“Okay, boss,” Jamey replied with a puzzled expression.
Jack caught up to Nina in the hallway. “Thanks again, Nina.”
“What happened this morning, Jack?” she asked.
“You mean the raid? Like I told Chappelle. Bad intel, that’s all. It was a meth lab. Nothing more. Still haven’t found the Karma lab.”
“Well the DEA is making hay over the bust anyway. I saw the district head on the news ten minutes ago.”
Jack frowned.
“Stroke of genius bringing in that computer,” Nina continued. “Nothing like a diversion to redirect Ryan Chappelle’s attention away from a major snafu. I’m impressed. You’re starting to play bureaucratic politics like a chess master.”
Jack sighed. “I just want to do my job, Nina. That’s all.”
The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, the hum of the air conditioner a constant, white noise. When the knock came, a single rap, Tony rose from the bed and looked through the peephole.
Ray Dobyns stood on the other side of the scarred wood, rocking on his heels. The portly man wore a smug smile that told Tony the informant had found something.
Tony opened the door. Dobyns didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the threshold, gazing past Tony at Fay, her face illuminated by the light from the monitor.
“Hey, old buddy. I was wondering if I might have a word with you. In private.” As he spoke, Dobyns’s eyes lingered on Fay, who pointedly ignored them both.
Tony slipped into the hallway, closed the door behind him. “What’s up?” he asked in a low voice.
“I think I may have a lead on Lesser,” Dobyns replied. As he spoke, he dabbed beads of sweat from his upper lip with a stained handkerchief. “Ever hear of a bar called Little Fishes? The address is Cinco Albino, just west of Centro.”
Tony shook his head.
“Yeah, well, Little Fishes is more than a bar. There’s a brothel upstairs. They deal drugs there, and stolen goods move through the warehouse behind the whorehouse. The whole set up is reputedly run by the SS.”
SS was short for Seises Seises. A Mexican outfit named after the prison cellblock—66 — where the gang originated. The SS was the most recent criminal gang to spring from the corrupt and brutal Mexican penal system. So far their activities had been confined to Northern Mexico and the Baja, but like all cancers, Tony knew their contagion was bound to spread.
“What’s this got to do with Lesser?”
Dobyns shifted uneasily. “Word is a gringo came to the Little Fishes about a week ago. Brought a lot of computer shit with him. Been holed up on the third floor of that dump ever since. Sound about right to you, Navarro?”
Tony nodded.
“The bad news is the guy’s about to bolt,” Dobyns continued. “Been packing all day. He might be gone already.”
“Take me there now,” Tony commanded.
Dobyns nodded. “I thought that would be your reaction. But messin’ with the SS is gonna cost a bit more.”
“I’ll up the ante to twenty thousand. That’s the limit.”
Tony could see the war behind the man’s eyes, caught the moment when greed won over survival instinct.
“Can I trust you, Navarro?”
Tony met the man’s gaze. “If we find Lesser, then we both make out. If he gets away, we both get nothing.”
Dobyns nodded. “Okay. But we leave now, before our mark goes underground.”
9:59:11 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack Bauer had just handed over the disk to Jamey Farrell for analysis and sent her on her way — after exacting a promise that she would divulge her findings only to him.
He was about to tackle the after-action report on the morning raid when his phone warbled. “Bauer.”
“Special Agent Bauer? This is Detective Jerry Alder, LAPD. I’m Frank Castalano’s partner.”
Jack sat up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Frank wanted you to know he’s captured a suspect in the Beverly Hills murder.”
“Where? When?”
“The Angeles National Forest, about fifteen minutes ago. Listen. The man is a Saudi citizen here on an education visa. He’s high on some kind of drug and talking jihad against all infidels—”
“Don’t say anything more over this line. Where’s Frank taking the suspect?”
“Central Facilities between Fifth and Sixth Street, near the bus terminal. We can control access to the prisoner better there than at the Court House.”
“That’s smart.” Jack knew controlling access to the prisoner was a euphemism for keeping him away from a lawyer for as long as possible. Jack glanced at his watch.
Chappelle would hit the roof if he didn’t see the after-action report on his desk in thirty minutes, but instincts told Jack this was more important than composing a futile exercise in bureaucratic double-speak.
“Tell Frank I’m on my way.”
6. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The eight-man crew representing the Stage Carpenters and Craftsmen Union, Local 235, had gathered inside the union-mandated break area — in this case a large silver recreational vehicle parked on the street outside the mammoth Chamberlain Auditorium.
Not a hundred yards from the RV’s door, the red carpet was being rolled out for the Silver Screen Awards Ceremony. In less than eight hours, celebrities would be strutting down that carpet and into the pavilion. Fans and ranks of paparazzi were already staking claims to the choicest locations — behind well-guarded police barricades.
Inside the air-conditioned RV things were more relaxed. The workers lounged on couches and chairs and some took advantage of the microwave oven and coffee maker. Others smoked — strictly against Los Angeles County regulations — and watched television.
The men had been at it since 6 a.m., putting together the stage props for tonight’s awards show. Everything was in place now, except an elaborate replica of the award itself, and a large wooden podium to set it on. These props were to be placed at center stage, and the prefabricated structure was on its way over from a construction contractor in El Monte. This final piece of the set would arrive within the hour, with plenty of time to set it up before the curtain rose on the live broadcast.
Even if the parts had arrived, the union contract stipulated that after four hours of work, a meal break was mandatory. Of course, the team was supposed to stagger their breaks so that someone was always available for carpentry work. But Pat Morganthau — the team’s regular foreman — had not shown up for work and could not be found at any of his usual haunts. Meanwhile the instructions issued by the substitute foreman the management company had dispatched to the site— a twenty-something guy named Eddie Sabir — were being pretty much ignored by the union men.
In the middle of a cable sports report, the RV door opened.
“Heads up, the Teamsters have arrived,” yelled one of the carpenters. Boos and catcalls followed.
A Middle Eastern man stood in the doorway. He waved a greeting with one hand, the other held a bright blue plastic storage container.
A portly fellow watching ESPN from a lounge chair slapped his forehead. “Shit, Haroun, why’d you have to show up now?”
The man in the doorway offered the union men a broad smile.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Haroun. “The bad news is that the props are in the truck and the truck is here, which means we all have work to do. But the good news is that my wife has made honey cakes again.”
A burly carpenter with a long ponytail whistled. “Man, bring ’em on.”