Tim found his throat gummy, so he cleared it. "Time of death?"
The ERT agent said, "Twelve to fifteen hours ago. I'll know more once we get the body processed. Takes some time getting equipment down here."
"Morning high tide brought it up?"
He nodded, then pointed up the coast. "A bluff about a quarter mile north overlooks the water. I'm thinking that's where the dump was made last night."
"Any incisions made? Maybe with a hunting knife?"
The ERT agent paused, surprised. "Yeah, looks to be some of that on the popliteal spaces behind the knees. Someone knew their basic anatomy, severed the tendons so the victim couldn't kick against the lid going down."
The breeze whipped flecks of water at Tim's face. Salt stung the back of his throat.
"So he was still conscious," Malane said. "When he was welded in."
"Yeah, most of his fingernails are broken off." The ERT agent studied Malane. "He a friend?"
Malane stood watching the brilliant sun send gold divots off the water. The surfers bobbed on their boards as the ocean breathed. He nodded, not trusting his voice, then turned and started the walk back to his car.
Chapter 58
Malane was silent on the way to Uncle Pete's, and he didn't speed. He drove slowly and deliberately, hands at ten and two, staring ahead with a blank expression that on anyone else might have looked cadaverous. Behind them, a scattering of agents in duty cars followed, as well as several extended-cab Suburbans stuffed with SWAT members.
They reached the clubhouse, and Malane hit the brakes, idling on the dirty street, taking in the chain-link, the row of bikes at the curb, Uncle Pete's Lexus glittering in the driveway. The Dodge Ram was parked up the street, Bear and Guerrera leaning against it, arms crossed, awaiting the caravan's arrival.
The other vehicles remained frozen behind Malane's Crown Vic. Tim waited for Malane to pull over and park, but he kept his hands on the wheel, head forward. He revved the engine a few times and then peeled out. The car bore down on the row of motorcycles at the curb. Tim barely had time to brace against the dash before they smashed into them. The bikes went down like proverbial dominoes. The Crown Vic wound up tilted atop a stack of crushed metal. Tim rubbed the seat-belt burn at his shoulder, grateful that the G-ride, like most, had its airbags removed, saving him a nylon nose punch.
"Whoops," Malane said flatly. "Looks like she got away from me." He shoved open his door and navigated down the mound of bike parts.
Sinners and slags gathered behind the chain-link, cursing and shouting. The SWAT team filed into the front yard, subduing them. One of the clubhouse dogs got a face-blast of Mace, after which she and the other succumbed to the come-along leash.
Malane placed his hands on his hips, regarding the heap of broken motorcycles. "You know, I'll probably end up paying for that," he said, his voice barely audible over the background shouting. "But it'll be worth it."
Bear said, "We'll all chip in."
Malane and Tim moved through the commotion, Bear and Guerrera at their backs. They breached the front door, heading up the stairs, handguns drawn but pointed at the floor. A few of Pete's deeds, marked by missing pinkies, slithered past them in the narrow upstairs halls, running to safety. The sounds of energetic sex issued from Uncle Pete's room, interrupted at intervals by a whirring noise.
Tim pushed open the door with his foot, keeping both hands on his. 357. Uncle Pete sat in the darkness, an immense shadow, the light of the TV turning his face watery blue. Hound Dog sat at his side, and he stroked the poodle's topknot absentmindedly, eyes glued to the screen session. His other hand commanded the remote control resting on the arm of his padded lounge chair. His fat fingers twitched, and the porn tape fast-forwarded, played, fast-forwarded. Wearing boxers and a wife-beater undershirt, he filled every crevice of the chair. Hound Dog's black-marble eyes pulled over to Tim, his upper lip wrinkling in a silent growl. As they approached, he rose to all fours, snarling. Bear snapped his fingers, and the poodle sat back down and lowered his head to his paws.
Keeping his eyes on the screen, Uncle Pete said, "Howdy, Trouble. I heard yer grand entrance down there."
"You told me to come back with formal charges and a warrant," Tim said. "Here I am."
From downstairs came the boot vibrations of agents taking over the house.
Emitting a groan of exertion, Pete reached for his cell phone on the floor. "I gotta call my lawyer."
"We'll save you your daytime minutes," Tim said. "Hell, we'll put you in the same cell as her."
To his credit, Uncle Pete didn't give up much. His eyes widened a touch, the lines smoothing from his forehead, and his hair seemed to shift back slightly on his skull. But he didn't so much as turn.
He bobbed his massive head, settling back into his chair. "Let me wait for the money shot."
He fast forwarded a few more seconds, then let the tape play. Sounds of explosive release. He nodded at the screen. "Atta boy, Peter North."
With great effort he pulled himself to his feet and offered Tim his wrists.
Chapter 59
The detention enforcement officer waited respectfully, key in hand. Tim pressed his knuckles on the cool steel door, gathering his focus. The command post was humming with activity; he'd slipped out unnoticed. By comparison Cell Block was peaceful, the quiet broken only by the squeak of boots on tile and the incessant hacking of a prisoner a few cells over.
The search of the clubhouse had turned up all order of incriminating evidence to shore up the case against Uncle Pete. Dana Lake's files would likely prove a treasure trove, but first the FBI would have to navigate through a minefield of legalities regarding confidentiality-the U.S. Attorney's office was on it full bore and feeling more confident than Tim had seen them regarding a major case. On his way into the command post, he'd caught Winston Smith, the AUSA, whistling in the hall in an uncharacteristic show of buoyancy.
Bear and Guerrera had followed Babe Donovan back to an apartment in West L.A., where they'd made the arrest. In the laundry room, they'd discovered a laminating machine around which were scattered the raw materials from a number of forged IDs, including an access card for a Burbank Airport maintenance worker. They'd also found a drawerful of badges from different law-enforcement agencies, awards for successful assassinations. The Cadillac Miller Meteor hearse had been hiding in the covered garage. An elderly neighbor reported that Babe used to park a yellow Volvo in her second space, the same make and model of the car left behind on the 10 freeway to clog traffic minutes before Den and Kaner's break. The building's garage security camera confirmed the plates; the Volvo tied Babe to the murder of two federal officers and a civilian.
Six hours after the clubhouse raid, the deputies continued to sift through seized papers. From the first wave of analysis, Smith was preparing to indict eleven other Sinners. Tannino had stopped by the post to declare that they had enough to sink the organization.
But, not surprisingly, nothing had turned up on Den Laurey.
Tim had put out alerts at the borders and airports and BOLOs to all agencies in the surrounding states. He'd contacted law enforcement in each city where the Sinners had a chapter, urging increased surveillance. The Service's public-information officer had released a selection of Den's photos to the news stations and was negotiating with the Times for tomorrow's front page. The more time passed, the greater likelihood that Den would slip away. And after a while Dray's assailant would recede into the Top 15, his face becoming one of many in the lineup of flyers posted in the admin corridor at the rear of the courthouse. Unsolved cases. Open investigations. Dangerous individuals whose pictures the deputies walked past every day on their way to new business.