Shoulders slumped, gun drawn but at his side, Guerrera stood over a body.
Diamond Dog Phillips.
Approaching, Tim noticed Guerrera's boot pinning down a. 45; he'd secured Diamond Dog's gun but not picked it up. Tim called out, "Did you clear the area?"
Guerrera snapped into motion. Bear cuffed Goat to a forklift and left him whimpering. Tim shined his Mag-Lite at the banks of overheads, checking that they weren't rigged, then found a switch panel. Section by section, the warehouse flickered into light.
After a quick search, the three met up again in the open area. Bear followed up with backup-two-minute ETA. Goat had mercifully passed out, cuffed arm dangling over his head. The deep rumble of his breathing and his pulse-when Tim checked-showed strong vitals.
It did not surprise him when Dray weighed in.
So I neglected to mention maiming.
I didn't kill him.
Maybe not, but this is a pretty close second. Doubt he'll be talking much with his face blown off. Next time don't take me so literally.
Don't second-guess me on this one, Dray. If I don't put him down, he shoots me or Bear or both of us. My options were limited.
I guess you're right. And believe me, we don't want you ending up where I am. It's really dull, and the food sucks.
Goat shifted onto his back, mumbling.
Can't say I'm torn up inside. I mean, the guy's biggest contribution to society is putting a tourniquet on his arm when he masturbates so it feels like someone else is yanking him off.
Really?
Check his case file. At least he gets points for originality.
Tim crouched over the woman next. Her hands had contracted into claws, the finger webs already opaque. Not wanting to compromise the crime scene, he used a pocketknife to lift her snarled hair away from her features. It took some maneuvering, but he finally did. Bear, at his back, heaved a sigh. Tim looked at the familiar face, feeling a dead weight tugging on his insides. "Damn it," he said softly. He wanted to cover her but knew he had to leave her there for CSI, bare on the concrete.
Guerrera looked down blankly at Diamond Dog, his gun still at his side. He made a fist around his bangs, his mouth pulsing. Tim gently grasped his elbow and wrist and guided his Glock back into his hip holster, Guerrera barely noting his presence.
Fine lacings of blood, erupted from the chest wound, had stained Diamond Dog's T-shirt.
"He was gonna pick you off from the shadows. Guerrera spotted him first." Bear frowned down at the centered bullet hole, nodding approval at the shot placement. His eyes lifted to the girl, and Tim saw a glimmer of sorrow cut through the toughness. "Why the hell would you kidnap a girl from Chatsworth and cut out her stomach?"
Torture? Satanic ritual? Diversion? Tim shook his head. "That's what we have to figure out."
Guerrera's face had gone gray. Bear returned Tim's glance, catching his drift and nodding-get the kid some air.
"Rey," Tim said. "Come with me and wait for backup."
Once outside, Guerrera took a few hard breaths and gestured at the step. "Okay if I take a seat?"
"Of course."
Guerrera squeezed one hand in the other, both trembling slightly. It took Tim a few beats to recognize what he was muttering in Spanish as the Lord's Prayer. When Tim's shadow blocked the light across his face, Guerrera quieted abruptly, as if catching himself.
Tim crouched beside him, inhaling the crisp air. "You don't kill that guy, he kills me."
"I know."
Tim took note of his sick expression. "Remember this feeling. Don't get used to it."
Guerrera tilted his head, looking up at Tim. The streetlamp lighting smoothed out his skin, making him look like a college kid. He shifted his gaze quickly, embarrassed. "You have."
Tim rose. "That's why I'm telling you."
The cavalcade made a grand entrance-black-and-whites, unmarked cars, CSI van, two ambulances, Tannino's white Bronco bringing up the rear. Guerrera was on his feet instantly, puffing himself back up.
Tannino hopped out, animated and mouthy. "The warehouse clear? Then get every swinging dick outta there until CSI finishes its sweep." He took Guerrera's gun into evidence, talking past him at Miller. "Let's get him to the hospital. Simmer him down, maybe a sedative. And someone call the Hug Squad, get a counselor on the hook."
"I don't need to go to the hospital. Rack put a hole through Chief and didn't-"
"Rackley," Tannino said with undisguised ambivalence, "has been through this drill a time or two."
In the alley a garbage truck closed in on the Dumpster, forks sliding beneath the unit with a screech. Why was the loudest street work always conducted at 4:00 A.M.?
Bear jogged out, breathing hard, as if he'd just finished a 5k. "I took a turn through the office in there with CSI, looks to be whistle clean. Nothing in the drawers, the closet, trash can-" He stopped short, keyed to a sudden idea, and then ran across the lot, waving his arms. The Dumpster halted midrise. The trash-truck driver rolled down his window, talked to Bear, then lowered the unit back onto the ground and backed off it. Bear flipped up the top and hoisted himself, the unit nearly tipping over as he peered inside, the very image of his nickname.
The others watched with puzzlement.
"He looking for a late-night snack?" Jim asked.
Bear straddled the lip, the flashlight a yellow spray from his fist, then disappeared into the Dumpster. Tannino and Tim exchanged vaguely comic glances, and then Bear's around-the-fingers whistle split the air. Tim headed over, Aaronson and another criminalist instinctively pulling behind him. The Dumpster was nearly empty, though it reeked and the walls had rusted in patches. Three white trash bags gathered in the far corner like fat geese, branches and leaves poking through the plastic. Bear crouched, almost sitting on his heels, peering into the sole black bag.
Aaronson stiffened and offered the criminalists' refrain: "Don't touch anything."
Bear kept his head toward Tim, his flashlight bobbing as he clicked it back on-a variation of the no-look pool shot. Light shone into the cinched, fist-size mouth of the stuffed bag.
Bloody rags.
"Okay. We got it from here. Climb out over there. No, there. Thank you." The criminalists took over, prowling the unit, exchanging abbreviations and acronyms in the murmuring voices of lovers.
Tim and Bear arrived back at the warehouse as two fire-department medics wheeled Goat out. He'd regained consciousness, moaning quietly. Miller smirked. "Two down, three to go."
Jim lunged for the gurney as it passed, and it took Maybeck and Thomas to restrain him. "You piece of shit!" Shouting, he was still hoarse. "How you like it, motherfucker?"
Tannino glowered at Jim. "Shut the hell up, Denley. Back it down." He strode over, inserting himself between Jim and the departing gurney. To the others: "Let him go." The deputies released Jim, but Tannino stood before him, five feet seven inches of tough; even at a head's advantage, Jim didn't dare make a move past him.
The medics loaded the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Scowling, the marshal looked from Guerrera and Miller to the cluster of deputies surrounding Jim-headaches all around. "Who wants to baby-sit Scarface?"
Malane appeared out of the tangle of personnel and vehicles. "Want me to take him for you? You guys have had a long day."
"Thank you, Jeff."
Bear shot Tim an irritated look behind Tannino's back. Malane climbed up into the rear of the vehicle, the doors slammed, and the ambulance pulled away.
Tannino signaled Tim with a finger, and they stepped outside the circle of men. Tannino put his back to the others. "What's your read on Jim?"
The others watched Tim, gleaning the conversation's content. Anger lingered in Jim's light blue eyes, enough to embolden him to stare.