Troubleshooter

Chapter 25

By 3:00 P.M. Tim's lower back ached every time he shifted, but he didn't complain, since Bear and Guerrera had been sitting the stakeout all the way through. At least Tim had been able to sneak away to drop fresh flowers off in Dray's room-irises to greet her awakening if he couldn't-and then spend the morning at the command post. Even so, he'd memorized every detail of the exterior of Terry Goodwin's house, a ranch style on a corner lot in Valencia.

Tannino had expedited their middle-of-the-night warrant request, personally waking up a federal judge. Tim, Bear, and Guerrera had stalked the property cautiously the night before, not wanting to blow the lead if Chief wasn't present. Tim had beheld Terry's sleeping form-solo in the California king-through the bottom seam of the bedroom blinds, a pair of night-vision goggles helping him fill in the picture.

The RV trailer they'd hooked from the Asset Seizure warehouse at least permitted them better viewing comfort. Sunflower seeds overflowed two cups in the front holders. Tim leaned over, finger in one ear so he could hear Freed giving him a cell-phone breakdown on chop and spray shops that had closed in the past few years around the Glendale Harley store. He and Thomas hadn't stumbled across any paperwork with a "Danny," "Daniel," or "Dan" on it.

Guerrera was lying on the shag carpet in the back, staring up at the ceiling. "She still at the kitchen table?"

From his post at the tinted window, Bear said, "Yup."

"What's she doing now?"

"Reading the paper."

"Which section?"

"Front page."

Ten minutes later. "And now?"

"Sports."

"Finally. Who won the Citrus Bowl?"

Bear readjusted his binoculars. "Dunno…she's flipping back and forth… Mia Hamm pulled a hamstring…Turning the page…Miami."

"Yes." Guerrera pumped his fist.

Tim finished with Freed and snapped the phone shut. The RV's smell-salsa and stale cigarettes-and his exhaustion, now verging on sleep deprivation, added to the burden of his frustration. "This is stupid."

"I said last night I didn't want to sit the house." Bear, hater of stake-outs, failed to keep the resentment from his voice. "We don't have time to wait and see if Chief's gonna swing by to play a little grab-ass."

"I agree," Guerrera weighed in. "Not the best use of our time, here, socio."

"So what is? This is our strongest lead."

"If Lash's information is good," Bear said.

"He's a junkie. He needs money, and he knows if he does us right, we'll be back with more. Beats ping-ponging around barbed wire for a few bucks."

Guerrera said, "It'll catch up with him. You don't tell tales out of school about the Sinners. He'll be killed. Sooner or later."

They sat in silence, the only sound the autozoom on Bear's binocs. Though he hadn't remarked on it, Tim had taken a shine to Lash, and he'd gleaned that Bear and Guerrera had, too.

Finally Bear said, "Let's hope later."

"Why don't we knock-and-notice her, search the house?" Guerrera said.

"Because if nothing turns up, then we lose the angle," Tim said.

"You think she has Chief's number to alert him?"

"If she does, I'm not betting our one solid lead on the notion that she's dumb enough to write it down." Tim took the binoculars from Bear and trained them on Terry, who'd moved on to Entertainment. A healed knife scar glittered on her right cheek, maybe a parting gift from her three-day stint with the Cholos. "That phone number's in her skull. It's just a matter of getting it out."

"How?" Bear asked.

But Tim was already dialing Pete Krindon.

Krindon unloaded his bag of gear and glanced around the tight camper interior. "Nice digs. I particularly like the neon sign on top flashing 'Stakeout.'"

"You take care of the junction box?" Tim asked.

"Yes. But we're gonna need backup. If this chick is as street-savvy as you say, she'll use a cell phone." Krindon withdrew a parabola mike from his bag, the receiver surrounded with a cone collar. He slid open the window, hiding the mike behind a rust-orange curtain, then tossed a cell phone to Guerrera. "Lay on the Mexican accent something fierce."

"I'm Cuban."

"I don't think," Krindon said, "our girl will discern the difference."

As Guerrera dialed, Tim kept the binoculars trained on Terry's kitchen window. She rose, picked up the phone. Guerrera hissed, "We got your hombre, puta. We gon' kill heem." He hung up.

Terry slowly replaced the phone's receiver. She stared at it, as if expecting it to ring again. She was surprisingly calm, a weathered deed. Tim had been betting on her to maintain her composure, to think matters through. She sat down at the kitchen table, set her elbows in the puddle of newspaper. She thought long and hard. Krindon's mike picked up some of her whispering with remarkable clarity. "…a scam. Just a fucking crank call." Her agitation grew. She paced a few times, her bare feet squeaking on the cheap linoleum. With his own spouse comatose on a hospital bed, Tim couldn't help but feel a jolt of empathy.

Terry picked up the phone, then hung it up abruptly as if it had shocked her.

"Go on," Krindon purred. "Go on."

She disappeared down the hall, popping back into view in her bedroom window. She pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her jacket, which was slung over the doorknob. Three beeps as she started to punch in the number, and then she hung up. She sat on the bed, phone in her lap, whispering a mantra. "God, let him be okay. Let him be okay."

She dialed. Krindon made a fist at his side.

Terry let out a deep exhale. "You all right?…No, course I'm not on a landline… Weird call. From a Cholo, sounded like…Okay, baby. Me, too."

Terry clicked a button and flopped back on the bed, relieved.

Krindon pulled back from the window and replayed the eleven tones he'd captured as she'd dialed. He matched them slowly on his Nextel until he'd duplicated the tuneless melody. He jotted down the number, handed it to Tim, and vanished out the RV's narrow door.