wasn't cooperative?' She pointed at the reheated chicken and mashed potatoes. 'You need to start thinking straight. So eat something.'
It was past midnight, and Tim hadn't had a bite since breakfast, but his stomach was churning, and putting food into it seemed like a bad idea. He pushed the plate over next to a mound of field files and continued reviewing the break-in report from Richco warehouse security. 'It was a ploy to catch him.'
'And you wanted your hands on those legal files. When you made the arrest. So you could take it from there against the Kagans. A ploy. So was swallowing the spider to catch the fly.' She waited, arms crossed. Tim knew she would take his silence as an affirmation, and she'd be right. She said, 'You're too clever by half. Walker is not a colleague.'
Tim stayed his quickest reaction-defensiveness-as he tried to do when his wife was right, which was most of the time. 'I know that,' he said evenly.
'Do you?' Dray wiped her hands on a dish towel and threw it on the counter. She nudged the plate back before him. 'Eat. Or I'm gonna throw it at you.'
Coverage of the second assault on the Kagan compound was playing on every news channel, blown tabloid- wide with speculation. Dean had wasted no time retaining a crisis-management PR firm, the just-flown-in spokeswoman for Vector and Beacon-Kagan insisting, on a slate of station-hopping spot interviews, that the threat was limited and it would be business as usual come morning.
The phone banks at the command post had lit up like Christmas, the media requests so heavy that Tannino had to designate a second public information officer to share the load. A former B-list director had called in hysterically when a corpse, illuminated by the running lights of his motor yacht in the waters of the Marina, had disrupted a late-night cruise with a Penthouse Pet. While Tim and Bear, along with half the task force, had been chasing a Doberman in circles, Haines had responded to the Marina, bringing back copies of the crime-scene photos. Chuck Hannigan, Chase's limo driver, had been suspended underwater, his bloated arms bobbing overhead, knuckles nearly breaching the surface. Melissa Yueh had gotten ahold of the murder and run with it. KCOM's panicky coverage left the impression that Walker was littering the city with bodies, which Tim conceded was accurate. No question as to how Walker was getting his information. His methods certainly lent credence to Dray's concerns.
Tim picked at a drumstick with a tine of his fork. 'Chase Kagan raped Walker's sister, then his rich daddy probably had her whacked when she turned up pregnant. So yes, that possibility grinds at me, and if I'm working Tess's case also, that's my prerogative.'
'Since when? You're a federal deputy, and your jurisdiction doesn't get anywhere near Tess Jameson's murder. Your attention-your professional attention-is in the wrong place. Dean Kagan did not kill an inmate and break out of Terminal Island. Tess's murder doesn't concern you.'
'It concerns me to the extent it drives this case. And it's getting clearer every hour that it is driving this case. The evidence trail from that murder has been the only way to track Walker.'
'Fine. But you're turning it upside down. Again. Chase Kagan is a victim in your investigation.'
'And probably a rapist.'
'Right, Timothy, but we don't have the death penalty for rape, not before a trial and certainly not before charges are brought. Don't use what happened to that woman as a pretext for snapping into loose-cannon mode.'
'For Christ's sake, Andrea. Back off. I didn't kill Chase. I did everything to warn them. But dealing with the Kagans is like punching sand.'
'Look. These guys are assholes, sure, and they're up to shady, rich-white-man bullshit. I get it. And Walker's had some crappy breaks and a dick lieutenant who screwed him over, and his dad's a smug asshole who reminds you of your own father.'
'Where the hell did that come from?'
Dray's look answered that, and she continued unimpeded, 'You got a sick kid with Disney orphan eyes and an attractive ex, and no one on that side of the fence has caught a break in their lives, but that's all exactly irrelevant to the job. Walker Jameson has killed a prisoner and four civilians, and he's gonna keep on killing unless your task force stops him.'
'I know!' Tim knocked his plate with his hand. It flipped over, bouncing on the floor, mashed potatoes splattering against the refrigerator.
Unfazed, Dray continued wiping the counter, her bare feet dodging the blotches of potato stuck to the linoleum.
He watched her back for a few minutes. Then he said, 'The thing is…'
Dray paused, half turned. 'What?'
'I like him.'
Dray came over, bearing a fresh plate of food and a mop. She placed the plate before Tim, leaning the mop against the table to his side. 'Of course you do.' She ruffled his hair, kissed him on the forehead, and headed back to the bedroom.
He sat a moment before rising and scooping up the chicken and clumps of mashed potato. Smirking at himself, he wiped off the fridge door and mopped the floor.
Sitting back before his collection of reports and vivid photos, Tim clicked open the wheel of his Smith amp; Wesson, thumbed it hard, and watched the brass spin. With a jerk of his wrist, he snapped it shut.
His Nextel vibrated, dancing across a photo of Chuck Hannigan's suspended corpse.
Over the din of the command post, Freed's weary voice said, 'I've been running down info on Pierce Jameson since nine 'o clock.'
Reading Freed's tone, Tim leaned forward, on point. 'And?'
'One of his holding companies owns a portfolio company that owns a housing development called Sunnyslope Family Homes. It's tied up in litigation, shut down by the Department of Health. But this morning? Someone had the power turned back on. In just one unit.'
Tim's mind went to the description Speedy had given of the security truck he'd spotted by the Kagan estate's perimeter the night of Ted Sands's murder. His recollection of the name on the decal had been hazy: one of those shitty family communities out in, say, the West Valley. Shady Hills. Pleasantview.
Or Sunnyslope.
Tim was on his feet, halfway to the garage. 'Scramble the squad.'
Chapter 55
The ground stank of sewage, and the night canyon fog wasn't helping any. To the right of the complex gate and its supporting stand of adobe-block wall, Maybeck had offset two segments of the transportable chain link, creating a gap through which the other ART members silently whisked in their olive drab flight suits. Subdued gray flags and Service patches decorated the sleeves. The ARTists held their MP5s, set to three-round bursts, at high- ready. Having come from home, Tim alone wore civilian clothes-jeans, T-shirt. His hip-holstered. 357 also made him stand out; the others wore. 40 Glocks slung at the thigh. Even bulkier in his tactical vest, Bear clutched his cut- down twelve-gauge Remington in a hand made invisible by darkness and a black glove. Tim breezed through the gap in the fence, and Bear came a moment later, looking wary but popping his broad frame through.
Maybeck cocked a finger at the one house that was clearly completed, and the eight deputies jogged in a silent single-file approach, the odor thickening. Freed had discovered that the parcel hadn't passed the perc test for a septic drain field. Too much clay and rock, not enough subsoil to take the runoff. After an inspection determined that the information previously given about the land's absorbency was falsified, the Department of Health had pulled the permit and the Building Department had issued a cease-and-desist order. Pierce was countersuing, a move Tim knew-thanks to a primary education at his father's school of shenanigans-was a stall tactic until an understanding could be reached with the right city official.
Tim caught sight of the security pickup, hidden between two Dumpsters. No sign of another vehicle-he still held out hopes for the Camry that had been stolen near the landfill. If Walker had another vehicle, he would've stashed it elsewhere, establishing a motor pool for strategic switches.
