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In response the poodle made a sound like a whinny.

Uncle Pete's eyes finally pulled north, taking in Tim. "Where's your backup? The spic and the muscle? Ain't you worried we gonna carve you up?"

"Not a bit."

Pete pinched his cigarette like a joint, sucking a final inhale. The ash fell across his chest, and he brushed it to the carpet with a few delicate flicks of his hand.

"Diamond Dog showed up dead," Tim said. "Wouldn't you know it, he was running with Goat."

A flicker of alarm showed in Uncle Pete's face before receding beneath his usual calm. It was only an instant, but it was precisely what Tim was looking for.

"No matter how I try to keep those boys away from trouble…" Pete shook his head. "Ain't it the damnedest thing?"

"The damnedest."

Uncle Pete lifted Hound Dog off the card table, the dog licking his face until he set him down.

"Diamond Dog's one of yours," Tim said. "Not a nomad. This case is at your doorstep now. Thought I'd give you a knock-and-notice."

"Characteristically thoughtful."

"Just another service we provide to taxpaying citizens."

Uncle Pete puffed out his cheeks with a troubled sigh. "Shucks, that is bad news about Dog. A lot of my mother-club boys are discipline problems. Impervious to reform, no matter how we try. Now and then they run with the wrong crowd, choose a lifestyle that's socially irresponsible. You let me know if there's any way I or the Laughing Sinners can be of assistance. Deputy." His head was pulled back contemptuously, the stick of braided beard pointing at Tim like a gun barrel. "In the meantime I'd recommend you watch yourself. These are some deep, dark rabbit holes you're scurrying down. Keep up the pace, some of the boys might be inclined to start shooting back."

"We got you in our sights now."

"Yeah, Trouble?"

The doorknob twisted behind Tim, and he turned as Dana Lake entered. A Christmas Day house call spoke to the size of the retainer checks she was depositing. She tossed her sleek briefcase onto the recently vacated card table and shoved her seventies-porn-star tinted glasses up onto her perm. "Conversation over."

"Yeah," Tim said, "it is."

"I thought I made myself clear earlier, Deputy Rackley. This afternoon I'll file a complaint with the IA division of the Marshals Service and start a record with the federal prosecutor." Dana produced a sheaf of filled-out complaint forms. "If you bully my client one more time, you'll find yourself facing a civil action for the violation of my client's constitutional rights, a restraining order, and harassment charges."

Tim kept his eyes on Uncle Pete. "You feeling harassed?"

Pete held up his hand, thumb and forefinger calibrating about a half inch of air.

"My client's feelings aren't your concern. Nor is he one of the disenfranchised slobs you're used to intimidating, and I'm not some low-rent public defender who just limped through Boalt. You push us, we push back harder. This is a different league, Deputy. Watch that the rarefied air doesn't make you light-headed." The forms disappeared back into the fine-grain leather. "In the meantime I'll be handling the substantial casework from the series of raids you and your death squad carried out last night. You keep killing Sinners, you'll pay off my mortgage."

"I'm surprised it's not already paid off."

"I meant on the house in Vail." Dana snapped her briefcase closed. "Say good-bye, Mr. Rackley. You want to see my client again, you'd better bring a warrant and formal charges."

"That," Tim said, "seems like a fair arrangement."

"Don't let the bikers hit you on your way out."

Uncle Pete grinned. "You heard the woman. Believe me, you don't want to cross swords with this bitch." He moved to smack her on the ass, but she caught his hand at the wrist and threw it away, her eyes never leaving Tim's.

Another pinkie-free mistress led Tim back downstairs. Outside, the two Sinners standing guard over Dana's platinum Jag convertible threw Tim matching glares.

He offered a grin. "Feliz Navidad."

Chapter 32

Arush of deputies hit Tim at the command post's door.

"We got the time of death back on Meat Marquez," Thomas said. "Seventy-two hours, give or take. That puts us back to the early morning after Den and Kaner's breakout-"

"The bomb diagrams you found at Chief's?" Zimmer was animated, his voice higher than usual. "We matched the handwriting to Tom-Tom. Pulled a sample from his booking sheet in an old police report. The specs on the design for the saddlebag special that killed Frankie was in his hand, too."

"-can't link anything from Chief's to the mother chapter," Freed was saying.

"Or from the warehouse," Thomas chimed in. "Aside from Diamond Dog's dead ass, of course."

Tim waded forward into the room. Someone had hung Chief's originals on the wall, like a scalp. Four empty nails beside it awaited the other jackets.

Exemplary professionalism. You gonna let that stand, Task Force Leader?

Tim sighed and pulled Chief's jacket down, then used the hammer to pop the nails from the drywall-game over. There was no need for a speech; the others could take his implication. He turned, dusting his hands and picking up where he'd left off. "Blood match from the embalming table?"

Thomas again: "Still waiting on the lab. But they came back on the body. Surgical incisions in the stomach. Very clean, incised wounds, like from a box cutter or scalpel. Her throat laceration had some abraded edges and bridging of the connective tissue-it was cut with something bigger, a hunting knife maybe. Sounds like Den Laurey to me."

"Any organs removed?"

"Yes, but all accounted for. Stomach was sliced up pretty good."

Tim sought Freed in the cluster of men. "You locate Diamond Dog's bike last night?"

"Nope. I blanketed the area. Not a single chopper."

"Where are we with Chief's credit card?"

"Getting a warrant."

"Lean on that judge. Or find another. How's Guerrera?"

Maybeck: "Shook up and making it worse by pretending not to be."

Bear alone was sitting, a still presence in the swirls of movement. Tim dropped into the chair beside him. "Well?"

"CSI finished sorting the Dumpster trash. The bag I found was the only hit. It was stuffed with bloody rags." Bear inhaled and held his breath for a count, troubled. "They also found these loose among the other crap."

He tilted a manila envelope and a crime-scene Baggie slapped the table. It held three rolls of film. Black and white. ISO 1600. Each was numbered with a red pen.

"No latents, but CSI matched the red ink to a pen in the warehouse office. Given that the warehouse is deserted and the Dumpster gets emptied weekly, there's low odds that someone else besides Diamond Dog, Goat, and Co. tossed these in there." Bear held up his hand. "But before you get excited…"

"What?"

"They're blank. Unexposed."

Tim rocked back in his chair, disappointed. "What kind of film is it?"

"Used mostly by professionals. It's super high-speed, which yields lower resolution. Best for low-light conditions, motion, grainy arthouse shit."

"I doubt Cindy Crawford's limo was en route."

"So what, then? Snuff shots of Marisol?"

"What stopped them?"

"Maybe they used rolls four through six."

"Get it developed."

"There's nothing to see. I told you, it hasn't been shot yet."

"Just have it processed. Maybe there's a hidden image or something. Anything." Tim pivoted in his chair. "What gives on Goat?"

Malane, sitting calmly, said, "He's under hospitalization."

"Let's press him. Where is he?"

"Unconscious."

"That's not a location."

"For him it is." Malane returned Tim's gaze, stonewalling him.