Tim asked the SWAT commander, "Where's Laurey? Is the house safed?"
"House is safed. No one else here."
"Are you sure? Are you positive? You checked the attic?"
"Yes, we checked the attic." He turned to one of his agents, forearm resting atop his MP5. "Who is this fucking guy?"
Malane interceded, grabbing the commander's arm and talking to him in a whispered rush as Tim stepped back and holstered his. 357. He checked the other rooms, moving desperately now, tearing aside shower curtains and dust ruffles. The FBI agents watched him with curiosity. Defeated, he returned to the living room.
Al-Malik's dark blazer had split along one of the arm seams, tufts of white thread sticking up at the shoulder. Seeing him now, Tim felt as he had when watching the televised army medic pick nits out of Saddam's beard: how disappointingly undersize monsters were in ordinary light.
Dana machine-gunned questions at the arresting agents: "What are you charging me with? Where's my phone call? Do you have a history of brutality, or are you starting fresh with this arrest?"
Malane stood beside her as she argued and jerked against the cuffs, calmly imploring her to sign an Advice of Rights form. Watching his levelheaded recitation, Tim felt a newfound respect for him. Maybe he'd misread some of Malane's earlier coolness.
Dana addressed Tim over Malane's shoulder. "Don't look at me, Rackley. You haven't won anything here."
He worked his lip between his teeth, his mind on Den Laurey cruising free as Peter Fonda, but without the fruity helmet.
"You've got some client list, Ms. Lake," Malane said. "Bikers and terrorists-hell, you've got a full roster. It's all about putting people together, isn't it? Putting them together while hiding behind attorney-client privilege. How many money launderers have you represented in the past five years?"
"Plenty. I'm a defense attorney."
"And a quick study, I'd imagine."
"These are baseless charges. They'll be dropped within twenty-four hours."
"Nice legalese on the Good Morning Vacations small print. Clever stuff."
"You have zero evidence to tie me to anything."
"Wrong answer," Malane said. "The correct answer is 'What's Good Morning Vacations?'"
Tim walked outside, sitting on a rickety porch swing. The neighbors were at their front doors and windows; a few kids circled behind the FBI trucks on their bikes, calling questions to the agents.
The SWAT commander hustled Al-Malik along the walk as a helicopter swooped over the rooftops and touched down on the street. Maybe the arrest would be announced on the evening news, maybe not. The Prophet would disappear into an unofficial holding cell somewhere, hidden in Homeland Security's long shadow, or he'd be shipped off to Guantanamo Bay, where international law-and the Constitution-couldn't get through the barbed wire and humidity. Watching Al-Malik being guided into the helo, Tim thought it likely that this was the last time he'd hear of him.
Tim reached Bear by Nextel; he and Guerrera had scooped up Babe Donovan and were headed back to Cell Block to book her.
Bear issued a grunt when Tim told him Den wasn't in custody. "I'll tell her her boyfriend won't be joining her."
"Just yet," Tim said.
He hung up and watched the ascending helicopter ruffle the picture-perfect lawn in liquid patterns. Dana Lake made her cuffed exit in time to have her sleek hairdo blown lopsided before she was helped into a black van. The copter banked and faded. The van cruised past the partition and disappeared.
After maybe fifteen minutes, Malane came outside and stood over Tim, thumbing his belt loop, hip cocked. His eyes, set deep in their sockets, sloped down at the outer edges. He looked hound-dog thoughtful. For the first time, Tim noticed the gold band on his left hand, dulled from years of wear.
"No Den Laurey," Malane said.
"No Den Laurey."
"How long you been married?"
"Ten years last month."
"Five myself. January. Second time through." Malane looked up the street where the media vans were gathering at the blockade. They seemed to transform, unfolding into studio-lit dioramas. Well-groomed women gabbed against the backdrop, camera lenses pointed at them like interested faces. Malane seemed to want to say something but couldn't land on the words. Finally he looked down at Tim, his eyes sad, or maybe it was just the shape of them. "I'll help you find him any way I can."
Some of the agents on the front lawn circled up, voices high, reliving the capture. "…when he was going for the closet, you put him down."
A passing agent paused on the porch to thump Malane's back. "Congrats, Jeff."
"Thanks." Malane's tone didn't match the triumphant mood of the others. He scratched his cheek, calm and detached as always, getting back to outstanding business. "Rich told you about the cell-phone transmissions we picked up on Uncle Pete?"
"He did."
"We have the evidence in hand now. That's enough to firm the case against him. You want to tell Bear and Guerrera to meet us there when we roll him up?"
Before Tim could answer, Malane's cell phone trilled.
He snapped it open. "Malane." He listened a moment, and then his face changed. "Ah, shit," he said softly.
He hung up and stood, running the tip of his shoe over a patch of splinters on the porch. His eyes were moist. A few of the agents on the lawn answered their phones and glanced at their pagers, celebratory smiles dissipating instantly.
When Malane glanced up at Tim, his face was taut, the skin blotched red on his pale throat. "I'm gonna need you."
Chapter 57
El Matador isn't accessible by car or bike. The desolate beach is reachable only by a treacherous hike down a steep hill. Rock formations close in the beach, and a few large boulders thrust up from the surf, fighting the waves and sending sheets of mist across the thin strip of Malibu sand.
The oil drum lay half buried at the high-tide mark, draped in piss-yellow seaweed. Sandpipers hopped around on stick-skinny legs. An agent shooed a coat of seagulls off the drum, the FBI lettering glittering in the moisture on the back of his windbreaker. Another avian wave washed in almost instantly, hungry heads bobbing and picking at the metal.
One side of the drum seemed to pulse with life; it wasn't until Tim and Malane neared that Tim realized it was crawling with crabs. A few surfers bobbed offshore beyond the break, mellow rubberneckers.
Tim and Malane reached the cluster of agents around the drum. Some algae had collected on it, but the metal had mostly remained shiny. A blowtorch swung at the side of one of the agents. The drum's lid, now propped back in place to keep out the critters, had previously been welded on. An Evidence Response Team agent, nineteenth-hole casual in his Royal Robbins cargo khakis and an ERT polo, held the lid shut so the struggling crabs couldn't shove their way inside. When Malane stepped close, he let it fall.
Malane leaned over, hands on his knees, and looked inside. He let out a deep breath, then turned to the fresh ocean breeze.
Tim moved forward and crouched. Despite some bloating and the work the little fish had done around the mouth and eyes, Rich Mandrell's face was still recognizable. His eye patch's band had slid down around his neck, and his pinkie ring was dulled from the seawater immersion. A few pencils of light poked through the metal where holes had been drilled; the oil drum had probably floated for a while before sinking, prolonging his terror. One of the crabs had gotten a claw stuck through a hole; it bobbed obscenely, inches from Rich's sea-slick hair.
Safety-pinned to his jeans at the back of his thigh, beyond the reach of his trapped arms, was a Polaroid, faded from the salt water. But not too faded for Tim to make out the image-Raymond Smiles at the wheel of his sedan on the freeway, his face barely visible behind the tinted window and a pair of dark glasses.