that Dean argues a good case. Tess reconsiders her priorities. She leaves the tape in her lawyer's hands-makes sense-then drops the rape case to protect Sam. Even shows up at The Ivy to show she's playing nice. So why'd Vector kick him off the trial list anyway?'
'Whatever she got off Chase's BlackBerry that night…' Dray said.
'Of course,' Tim said. 'The rape was her wedge. Dean offered her a better in with Vector to smooth things over. She used it to dig for whatever she was looking for. Something so Vector couldn't get her over a barrel and drop Sam later.'
'You can bet she was rooting through unattended briefcases, poking around the lab on her visits, questioning the scientists,' Bear said. 'Now, we only met Chase twice, and we know that BlackBerry is his lifeline. She saw a chance at it, and she grabbed it. If anything, she was well researched about the Vector information pipeline-either she knew something was due to come downstream or she ran a search-find on his e-mails and hit the jackpot. She wanted more insurance. What she got was too much insurance.'
Dray was nodding. 'She picked up-as Dean said-'better leverage,' and the old man had to play hardball after all. She sure as hell signaled her extracurricular interest in Vector at the end of their chat here. I bet Dean watched her pretty tight after that.'
Bear pulled himself up, grabbed the microcassette, and checked his watch. 'We need to make copies now. And we'll need an enhancement of that security footage from The Ivy. But we can't do it at the office.'
Tim was already dialing. He got the beep of a pager tone and punched in his and Dray's home number. He'd barely hung up when the phone rang-it seemed impossible that the page could have gone through so quickly. Tim answered.
'What now, Rackley?' Pete Krindon sounded rushed, as always. An off-the-books technical security specialist, Pete freelanced for all order of agencies and individuals on both sides of the law. Tim and Bear used him to boldly go where no warrant could take them and to cover technological angles that hadn't yet filtered through FLETC and Quantico classrooms.
'I got some digitally formatted security footage I need you to bring up the resolution on. We gotta make a high-quality copy tonight.'
'Tonight? So you have dubious ownership over said footage.'
'Precisely. It's taking a brief pit stop here on its way back to its rightful owner. We want it crisp, so I'd like your equipment on it.'
'I can make the copy, but there's no way I have time to do an enhancement for you tonight. When you need it by?'
'Aarrhghdfhah!'
'What?'
'Ty!' Tim shouted. 'Get off the phone!'
Dray jogged back to corral their son from his late-night expedition.
'Sorry,' Tim said. 'The sooner the better. Can you do it?'
'What else? Dry cleaning? Baby formula?'
'He's on solids now.'
'This wouldn't have to do with that over-the-wall at TI you've been working?'
'How'd ya guess?'
'That boy is relentless,' Pete said with admiration, his distinctive half smile detectable in his voice. 'Reminds me of you.'
A sticky thumb pried Tim's eyelid north, revealing Tyler's face offset by ninety degrees. Already he'd donned the Evel Knievel helmet. 'Kaiyer eat beckfest.'
It was 6:38 by the alarm clock on Tim's nightstand. He'd dozed off less than an hour ago; the quality of light in the bedroom had yet to change. 'Splendid,' he said.
He dragged himself from bed, Dray muttering something about sock puppets from a dream stupor. By the time he got Ty dressed, Dray was ready to take over, so Tim ducked into a cool shower to wake himself up. He retrieved his. 357 from the gun safe and headed down the hall.
Tyler sat in his booster, Snowball's cage at his elbow. When served oatmeal, he demanded that his hamster eat with him, a rigid adherence to some arcane decree of child logic.
Dray smiled at Tim. 'Good morning, sweetie. I'm just cooking you some eggs and bacon.'
'Really?'
'No. Are you high?' Dray tossed him a granola bar, then held his face in both hands and planted one on him.
He glanced past her again. Tyler stood, face sneery with exertion, his legs spread as if to muster strength. The engorged bubble of Snowball's head peeked from his fist.
Tim ran over and pried Snowball free. If hamsters could look relieved, Snowball did. Last week Dray had caught Tyler preparing to swing him by his tail. No wonder the little guy ate and slept every chance he got.
'You can't do that, bub. We talked about this.'
'Fowball eyes budge.'
'Yeah, his eyes bulge. But you'll hurt him. We're gonna have to put him somewhere safe now.' Tim inserted Snowball back into his cage and lifted it to the refrigerator top, already crowded with other Typhoon contraband.
Tyler was bawling, again with the huge tears-the horror, the horror of the confiscated hamster. His chubby legs were doing their Wild Things dance, high knees, downward stomps.
'If you're gonna scream, you're gonna have to scream in your room,' Tim said. 'Your animals may want to hear that, but your mother doesn't. Get going.'
Tyler rearranged his features in a cartoon pout and thumped out of the kitchen. Tim wondered which sitter had reinforced that expression, because he was sure Tyler wouldn't get mileage out of Dray on it.
Tim walked over and gave Dray a quick embrace. He'd just turned for the door when a crash from the kitchen startled him. Bathed in the yellow glow of the open refrigerator, Tyler lay on his back amid a head of lettuce, four flaking onions, and several still-rolling oranges. The preceding scene pieced together immediately; Ty had pried open the fridge door and tried to use the interior shelves as ladder rungs to get to Snowball. It took Tim a moment to realize that his son had only feigned a retreat to his bedroom, really circling the living room couch and sneaking back into the kitchen while his parents had been occupied hugging. Confronted with the blunt nature of Tyler's deviousness, Tim found himself encountering as much admiration as anger. Though he rarely admitted it, he used to feel the same watching his father work one of his elaborate deceptions. Determination and cunning-the essential qualities of a good con man. Or a deputy U.S. marshal.
'I got this,' Dray said. 'Go stamp out crime.'
As Dray descended on Tyler, still sheepishly awash in incriminating produce, Tim slipped out and trudged down the walk toward his Explorer, which he'd left at the curb. For once Tad Hartley wasn't up already, mowing his lawn in the FBI windbreaker he'd worn unfailingly since retirement. An anorexic girl wheezed by on the sidewalk, a skittish Chihuahua in a knit sweater fluttering after her. The annoyances of L.A. hipness had recently started to migrate to Moorpark. Attitude poured in with the rising housing market, which Tim figured for a fair trade. Home to the state's largest concentration of law enforcement residents, Moorpark would not have been mistaken for Chihuahua-friendly a mere few years ago.
As Tim chirped the car alarm, a guy in a USC baseball cap stepped around the Explorer, whistling and tossing a football to himself. The football took flight at Tim's chest, and his hands pulled up, instinctively, to catch it.
He felt a tug at his waist as his revolver was lifted from his holster, and then the guy's head tilted back and Walker Jameson stared out from beneath the brim.
Chapter 57
Walker flicked Tim's gun to indicate the front seat, sliding into the back as Tim got behind the wheel. The doors closed, and they were locked behind tinted windows.
'Drop your phone and portable radio over your back. Now cuff yourself to the steering wheel. Attaboy.' Walker
