Troubleshooter

Chapter 49

Tim asked Bear to drive; he had to sleep. His body ignored his intention. Every time he drifted off, lulled by the hum of the Explorer's wheels over asphalt, he jerked awake and ran through the string of tasks they had to begin when they returned. They were all weak suggestions; the others at least did their desperate musing silently. Rich sat in the back, watching the freeway roll past. He hadn't spoken since his cell-phone update to Malane.

They arrived in the city shortly after noon. Bear parked in an alley so Tim could get the cuffs on Rich before they cruised into Roybal. No telling where the Sinners had eyes. Though Rich said nothing, Tim kept the cuffs loose so as not to grind his raw wrists. Tim took back the wheel. He pulled into the underground lot.

"You coming back to the post?" Bear asked.

"Nah," Rich said, "can't keep me out much longer. We gotta get me behind bars again, keep things looking normal."

The men all sat as if there were something left to say. Finally Bear headed out. At Tim's nod Guerrera reluctantly followed, leaving Tim and Rich in the Explorer. Tim looked in the rearview. Rich was doing the perpetrator hunch in the backseat, leaning forward to accommodate his cuffed wrists.

Rich checked out the dashboard clock. "Dana Lake's supposed to come by in the next few hours, get me processed out."

"Need anything in the meantime?"

"Nah," Rich said.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Catch up to the boys again. Christ, we need me in there now more than ever. I'll start with some of the hangs, see if Den and Kaner send word. A lot of dirty work to be done yet. They'll need an extra set of hands."

"Be safe."

"I will." Rich jerked the hair off his face, blowing at a stubborn bang that clung to the band of his eye patch. "Listen, that fake door kick at the warehouse the boys set up for the news? After you guys got Goat? That was chickenshit. I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. We can't regulate the games the desk jockeys play for funding."

"Yeah," Rich said. "Guess not."

Across the lot a few Secret Service agents left a Bronco and headed upstairs. Business as usual. Cheap suits and bad coffee. Trying to think five moves ahead to stop the drugs, the murder, the terrorist action. The chess match continued, one big game except for the live ammo. How many of L.A. County's 10 million lives were at stake if the Prophet got his revenue stream up and running? How many lives in the state? Beyond? Once the drugs and cash dispersed, it would be nearly impossible to stem the flow. The agents and deputies could add their efforts to the great ash heap of unsuccessful wars: The War on Poverty. The War on Drugs. The War in Iraq. It would persist, the slow-motion planning, the subterranean simmer. And one day they'd awaken to find that the forces had erupted once again and all they were good for was cleaning up the mess. Jim's rambling eulogy had been embarrassing, but it wasn't entirely off the mark.

Rich cleared his throat, and Tim's focus sharpened. The band of Rich's face in the rearview mirror looked pallid, drained of blood.

"I never answered your question," Tim said. "Dray is the pregnant deputy who got shot in Moorpark. She's also my wife."

In the mirror Tim watched Rich's face alter. His eyes widened; his forehead smoothed. For a moment he looked shocked and maybe even sorrowful. Then, slowly, his face gathered itself back up into its customary squint.

"Jesus," he said.

Reaching with cuffed hands, he opened the door and climbed out.