Scrupulously balanced human-interest holiday reports compensated for the paper-thin local news-a dulceria's Jesus cookies cried cinnamon tears; a Tarzana housewife made a giant menorah evoking the Hollywood sign; a crippled kid got his operation thanks to an Islamic charity. Even the CNN crawl had gone syrupy, bringing news of marshmallow-eating contests and a Star of David on the White House tree.
Most of the task-force members were home with their families. Slumped over the intersection of his forearms, Jim caught some shut-eye at a corner desk; light duty or not, he was in for the haul. Freed, divorced, had stayed back so Thomas could sneak dinner at home. Even if he'd wanted to leave, Bear had nowhere to go. He had his feet on the conference table, and he stared at the ceiling, his cocked-back chair doing its best to stand up to his weight. Tim checked in with the ICU doctor for the third time that day-no Christmas miracles there. He felt a stab of guilt for not going in, but Dray cut him off. The Sinners don't take a night off. You're sure as shit not going to just so you can stare at your comatose wife.
Haven't heard from you in a while, he thought.
That's because you haven't killed anyone in a while. Been, what, four hours?
I miss you.
But he heard no response.
Maybeck and Haines finally made for the door, wearing guilty expressions, though no one faulted them.
Jim raised his head at their departure. "Merry Kwanzaa."
Maybeck, white boy personified, smiled and flashed him a thumbs-up. "See you in the morning."
"If we still have the case," Tim said.
A roomful of dour faces looked back at him. From his recline, Bear grunted, and they went back to waiting for Tannino.
Guerrera finished arguing the latest girlfriend off the phone with a suddenly overplayed accent, casting embarrassed glances at the others. "I tole you not to use the work line, baby." He hung up.
Still gazing at the ceiling, Bear said, "Jean Ann?"
"Alicia."
Bear didn't quite smile, but his face shifted. He rolled his head over to face Tim. "Our boy is back."
Everyone stood when Mayor Strauss entered with Tannino. His face was hard and red, a mallard green tie loose at the collar. His breath smelled of red wine. "After extensive discussion with the East Coast, we've determined to let you and the FBI keep your respective bailiwicks. I've been pleased with your progress, and I-and Director Reyna-are disinclined to halt your progress. The FBI will, of course, continue with Operation Cleansweep simultaneously, and you are to liaise and share information. If you let your egos get in the way of the well-being of this city, you will answer to me personally. Understood?"
Nods and assorted affirmative mumbles. Tannino added, looking to City Hall for confirmation, "And the Bureau's agents are under the same orders."
"Now"-the mayor reverted to politician-"has anyone fed you boys some turkey?"
"We're fine, thank you, Mr. Mayor," Miller said.
Strauss nodded and exited, as Bear stared at Miller resentfully.
Tannino paused behind him at the door. "Someone eat a slice of the fucking fruitcake before the wife comes in." No one moved, and he sighed a tired marital sigh. "Bear, dispose of the thing, would you?"
The door slammed behind him.
Tim exhaled, relieved, and a few of the guys exchanged solemn high fives.
"Next move?" Freed asked.
"Jim, you've got a hook at Border Patrol, right?" Tim asked. "Get him on the horn. I want to know all the border-crossing data they logged on our boys at San Ysidro-Tijuana. What they were riding, plate numbers, the whole nine yards."
Bear thunked his chair back to an upright position. "What if those shitheads are decoys, like Rich said? I mean, the AT could already be here. It might be hitting the streets as we speak."
For the first time since the shooting, Guerrera spoke decisively. "I know how we can find out."
Chapter 37
Bear looked right at home behind the wheel of his Dodge Ram, though Guerrera had to squeeze between him and Tim on the bench seat. The Sinners' clubhouse sat up the street, a sprawling monstrosity behind barbed wire. From inside came women's cackling, speaker bursts of heavy metal, and the occasional tinkle of shattering bottles.
Bear dug in the plastic gas-station bag at his feet and came out with a quart of eggnog and some Styrofoam cups. He poured, and the deputies toasted.
"Merry and happy," Bear said, the same three words he offered each year at Tim and Dray's kitchen table before wordlessly ingesting half their Christmas ham.
Guerrera added, "Y rezos para la salud de su esposa."
They drank.
A Sinner stumbled outside and hopped onto his bike, his deed mounting up behind him. They motored off. Bear raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Guerrera, but Guerrera shook his head.
"He's double-packing."
"So what?"
"If a guy's on club business, he leaves his deed behind to call lawyers and bail bondsmen in case he winds up in the clink."
A moment later a solo Sinner exited the clubhouse and drove off. Bear followed the bike at a good distance, picking up the plate and radioing Freed at the command post to have him ID the biker from the database. He came back as Fritz, a mother-chapter member of no special distinction.
"Wait till we get to that stretch of flat road up ahead." Guerrera's directives were crisp; having recovered from the post-shooting haze, he seemed emboldened. "Not yet…not yet… Now hit the siren."
Bear gave the siren a few bursts, and Fritz gradually pulled over. Tim and Guerrera waited in the Dodge while Bear searched the bike and the disaffected Sinner. Fritz offered Bear a few choice words about police intimidation and sped off. The charade over, Bear returned to the Dodge. Tim and Guerrera climbed out as he neared, each with a flashlight. Bear pulled the truck around, rolling slowly behind them and shining the headlights on the tufts of roadside chaparral to aid their search. Finally Guerrera came up with a packet of white flake. "Still looks like good old-fashioned meth to me."
Bear stuck his head out the window over the V of his elbow. "Crystal?"
"Nah. Shit chalk. We'll have to lab it, but looks like a battery-acid and cough-medicine special."
Tim pulled another few packets from where they'd landed in a tangle of elephant grass. Guerrera held the Ziploc up to the headlight's glare. "Doubt they'd be selling this shit if they had the real deal in-country. They'd get the AT on the streets ASAP."
"They can't sell both?" Bear said.
Guerrera colored, then matched the edge in Bear's tone-something Tim had not known him to do before. "Just thinking out loud."
"All we know is that they're still running meth," Tim said. "Let's get our ears to the ground, see if we can pick up if a hot new shipment's crossed the border. Right now we can't be sure."
Guerrera had already climbed in; the truck sat idling, waiting. Bear cracked a grin. "Why don't we ask the Great Mustaro?"
They pulled up to the pink-stucco apartment building and climbed out. Christmas had thinned the clusters of men around the neighboring stoops, but a few holdouts remained. Backward baseball caps and brown-bagged bottles. One of the guys flipped them off, and Bear nodded and tapped him a salute.
They climbed the stairs, reaching Lash's place at the end of the hall. Take-out menus had accumulated on the doorknob, the fallen surplus covering the mat like leaves. When Tim glanced up, Bear's face was tight. He pointed to the closed casement window. About fifteen black flies crawled along the seams, eager to get in. The breeze shifted, and Guerrera's face wrinkled.
The three deputies stood silently before the chipped door, bathed in a throw of rusty light from the flickering overhead. Eminem's fricatives were barely audible from a street boom box. They took a quiet moment. It wasn't much, but it was the most Lash was going to get.