know – wrong? Like the ways we lead the Neos along?"