Troubleshooter

Chapter 44

Tim's Explorer followed Bear's Ram, Rich fiddling with the radio like a teenager. AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" seemed to please him. He rocked for a while, scratching the slope of skin that formed his weak chin.

They twisted up Century Boulevard, leaving the rumble of LAX behind. At the Sepulveda intersection, fifteen glowing pylons built of steel and frosted glass sculpted a gateway to the airport. Each piece of the installation, illuminated internally by color-changing fixtures, rose a hundred feet out of the landscaping. The pylons strode down the lawned median of Century, descending to mimic an aircraft's landing or, from the other direction, ascending in symbolic takeoff. Tim watched the monoliths morph from lavender to emerald. Because of its chameleon effect, the mile-long lightwork had been dubbed "Psychedelic Stonehenge" by locals. Mayor Riordan had flipped the ceremonial switch in 2000, and ever since, the $112 million piece of marketing had greeted arrivals to L.A. The pylons had a quality that was quixotic, lavish, and seductive, much like the city itself.

Dray had once likened them to glowing tampons.

Tim's lips pursed at the memory. Dray had been in the ICU for three days now. And every day she remained under, the doctor had warned, the odds diminished for a viable return. The last three days had been nearly unbearable without her. He couldn't imagine another fifty years.

The lights transformed to a vivid orange-the same shade the sun turned the smog at dusk, making the lung-cancer risk seem worth it. Tim felt the glow on his face. The pylons had watched a lot of life go by. They'd welcomed movie stars and tourists and immigrants. They'd seen off heads of state and diplomats and extraditable war criminals. They'd looked on as girls drove past in cars and returned in hearses. They were unyielding and unmoved, like cops, like doctors, like soldiers, like any bystanders on a thoroughfare. And if Tim failed, if the task force failed, if Rich and Malane and Smiles failed, the pylons would welcome Allah's Tears to the city with the same mute indifference.

Bon Scott finished his muttering, and Rich clicked off the radio. "Who's Dray?"

A car veered into their lane, and Tim swerved and honked. By the time Rich finished yelling out the window and settled back in his seat, he seemed more pensive.

"That was some really fine investigative work," he said.

"Yeah?" Tim said. "Maybe you could've cut us in earlier, and we'd be farther along."

Rich made an irritated noise and looked out the window.

They drove a few minutes, wheels rattling over asphalt.

Then Tim said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You're the one who tracked the shit down."

"I meant for Tom-Tom. You risked your cover to save my ass."

Rich watched the cars fly by on the far side of the road, his tongue poking a mound in his cheek. "Yeah," he said with the faintest grin. "I did."