“Yeah.”

“Somebody ratted you out, and it’s not a very long chain.”

“We’re running out of options here. We don’t cash out, we’ll be running on fumes pretty quick.”

“Something’s fucked here. I’ve been on the other side of hunts like this. We should be all over the news. Hell, we should be caught by now. Somebody needs to keep this on the QT, which means we’ve got some kind of leverage we haven’t figured out yet.”

Hardin thought a minute. “Give me a place to stand,” he said, “and I will move the world.”

“What the hell are you talking about?

“Archimedes, Greek guy. He was big on leverage.”

Wilson snagged a pair of boxers out of the open suitcase on the floor next to her and threw them at the bed.

“Leave the Greeks out of this, smartass, it’s complicated enough. Now get your ass dressed and buy me breakfast. Then we’ll go lever shopping.”

CHAPTER 56

“Shut the fuck up,” said Starshak. Lynch and Bernstein were in his office with Corsco and Ringwald. Ringwald had been whining about Lynch insisting they come in to the station, not being willing to talk at Ringwald’s office. “Corsco’s a crook; you’re the mouthpiece that chose to make a living sucking up to him. This ain’t a courtroom; you’re not on tape, so save it. We been trying to talk to this piece of shit for five days, you guys giving us the song and dance, now you’re whining cause we don’t show our ass for you?”

Corsco reached over, patted the top of Ringwald’s thigh. “It’s alright, Gerry. We know to expect a certain amount of abuse from these gentlemen.” Corsco was a trim, tall man, dark hair graying on the sides. Expensive suit, expensive shirt, expensive tie.

Corsco raised his eyebrows, looked around the room. “I assume you have some questions for me?”

“Shamus Fenn,” said Lynch.

“A fine actor,” said Corsco.

“Know him?” Lynch asked.

“We’ve met. I advised him and his company when they were filming in town a few years ago.”

“Which film was that?” Lynch asked.

“Cal Sag Channel,” said Corsco.

“Advised on what?”

Corsco smiled, paused. “Verisimilitude.”

“Strange,” said Bernstein. “All these years you tell us you’re not a mobster, yet when Hollywood needs someone to vet their gangster movie, you’re the guy they call.”

Corsco shrugged. “I am a simple businessman. If entertainers want to pay for my opinions, well as the saying goes, this is a free country, right?” He turned to Ringwald, eyebrows raised.

“A free country so long as we are vigilant against abuses by the authorities,” Ringwald said.

“But you do know Fenn?” said Lynch.

Corsco nodded.

“Talk to him much? I mean since your Hollywood days?”

“From time to time,” said Corsco.

“In the last few weeks?” Lynch asked.

“I knew he was in town. I called to say hello. I was saddened to hear of his, well, his health crisis.”

“Ever hear of Nick Hardin?” asked Starshak.

Corsco smiled again. “As chagrined as I am to admit it, I did catch the little episode on Oprah.”

“So you know he had a beef with Fenn?”

Corsco nodded.

“And then a couple of your shooters make a run at him.”

Ringwald put his hand up. “First of all, characterizing these gentlemen as ‘shooters’ and as ‘his’ assumes facts not in evidence.”

Corsco patted Ringwald’s leg again.

“Did I know these gentlemen? Yes. They have assisted me with security matters from time to time. But are they employees of mine? No. They are… I suppose independent contractors would be the word. Now, because I do have interests in certain industries in which the criminal element sometimes dabbles, I do hear things. And as a gesture of good faith, I will tell you this. It is my understanding that this Hardin has a personal dispute with one of the major Mexican drug lords. In fact, I believe there was an event in the suburbs a few days ago that demonstrates that. I can only suppose that Mr DeGetano and Mr Garbanzo, being security contractors, were pursuing Hardin for Hernandez.”

“Convenient for you, isn’t it?” said Lynch.

“I’m sorry?”

“This Hernandez turning up.”

“Not very convenient for Mr Garbanzo or Mr DeGetano.”

Lynch nodded. “Ever hear of Bobby Lee?”

Corsco shrugged.

Lynch pulled Lee’s photo from a file, slid it across the desk.

“How long has he been hacking the city’s surveillance network for you?” asked Lynch.

Corsco and Ringwald stood simultaneously. “This meeting is over,” said Ringwald.

“We’re into Lee’s system,” said Lynch. “Just thought you should know.”

“I said this meeting is over, Detective,” Ringwald repeated. Corsco and Ringwald left the office.

“Sure you should have given them that, about Lee?” Starshak asked.

“Not like they can get into Lee’s system now, change anything,” Lynch said. “Maybe they panic, make a move to cover their asses on something we don’t know about yet. The more shook up they are, the better.”

In the back seat of Corsco’s caddy, Corsco turned to Ringwald.

“Two questions, Gerry. First, what might Lee have that could point to us? Second, why isn’t Fenn dead yet?”

Ringwald didn’t answer, just nodded. The questions weren’t rhetorical exactly, he just didn’t have answers. The caddy pulled into Corsco’s building, dropped Ringwald at his car. He headed home.

CHAPTER 57

The Wilson cunt was Sandoval’s sister. Hernandez knew that as soon as he saw her. And he could have killed her easily, years ago. Why hadn’t he? Just another puta, that’s why. Just another warm, wet hole that caught his brother’s eye.

The kid hanging from the engine hoist was moaning again. Miko knew. He’d seen Hernandez like this before, and he knew. Until the boss blew off his rage, he wouldn’t be able to focus. So he’d talked to the head of the LK crew, got a name. Just a street dealer, dropout who ran a couple corners in Aurora near one of the high schools. But he’d gotten a little greedy. They all skimmed something – almost couldn’t trust them if they didn’t. But they had to know where the line was. This kid had crossed it. Maybe only put a toe over it really, kind of thing usually you just throw a scare into him. But the boss needed a punching bag, so the kid’s wrists were cuffed together, the cuffs over the hook for the engine hoist, the hoist holding him a couple feet off the floor. The LK crew was lined up in the back, bearing witness.

Hernandez picked up the bat again. He’d started with the kid’s legs, but those were pretty well pulped now. And Hernandez’s head was clearing, most of the poison sweated out. The kid was conscious again, looking at him, face streaked with dirt and sweat and tears. Hernandez felt something like shame, just for a moment – he knew the kid wasn’t that far out of line, knew what Miko was doing – and then just pity.

“Jefe,” the kid blubbered. “Please, Jefe–”

Enough, thought Hernandez. End this here. Hernandez drew the bat straight back over his head, all the way back until he felt the fat end tap his back, and then snapped it down hard onto the crown of the kid’s skull. Heard that crunching, slushy sound he knew too well. The kid hung limp from the chain, blood coming from his ears, his eyes, his nose. Hernandez dropped the bat to the floor, turned and walked from the garage, out into the parking lot, waited while Miko came around and opened his door, sat in the back of the new Mercedes the local crew had provided. Miko got in the front and started to drive.

“Thank you, Miko,” Hernandez said.

“De nada, Jefe.”

“Let’s get to work on Sandoval. We find the bitch, we find them both.”

“Wilson, Jefe,” said Miko.

“Whoever gets to bury her can decide what name to put on the stone. Just find me that bitch.”