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."

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