I’ll be teaching Abby a few lessons about loyalty.
On the phone, minutes ago, Reynolds used the same words.
It was Abby he meant to take care of tonight. The same Abby-had to be-that the FBI woman was looking to nail for Garrick’s murder.
“You there, Ron?” That was Biscuit. Shanker had forgotten about him.
“The FBI agent,” Shanker said, “she was working this angle pretty hard, huh? So there’s a bunch of feds out looking for this Abby right now?”
“Not a bunch. Just one. McCallum. She’s working it alone.”
“She can’t be.”
“She is. It’s her style. She’s famous, Ron. If you would ever read the newspapers-”
“I only read the sports.” This wasn’t true. Shanker read the comics page, too, but never admitted it. “You really think McCallum is flying solo?”
“Looks that way.”
Shanker was thinking fast. If McCallum picked up Abby for questioning, then he and Reynolds wouldn’t be able to get her tonight. And Abby had worked for the Man before quitting. Under interrogation, there was no telling what she might say, especially if she was facing a homicide rap for Dylan Garrick. If she named Reynolds as her employer, the congressmen would be the next one questioned. That might be what McCallum was really after. If Reynolds was brought in, it wouldn’t be long before the whole goddamned thing was out in the open.
But if McCallum didn’t find Abby by six o’clock tonight, it would be too late. Abby would be gone for good. She wouldn’t be talking to anybody.
“You got any way to get in touch with McCallum?” Shanker asked.
Biscuit sounded puzzled. “She left her card. I tossed it. But I can dig it out of the trash.”
“Call her. Set up a meeting, just you and her. When she shows up, kill her.”
On the other end of the line, Biscuit drew in a harsh breath. “Fuck, man. She’s goddamned FBI.”
“Yeah, so what? You never bagged a fed before?”
“I only ever killed anybody that one time, Ron, and you know it.”
“Yeah, well, today you get to go again. Don’t act like you got a choice about this. You signed on, Biscuit. You would’ve been dead in stir if our boys hadn’t adopted you. Those Mexishit assholes were just waiting to take you down. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“No.”
“White man kills a cholo in a bar fight, ends up in jail with a bunch of other cholos breathing down his neck, and only the Scorpions could save him. Pull up your shirt, you’ll see a prison tat on your goddamned flabby-tit hairless chest. You’re in the crew. We looked out for you in Soledad, and now we’re calling in the favor.”
“Ron, a thing like this can bring down a world of hurt on all of us.”
“A world of hurt is what you’re gonna be in if you don’t follow orders.”
“Shit.”
“It’s no big deal to zipper a fed. They act like they’re ten feet tall, but they bleed like anybody else. And this one’s a woman. That makes it double easy.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“You are today.”
“Can’t you get somebody else?”
“It’s you she made contact with. If you set up a meeting, it’s you she’ll be expecting. So you get to pull the trigger on her. Nothing fancy, just one round in the head. You can nail her before she knows what’s happening. Okay?”
“Okay, Ron. Okay. God damn, I never thought I’d have to do this shit again.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle, Biscuit. It’ll come right back to you. Just make sure you drop her before she gets a chance to drop you.”
Shanker ended the call, hoping he’d made the right decision. When McCallum turned up dead, every law enforcement officer in southern Cal would be hauling in suspects. It would get ugly. The situation might spin out of control.
But maybe he could start to set things right in a few hours, when he met the Man at the hotel.
He decided he’d better bring that sawed-off shotgun, and whatever else he had left in his wall safe.
Shit, bring it all.
39
Tess had returned to the crime scene and was thinking of reinterviewing the tenants when her cell phone rang. Caller ID showed a number with a local area code.
“McCallum,” she answered.
“It’s me.”
She heard the growly voice of the bartender from Fast Eddie’s, the last person she’d expected to hear from.
“Hey, Biscuit,” she said warily.
“I gave it some thought. Maybe I can help you out, after all.”
“Okay. So did a woman hook up with Dylan last night?”
“Yeah. They left together.”
“Can you describe her?”
“I’m no good at descriptions.”
“How about if you look at some pictures?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. But not in the bar. The place is already starting to fill up. People can’t see me talking to you, looking at a six-pack.”
A photo six-pack, he meant. Police terminology for a cluster of mug shots shown to a witness or an informant. She wasn’t surprised he knew the term.
“Is there someplace private we can meet?” she asked.
“There’s an alley out back, behind Fast Eddie’s.”
“Would you be willing to meet me there?”
“Yeah, okay. I can’t leave the bar now, though. There ain’t nobody to cover for me. By three o’clock a couple of waitresses will be here. They can handle things while I step outside.”
“I understand.” Tess needed time, anyway. She didn’t have any other photos to show him. “So three p.m. is okay?”
“Three, or a little after. In the alley.”
His hedging on the time made her suspicious. “You’re not going to stand me up, are you, Biscuit?”
“I bet you’re not a lady who gets stood up too often.”
“And I don’t want to start now.”
“I’ll be there.”
Tess drove to the resident agency on Civic Center Drive in downtown Santa Ana. She showed her ID at the door to the third floor suite and brushed off an offer of assistance from a bored duty agent. In a back room she used a secure computer connection to access the California DMV database, where she found Abby’s driver’s license. She printed the photo, then trolled the database at random for female names, compiling five photos of other women who bore no resemblance to Abby. The six printouts would make a decent collection. If Biscuit selected Abby’s picture out of the six, there would be no doubt that she had been to the bar.
Ordinarily the photos would go in the pockets of a display sheet, but Tess didn’t have time for anything fancy. She dropped the printouts into a manila envelope from a supply cabinet, then did her best to clear the history of her searches from the PC.
The duty agent checked on her as she was finishing up. “You’re certain I can’t be of help?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Is Agent Crandall around?” Enough time had passed that she might be able to smooth things over.
“Crandall? No, he left. Went back to L.A.”
Tess frowned. “He couldn’t. I’m his ride.”
“He hitched a ride with one of our guys who was heading up there about an hour ago.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got his cell number if you need it.”
“No, that’s all right. I just thought… Never mind.”
I just thought he would wait for me, she almost said.
Apparently he hadn’t wanted to be in the same car with her during the long ride back to the L.A. office. Either that, or he hadn’t trusted her to pick him up.
The Bureau car felt lonely and too big as she headed over to Fast Eddie’s. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive north.
She arrived at the bar shortly before three and parked near the alley. It offered privacy, all right. A little too much privacy, perhaps. On one side loomed the rear wall of the bar, on the other the windowless backside of a strip mall. She wasn’t thrilled about the situation. There was a reason FBI agents normally worked in pairs.
She removed her Sig Sauer 9mm from its crossdraw holster and placed it in her jacket’s side pocket. In Denver she customarily wore a trench coat with a special side pocket for her weapon, but L.A. in summer was too warm for the coat. Even so, she felt safer with the gun at her side. In an emergency she could draw from the hip faster than from the shoulder.