The Triggerman Dance

"When Puma went into his new business after Patrick's death, someone had to file a fictitious business statement, like any lawful company. We took a look at it. The statement ran in a little weekly paper down in San Juan Capistrano, which isn't far from Liberty Ridge. Everything was fine, done by the book, no problem. Trouble is, the original name chosen for his new company, we assume by Puma, was The Freedom Ring. They filed it on statements two consecutive weeks, but on the third week, no DBA was filed at all. Instead, a new name for what we can only assume was the same company—with the fictitious name of Liberty Operations. Some simple research of the newspaper's classified files showed us that The Freedom Ring and Liberty Operations DBA costs were covered by checks from the same account. That account belongs to one of Puma's inner circle—his head of security, if you will. Coincidence? No. Hell no. When enough coincidence piles up, it isn't coincidence anymore. The Freedom Ring claimed responsibility for Rebecca. Puma believed the name The Freedom Ring never really existed on record anywhere, and he was right—except for in the dusty files of a little mom and pop paper down in San Juan."

"Have you questioned him?" John asked.

Weinstein stood now and glanced at Dumars. "Thank you, Sharon. No, we've chosen not to. All we would really do is tip him that we're on. He'd have an alibi, and there sure wouldn't be any evidence of a crime left in plain sight around at Liberty Ridge. We're better off letting him believe we're not even looking his way, until we've got enough to justify a search. Questioning him now would be like...'

"—Scaring up the bird while it's still out of range," said Dumars.

"Exactly," said Weinstein. He smiled again—that smile so unmirthful, so produced. "John, there's a final element you should know about. Come."

Dumars stayed behind as John followed Joshua out of the room and back down the hallway, then around a corner and into another office. The room was small, lined with bookshelves and bathed by the same chilling, fluorescent light as the conference room. On the wall behind the desk was the Bureau's seal. A chair sat squared to the desk, empty. Joshua shut the door.

"We used to give school children tours of the building," said Weinstein. "Back before we had to check them for weapons They always wanted to see a real agent. See a real agent's gun. Sit in a real agent's chair. So, have a seat right there, John."

"I'll stand."

Joshua studied him, then walked around the desk and tool the chair himself. "I've got a cubicle. If I advance to Senior Special Agent, I'll get an office like this. Maybe this exact one . . who knows?"

Weinstein was quiet for a long while and John could feel the agent's black, rapacious eyes on him. Always measuring, John thought, always taking, always judging.

"I came here ten years ago. It was a good assignment but I grew up in New York and I thought, California, God, land of fruits and nuts, the self-worshipping and the self-ignorant. Even worse, Orange County. I thought the place would bore me to death in a month. But it didn't bore me at all. It had everything from slick investment hustles up in Newport Center to serial killers running up double digit stats. Orange County had a nice, eclectic criminal menu, and superb weather."

Weinstein offered his dismal little smile again. John leaned against a wall and considered the FBI seal behind the agent. "For instance," Weinstein went on, "there was a publisher in Little Saigon who got set on fire for suggesting we open relations with Hanoi, same time as Fluor Corporation out in Irvine was jockeying to be the first American behemoth into Vietnam, when Clinton opened it up. Then, there was this bright barrio kid who went to Harvard on scholarship and robbed banks here during his semester breaks—said you can't take the barrio out of the boy. There were hookers marching the stretch down Harbor, bikers and gangs and cutthroats and junkies. Everything. Everything."

Weinstein chuckled. To John, the agent actually looked relaxed now, leaning back in the chair behind the desk. An odd tone of reverie had come into his voice.