Troubleshooter (26 page)

Den and Kaner had taken their time with Lash, twenty-five puncture wounds in all. Judging from the seepage on the kitchen linoleum, he'd been alive for most of it; they'd wanted him to talk. Den's knife work was surgeon precise, as touted, dodging arteries and bones until the decisive nick of the femoral artery. Tim tried to take a positive from it--the torture's escalation could be read as a sign of Den and Kaner's frustration after losing Chief, Goat, and Tom-Tom. But still he felt the gnawing of a quiet, determined guilt. He, Bear, and Guerrera had found Lash, and they'd pressed him. He'd been willing--happy, even--to inform, but that almost made it worse.

Freed emerged from the building, his thin face covered with a sheen of sweat. He nodded once. "All right, then. I'll take over here. Miller's holding down the post, Thomas is wrapping up at home."

"Did Jim get us the info from Border Patrol?" Tim asked.

Freed held out his notepad. A list of vehicle descriptions and license-plate numbers. Toe-Tag, Whelp, and Diamond Dog had crossed the border on their Harleys, except on December 7 at 2:13 P.M., when Diamond Dog had gone through solo in a burgundy Toyota Camry, plate number 7CRP497.

Tim tapped the car description.

Freed's eyes widened, an amusingly green response from a veteran. "Diamond Dog's missing bike at the warehouse was a car."

"Might be. We'll take a look. Who's it registered to?"

"It's a dummy reg. Valid but under a false name."

"Our girl Babe Donovan's work at the DMV?"

"I'm guessing."

"Such a giving soul," Bear said.

Freed's pager hummed on his belt, and he tilted it out so he could read the Blue Curacao screen. "Chief's credit-card statements just hit the fax. I'll rescue Thomas from the in-laws, and we'll get on it." He hustled back to his Porsche, a seal gray Carrera GT underwritten by his family's twenty-seven-state furniture chain. "Have Sheriff's take over here, see if you can find the car, and I'll meet you back at the office."

Bent into Diamond Dog's Camry, Aaronson contorted at an angle generally reserved for Playmates. Tim heard his breathy whisper--"Gotcha"--and then he eased himself out, grasping a 7-Eleven cup by the rim with a pair of tweezers.

Bear rolled his eyes and stepped back toward the curb; they'd been observing the slow-motion processing for the better part of a half hour. He and Guerrera had already voiced their preference for hot-assing it back to the command post to dig into the credit-card records. Tim, familiar with Aaronson's predilection for a deputy on-scene, had promised the criminalist some on-site time. Besides, Thomas and Freed were the best financial investigators they had, and he wasn't about to rush back to the post to stare at Visa statements over their shoulders.

They'd found Diamond Dog's car in minutes, parked less than a block from the warehouse where the biker had taken Guerrera's bullet in the chest. It was road-trip sloppy, which Tim had hoped for, but so far Aaronson had excavated little more than fast-food wrappers, a few issues of Easyriders, and a crumpled poncho that looked more like a movie prop than an article of clothing.

At Tim's request, Aaronson had left Lash's apartment early to process the car. He was an unhurried but meticulous worker, a finder of hidden gems. He'd once pulled a DNA sample from a piece of dental floss he'd found in the tread of a boot in the back of a crash-pad closet. Tim was looking for him to strike fertile soil again.

Bear tapped his watch. It was eleven forty-five. Christmas was still hanging on by its fingernails. Tim couldn't believe it was the same day he'd started with a visit to Uncle Pete at the clubhouse.

Aaronson peered into the 7-Eleven cup, nose wrinkled curiously.

"What do you see?"

He moved the cup under Tim's face, and Tim leaned back from the smell.

"What is that?" Guerrera asked, his interest piqued.

"Tobacco spit." Aaronson swirled the murky brown liquid. "Dip. Skoal Wintergreen from the smell of it. But look here." He tilted the cup, revealing a soaked piece of paper at the bottom. Through the sludge Tim could make out some faint lines, but the paper was too crumpled and stained for him to discern a pattern.

"Why would he put paper in the bottom?" Guerrera asked.

Tim, reformed stakeout dipper, said, "So it won't splash out of the cup when you drive." He peered over Aaronson's shoulder. "Can you dry it out to get a read on the markings?"

Aaronson was on his knees on the sidewalk, draining the liquid into a specimen jar. He used the tweezers to tease the paper flat without tearing it, and then he hooked a flexible-rod flashlight behind his ear and bent over the evidence with a magnifying glass. He looked like a Halloween costume come to life.

Flattened, the marks were clearer, if abbreviated by the torn edge. A few squiggles locked within a circular perimeter, almost like a yin and yang. They appeared to be part of a logo. An alphanumeric was left, apparently in its entirety: TR425.

Aaronson folded the soggy slip over and rubbed the back with a thin, blunt probe. "See that? It's gummy."

"Sticker?" Tim asked, jotting the number in his notepad.

"I'd say part of a shipping label. The number would be the confirmation or tracking code." Aaronson pulled over a pad and meticulously sketched the visible lines of the logo. He ripped the sheet off and handed it back over his shoulder to Tim, his eyes never leaving the sample. "This should do until I get it under the sterozoom."

Chapter
39

Thomas leaned against the wall at the head of the conference table, exasperated. The room was lit, but a left-on projected photo of Den Laurey faintly colored half his face. "Look, we ran through all the ground-ballers on the credit-card statements, but it's gonna take some time. We have nine months to cover--a lot of charges to run down. Visa's got limited info, and we have to wait for businesses to call back." He glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. "Which ain't gonna happen until the A.M."

"How about the bank trail?" Bear asked. "Past cards? Visa must've run a credit report."

"Card was issued under Fred Kozlanski. Chief paid the bills from a checking account registered to the same name. Guy died a year back, Chief borrowed his identity."

"Who could do a thing like that?" Bear offered Tim, occasional ID thief, a sardonic smirk.

"No ATM withdrawals?" Tim asked.

Thomas said, "Credit card only."

"Any secondary cards linked to the account?"

Freed shook his head. Miller exhaled and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck. About six more deputies had trickled back to the post, but the majority would return in the morning. Malane, technically still the FBI liaison to the task force, was conspicuously absent, probably plugged in to the Operation Cleansweep command center. Now that the undercover agent was out of the bag, he was no longer required in Roybal to regulate and impair. Smiles, dead man walking, had to disappear again to protect Rich's cover.

The days-old fruit rotting within the trash overflowing the can added a sickly undercurrent to the smell of coffee and glazed sugar. Tim glanced at the papers covering the surface before him like a tablecloth. The team had broken down the gas charges from Chief's credit card, using the prices on the respective days to calculate the gallons purchased, and marked the location of each station on an L.A. County map with accountants' "sign here" arrows. Chief had charged gasoline only at five stations near his crash pad. Tim studied the Post-its beside each arrow--3.25 gallons, 2 gallons, 24.92 gallons, 3.17 gallons.

His gaze caught on the anomalous amount. Chief's Indian sported a Fat Boy 3.5-gallon tank. The range of Sinners' tanks, based on Guerrera's appraisal of the surveillance photos of Nigger Steve's funeral, only ran north to six gallons.

"What's with the twenty-five-gallon charge?" Tim asked.

"It's the one standout," Thomas said. "We don't know what to make of it."

"Maybe he bought beer, put it on the card," Guerrera said.

"That Shell doesn't have a convenience store."

"How about cigarettes, oil?"

"It was an autocharge at the pump. Comes in under a different code."

"Twenty-five gallons. Must be an SUV," Bear said.

"A big SUV," Guerrera said. "Like a Hummer, maybe. Or a U-Haul truck or something."

"That's the thing." Freed held up a sheaf of DMV printouts. "The Sinners and deeds all have bikes or little Jags and Beemers. Not an SUV among them."

"Too coppish," Guerrera said. "They want the opposite of big."

"So who's filling up an SUV?" Bear's hypothetical hung in the air.

Tim thumbed through the photograph prints from the rolls of film Bear had found in the warehouse Dumpster. Solid black. All three sets. Every last one. Just as Thomas had reported.

Tim tossed them on the table, frustrated. He rubbed his eyes so hard he knew he'd leave them bloodshot, but it felt so good he didn't care. "Let's run through the murder list again."

Miller raised his head. "Mexican girls between fifteen and thirty?"

"We told you," Freed said, "no red flags."

"Humor me."

Thomas shot a sigh and exchanged one hefty set of files for another. "Maria Alvarez. Twenty-two years old. Hit-and-run at Temple and Alameda. Alma Benito. Sixteen. Shot in a drive-by outside Crenshaw High." The names kept coming, alphabetized, jurisdiction after jurisdiction, a roll call of the young and dead.

Los Angeles, city of dreams.

In the past three months, forty-seven deaths fit their search demographic. Thomas paused to catch his breath, and Bear said, "You forgot Venice."

"No questionable deaths in Venice fit our target demographic."

"Really? Happy day."

"Torrance," Tim said.

"I thought I read Torrance. Nothing there anyway. Just that chick who died on vacation."

"Vacation where?"

"Cabo San Lucas."

"You crossed files. Jennifer Villarosa was from Sylmar."

"Not Villarosa. Sanchez, I think it was." Thomas wrinkled his forehead. "Villarosa died in Cabo?"

Tim thumbed through a line of file tabs, then whisked out the folder and flipped it open. An Immigration-application photo of Lupe Sanchez, plump face smiling beneath a heap of curly hair, was stapled above the report. Date of death: November 30.

A jolt of adrenaline made Tim's skin crawl, the tingle of still-dawning epiphany. The buried thread of the answer started to rise through the sand.

Bear was on his feet. "How'd she die?"

Thomas said, "Hiking accident."

"Jesus." Guerrera was already dialing. The room quieted as everyone became aware of the sudden shift in energy.

Tim grabbed the three packs of film, spilling some of the black rectangles as he pulled out the negatives. The first set of strips were foggy, as were the second. The third roll's negatives were clear bluish gray.

He looked back at the Post-it--24.92 gallons.

Den's sneering comment over Dray's bleeding body echoed in his head--We should practice on this heifer. In her ninth month, Dray was big. Big like Marisol Juarez. Like Jennifer Villarosa. Like Lupe Sanchez. Tim had read Den's lips on the vehicle cam's recording, missing the intonation shift on the second-to-last word. We should practice on this heifer.

He felt a meshing of gears, then the drop of cog into slot as the facts aligned and the solution pulled up into awareness.

He knew how the Sinners were muling the drugs in even before Guerrera racked the phone and said, with bright, excited eyes, "Sanchez won a free Mexico trip through Good Morning Vacations."

Chapter
40

Drops of sweat cutting through the dust powdering his dark face, Gustavo Alonso readjusted the obese cadaver onto its left side, struggling with its weight until he found a better resting position. He paused to catch his breath, then tipped the chin to the chest to keep the esophagus open. A thin placement catheter ran down the girl's throat, attached to an intragastric balloon that he'd already positioned in the ample stomach cavity. The endoscope dangled from the monitor cart like a black snake. He inserted the scope through the mouth, following the catheter down. His trembling hands made it difficult to steer past the hump of the lower esophageal sphincter, but he managed, and the weight-loss balloon loomed on the viscera-flecked monitor.

Now he had eyes on the inside.

He paused, exhaling and wiping his brow. His frayed scrubs were damp, with dark splotches extending down the sides. The task at hand was not making him perspire--he'd operated as a mortician on a forged license for the better part of twenty years, and between floaters, decomps, and barbecues, little could turn his stomach. He was sweating because of the scabs on his arms. They were hungry.

Funeraria Sueno del Angel was located up Highway 1 from Cabo San Lucas, on the inland outskirts of San Jose del Cabo. The rundown funeral home hid off a dirt road in a throw of local houses left unwatered by the tourist corridor. The noises of the bikers, carried on a dry breeze from the sagging porch, reached Gustavo in the mortuary. A loud punch line, slapstick shuffling, smokers' laughter. Earlier, one of them had accidentally put a boot through the rotting wood.