The Kill Clause

33

BEAR’S VOICE WAS ragged with sleep, gruffer even than usual. “What?” Tim threaded the needle between a Camaro and a semi on a two-lane slide to the freeway carpool lane, drawing a cacophony of bleating horns. Even in February the L.A. morning came on hard and relentless; the sun matched the explicitness of the town itself, all too eager to skip foreplay and be revealed.

“You heard me. Those are the names and addresses. Do you have them?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ’em. What is the extent of your involvement in this?”

“Call local PD, get cars to Mick Dobbins now. Put out a BOLO on Terrill Bowrick now. As I said, I don’t have a current address for Black Bear-”

“Thomas Black Bear’s doing a nickel in Donovan for grand larceny.”

“Then don’t worry about him. I have no current for Rhythm Jones either, so put out another BOLO. He’s in grave and immediate danger. And get to William Rayner’s before the bodies chill.”

“How are you caught up in this?”

Tim was anxious for Bear to stop talking, call dispatch, and put out the Be on the Lookouts. “Yamashiro at five-thirty. I’ll bring all the answers.”

“Fuck Yamashiro. You want me to get on the horn, I need some answers now.”

“You don’t want those answers now. You want to get those subjects in protective custody without being compromised by the knowledge that we know you already have anyway. I’ll clear the air when I see you.”

“You’ll do more than that.” Bear hung up.

Tim tried Robert’s and Mitchell’s Nextels next, but their respective voice mails picked up without a ring. He left no messages.

In the widening range of dire potentialities, Tim saw his foolishness clarified, amplified, and he took a moment to bask in an unadulterated self-contempt before pulling himself back to utility.

That the Mastersons had shredded Kindell’s case binder instead of taking it indicated they weren’t interested in pursuing him. Kindell alone among the suspects they’d leave be, to torment Tim with his continued existence. For the hits they’d start with Bowrick and Dobbins, since both had known addresses, and then they’d get on Rhythm’s trail. Black Bear, they’d soon learn, was safe from them in prison.

Tim’s objective was clear: Before and above all else, he had to ensure the safety of the targets.

Bowrick was gone already; Tim had watched him climb into the tricked-out Escalade and disappear into the rush of traffic on Lincoln.

At a stoplight he called information to get Dobbins’s address. An apartment in a shitty part of Culver City, south of Sony Pictures. He got snagged in the morning commute, so it took nearly a half hour to get to Dobbins’s place, a cracked stucco job from the fifties.

No crime tape, no forensic van from SID, no signs of any police presence or violent activity. Dobbins’s apartment, 9D, was in the rear.

Tim rang the doorbell. No answer.

Dread tightening his jaw, he peered through the window into the shabby interior, expecting to see the retarded janitor’s body sprawled on the shabby carpet amid an ellipse of blood spatter. Instead he saw a framed Tony Dorsett poster, a brown La-Z-Boy, and an obese and slightly bored cat licking itself. He had his pick set in hand when an ancient woman lost in a toothpaste-blue bathrobe and a constellation of curlers inched around the corner and shook a drugstore bag in his direction. A plastic canister of Metamucil fell out and lost itself in a patch of long-dead juniper.

“What are you doing?”

“Hello, ma’am. I’m a friend of Mick’s. I was just dropping by to-”

“Mickey doesn’t have any friends.” She crouched, one varicosed leg protruding from the slit of her bathrobe, half covered in a thick compression stocking.

“Let me get that for you.”

She snatched the canister back from him as if recovering stolen goods. “The police came by and hauled him off. He didn’t do anything. Not before, not this time. He’s a good boy. It almost broke his heart, the last time. That business with the kids, all meshugaas. The way he was treated, it was beyond belief. He loves children, that one. Loves them. He’s a good boy.”

“How long ago did the police come?”

“You just missed them.”

He tempered his relief, weighing the possibility that Robert and Mitchell had impersonated police officers to kidnap Dobbins. “And they had uniforms?”

“Of course. Two cars full of them, the cops-flashing lights, the whole to-do. Blocking up the driveway. I was fit to be tied. Fit to be tied.”

Nosy Old Woman-the investigator’s best friend.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m going to see if I can’t help out our Mickey.”

“Someone should be so good as to look out for him.” She placed a mottled hand on her plush bathrobe, in Pledge of Allegiance position. “Besides me.”

Tim headed back to his car, formulating his next step. With Black Bear, Bowrick, and Dobbins temporarily accounted for, Tim had just one more target to cover. Rhythm Jones, he remembered from the case review, didn’t have a current address. To find him before the Mastersons, he’d need access to the same clues they had. Rayner had been paranoid about confining and limiting Commission materials, but he was also a master strategist. Tim would have bet he kept copies of the case binders stashed away somewhere-another of his nifty insurance policies.

The question was, where?

•Dumone rustled in his hospital bed and looked up at Tim. Though the lights were off and the curtains drawn, Tim could see that his eyes were sunken, deeply shadowed, his skin sallow. Dumone had difficulty raising his head. “What’s wrong?” His voice was barely discernible.

Tim shut the door behind him, crossed, and sat bedside. Chest leads bumped out the fabric of Dumone’s gown, and multiple wires snaked from his sleeve. The continuous monitor cast a gentle green glow across his pillow’s edge. Moved by a sudden impulse, Tim took his limp left hand.

“Don’t do that,” Dumone said.

Tim let go, feeling a flush of embarrassment, but Dumone reached across with his right hand, grasped Tim’s wrist, and held it in an approximation of warmth. “Can’t feel anything in that hand.”

“You’ve had a setback.”

“Another stroke last night,” Dumone slurred. “I just rolled in from the ICU and boy are my wheels tired.” He tried to pull himself to a more upright position but couldn’t, and he shook his head when Tim moved to help. “Give it to me. The bad news. You look worse than I probably do.”

“Robert and Mitchell have gone off the deep end. They killed Rayner and Ananberg, stole the case binders.”

Dumone exhaled deeply, his body settling into the sheets. “Mary mother of Jesus.” He closed his eyes. “Details.”

Tim brought him up to speed in a low voice devoid of emotion. Dumone kept his eyes closed throughout. At one point Tim caught himself watching for the rise of his chest to make sure he was still breathing.

He finished, and they sat together a few moments, the occasional blip of the monitor the only thing breaking the silence. When Dumone opened his eyes, they were moist. “Rob and Mitch,” he said gently. “Christ, boys.” He squeezed Tim’s wrist, squeezed it hard. “You know you’ll have to stop them.”

“Yes.”

“Even if it means you use deadly force.”

“Yes.” Tim took a deep breath, held it until he felt the burn. “Did Rayner ever tell you who Kindell’s accomplice was?”

“No. Not a word.” Dumone’s upper lip trembled on one side. “He couldn’t give you that before he died, the manipulative bastard.”

“The Stork lied about when he installed the digital transmitter in my watch. Do you know when they started listening in on me?”

“I didn’t oversee all surveillance-we each took different candidates. We’d been at it, the search, for the better part of a year, so we couldn’t all keep track of everyone. You started out on Rayner’s list. Rob and Mitch handled the fieldwork, as usual, with the Stork thrown in if they needed gadgets. So I don’t know. I got involved once Rayner got serious about you, right around your daughter’s funeral. What’s up?”

An image came to Tim-standing out on Rayner’s back patio with Ananberg, watching Rayner whispering to Mitchell in the kitchen. “Maybe they were involved.”

“Involved in Virginia’s death?” Dumone shook his head, jowls swaying. “I don’t care how far out of their tree they are, they wouldn’t murder a little girl. They’re not sexual predators, not sickos. Zealots, maybe. Vicious, yes. More than I guessed. But they hate-and I mean hate-scum like Kindell. What would they have to gain by murdering Ginny?”

“I don’t know. Another high-profile Commission execution down the line.”

“Come on, Tim. It’s not like they could have anticipated how Kindell’s trial would go. In all likelihood he’d have been locked up. And they wouldn’t help kill a girl just so they could kill a patsy for killing her. It makes no sense. And you know damn well that however fucked up they might be-Rob and Mitch and Rayner-they wouldn’t do that. Plus, there’s no way Ananberg would stand for it.”

Ananberg certainly wouldn’t have. But she-like the Stork-might not have been in on the plan.

“Why wouldn’t Rayner have just told me who the accomplice was, then?” Tim asked. “He’s covering something up, something that would damage his reputation.”

“Rayner’s always been an information tyrant-how he gets it, how he guards it, how he leaks it-that’s his power reservoir. What makes you think he’d relinquish control of that, even in death? He’s a megalomaniac. There’s still his reputation to guard, his cause to go down in the annals. If you abide the kill clause, then Rob and Mitch get written off as a couple of loose cannons who acted on their own, and he goes down as the compassionate professor who did his damnedest to influence public policy and protect victims.”

Tim remembered Robert’s mortification about the dead woman in Debuffier’s freezer, Rayner’s queasiness when graphic crime-scene photos circled the table, the hurt vehemence with which Mitchell had discussed Ginny’s death at Monument Hill, and he knew that Dumone’s instinct was correct. They wouldn’t have participated with Kindell in Ginny’s murder or molestation.

“You’re right. But Rayner knew what happened to Ginny that night-he wasn’t bluffing. And since the twins shredded Kindell’s folder, the secret may have died with him.”

Dumone’s hand tightened around Tim’s wrist, as if in anticipation of what Tim was about to ask.

“I’m dead-ended here, on all fronts,” Tim said. “With Ginny. With Robert and Mitchell. If I’m gonna stop them, I need to know if Rayner kept copies of the case binders anywhere.”

Dumone’s breathing grew shallow and raspy. If Tim pursued the Mastersons and sought protection for the targets as they both knew he must, both Tim and Dumone would be implicated, prosecuted, probably imprisoned. Dumone’s telling Tim the location of the case binders would essentially be turning over hard evidence on himself.

Dumone gripped the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, pressing the baggy flesh around his eyes. “He kept one extra set at his office. Go get them. Blow this thing open. Stop Rob and Mitch however you can. Find out who else killed your daughter. I have no more answers for you. I have nothing.” He removed his hand and studied Tim through reddened eyes. “If there’s one thing I regret in this life, it’s dragging you into this thing, son. I hope someday you’ll find clear to forgive me.”

“We all own our decisions. Don’t put that on yourself.”

“Of course. I’m being condescending. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re knocking on death’s door.” He coughed hard, and his face crumpled in pain.

“Want me to call a nurse?”

Dumone searched Tim’s face. “Leave me a bullet.”

Tim opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“There’s nothing more for me to do here but waste away. And we both know that doesn’t suit me well.”

The blip of the monitor. The greenish glow across the pillow. Cold coming off the floor tiles.

Tim reached down and removed his. 357 from his hip holster. He released the wheel, slid out a single bullet, and deposited it in Dumone’s waiting hand.

“Thank you for not making me do the bullshit.”

“We’ve never done the bullshit.”

“Set this right, Tim. Get your answers.”

Tim nodded and rose. At the door he turned. Dumone lay quietly, watching him. He raised his right hand and tapped his forehead in a salute.

Before leaving, Tim returned the gesture.

•Tim drove into Westwood, winding past the row of dilapidated mansions with chipped fraternity signs and shirtless youths spraying party refuse from porches. It took him the better part of an hour to find a parking spot, even within one of the many campus lots. A quarter got you about seven minutes on the meter, a ploy worthy of his father. A change machine was graciously provided on every floor. Before he left, he’d deposited about nine bucks into the unit.

The UCLA campus was alive with students of all shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds. A gargantuan woman in a muumuu and red pigtails was making out with a slight Persian man about half her size beneath a tattered poster advertising the Korean Independence Movement Day bash.

Diversity in action.

Tim entered the John Wooden Center and called information. An adenoidal voice informed him that Dr. Rayner’s office was on the first floor of Franz Hall.

A plaque announcing WILLIAM RAYNER was adhered to the last door on the corridor-the other professors, Tim noted, had respectfully availed themselves of a few lowercase letters. The translucent window panel was dark; no shadows moved in the adjunct professor’s office. A glimpse at the seam of light at the jamb showed that the last secretary out hadn’t bothered to key the dead bolt.

Tim pretended to peruse the grade postings, which were affixed beneath a photocopied Vanity Fair profile of the dearly deceased, until the hall was clear. Tom Altman, man of many resources, accommodatingly supplied a laminated driver’s license that made the shitty, state-issued latch bolt play hide-and-seek.

Tim closed and locked the door behind him, passed an assistant’s desk, and entered the larger room in the back. Sturdy oak desk, metal filing cabinets, shelves of books-most of them Rayner’s own. A spin through the file drawers revealed them to hold mainly classroom materials. The computer’s screen saver, a photograph of Rayner’s boy, bounced repetitively around the screen like a physics-defying missile in an Atari game.

Tim nearly broke a sterling letter opener prying the lock from the desk’s enormous bottom drawer. A tall stack of canary yellow files filled it to the rim. Tim raised the first and thickest file, and his own name stared back at him from the tab.

His pulse quickening, he opened it.

A stack of surveillance photographs. Tim heading into the Federal Building. Tim and Dray at a window table at Chuy’s, each gripping an oversize burrito. Tim’s father at the Santa Anita track, leaning over the home-stretch rail, a spray of betting slips protruding from a tense fist. Tim walking Ginny into Warren Elementary on her first day, the WELCOME, YOUNG SCHOLARS sign flapping overhead. In September. Six months ago.

As he flipped through them, a sense of outrage burst through the numbness, heating his face, pinching him at the temples. Robert and Mitchell had stalked him for months, with notepads and cameras, capturing him and his intimates at work, at school, brushing their teeth.

The next ten files also bore his name. He scattered them across the desktop, turning pages. Medical records. Elementary-school grades. Drug testing going back to age nineteen. Bullet-riddled Transtar targets. Endless assessment tests from each stage of his career-army enlistment, Rangers qualifying, the Marshals Service application.

Snippets jumped out at him from the paperwork montage:

20/20 vision.

No Axis 1 or Axis II disorders.

1.5-mile run qual time-9:23.

Bench press-310 lbs. for two reps.

Disturbed sleep post Croatia tour, some reported anxiety.

Toilet trained at 2 years, 1 month.

Seclusive, but high level of sociability.

Assertive, dominant, takes the initiative, confident.

Childhood family atmosphere-unstable and unpredictable.

Deserted by mother, age 3.

Facial expressions indicate control and reserve, but not absence of feelings.

No history of drug or alcohol abuse.

Unimpaired impulse control, unimpaired decision making.

Antisocial practices-extremely low.

No adolescent conduct problems. Despite father.

His eyes caught on a thick sheaf of questions titled “The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.” He vaguely recalled filling out the five-hundred-question assessment during one application process or another.

Item 9. If I were an artist, I would like to draw flowers. The “false” bubble darkened by a #2 pencil.

Item 49. It would be better if almost all laws were thrown away. False.

Item 56. I sometimes wish I could be as happy as others seem to be. True.

Item 146. I cry easily. False.

And then the sheets of interpretation, written in Rayner’s hand:

0 for 15 on the Lie Scale-extremely reliable reporter.

F Scale moderate-consistent and reliable, but reflects aptitude for nonconventional thinking.

High score on Responsibility Scale indicates subject possesses high standards, a strong sense of fairness and justice, self-confidence, dependability, trustworthiness.

Strong (even rigid) adherence to values.

Good little soldier-a phrase Robert had used with Tim during the intel dump outside the KCOM building.

Low depression, hysteria, psychopathic deviates.

Low hypomania.

Conscientious to the point of being moralistic, but flexible, creative, independent thinker.

Healthy balance of acquiescing and disagreeing response styles.

Paranoia-moderate.

Father wound leaves subject susceptible to intense bonding with father figure. Important Dumone remains unpolluted, must have pure interaction with subject.

Tim looked at the spread before him on the desk, a montage of the most intimate pieces of his life, a construction of the most private parts of his brain. His father’s rap sheet. I sometimes tease animals. His reason for military discharge underlined in red-to spend more time with family.

Rayner-Mussolini of the Information Age-had managed to compile a remarkable range of confidential information, enough to lay Tim as bare as a split frog on a dissecting slab. A hot burst of intense, little-boy shame faded back into anger and a sense of deep and profound violation.

Tim thought about Robert’s immense skill in bringing back information about the floor-to-roof inner workings of the KCOM building. Robert and Mitchell had applied that skill to Tim, bringing Rayner back every inch of him.

With a trembling hand, Tim lifted the last file from the drawer. It contained a sheaf of paper listing literally hundreds of other potential recruitment candidates. A few names Tim recognized from the Company, the feds, the SEALs. On the twentieth page, he ran across a spate of his former colleagues.

George “Bear” Jowalski-too old, slowing down operationally.

Jim Denley-just moved from Brooklyn, unfamiliar with Los Angeles.

Ted Maybeck-anxiety disorder potential.

Glancing back at the drawer, Tim saw that its bottom contents were, at last, revealed. Seven black binders.

His stomach clenched when he saw the white label on the last spine. ROGER KINDELL.

He pulled out the binder, alarmed by its lightness, and opened it.

Empty.

He stared for a moment at the blank binder interior, as if the enormity of his disappointment might force documents to materialize.

Rayner must have anticipated Tim’s coming after the Kindell file at some point. He certainly had amassed enough personality data on Tim to make precise projections of his future behavior. Since Rayner believed that the Kindell file was the key item he’d need to keep out of Tim’s hands to assure Tim’s continued cooperation, he would have placed it in a location even more secure than a locked drawer in a locked office.

The thin plastic film of the cover’s inside flap bumped slightly up. Tim dug in the pocket, his fingertips touching metal. A safety-deposit key, #201-of course, no bank name imprinted on the brass. He pocketed it.

Clearing his head, he refocused on his objective. Not how he’d been maneuvered. Not the ways Rayner, Robert, and Mitchell had pried into his personal life. Not Kindell.

Protecting the targets. Particularly the one likely next in line.

With a sweep of his forearm, he cleared the desk of papers bearing his name. He slid Rhythm Jones’s binder before him, pleased to note its heft. He spent about an hour and a half hunched over the desk, flipping through Rhythm’s file and biting his bottom lip a la Bill Clinton in empathy mode.

Almost every character appearing in the court transcript and eyewitness testimonies linked to Rhythm was a transient or a nothing-to-lose punk who’d be tough to leverage. Druggies, pimps, low-rent dealers. It made for tough tracking. The best angle Tim could come up with was a Jones cousin, Delroy, who’d made good, graduating high school and heading off to USC on a track scholarship. Rhythm’s defense attorney, in a rare moment of adequacy, had dragged the kid in as a character witness. The prosecution had tried to discredit Delroy by outing him as a lookout on a convenience-store stickup when he was twelve, a juvy transgression the DA had managed to get unsealed.

Tim slipped out of Rayner’s office, assorted binders and files rising from the cradle of his hands, secured by his chin. Hurrying to his car, he ignored the parking ticket adhered to the windshield and dumped the paperwork in the trunk.

He drove over to USC, pulled aside one of the many free-roving security guards, drowned him in law-enforcement patois, and asked him to be a team player and call HQ to get a dorm-room number. The guard complied all too willingly. After relaying the information, he shook his square head, drowsy eyes dulled with either stupidity or the friction wear of walking a foot beat in South Central, and muttered, “Black kids,” with equal parts lassitude and disdain.

Delroy’s dorm-room door was opened by a cute, dark-skinned girl clutching a fat science textbook and wearing Delroy’s track jersey like a dress. She didn’t ask to see Tim’s badge when he identified himself. He took note of the uneasiness that flickered across her face, her rigidly polite tone, and added impersonating an asshole white cop to the list of reasons he disgusted himself today.

Yes, this was Delroy’s dorm room. No, he wasn’t here. He’d gone door-to-dooring in the West Side, collecting donations for an adult-literacy program he volunteered for in South Central. He’d gone alone. He had no cell phone, and he’d left his pager behind. She didn’t know where he’d started or what section of the city he was covering, but she did know he’d be back to run the football coliseum stairs at around 6:00 P.M., as he did every preseason night. Tim told her not to answer any questions about Delroy to anyone else and always to ask to see a badge before opening the door, and she’d regarded him with barely restrained annoyance until he’d left.

Outside, he called the adult-literacy program’s offices, but they were closed Thursdays through Sundays, which Tim thought might have made a good joke were he in a better mood.

At Doug Kay’s salvage yard, Tim traded out the BMW for a ’90 Acura with a dented side and clean plates. Kay received the Beemer keys with a pleased little smile, handed Tim an Integra key on a bent paper clip, and scurried off, losing himself among cubes of metal before Tim could change his mind.

Tim spent the next two hours stopping in at hardware stores, costume shops, and pharmacies, assembling what veteran deputies and crotchety old-schoolers call a war bag. Then he went home for his gun.

When he pulled up, he saw Dray sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the paper as she always did afternoons when she got home from the graveyard shift. He got out of the car and stood on the walk regarding her, his house, for a moment of relative calm. Mac was nowhere in sight. Ginny could have been at school.

Dray looked up, saw him standing outside momentarily intoxicated by the spell of what once was, and she was up and at the front door, ushering him in to the kitchen table as he cleared his head, self-exorcising the Ghost of Christmas Past and returning to reality like an autodefenestrated body slapping sidewalk.

“What the hell happened? Bear’s called three times. He’s onto you, I think.”

“Yes. And in an hour and a half, he’s going to know everything.” Tim shot a nervous glance down the hall. “Where’s Mac?”

Dray gestured at the window. At the far side of the backyard, Mac was sitting up on the picnic table, feet on the bench, facing away from the house. Three empty bottles of Rolling Rock were lined beside him; he was working on a fourth. “He’s busy sulking-got cut from SWAT today.”

“Shocking.”

“What went down?”

He relayed the events of the past fifteen hours, and she listened in silence, though her face spoke prolifically. He finished, and they sat together a moment.

When she studied him, he braced himself against the heat of judgment in her stare, but it was absent. Maybe she was too tired to give it. Maybe he was too tired to pick it up. Or maybe her concern had mellowed her anger into a sort of weary contemplation.

“Why the hell would they kill Rayner and Ananberg?” she said. “They didn’t have to. They could’ve gotten those files without killing them.” She pressed the skin at her temples. “Those men, who would kill just like that. Unnecessarily. For barely a motive. Those men have been watching us for months? Surveilling us with our daughter?”

His throat was so dry it hurt when he spoke. “Yes.”

“Jesus, they put their time in to get you.” Her hands balled into fists, and she thunked the table so hard her coffee cup jumped and hit the floor tile a good four feet away. In her face he saw the expression mothers of fugitives wore when he came to haul their sons away. It was a funereal expression-extrapolated loss, sorrow compounded with inevitability. She pressed the flat of her fist square against her forehead, hiding her eyes. “If you do what’s right, if you come clean to protect those targets, you’re going to wind up in prison,” she said.

“Probably.”

When she lowered her hand, four strokes of white remained on her skin where her fingers had been. “Do you feel like a hypocrite?”

He tried to gauge her anger by reading her eyes. “Yes. But I’d rather try to be right than consistent.” The reason he felt as if he hadn’t slept in days, he realized, was that he hadn’t. He slid his hand into the empty pocket of his hip holster; he’d put the holster back on during the drive over.

Dray smiled the kind of smile that said nothing was funny. “Fowler worked on a ranch growing up, in Montana. There was a job, he said, on the slaughterhouse killing floor-a guy had to stun the cows with a prod, then cut their throats.” She leaned forward on the table. “They had to rotate the job every Monday. Not because it was tough to live with. Because the men started liking it too much. They wanted their turn.”

“You’re saying Robert and Mitchell got a taste of something they liked?”

“I’m saying release comes in a lot of flavors, and most of them are addictive.”

They studied the puddle of coffee on the linoleum.

Tim cleared his throat. “I need my gun.”

“Your gun,” she said, as if she were unfamiliar with the word. She rose and headed down the hall to the bedroom. Tim heard the chuck of the gun safe unlocking, and then she returned and set his. 357 on the table between them as if she were up for a nice, casual game of Russian roulette.

He placed the safety-deposit key from Kindell’s case binder on the table and slid it over to Dray. “I’m not going to have time to pursue this right now. And even if I did find which box this key fit, I couldn’t get at the contents without a subpoena.”

She picked up the key and clenched it in a fist. “It’s just legwork. I’ll figure out which bank, go in at lunchtime in the uniform when the managers are on break, flash badge, intimidate a junior banker into opening up.” She nodded once, gravely. “You do what you have to do.”

Tim felt the need to convince, to justify. “If Robert and Mitchell get on this spree,” he said, “who knows when it’ll end. I can’t sit in a jail cell and let it go down.”

“You can’t play Lone Ranger-hero either. Not in good conscience.”

“I won’t. I’ll keep disseminating information through Bear so the service and local PD will have as much as I do. Given my responsibility for this mess, I don’t mind being the one on the line, in the crosshairs.”

“Bear can handle it. The marshals, LAPD-they can track these guys down.”

“Not like I can.”

“True,” she said. “True.” She let out a sigh, angling it up so it puffed out her bangs. She glanced at the pistol, then at him, then away. “You have no authority behind you, Tim. No sanction of the U.S. Marshals, no weight of the Commission. It’s just you now.” She looked up from the coffee-cup fragments, her face holding equal parts concern and daring. “Can you be your own judge and jury?”

He took his gun from the table and holstered it on his way out.