Tim's mouth twisted-con men got under his skin in a hurry.
'Have you talked to him or had contact in any way?' Bear asked. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Walker's escape, but given how quickly he'd gotten to his mother, Tim and Bear were rushing through their contact list.
Pierce shook his head and-again-eyed his watch. The smell of baking biscuits floated through the closed kitchen door.
Tim's irritation flared, and Bear shot him a glance to gauge him. Pierce watched their noninteraction with suspicion.
'Can we have a word with your kids?' Bear asked.
'No.'
Tim repeated, 'No?'
'They don't need to know they have a jailbird half-brother. Maybe in your family, Deputy…uh, Rackley- right? — that's no big deal. Around here it is.' Pierce hefted himself grandly from the couch and strode to the front door, which he jerked open. 'Dinnertime with my family is important to me.'
Tim stayed his tongue, and he and Bear exited, Pierce closing the door behind them. They sat in Bear's rig out front, watching through a picture window as Pierce joined his family at the table. Pierce looked out at them and twisted the blinds shut.
Guerrera had taken a run through Pierce's rap sheet and relayed his findings-fraud counts all too familiar to Tim. The scams and rackets Pierce had been charged for showed a range as impressive as Tim's father's, though with greater returns, but evidently Pierce had gone straight in his old age. Not a single arrest in ten years.
Tim caught himself wondering if his own father would pull it together before spending his golden years in an orange jumpsuit. Tim had been three when his mother decided she'd had her fill of his father's schemes and infidelities. She'd fled, sacrificing Tim along with the dour house, and he'd spent his childhood being a supporting player in his father's serial cons. The aid beneficiary, the tantrum-throwing diversion maker, the delivery boy-he'd played them all, but from the time he was school age he'd sought the straight and narrow the way other kids sought drugs and bad company. In retrospect his upbringing had been great on-the-job training for undercover and interrogation work. Despite his not speaking to his father since their latest falling-out more than three years ago, Tim couldn't deny that he owed a number of his acuities to him.
'Work on the poker face,' Bear said.
'No shit, huh?' Tim ran his hands over his face. 'Sorry.'
'It's okay. He's lying. He knows we know he's lying. That's good. Let's tell local PD to keep an eye on the house. If Sonny pops by for some quality family time, we nail him.'
'Pierce is too smart for that.'
'You never know.'
'I do.' Tim's phone chirped, and he checked caller ID-Shrff's Plm-dale Station. Probably Dray having tracked down her former colleague and the crime report on Tess Jameson's suicide. He flipped open the Nextel. 'How's it going with Elliott?'
'I'm with him now, making headway. I'll meet you at the office in an hour, fill you in then. Listen, have Guerrera track down Tess's autopsy report.'
'It was a suicide by gunshot. Why would they do an autopsy?'
Dray's sigh, through the phone, sounded like static. 'Because she was pregnant.'
Chapter 30
A '72 Olds Cutlass Supreme held down the VIP space beside the entrance canopy's awning, the license plate asking, RUGAME? The muscle car's powder blue coat had been recently sprayed, the white soft top restored, the chrome hubcaps and bumpers buffed to a mirror shine. The stand-alone building fronted an enormous mesh- enclosed preserve, like a butterfly pavilion, a bite of maybe fifteen acres from Playa Vista's Ballona Wetlands. A gravel road carved through the marshy ground, widening into a parking lot. Frogs and crickets shrilled. To the west the concrete-clad Ballona Creek moved slow and steady, pulled along like a strip of black fabric. The wetlands between were a surprising sprawl of nature within eyeshot of Lincoln Boulevard.
The last few customers trickled out, paintball guns holstered or dangling from slings, their store-crisp camo getups looking like Halloween costumes. Monday nights, Walker guessed, were slow when it came to war games.
He caught the solid oak door on its backswing and entered the spacious front room. With its wall-mounted weapons, framed Soldier of Fortune covers, and wooden bar complete with thatch canopy, tiki torches, elk heads, and twining plants, the lounge was part tropical-themed frat house, part movie-villain lair. The lights had been turned off, though a desk lamp remained on in the connecting room, illuminating brackets of guns and video equipment, clipboards hanging from pegs, and a row of lockers. To the side of a service counter, a wide ass barely accommodated by board shorts jutted into view, its owner rustling in the cabinets below.
Walker moved silently through the lounge toward the office, passing a curtained entrance to the enclosed preserve. Humid air breathed through the olive drab gauze, smelling of greenhouse. A camo tarpaulin banner secured by twine arced across the threshold between the two rooms, red letters offering what Walker assumed was the corporate tagline: GAME: SEXUALITY DISTILLED. Catching the drift, his eyes pulled to a routed-wood sign nailed to a door: GIRLS' CHANGING-OUT-OF ROOM-NO ENTRY!!!
An obese tabby hopped up on the counter, sending a paintball gun into a rasping rotation. A high-pitched man's voice issued from below. 'Be careful, Elektra.'
The cat took note of Walker's shadowy presence, hissing with alarming ferocity. A moment later a pink-faced man hoisted himself into view. A line of perspiration twinkled across a baby-smooth upper lip. Breast mounds bulged out a Hawaiian shirt. Around his neck hung a badge: PAINTBALL COMMANDER. FOUR-TIME COURSE CHAMPION. Walker remembered similar custom-made badges marketed in law-enforcement catalogs, advertised as 'real nickel.'
The man spoke with unexpected confidence. 'Sorry, pal. Closed for the night.'
Walker stayed a few steps back in the shadows. The man grew wary of his silence. 'Listen, pal. I'm the owner, and I'm tired of the bullshit. Write an angry letter to the editor or something, but get the hell out. Now.'
Still Walker didn't respond. The man's hand rustled under the counter, but then his arm froze. 'That's not a paintball gun.'
The wall-cut light of the desk lamp went no farther than Walker's wrist, illuminating the Redhawk and little more. 'No.'
The tabby judiciously retreated from the countertop, taking up residence on a row of binders lining a rear shelf. The window looked out over the parking lot, empty save for the beloved Olds.
The Mickey Mouse voice lost some of its confidence. 'I'm the four-time course champion. You don't want to tangle with me, pal. All right?'
Walker stepped forward, letting the light fall across his face. He nodded at the man's hidden hand. 'Pick it up. Go on.'
'Umm…'
'Pick it up.'
'I don't really want to.'
Walker cocked the hammer, and the man cringed and slowly withdrew his hand from beneath the counter, careful to keep the SIG Sauer aimed away.
'Point it at me,' Walker said.
The pistol trembled in the man's grip. 'Do I have to?'
'Yes.'
It took him an eternity to fight his hand north, to place Walker in the sights.
'Open your eyes,' Walker said. The man was cringing, sweat beading at the band of forehead beneath his receding hairline. Walker waited until the terrified pupils came into sight. He stared down the barrel of the SIG. 'You
