Troubleshooter

Chapter 62

Tim, Bear, and Guerrera waited in a pool of streetlight yellow outside the police impound lot. Bear heaved a sigh, and Guerrera rubbed his eyes. It was 9:45 P.M., and they'd been waiting on Pete Krindon since eight.

Bear clicked his teeth bitterly and said, "Here's where I wish I smoked."

A low-rider thumped by, the sunglasses-adorned driver bouncing his head to the beat, going for tough but looking more like a displeased chicken. He turned and stared at them, not breaking eye contact until his face drifted from view.

"Reminds me of home." Guerrera's smirk flashed, tensing his soft features, and then he stared out at the dark street, his eyes troubled.

Bear jerked his head to indicate the young deputy. When Tim responded with a shrug, Bear widened his own eyes imploringly. Tim returned the glare, exasperated.

"Rey," Tim finally said. "How you doing? About the shooting?"

"Fine. No big deal." Guerrera scraped his teeth with his tongue, then spit on the curb and stepped away. Discussion over.

Bear waved off Tim's palms-up hand gesture.

A van parked at a meter up the block, elegant lettering proclaiming RUDOLPHO PAGATINI CATERING. The driver hopped out, straightened his waiter's apron over his tuxedo, and headed toward them in a stiff, formal gait.

"You gotta be shittin' me," Bear said.

Because of his coiffed hair, sleek mustache, and wire-rim glasses, Pete Krindon wasn't recognizable until he was within feet of them.

Bear said, "I'll have a ham on rye."

"How about you try the South Beach Diet instead." Krindon nodded toward the garage. "Let's get this done. I'm on a job."

"What? Serving meatballs to Lady and the Tramp?"

"Very funny, Rack. Move it."

Krindon trailed behind them as they headed to the security station. The guard looked up from a roast beef sandwich, a line of mayo fringing his mustache. As Tim explained their purpose, the guard's eyes took in the three displayed badges, then came to rest on Krindon's waiter's apron. His forehead wrinkled. "The fuck is this?"

"He's with us."

The guard tossed a clipboard down on the brief counter. "He's gotta sign in. You all gotta sign in."

"He's a freelance consultant," Tim said. "He doesn't sign."

From the warped radio on the counter, an AM deejay, revved up on caffeine and zealotry, ranted about Syria's weapons of mass destruction. The guard folded his arms and leaned back on his stool. "Can't let him in if he doesn't sign."

Krindon leaned forward and scribbled on the form. As he drew back, Tim read the cursive scrawl: Herbert Hoover.

"All set?"

The guard's glance lifted from the signature to Tim's face. Then he broke eye contact with an it's-not-worth-it expression of disgust and waved them through.

They found Uncle Pete's Lexus in a dark back corner. Locked.

Tim, Bear, and Guerrera debated who would have to go back to retrieve the keys from the irritable guard, but then they heard the door click open, and Krindon returned a decoding transmitter to his pocket and slid into the driver's seat. The car had been towed, the front seat still way back to accommodate Uncle Pete's girth, so Krindon had plenty of room to maneuver. He tugged up the leg of his formalwear, revealing a slim jim tucked into a garter. He angled the thin metal bar beneath the box of the navigation system, then pulled a corkscrew from his apron and used it for leverage.

The unit was well ensconced. After some directed jiggling, Krindon paused to wipe his brow. "I can usually get you down within a two-block radius. These nav systems are on satellite networks, so they trip sites like mobile phones or wireless modems. Same Orwellian shit."

Guerrera said, "So anyone can find out where a car's been?"

"No, not anyone." Krindon made an angry noise and turned back to the navigation system. "Nothing's ever truly deleted in a computer system. Only the pointers to the data get wiped out. But that data's in there. You just have to know how to find it. And to know how to find it…well, you have to be me." He jiggled the unit, and it finally gave, sliding into his lap. "So you want to trace Uncle Pete's footsteps. What are you looking for? A crash pad?"

"Or a safe house, a hangout, a business front, a meth lab," Tim said. "Anywhere Den Laurey could be laying his head in a back room. He's a little too recognizable right now to check in to a Best Western."

"How far back you want me to go?"

"Give us the last six months."

"Den Laurey's prison break was only six days ago."

"But this is Uncle Pete's car. I doubt he's visited Den since the prison break-I'm just hoping we can put together a list of Sinner-friendly locations and go from there."

Krindon tucked the nav unit under his arm and closed the car door behind him.

Guerrera said, "We'd better lock the door agai-"

Krindon's hand tensed in his pocket, and the Lexus's locks clicked. He turned and walked away, his shadow stretched long in the dim light. Over his shoulder he said, "I'll be in touch."