Troubleshooter

Chapter 53

Goddamnit. We were right fucking there. He was just about to talk." Bear grabbed the prisoner-effects box from Guerrera and threw it against the wall in Booking. Loose change and keys clattered on the floor.

Two detention enforcement officers hustled a Mexican Mafia hitman out of the room, leaving them alone. They stood still for a minute, brewing in their frustration.

Tim thumbed open his phone and got Dray's captain on the line. "The Sinners know now. I don't want to rely on hospital security anymore. Can you keep someone on her room at the hospital?" He grimaced. "I'm sure he would be."

He hung up.

Bear's eyebrow pulled up, as if attached to a string. "Mac?"

Tim nodded.

Bear blew a sigh. He crouched, his knees cracking, and began picking up Kaner's belongings and returning them to the box. He sat on the aluminum table, putting his feet on the bench seat. After a moment he smiled. "Bet you threw a scare into Malane when you pulled the. 357 in there."

"Where's Malane now?" Tim asked.

"Arguing with Dana Lake," Guerrera said.

"I wonder who wins that battle."

Bear said, "I'm putting my money on Lawzilla. You couldn't get a dime up her ass with a sledgehammer."

"Be worth a try, though," Guerrera noted from the table where he watched Tim divvying up Kaner's possessions.

Bear smirked at Guerrera's newfound bravado and slid down across from them. "Did someone track down records on the safe house?"

"Thomas and Freed." Tim tossed Bear a wallet, and he turned it inside out, checking the lining. "We've got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn't had an active line in over two years."

A metal ring held the key to Kaner's Harley and a house key that they'd already matched to the safe house's dead bolt. Guerrera ran his fingers along the cuffs of Kaner's jeans. They reeked of dirt and pepper spray. Strands of pink insulation stood out against the denim.

"What's this?" Tim reached across and tugged the waistband of the jeans, revealing markings in the front right pocket, where an object had worn the fabric. A small rectangle, clearly not a tin of Skoal. It was well defined-time on the bike had meant a lot of friction. "Which pocket was the wallet in?"

"Don't know."

Bear slid the wallet into the pocket, but it was too big to fit the frayed outline. "What's this from?" He stuck his finger through a small hole that had eroded in the pocket's top corner.

Tim bit his lip, examining the outline. He heard an echo of the words he'd just spoken-We've got water and gas, but no phone bills. House hasn't had an active line in over two years.

He gestured at the worn spot in the denim. "Antenna."

Guerrera and Bear looked at each other. Guerrera nosed through the remaining items in the box. "It's not in here."

"Of course not," Bear said.

Tim grabbed Kaner's keys, Bear and Guerrera trailing him out of the room.

They ducked the crime-scene tape, flashing badge at the sheriff's deputy working the sawhorses. He gave a nod reading Tim's creds, then looked up with a surprisingly soft expression. "I'm sorry about Andrea. I went through the academy with her."

"Thank you."

"How's she doing?"

"It's been four days."

"What's that mean?"

Tim studied a shattered bottle in the gutter, feeling the familiar dread twist his gut. "I don't know."

The deputy nodded severely, lips pursed, and Tim, Bear, and Guerrera headed for the house. Tim used Kaner's key to unlock the dead bolt, and they made their way upstairs. Though several of the windows had been left open, pepper aftermath spiced the air. Tim pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, and Bear and Guerrera followed suit. The second floor was a mess, the ceiling eroded from the bullets, plaster hanging down from the punctures like the fringes of flesh wounds. The spent canisters lay among the wreckage. As they headed to the bathroom, white dust clung to their boots and the cuffs of their jeans.

The criminalists had left a ladder beneath the attic hatch in the bathroom; they probably wanted to let the attic air out more before crawling around the closed space. Looking up at the dark square, Tim shook off a shiver recalling the mirrored glimpse he'd caught of Kaner's eyes. He climbed up, clicking on his flashlight. Because of the. 223-caliber ventilation and the shattered window, the space wasn't as dark as before, but the air was thick and oppressive. Bent at the waist, Tim shuffled forward, rods of light playing across him like a disco effect. Mindful of his weight and the aerated footing, Bear was careful to balance on the joists. Brass casings shimmered in the insulation, nestled like eggs.

They searched for about twenty minutes, until Tim's eyes were watering and Guerrera developed a repetitive one-note cough. Tim's breath had moistened the collar of his shirt, still pulled up over his nose. The humidity and dust were making his head throb, and the flickering fingers of light were playing tricks with his eyes.

Guerrera finally said, "I need to go grab a gas mask." He headed for the hatch, stumbling over a raised corner of insulation.

Bear pulled back the pink strip. Lying against the plywood was a smashed cell phone.

The service rep, Bryant by his name tag, regarded the shattered cell phone skeptically. The top of the fold-down had been ripped off, the LED screen shattered. The battery was bent out of shape and the casing twisted.

Having progressed through a salesman and a store manager, they were finally backstage at the downtown Sprint PCS store on South Flower Street, blocks from the command post.

"Dude, we got some great deals on new phones."

"We need the information off this phone," Tim said. "We don't need it to work-"

"Well, that's good."

"-we just need to get what's on it."

"Looks like someone didn't want you to get what's on it." Off Bear's look, Bryant said, "Right. Right. Okay." He scratched the tuft of hair protruding from the top of his visor. "Lemme get Larry. He does some next-level shit."

He disappeared out a side door and returned accompanied by a thin East Asian kid with orange hair. The smell of cigarettes lingered in Larry's jacket. His eyes were hidden beneath mirrored Oakley Blades. Larry held out his hand like a surgeon requesting an instrument, and Tim laid the crippled phone in his palm. Larry took it to his workbench, Tim following and looking over his shoulder as he worked. After casting an annoyed glance at Tim, he screwed earphones into his head and turned the volume up so loud that Tim could make out the tinny lyrics-something about blood devils and suicide pacts.

Tim glanced back at Bryant. "You explain to him what we need?"

"Oh, yeah. Lar's on it, dude."

Lar swapped the battery, then dissected the casing, threading a series of wires over to a brand-new cell phone of the same model. He turned on the new phone, made some minute adjustments with what looked like an eyeglass-repair screwdriver, and tugged the earphones down around his neck.

Tim's Nextel chirped-the radio signature-and he keyed the "talk" button. "Go for Rackley."

Freed's voice filled the small service room: "The twins' bodies turned up, dumped naked in the wash by the Tujunga Bridge. Predictable incisions. Aaronson's handling the workups. What do you want him to do next?"

Tim pursed his lips, studied the tip of his boot. Bear and Guerrera exchanged a weary look-they'd all known it was coming, but that didn't make the reality any more pleasant.

"Clean up the bodies as best he can and give the parents a burial."

When Tim signed out, Bryant looked a touch queasy.

Tim raised his eyebrows at Lar-let's get back to business. Larry's face was softer than before, his tone agreeable. "Okay. You got the brains of the old phone on the display of the new phone." He handed the linked phones to Tim. "Be careful."

Bear and Guerrera crowded around as Tim trial-and-errored his way through the elaborate phone menu. He arrived at the address book, his hands sweating with anticipation, and clicked the icon. It was empty-no saved numbers.

His disappointment was sharp, but he couldn't say unexpected. If Kaner knew enough about investigative technology to want to destroy and hide his cell phone before being killed or taken captive, he probably wasn't dumb enough to input Den Laurey's numbers. Bear made various sounds of irritation, and Guerrera took a step back and sank his hands into his pockets.

But Tim kept his focus on the cell phone, using the arrow buttons to reach the submenus. All outgoing calls had been deleted. He thumbed around some more, and the missed-calls menu popped up, also empty. He backed out, highlighted "incoming calls"-the final play-and punched