flash-card style on the backs. He dumped the pictures into a plastic bag with the spreadsheet and handed them over at exactly 4:23.
Tim tossed him the stopwatch and left, nodding politely to the ladies at the bar on his way out the door. As he pulled in his first lungful of fresh wetland air, Bear eased the Explorer around, meeting him under the awning like a well-trained valet.
Chapter 46
At half past nine in the morning, the electricity kicked back on. The TV blared; the cheap chandelier over the kitchen nook flickered to life; a square worker's fan by the garage door revved up so fast it blew itself over.
At the commotion Walker had sprung from the floor up over the couch into the best position of cover the family room afforded; he found himself in a high-kneel shooting stance, his Redhawk trained on the front door. He returned his revolver to the back of his jeans and rose.
He unplugged the fan, which was rattling its death throes against the floorboards, then turned off the lights and the garbage disposal, which was roaring its waterless displeasure. He couldn't locate a remote, so he thumbed down the volume on the TV itself, leaving the morning anchor to murmur in the background about Gaza settlements.
The disposable cell remained on the arm of the sofa where he'd left it, resting atop Tess's tiny bound calendar. He picked it up, hit 'redial,' and waited for the same answering machine he'd gotten the previous nine tries.
This time a woman answered. 'Elite Chauffeur Service.'
'Yes, hi, I'm calling from the billing department at Vector Biogenics, and I'm showing an outstanding invoice from April nineteen.'
'Just a minute, sir.' She hammered on a ridiculously loud keyboard. 'Yes, here it is. I show that it's been paid in full.'
'This was the trip to the studio?'
'Yes, Quixote Studios. The limousine was booked through Mr. Kagan's office.'
On the TV, Walker's booking photo appeared in the graphics box above the newscaster's shoulder. He walked over and clicked the volume back up. 'That's the one. Apologies-I must have my records crossed.'
'No problem, sir.'
An attractive Asian reporter had filled the screen. 'Tim Rackley, known as the Troubleshooter-'
'Oh, and one more thing,' Walker said. 'The driver we used last time, Mr. Kagan liked quite a bit. What was his name?'
'Chuck Hannigan.'
He asked her to spell the last name, then asked, 'Is Mr. Hannigan available today?'
'Oh, no. He's quite busy. He's available after six?'
Walker declined, thanked her, and hung up.
Looking a touch uncomfortable under the studio lighting, Tim Rackley spoke directly to the camera. He seemed to stare into the model house's family room and address Walker alone. '-message for Walker Jameson. I understand that you believe firmly in what you're doing. I have shared your motivation. We have information about your sister that impacts what you're trying to do.'
To Tim's side the newslady couldn't contain her surprise-hot damn, a scoop unfolding right before her. Walker would bet his own face held an equal measure of shock.
The exploitation of Tess Jameson, take two.
Tim said, 'I want you to contact me at the number below, anytime, day or night.'
A 213 number popped on-screen like a telethon prompt.
Walker stepped in front of the TV, going face-to-face with the Troubleshooter. He might have been looking into a mirror.
'Careful what you wish for,' he said.
Chapter 47
A young security guard led Tim and Bear down the shiny warehouse corridor. Storage racks, bolted to the concrete floor, stretched up to the forty-foot ceiling, assiduously labeled boxes and crates filling each shelf. Industrial rolling ladders with handrails were parked at intervals like well-tended vehicles. In the dirt yard outside, the spike-collared Doberman kept protesting the deputies' intrusion. Barks and growls reached through the high windows, echoing around the bare walls of the vast building. Even Bear, nicknamed the Dog Whisperer around the Arrest Response Team for his preternatural rapport with the explosive-detection canines, had failed to settle him as he and Tim had strode to the long-term-storage warehouse's entrance.
Tim checked the lettering on the storage containers looming overhead. MARCONE. MARDEL. And at last a raft of MARTINEZes. The common surname continued around the corner to the next aisle before Tim encountered a run of legal-width cardboard boxes stamped ESTEBAN MARTINEZ, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. The file boxes, organized roughly by date, carried stickers in hazard-warning orange-CONFIDENTIAL: LAWYER-CLIENT MATERIALS.
Tim rolled a ladder over and put his foot on the bottom rung to begin his ascent. The guard rested a hand on his forearm, halting him, and turned to Bear, whom he figured for the heavy. 'Listen, you can check out whatever, but I know you're not supposed to open anything without a warrant.'
Bear quelled the kid's concerns with a Godfather-like patting of the air. 'Like we said, we're just following up on a trademark infringement. If there's no knockoff logo on the outside of the box, we're out of here. If there is, we'll come back with paper.'
Tim scaled the ladder, reaching this year's June dates on the third shelf up. He located the box from the last week of the month, grabbed it by a punched-out handle, and jogged it loose, letting the shelf support the far end. Barely pulled into view, a typed label filled the index square on the lid's side flap. Tim scanned the names, none of them familiar, then tried again with the neighboring box from mid-July. Will Newell. Fred Marcussen. Theresa Jameson.
The box Tim held propped before his face contained the legal records of Tess's meetings with her attorney on a matter likely involving Vector Biogenics. Meetings that had taken place days before her murder.
And Tim couldn't so much as crack the lid.
Bear regarded the box reverently. Tim squirmed his hand around through the punched-out handle, fingertips brushing papers. He let the tiny metal device fall inside, nodded at Bear-mission accomplished-then said, with feigned exasperation, 'No logo. Struck out,' and shoved the file box back into its slot among the others.
He descended the ladder, and he and Bear headed out, leaving Tess's files behind.
Chapter 48
The scent of brine, damp wood, and seaweed brought Walker back to exotic ports of missions past and made him crave the burn of tobacco in his lungs. Crouched at the dark brink of land, he kept his gaze fixed way at the end of the floating dock, where a houseboat rocked in its slip. The sole point of living movement, a man stooped and shuffled, waxing his deck with hand-slip brushes. Unseen crabs scuttled on the throw of black rocks at the water's edge. The slips were dotted with weekend sailboats, Bayliner cruisers, and motor yachts too spit-polished to be more than vanity possessions. A quiet place to live, undisturbed among the playthings of the rich.
The dock was well positioned at the edge of the two-mile channel off the harbor that gave Marina del Rey its name, a good distance up from Fisherman's Village with its rip-off New England buildings, cobblestone paths, and landlubber tourists wielding ice cream cones. The village's boutiques were long closed, but the eateries still threw
