The Pain Scale (39 page)

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Nothing specific. He hated that we were here. Hated everything we were doing for the congressman. They went back a long way. Someone had to pull some strings to get us here, and
Goodman wasn’t happy about it. There was some serious resentment there, but he did it anyway. That’s all I know. I’ve been trying to figure out what was going on, too. I’m just spending every day in the Federal Building going through old case files.”

“For Goodman?” I asked. “Did he have you looking for something specific?”

“No, for the LA special agent in charge. Different stuff every day. Just busywork to keep me out of Goodman’s way.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I have a sister who lives nearby.”

“Didn’t like the Westin?”

“No. Looks great. Too great. They usually put us at the Courtyard, someplace like that. Goodman was, I don’t know, overreaching? Said just because he had to do a shit job, it didn’t mean he had to stay in a shithole.”

We spent another forty-five minutes with him, and when we were done, both Jen and I were convinced he didn’t have any idea what Goodman had been doing.

Young was on his way back to his sister’s house, and Jen and I had just sat down at our desks when Ruiz came out of his office and said, “Patrick’s awake.”

B
Y THE TIME
we got to Long Beach Memorial, Patrick had been conscious for more than two hours. They let Jen in for a few minutes, but the rest of us had to wait until morning. When she came out, she told me he wasn’t able to do much but nod and blink before he fell asleep. Then she hugged me and we both went home. I knew it would be the first good night of rest she’d had since Patrick had been in there. I didn’t bother hoping for the same for myself.

“Hey, guys,” he said when we came in early the next day. The morning sun was angling in through the window of his room. There were two other beds, but they were both empty. “The doctor told me what happened to my head. You know who did it?” His voice sounded a bit ragged, and he looked tired, but he seemed like himself. I hoped that was a good sign.

We told him.

“Goodman? Really?”

“For what it’s worth, it didn’t look like he wanted to hurt you. Your head hit the table on the way down.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “The motherfucker just wanted to Taser me and remove my eyebrows with duct tape.”

“They’re not entirely gone,” Jen said.

“Not entirely? That’s not making me feel much better.”

“We only got him because of your surveillance system,” I said.

“Good thing I put it in, then.”

“When did you install it?” Jen asked.

“Soon as I moved in. Remember I had that break-in at my old place?”

I didn’t, but Jen nodded.

“Figured better safe than sorry.”

“Too bad we lost all the data,” I said.

“What do you mean? We didn’t lose any data. Only about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of hardware,” he said, with enough dejection in his voice to bring the mood in the room almost as low as had been when he was comatose.

“Wait,” I said. “What do you mean we didn’t lose any data? Goodman took all your hard drives and storage devices. We don’t know what he did with them. We definitely lost it.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick said, “when was the last time you backed up your computer?”

I was taken by surprise and didn’t know how to answer. “What? Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Jen, when was the last time you backed up?”

“Last time I used it. Backed up automatically. Just like you showed me.” She clearly enjoyed ganging up on me.

“Wait,” I said, too caught up in my thoughts to enjoy the fun they were having at my expense. “They didn’t get the data?”

“No, they got it, so they’ll know what we know. But we have it, too. Everything on my system backed up automatically every thirty minutes to multiple remote servers.”

“That’s good,” I said. “So we’ve got everything up until the time of the attack?”

“And everything since,” Patrick said. “Haven’t you ever heard of the cloud?”

I had, so I assumed he meant that he had the surveillance programs running on systems other than the one that Goodman had trashed.

“How can we access it?”

“Got a laptop?”

I went out to the car and got mine for him. He’d only been on it a few minutes before a nurse came in and told us to leave because Patrick needed to rest. He’d already opened and bookmarked two sites in Firefox for me. The first was one I recognized. It kept a real-time record of phone calls, text messages, and e-mails we were tracking. The other was unfamiliar. It looked like a Google Maps page.

“What’s this?”

“My MacBook has GPS. The marker there on the map? That’s where it is.” He tapped a red marker just above Ocean Boulevard.

I looked more closely. “That looks like the Westin.” I turned to Jen. “Think it’s in his car?”

The nurse had had enough. “I’m serious,” she said. “He needs to rest.”

“I’ve been asleep for days,” Patrick said, but she wouldn’t budge. If we wanted to stay, it looked like we’d have to draw our weapons.

I closed the MacBook and tucked it under my arm.

Patrick didn’t look like he wanted to let it go.

“We’ll bring one of yours as soon as we can,” Jen said.

“Does that work?” he said, looking at the clock radio on the table next to his bed.

I said, “Sure. You want me to put on
Morning Becomes Eclectic
?”

“I’m not a hipster.”

Most of the activity at the hotel crime scene had passed, but there were still two technicians and a few uniforms tying up the loose ends. Nichols was still there. Watching. Waiting until he could clear everything out and get back to business as usual.

“Hey, Sarge,” I said.

“Danny.” He gave me half a nod. “What did you forget?”

“Anybody been down to the garage to check out his car yet?”

“We took one of the uniforms down to tag it for a tow to the impound.”

“The truck come yet?”

“I don’t think so.” He took his cell phone out of the pocket of his dark-blue suit and hit a speed-dial number.

“Anybody pick up the fed’s car yet?” He listened. “Well, if they show up before we get there, don’t let them hook it up.” He turned back to us. “Let’s go.”

In the elevator on the way down, he said, “What’s this all about?”

“Can’t say much,” I replied.

“What can you say?”

“We think he was dirty,” Jen said. “Deep into some bad shit.”

“The Seal Beach thing or the congressman’s family?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

Jen frowned at me.

When he said, “Well, which one?” I knew I hadn’t said too much.

The doors opened and the three of us stepped out into the dank concrete emptiness of the underground parking structure.

“You have his keys?” he asked.

We didn’t, so he stopped by a small office filled with video monitors displaying a dozen views of the garage. Every few seconds, the feeds would switch to different cameras, but the shots looked so similar that if I hadn’t been paying close attention, I wouldn’t have noticed the change. There was an empty chair facing the screens.

“This the place you have to come when you screw up?” I asked.

“One of them, but this isn’t even close to the worst,” the sergeant said. “Remind me when we’re done. I’ll take you down to
check out the boilers and the laundry. It’s just like hell, but with more humidity and a bleach-scented air freshener.” He opened an equipment locker and took out a slim jim, then closed the door and led us out into the mostly empty rows of parking spaces.

“Slow day?” I asked.

“Slow year,” he said.

We walked eight rows over and halfway down the ramp to the next level, where we found a black Crown Vic parked by itself in a corner, with a giant Pacific Islander standing next to it. He wore what must have been a sixty long navy-blue blazer with the Westin insignia over the breast pocket and name badge that read,
Manuia
. He looked unhappy.

Nichols nodded at him and slipped the slim jim in between the driver’s side window and top edge of the door trim. With a few practiced pulls, he popped the door open, reached inside, and released the trunk latch. “We’ll give you two a little space,” he said and led the guard a few yards away.

Jen lifted the trunk lid and said, “Danny?”

I stepped around to the back of the vehicle and saw a standard-issue Rubbermaid Roughneck fourteen-gallon storage box, not at all unlike those we use every day for evidence. Jen snapped the lid off the container. The innards of Patrick’s computers, including his apparently undamaged MacBook Pro, were there waiting for us.

Special Agent Young’s sister lived in Rossmoor, just across the Orange County line, in a nice suburban split-level four bedroom. She had two kids, who were off in another part of the house playing a video game that sounded like
Guitar Hero
or
Rock Band
. I couldn’t tell which.

“I’m not sure,” Young said.

“Goodman’s stink is going to come off,” I said. “This is the best thing you can do to try to get it off of you.”

“It’s a just a phone call,” Jen said.

He thought about it some more. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and drinking a Heineken. It was still obvious he was an FBI agent. He might as well have had it branded on his forehead.

“I think I should run it by the LA SAC,” he said.

“You really want to do that?” Jen asked, her voice thick with concern.

“Why shouldn’t I?” It was clear he wasn’t used to situations that didn’t follow the playbook clearly and closely. Sure, Goodman was an asshole, but he certainly understood the real world a great deal better than his junior partner. On the other hand, the people at the Westin were still trying to remove the stains Goodman’s brains had left on the toilet wall.

“He might say no, and then you won’t have any way to mitigate the circumstances with Goodman.”

I backed her play. “I know we’re not feds. But bureaucracies are bureaucracies, and law enforcement’s law enforcement. The brass is going to be looking for ways to cover their asses and cut their losses. Either you come up with a way to get in front of this thing or you’re going to find yourself in the Bismarck field office.”

Jen raised an eyebrow at me. I’d just thrown down more clichés in one sentence than she heard all month. But Young was green enough for it to work. We could both see he was starting to come around.

“You really think it will do some good?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Jen said. “It’s not just about squaring what Goodman did. There are six people dead, here. If this works, we’ll close half a dozen open murders and nail the people responsible.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

In the car on the way back to the station, I said, “Isn’t it seven?”

When we realized we had to count the victims on our fingers to get the number right, the heaviness between us seemed powerful enough to pull us down into some deep and unfathomable darkness.