"Let me know if you do." Tim pocketed the picture. "I'll need a list of your employees and clients. We won't let leak that you slipped it to us."
Wes's face reddened. "Employees, sure, but you think we keep a client list here? Not with this business. I'd be finished."
"You knew Ted Sands by name, and I doubt he ambled up with his briefcase full of cash and gave his driver's license as collateral to reserve the lockers. Can't exactly recognize him from the picture the Times ran either. Even if the names your clients sign on your waivers are bullshit-which I'm sure they are-and even if the occasional credit card you run traces to an offshore account or a shell corp-which it might-I know you keep different records for when you need blackmail leverage on a powerful client or for when the girls rent out after hours. If not, you'd be a fool and an incompetent pimp, and we both know you're neither."
"I don't have shit." Some of Wes's swagger was returning, along with the first premonition that he might have been duped. "And if you serve on me, you won't get anything either. There's nothing to get."
Tim straightened up. "Listen to me closely, Wes. You're gonna get me those names, and you're going to do it right now while I wait. And I'm not waiting long."
Wes affected a casual sneer, but his voice came out higher than usual. "Or else?"
"We will tear apart every square foot of your operation, and we'll do so with vigor and pleasure. I will call my buddy at the IRS, my brother-in-law who's a comer in the Office of Finance, and my niece who's a lesbian feminist in the U.S. Attorney's Office looking to make a name. We will write you up, tie you up, and drag you into court for nuances of the law you've never heard of, right down to the missing side view on your Oldsmobile out front. I will post federal agents outside your property to tip their hats to all the ministers and judges who come in here to shoot naked girls' flanks. By the time the news crews catch wind, there won't be space for their vans to park. You think that'll go over swell with your 'clientele'? Look at me." Tim snapped his fingers, terminating the drift of Wes's dismayed eyes. "I will ruin your life. I will eat you for lunch and come back for seconds. There is a murder investigation we have traced here, and I will see the law do right by that victim if I have to burn you and every other woman-hating shitheel who's plunked down a dime in this fuckhole."
Wes's mouth had creaked slightly open. A line of sweat glistened in the strands of his scraggly mustache. Tim's voice had not raised a notch.
Tim said, "I will be patient until I leave this room. Now, you give me those names to make me go away happy or your carefree life ends in"-he reached over the counter and retrieved Wes's stopwatch-"five minutes."
Thirty-seven seconds passed, and then Wes slid off the barstool, falling onto his feet. He fussed at the computer with the lethargic motions of the chronically depressed and printed an employee list, then retrieved a lockbox from a cabinet and removed a mound of license-plate photos, some with names and addresses written 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."