Troubleshooter

Chapter 50

Tim. Tim. Tim."

"Dray?"

Bear said, "No."

Tim awakened in the empty cell, clutching his pager in one hand, his phone in the other. Bear stood over him, blotting out the bright Cell Block lights. After returning Rich to his cage, Tim had gone into one of the other keep-away cells, relishing the quiet. He'd touched base with Thomas and Freed, who'd been following up at Burbank Airport for the past few hours. When he'd lain down on the plastic bench to think through his next step, he'd ended up dozing off.

"Tell me it's good news."

"It's good news," Guerrera said. He was holding Tim's tactical vest.

Tim swung his feet over the edge of the molded bench and ground the heels of his hands into his puffy eyes. He checked the cell-phone clock-he'd been out seven minutes.

"Haines pulled the vehicle-cam footage from my Impala," Guerrera said, helping Tim into his vest. "It was intact-that shit is secured in a black box in the trunk. He found the hearse-a 1998 Cadillac Miller Meteor, license plate clear as day, lit up by my headlights. We put out a BOLO to all agencies. But guess what?"

Tim's voice was cracked from sleep. "Registered to a false name."

"And a fake address." Bear pulled Tim to his feet, and they all exited the cell. "Thank you, Babe Donovan."

"So we checked where the registration crap shipped to," Guerrera continued. "A P.O. box. Bear got a telephonic warrant, called your postal inspector from the cult case-"

"Owen B. Rutherford," Bear chimed in.

"-found out the P.O. box is still active."

Bear turned and waved at the black bulb of the security camera at the far end of the corridor. A moment later the door buzzed, and they stepped out of Cell Block.

"Even if we-or Sheriff's-could spare the men for a stakeout, the Sinners aren't gonna send anyone important to the P.O. box to pick up the mail," Tim said. "We'll wind up with Wristwatch Annie."

Bear hit the elevator button, and the doors dinged open. "We don't need a stakeout. Rutherford found us a gas bill for service to a Fillmore address."

Tim's pulse quickened when they drove by the two-story clapboard house. Flaking white paint revealed patches of rotting wood. Blown-off composite roof shingles peppered the lawn. Blankets draped the windows. Located in a formerly middle-class part of Fillmore across the 126 from the Laughing Sinners clubhouse, it was an ideal safe house. Other residents would not notice comings and goings or motorcycles; the houses on the block were decently spaced for privacy, some distinguished by pit bull runs along the sides, others by aboveground pools. A few ambitious souls had already tugged their Christmas trees to the curb.

The deputies did a slow approach, Guerrera sliding around back while Tim and Bear peeked through the front and side windows. The blankets had been tacked to the frames and sills, but in places they'd pulled free, enabling Tim to make out the interior.

The house appeared deserted, no furniture in evidence. Knee-high mounds of kitty litter sloped from the corners. No cat shit. No scratching posts. No claw marks at the doorjambs. Rust-colored stains climbed the walls. Unplugged fans and coils of plastic tubing had been left by the windows, rolled-up towels near the doorways. Wires protruded from holes in the ceiling where the smoke alarms had been. After using the house for a while, the Sinners had cleared out. Like all smart dealer/distributors, they kept their meth labs mobile, moving them every few weeks to stay one step ahead of the DEA and the competition. Once the heat blew over, they might hermit-crab their operation back into a house they'd used months before, or the nomads could use it as a place to hole up.

Tim reconvened with Bear and Guerrera on the old-fashioned porch, all three keeping to the side of the door. Bear had gone out to his Ram and retrieved some of his gear. A mound of L.A. Times, some yellowed already, buried the mat.

Bear pointed to the newspapers and whispered, "Nice ruse."

"Really looks like it's vacant," Tim said.

Bear gave a skeptical frown. They drew their guns, Guerrera's hand jiggling in a nervous tic. The doorknob lock yielded in seconds under the pick, but Tim took a bit more time with the dead bolt. He raised his gun and stepped back, letting the door swing inward to reveal the still-empty entry.

Bear stuck his side-handle baton lengthwise along the seam inside the hinges to prop the door ajar. A second door opened to the kitchen. Bear placed a wooden wedge with a nail driven through it, guiding it with a boot. It stuck in place, stopping the door on its backswing. They waded through a heap of kitty litter, globbed up from the toxic gases absorbed in the meth-cooking process, and pushed forward into the living room. Though they were close to the center of the ground floor, wind whistled past them from the open front door-no barriers along their escape route in case they needed to beat a hasty retreat.

The room-to-room went quickly, given the lack of furniture. They triangulated, only one deputy moving at a time. They made silent progress, their backs toward the walls, careful not to let their shoulders whisper against doorframes. Accustomed to full-bore ART kick-ins requiring heavy firepower, Guerrera didn't handle his Beretta with the same facility he did an MP5. Tim caught him holding the handgun up by his head and gestured for him to straight-arm it or keep it in a belt tuck. The Starsky amp; Hutch position was good solely for catching a closeup of an actor's face in the same frame as the gun; in real life a startle reaction to a sudden threat would leave an officer momentarily deaf and blind, or with half his face blown off.

Every so often they'd pause and listen. An upstairs floorboard creaked, and they waited. A few seconds later, a slight rasp put them back on alert. Neither sound was quite pronounced enough for them to determine whether someone was moving up on the second floor or if the house was merely groaning.

Tim and Bear ascended the stairs, back to back, then waved Guerrera up. The second floor comprised a wide master and a bathroom. Guerrera kept his gun on the bathroom door, waiting for Tim and Bear to clear the bedroom. Beside a bare mattress, cigarette butts stuffed a shoe-box lid, making it look like a nicotine planter. Bear waved a hand over it and shook his head-no heat. Tim opened the closet door, gripping the knob with his fist, thumb up, prepared to shove if he felt sudden pressure. Two wire hangers dangled inside.

Guerrera waited for them to get into position before pulling open the bathroom door. He remained flat against the wall, allowing Bear and Tim to enter first. An empty square of chipped tile. Tim swept back the shower curtain with his arm and checked out the empty tub.

Bear let out his breath in a rush-disappointment or relief. "It was worth a shot."

Tim's eye caught on the flexible showerhead. It had been shoved nearly to the ceiling to accommodate a man larger even than Bear.

Guerrera followed Tim's stare and mouthed, "Kaner?"

Bear raised the toilet lid with his boot. A half-smoked cigarette bobbed in the gray water.

Tim ran his thumb along the sink drain. Shaving whiskers.

When he looked up, Guerrera had his Beretta pointed at the ceiling. An attic hatch, nearly seamless. Bear was already telescoping his mirror. He was too big and the space too tight, so he handed off the mirror to Tim and stepped out of the bathroom.

Tim took down the shower-curtain rod and set the rubber plug against the hatch. Guerrera returned his nod, gun still trained overhead, and Tim pushed. The hatch popped up easily. As Guerrera aimed into the dark slit, Tim eased the mirror up into the attic. The stripe of light provided minimal visibility. He made out tufts of pink insulation, crossbeams, swirling motes. The gable window was blacked out. Tim rotated the mirror another quarter turn.

Two dark eyes, illuminated sharply in the reflected band of light, consumed the small rectangle of mirror. Tim dropped the shower-curtain rod, the hatch falling back into place with a thud an instant before the ceiling exploded.