He thought of Babe lying in her cell. Aside from exercise breaks, that was about the most space she'd be permitted for the rest of her life. Her defiance had been undulled. Sinners don't take orders from no one. Least of all a bunch of ragheads.
He remembered his own words about the Sinners to Tannino and the mayor: Don't expect honor among thieves-they're famous for double crosses, drug burns, cop killings.
What had Smiles said about Allah's Tears? That's the beauty of it. They don't need a continuous pipeline, just a one-off-a single risk with a huge payday.
A chill washed through Tim. The German shepherd. At the Prophet's house. It had been sitting in front of the table holding Allah's Tears. The drug's powerful olfactory signature, even sealed inside the belly bags, should have drawn the dog's attention, not let it fix on a few stale pizza crusts across the room. Tim flashed on the extraction needle lying in the carpet near Al-Malik's head. Unused.
Tim gestured to Bear and Guerrera. They must have noted his intensity, for they came immediately, both dogs at their heels. Jim was gnawing his way through a slice of Mrs. Tannino's own, Miller making odds on his finishing it.
Tim, Bear, and Guerrera headed out of the evaporating command post, laughter trailing behind them.
Chapter 61
Uncle Pete stared out through the bars of his holding cell at the three deputy marshals and the score of FBI agents. The cell was dimly lit, devouring his wide form, but his eyes floated in a band of light. Tim couldn't see his mouth but could tell from the crinkles at his temples that he was smiling.
A closer look at the down-payment bills-which totaled $7.5 million-had revealed them to be fake. Sweat beaded at Bear's hairline; he fanned himself with a packet of counterfeit hundreds. Malane was holding a test tube of the seized substance; minutes earlier, to emphasize his findings, the ERT agent had downed a shot of it. The Allah's Tears and Den Laurey were at large and, Tim was sure, enjoying each other's company.
Malane shook the test tube. "Sambuca."
Uncle Pete's voice emerged from the dark cell. "Is that so."
"You burned the Prophet. And al-Fath."
"I never heard of no prophet, friends, but I'll tell you this: We sure as shit ain't scared of a bunch of Allah-lovin' sweat monkeys hiding in caves halfway around the world." His eyes bunched with another smile. "In fact, it warms my heart to think you're fixin' a cot in Gitmo for another A-rab. We Sinners may be badass motherfuckers, but we ain't anti-Amurican. So if you think we burned al-Fath, then hell, you can hang a medal around my fat neck. I assume that's what you're all here for? To honor my supposed intelligence work?"
He enjoyed a good genuine laugh, his bulky shadow rippling like a cape.
The Operation Cleansweep task-force headquarters overlooked the VA cemetery. The government-issue headstones formed razor-straight lines on the lush green turf. A few durable Christmas wreaths provided splotches of color, but not enough to detract from the smog and granite.
The similarities between this room and the Service's command post were striking. Same tacked photos, same day-old food, same weary air of expired adrenaline. Bear was speaking in hushed tones over the phone to Tannino, his posture indicating that the conversation was going about as expected. Tim and Guerrera waited patiently for him to finish so they could head back and regroup in the squad room.
Smiles sat on the table, folders resting across his thigh, one loafer tip dipped to the carpet as if stirring waters. Malane had pulled Tim aside and asked him not to make reference to the Polaroid found pinned to Rich's jeans. Tim had agreed reluctantly; he generally objected to office secrets, no matter the motive behind them, but it wasn't his command post and he couldn't see what would be gained by Smiles's knowing. Especially right now. Tim assumed he'd make a different call if he found himself in possession of like information about Bear or another colleague, but he'd learned that his preconceived assumptions weren't particularly useful to him or anyone else.
"So from Uncle Pete's perspective, how was the double cross supposed to play out?" Smiles asked. "I mean, once the Prophet does the test and figures out the Sinners ran the switch on him…"
"He kills Dana Lake, and then Pete doesn't have to pay her cut," Tim said.
"And Wristwatch Annie?"
"She's a slag, not a Sinner," Guerrera said. "Expendable."
"Why burn the producers? Kill the golden goose?"
"Two liters is enough to feed the street for nine months. I mean, socio, fifty million dollars in hand? Weighed against what? The stability of terrorists and the drug trade?"
Malane sat with both hands run into his thin hair; it protruded in tufts from between his fingers. "I can't fucking believe I missed it," he said, for not the first time. "We're dead-ended. All fronts." He lifted his head, a movement that seemed to require great effort. "We'll have to dismantle the Sinners's drug-distribution network, hope to seize the AT in batches as we go. It's not much of a plan, but it's all we have."
"At least we've got Uncle Pete nailed," another agent said.
Smiles continued to review Uncle Pete's seized financials. "These figures are ridiculous. Uncle Pete reported nineteen grand last year, but he drives a"-he turned aside the tax return and pulled out a yellow vehicle-purchase order-"seventy-nine-thousand dollar Lexus LS
430."
A youthful agent said, "No shit? That ride cost seventy-nine grand?"
"Oh, yeah," Smiles said. "Our boy needed chrome wheels, air purifier, headlamp washers, voice-command nav system, headrest massager-"
Tim bolted forward, snatching the document from Smiles.
Smiles held up his hands, feigning offense. "Is that any way to-"
Tim slapped the piece of paper with the back of his hand and looked up at the staring faces around the central table. Bear lowered the phone to his broad chest, his head cocked like a dog deciphering a bird call.
Tim said, "We need Pete Krindon."
Chapter 62
Tim, Bear, and Guerrera waited in a pool of streetlight yellow outside the police impound lot. Bear heaved a sigh, and Guerrera rubbed his eyes. It was 9:45 P.M., and they'd been waiting on Pete Krindon since eight.
Bear clicked his teeth bitterly and said, "Here's where I wish I smoked."
A low-rider thumped by, the sunglasses-adorned driver bouncing his head to the beat, going for tough but looking more like a displeased chicken. He turned and stared at them, not breaking eye contact until his face drifted from view.
"Reminds me of home." Guerrera's smirk flashed, tensing his soft features, and then he stared out at the dark street, his eyes troubled.
Bear jerked his head to indicate the young deputy. When Tim responded with a shrug, Bear widened his own eyes imploringly. Tim returned the glare, exasperated.
"Rey," Tim finally said. "How you doing? About the shooting?"
"Fine. No big deal." Guerrera scraped his teeth with his tongue, then spit on the curb and stepped away. Discussion over.
Bear waved off Tim's palms-up hand gesture.
A van parked at a meter up the block, elegant lettering proclaiming RUDOLPHO PAGATINI CATERING. The driver hopped out, straightened his waiter's apron over his tuxedo, and headed toward them in a stiff, formal gait.
"You gotta be shittin' me," Bear said.
Because of his coiffed hair, sleek mustache, and wire-rim glasses, Pete Krindon wasn't recognizable until he was within feet of them.
Bear said, "I'll have a ham on rye."
"How about you try the South Beach Diet instead." Krindon nodded toward the garage. "Let's get this done. I'm on a job."