Kaner smirked at some private thought. "You hate me because I'm different. I hate you because you're all the same."
"No," Tim said, "we hate you because you kill people."
Kaner shrugged. "Trample the weak, hurdle the dead."
"You should start a bumper-sticker factory," Bear said. "All these aphorisms. How do you guys come up with them? Do you sit around the clubhouse, going, 'Stomp on the weak, leap over the dead. No, that's not right. It just doesn't sing.'"
"Let's get something straight. I'm not gonna tell you shit. No matter what. So all this business"-Kaner waved a hand around-"you ain't gonna get a rise outta me."
"Hey, wait," Bear said, still doing his shtick. "Something's missing." He dug through Kaner's personals in the cardboard box, then halted, snapping his fingers. "Hey, I know."
He strolled out into the hall and returned with an article of clothing encased in dry-cleaning wrap. He hung it on the door and stripped away the cellophane to reveal Kaner's originals. The collar had been starched, and the leather was now pristine; even the patches seemed to shine.
Kaner made a noise like a gurgle deep in his throat and charged off the chair. The ankle cuffs held firm, and he slapped against the floor, where he seemed to remember his predicament. Calmly, though without grace, he restored himself to the chair, his eyes eerily calm.
He gestured with a flick of his chin. "That's a declaration of war."
"Haven't you heard?" Bear said. "We're already at war, mother-fucker."
Tim pushed forward, hard, trying to keep Kaner off balance. "We know about Allah's Tears. About Good Morning Vacations. About the girls. About the corpses. We know about everything."
Kaner couldn't keep the surprise from his face, but he covered quickly, a scowl tightening his features. "Not everything," he said. "Or you wouldn't be talking to me."
"That's a helluva scheme Uncle Pete dreamed up," Tim said.
"Who's saying Uncle Pete knows shit?"
"I am. It took us a while to figure out what you guys were up to, but we did."
"No shit it took a while. No one misses a spic bitch. Not even spics. They don't got no respect for their property, not like we do. No one fucks with my deed. No one."
"Not like you can fuck with Mexican girls." Tim moved closer, getting in Kaner's space, cutting off his view of Bear and Guerrera. A mano a mano confrontation. Whether Kaner talked or not, he was going away for life. His ass was already nailed on the escape offense and resultant murders. He had nothing to lose. If Tim pushed him hard enough, he hoped he could get him to flaunt his superiority.
"Damn straight."
"But you dumb fucks picked them at random. No plan."
"At random," Kaner repeated with disdain. "At random? Then why'd it take you so long to catch on? I'll tell you why: We dodged all the triggers."
"What triggers?"
"The triggers that make people notice. We needed chunky ones, but we knew to steer clear of pregnant broads. Brings too much static. Look what happened with Laci Peterson. Who needs that mess? You don't give people a reason to give a shit in this country, they won't. That knocked-up deputy's on every channel. Kill a pregnant bitch, you got a news story. Kill a fat Mexican broad, hell, you got a statistic."
After all the death and destruction Tim had witnessed from Croatia to South Central, he still found the Sinners' regard for human life uniquely sickening. There was no cause, not even brainwashed zealotry, behind the violence. Just greed and malice, pure and simple. Cops and rivals were obstacles to be annihilated; drug profits would be reaped even if it meant lining the pockets of dealers of mass destruction; women were reduced to test-run luggage. Dray's words returned to Tim: Everyone counts. The Sinners had banked on apathy when selecting their victims, and they'd gotten far doing it.
"So you chose Jennifer Villarosa."
Kaner made a gun with his hand and clicked off a shot in Tim's direction.
"But the army brought the heat on her," Tim continued. "Caught you off guard."
"Barely a wrinkle. They don't care much 'bout dead dykes. Poked around a bit, didn't find a thing. And we took care of that, went after fat, broke Mex bitches next. No employers who give a shit. Their families ain't got no money to fly down, ask questions, ain't got no pull on this end neither. They can't talk to a cop or they'd get their brown asses deported. Let's be honest, who gives a shit about chubby chicanas from Chatsworth?"
"I do," Tim said.
Kaner met his stare with blazing eyes. "Bravo, brother. You and no one else, 'cept maybe your friend back there." His eyes pulled to Guerrera, who was trying to look impervious despite a clenched jaw. "You know the other thing about pickin' fat broads? They're sluggish, not so frisky. Gut slows 'em down. Kinda like that bellied-out cunt cop we shot."
Tim felt his face grow hot. His mouth cottoned. "Oh, she's pretty frisky."
Kaner's face shifted. "You know her?"
Tim stared at him.
Kaner's delight showed in the gleam in his eyes. "I woulda liked to have split her like a banana, too. Filled her with cream."
Tim heard Bear coming. He turned in time to get an arm around his waist, slowing his charge, but Bear dragged him another three feet toward Kaner, and Tim had to get his other arm up to stop his roundhouse. He heard himself shouting, and then Bear threw him off and stormed away to regroup, his mighty chest heaving while Kaner laughed his ten-grit laugh.
"Oh, that's rich," Kaner said quietly, studying Tim. "You're the deputy husband." He laughed again, shaking his head with delight. "Now and then, when things ain't lookin' so hot, fate comes to the rescue."
Tim licked his dry lips. "A philosopher."
"My new hobby."
"You'll have plenty of time for it."
"Maybe so, but you lost the war. Allah's Tears is in-country, and it's here to stay. While I'm tanning in the yard at Lompoc between sets on the bench, you can philosophize about that."
Bear was muttering in the shadowed back corner-giving Kaner the idea he was getting to them was the right strategy. Still, Tim fought to regain his focus. To keep Kaner gloating, he had to continue dangling bait. "How do you know it's here?"
"I know."
"How do you know we didn't seize it at Burbank?"
Kaner leaned forward, face twisted with vindictiveness, and Tim felt a stab of excitement at what he'd reveal in his anger.
"Because-"
The door banged open, and Dana Lake stormed in, a court security officer at her heels. "What the fuck is going on here? What have you answered? What have you told them?"
"Not a thing they didn't already know." Kaner offered a fat grin. "Who gives a shit anyways? I'm just adding up life sentences."
"Listen, dipshit, if you don't want to rot away with no possibility of ever getting parole, keep your fucking trap shut."
Amazingly, Kaner heeded the advice of counsel.
Bear found a surrogate target for his anger, blasting the CSO. "Why the hell is she in here?"
The CSO offered an apologetic shrug. "We had to, man. You know how that goes."
"Get her out. He's a captured fugitive. He doesn't have the right to an-"
"You bet your ass he does," Dana said. "I'd assume you're charging him with new criminal offenses, at the very least an escape offense. He has the right to remain silent. He has the right to an attorney-"
Bear scowled and stormed out of the room. Guerrera grabbed the cardboard box and followed. Dana glared at Tim, arms crossed, one foot turned out, showing the sharp curve of her calf beneath the hem of her skirt.
Tim said quietly to the CSO, "Call in six detention enforcement officers. Have the prisoner moved to an attorney room. If he resists at all, he goes to a keep-away cell, and Ms. Lake can try her luck again later."
Passing Dana, he caught a whiff of high-end perfume. She smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Deputy Rackley. I knew we'd see eye to eye on this one."