Last Shot (2006) (32 page)

"Socially responsible of you to keep them off the mean streets," Bear said.

"I provide people with a little diversion, and a very good income to some just-about-unemployable women. And--unlike your jobs--it's fun. You see, in here I'm king. Four-time course champion. I can hit an ace of spades with a nine mil at twenty yards."

"That's great if you get attacked by a bridge club."

Tim wheeled on Bear. "Take out the tampon, Jowalski. If some dumb broad wants to get shot in the tits for three hundred bucks a pop, who gives a shit?"

Bear raised his hands--a classic What do I need it for?--and walked out.

After the front door slammed, drawing giggles from two of the quarry-turned-strippers, Tim pivoted back to the counter. "Sorry 'bout that. He's a former bull cop. Old dog, old tricks. He hasn't figured out that when you need answers from people, you don't bust their balls first. We're dependent on guys like you to make headway, you know? We're not writing speeding tickets here. Jesus Christ."

"Hey, whatever. Don't worry about it. I'm used to dealing with assholes."

"I bet you see all kinds through here."

Wes said, "Believe me."

"'Nam vets?"

"Oh, yeah. Now and then. Old guys, but man, are they mean. Former law enforcement, too. Rich college kids--mostly USC. Lotta Persians. We get some guys training for tourneys, like the squad that just deployed to the preserve."

Tim leaned over the counter conspiratorially, setting his weight on his elbow. "Anyone...shadier?" The pause was a beat too long, giving Wes too much time from brain to mouth, so Tim offered his hand. "Tim Rackley."

"I know who you are." Wes thumbed out his badge from his shirt so Tim could read his name. "And I'd be happy to help a stand-up dude like yourself."

"Look, Wes, you're the owner. A guy like you, a big shot here, well liked--you got your finger on the pulse. Who comes through here?"

Wes cast a glance around, then lowered his voice to match Tim's. "We get some Soldier of Fortune types, sure. A lotta whispered conversations at the bar. This place is the real deal. A place to get stuff, ya know? But I got a good thing here--count those guys. Each one is paying fifteen hundo. Overhead, dick. I walk out with forty, fifty K a week. Your partner would call me a less-than-model citizen--but I'm paying my taxes and putting it away, not jeopardizing my retirement just to know what deals get made here."

"No fuckin' way. Not with hard-core operators moving through. That'd be like making me responsible for what every guy in my platoon did on liberty."

"Exactly. I can't see every inch of this operation. I make sure I don't. But you know, a guy's been around, like me, a guy hears things. Whispers."

"Right. Like maybe one of these boys"--a wave at the crowded lounge--"takes his hunting to the next level?"

Wes glanced around, having a hard time keeping the glint of pride from showing in his eyes. "I've heard hits come through here. I think it's all bullshit. What have you been told?"

Tim held a poker face. "We've got solid evidence implicating Game."

Wes took this in with a regretful nod. "Maybe a money drop got set up here--the jury's still out. That guy Sands all over the news--got his head blown off in Bel Air?" He hesitated a moment. "He was in here. June sixth. Rented two lockers. Left a briefcase in one overnight. Maybe he was the cash courier, maybe not. Maybe someone came in here after, picked up the cash and the contract."

"Who?"

"I'm a computer guy at heart, so I bounced through the right chat rooms for a little follow-up."

"Which sites?"

"The usual BS. Mercenary forums. Silencer chat rooms. Militia sites, you know." Wes jotted down several URLs, and Tim pocketed the slip of paper, knowing that Guerrera would likely surf around and find little more than wannabes jawing off behind the protection of virile screen names. "The topic's in the wind, all right," Wes continued. "People giving theories anonymously."

"What name's being bandied about?"

Wes actually looked both directions before leaning across the counter and putting his mouth inches from Tim's ear. He smelled of coconut lotion. "The Piper." He settled back on the barstool, the cat jumping into his lap. "No one knows who the guy is. I coulda seen him here like every week and not known it. The guy's stone cold, I heard. Stays remote, can only be contacted through the Internet. The chat rooms I gave you? Like those, but ones that guys like us can't even find."

"Is that all you know?"

"Like I said, I don't know anything. That's what's in the wind."

Tim showed Wes a photo of Walker. "Seen this guy?" He watched Wes closely, but he remained impassive. "Uh-uh."

"Let me know if you do." Tim pocketed the picture. "I'll need a list of your employees and clients. We won't let leak that you slipped it to us."

Wes's face reddened. "Employees, sure, but you think we keep a client list here? Not with this business. I'd be finished."

"You knew Ted Sands by name, and I doubt he ambled up with his briefcase full of cash and gave his driver's license as collateral to reserve the lockers. Can't exactly recognize him from the picture the Times ran either. Even if the names your clients sign on your waivers are bullshit--which I'm sure they are--and even if the occasional credit card you run traces to an offshore account or a shell corp--which it might--I know you keep different records for when you need blackmail leverage on a powerful client or for when the girls rent out after hours. If not, you'd be a fool and an incompetent pimp, and we both know you're neither."

"I don't have shit." Some of Wes's swagger was returning, along with the first premonition that he might have been duped. "And if you serve on me, you won't get anything either. There's nothing to get."

Tim straightened up. "Listen to me closely, Wes. You're gonna get me those names, and you're going to do it right now while I wait. And I'm not waiting long."

Wes affected a casual sneer, but his voice came out higher than usual. "Or else?"

"We will tear apart every square foot of your operation, and we'll do so with vigor and pleasure. I will call my buddy at the IRS, my brother-in-law who's a comer in the Office of Finance, and my niece who's a lesbian feminist in the U.S. Attorney's Office looking to make a name. We will write you up, tie you up, and drag you into court for nuances of the law you've never heard of, right down to the missing side view on your Oldsmobile out front. I will post federal agents outside your property to tip their hats to all the ministers and judges who come in here to shoot naked girls' flanks. By the time the news crews catch wind, there won't be space for their vans to park. You think that'll go over swell with your 'clientele'? Look at me." Tim snapped his fingers, terminating the drift of Wes's dismayed eyes. "I will ruin your life. I will eat you for lunch and come back for seconds. There is a murder investigation we have traced here, and I will see the law do right by that victim if I have to burn you and every other woman-hating shitheel who's plunked down a dime in this fuckhole."

Wes's mouth had creaked slightly open. A line of sweat glistened in the strands of his scraggly mustache. Tim's voice had not raised a notch.

Tim said, "I will be patient until I leave this room. Now, you give me those names to make me go away happy or your carefree life ends in"--he reached over the counter and retrieved Wes's stopwatch--"five minutes."

Thirty-seven seconds passed, and then Wes slid off the barstool, falling onto his feet. He fussed at the computer with the lethargic motions of the chronically depressed and printed an employee list, then retrieved a lockbox from a cabinet and removed a mound of license-plate photos, some with names and addresses written flash-card style on the backs. He dumped the pictures into a plastic bag with the spreadsheet and handed them over at exactly 4:23.

Tim tossed him the stopwatch and left, nodding politely to the ladies at the bar on his way out the door. As he pulled in his first lungful of fresh wetland air, Bear eased the Explorer around, meeting him under the awning like a well-trained valet.

Chapter
46

At half past nine in the morning, the electricity kicked back on. The TV blared; the cheap chandelier over the kitchen nook flickered to life; a square worker's fan by the garage door revved up so fast it blew itself over.

At the commotion Walker had sprung from the floor up over the couch into the best position of cover the family room afforded; he found himself in a high-kneel shooting stance, his Redhawk trained on the front door. He returned his revolver to the back of his jeans and rose.

He unplugged the fan, which was rattling its death throes against the floorboards, then turned off the lights and the garbage disposal, which was roaring its waterless displeasure. He couldn't locate a remote, so he thumbed down the volume on the TV itself, leaving the morning anchor to murmur in the background about Gaza settlements.

The disposable cell remained on the arm of the sofa where he'd left it, resting atop Tess's tiny bound calendar. He picked it up, hit "redial," and waited for the same answering machine he'd gotten the previous nine tries.

This time a woman answered. "Elite Chauffeur Service."

"Yes, hi, I'm calling from the billing department at Vector Biogenics, and I'm showing an outstanding invoice from April nineteen."

"Just a minute, sir." She hammered on a ridiculously loud keyboard. "Yes, here it is. I show that it's been paid in full."

"This was the trip to the studio?"

"Yes, Quixote Studios. The limousine was booked through Mr. Kagan's office."

On the TV, Walker's booking photo appeared in the graphics box above the newscaster's shoulder. He walked over and clicked the volume back up. "That's the one. Apologies--I must have my records crossed."

"No problem, sir."

An attractive Asian reporter had filled the screen. "Tim Rackley, known as the Troubleshooter--"

"Oh, and one more thing," Walker said. "The driver we used last time, Mr. Kagan liked quite a bit. What was his name?"

"Chuck Hannigan."

He asked her to spell the last name, then asked, "Is Mr. Hannigan available today?"

"Oh, no. He's quite busy. He's available after six?"

Walker declined, thanked her, and hung up.

Looking a touch uncomfortable under the studio lighting, Tim Rackley spoke directly to the camera. He seemed to stare into the model house's family room and address Walker alone. "--message for Walker Jameson. I understand that you believe firmly in what you're doing. I have shared your motivation. We have information about your sister that impacts what you're trying to do."

To Tim's side the newslady couldn't contain her surprise--hot damn, a scoop unfolding right before her. Walker would bet his own face held an equal measure of shock.

The exploitation of Tess Jameson, take two.

Tim said, "I want you to contact me at the number below, anytime, day or night."

A 213 number popped on-screen like a telethon prompt.

Walker stepped in front of the TV, going face-to-face with the Troubleshooter. He might have been looking into a mirror.

"Careful what you wish for," he said.

Chapter
47

A young security guard led Tim and Bear down the shiny warehouse corridor. Storage racks, bolted to the concrete floor, stretched up to the forty-foot ceiling, assiduously labeled boxes and crates filling each shelf. Industrial rolling ladders with handrails were parked at intervals like well-tended vehicles. In the dirt yard outside, the spike-collared Doberman kept protesting the deputies' intrusion. Barks and growls reached through the high windows, echoing around the bare walls of the vast building. Even Bear, nicknamed the Dog Whisperer around the Arrest Response Team for his preternatural rapport with the explosive-detection canines, had failed to settle him as he and Tim had strode to the long-term-storage warehouse's entrance.

Tim checked the lettering on the storage containers looming overhead. MARCONE. MARDEL. And at last a raft of MARTINEZes. The common surname continued around the corner to the next aisle before Tim encountered a run of legal-width cardboard boxes stamped ESTEBAN MARTINEZ, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. The file boxes, organized roughly by date, carried stickers in hazard-warning orange--CONFIDENTIAL: LAWYER-CLIENT MATERIALS.

Tim rolled a ladder over and put his foot on the bottom rung to begin his ascent. The guard rested a hand on his forearm, halting him, and turned to Bear, whom he figured for the heavy. "Listen, you can check out whatever, but I know you're not supposed to open anything without a warrant."

Bear quelled the kid's concerns with a Godfather-like patting of the air. "Like we said, we're just following up on a trademark infringement. If there's no knockoff logo on the outside of the box, we're out of here. If there is, we'll come back with paper."

Tim scaled the ladder, reaching this year's June dates on the third shelf up. He located the box from the last week of the month, grabbed it by a punched-out handle, and jogged it loose, letting the shelf support the far end. Barely pulled into view, a typed label filled the index square on the lid's side flap. Tim scanned the names, none of them familiar, then tried again with the neighboring box from mid-July. Will Newell. Fred Marcussen. Theresa Jameson.