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  "What is swag? We can't help him facilitate a drug transaction. If we store narcotics, we have to seize them," interrupted Pamela.

  Matt looked at her with incredulity, realizing how little time she spent on the street. Before he could take a swing at the hanging curveball, Jason Barnes offered an explanation. "Swag is an old mob term, an acronym for 'stolen without a gun.' It just means stolen goods."

  Matt went on. "I'll leave it up to him. We'll give him the opening and see where it leads."

  "We can't let him in here alone. That's a security violation, and we can't record without you being present. That's a Title III violation," said Pamela.

  "I know the law. I have no intention of giving him the keys to the kingdom so he can sneak around the warehouse. Every recording will be consensual, and I'll be the consenting party. If I'm not in the room, we won't activate the recording equipment or listen in. We won't be violating Congress's precious wiretap provisions," said Matt.

  "It's not precious. It's called the Constitution, and you will do everything according to the law and FBI regulations," said Pamela, placing particular emphasis on the word will.

  The ADIC intervened, "I'm sure Matt has no intention of violating anyone's constitutional rights. I want this guy, and I want it done right. Matt, you have my blessing, as if you ever asked for it. You sound as though you're on the right track. I was hopeful the train was moving a little faster, but at least it's moving in the right direction."

  "Then it's settled," said Dwayne. "As soon as practical, we'll try to get Jesse in here and see where it leads."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Two days later Bobby Himmler sat in the kitchen of his tiny two-bedroom rental in Van Nuys, a section of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley. A realtor might say the house was decorated in earth tones. A maid would say the dingy white walls hadn't been cleaned in two decades. The home was built in the early fifties, and the last repair may have been during Eisenhower's second term. The structure did little to enhance property values in the area, but with neighbors like meth-cooker Bobby Himmler, why worry about real estate's bottom line. If the neighbors really cared, they would have called the cops.

  The FBI did a number when they searched his place. Himmler didn't worry so much about the overturned furniture or the contents of the dresser drawers tossed on the bed, what he wanted was his lab back. He was afraid to ask Matt so he went about checking with friends, frequenting head shops in the Valley, and visiting enough drugstores no one would suspect he was back in business.

  Tiffany walked in from the living room. Vaulted might be a better term to describe her actions. She was on her third day without sleep and hadn't eaten since Sunday. Food did not sustain her; drugs did. Tiffany was a high-dose, chronic, methamphetamine abuser. "Speed freak" accurately described her. When she was loaded, she bounced higher than the forged checks she often cashed.

  Bobby looked at the former cheerleader turned anorexic working girl. What he saw was nothing like the photo in her high school yearbook. Just a few years earlier this 5'6" blonde was attractive enough to be a princess on the court of her senior prom. A smile that once melted a father's heart now revealed a severe case of "meth mouth"—rotten teeth, painful sores, cracked lips. Her gaunt appearance and poor hygiene had no photogenic value other than a "Just Say No" public-service announcement. But Bobby knew he was no cinch for next month's Muscle and Fitness centerfold. They wasted their youth and their lives. The music was still playing for the slow-death dance they began the day they discovered an artificial panacea to contentment. Only a miracle could save either.

  Before meth Tiffany used cocaine, but the high lasted only twenty or thirty minutes. The first time she smoked crystal methamphetamine, the euphoric feeling remained for twelve hours. She was hooked on the mega-adrenaline rush and never looked back. Now she had no higher priority than determining when and how she would fill her glass pipe. When the translucent rocklike substances melted, vaporized, and were inhaled, Tiffany was taken to another dimension.

  "Baby, how's it coming?" she asked.

  "Still a ways off."

  "I could use a little pop to keep me on top," said Tiffany flashing a desperate grin.

  Bobby tinkered with the three-neck flask as the ephedrine-based product cooled. He successfully cooked "ice" many times, but the volatile nature of the chemicals used to manufacture one more nightmare in the world of designer drugs made each batch a potential fireball. The heavily marred kitchen table had all the elements for today's recipe: red phosphorous, hydrochloric acid, anhydrous ammonia, drain cleaner, battery acid, lye, lantern fuel, and antifreeze. This mom-and-pop operation kept Tiffany supplied and Bobby employed.

  "Baby, you are so smart. You cut a great deal with the Feds. I can't believe you got a pass, a complete walk. You shoulda been a lawyer. I don't know what I'd do if you got locked up." Then rubbing her hands through his greasy, long brown hair, she said, "You're my baby."

  "I bought me an insurance policy. We're golden. They ain't touching me as long as they think I can give them Jessie and Boris."

  "How much longer . . ."

  The screen door exploded as Mickey Donovan burst in from the backyard, a 9 mm automatic at his side.

  Tiffany screamed.

  Donovan pointed the gun at her, angled gangster style, parallel to the floor, his face the image of death. "Shut up!" Then looking at Himmler, he said, "It took me a couple of days to find you, puke."

  "Mickey, what are you doing?"

  The acting may have been bad, like some second-rate movie, but it was all too real. Mickey Donovan was singular in purpose, his eyes fixed on the target: Bobby Himmler.

  "You're nothing but filth. Cheese eaters need to be exterminated."

  Tiffany screamed again.

  "I said shut up!" Donovan fired one shot dropping the former cheerleader.

  Bobby attempted to jump to his feet but in doing so his leg, still in the brace, knocked over the table where he was seated. Before he could mount an offensive, a massive explosion ripped through the kitchen, too late for a strategic afterthought.

  MATT WAS ENJOYING THE late afternoon sun as he sat at the outdoor table of the West Los Angeles coffee shop. He was drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper and perusing the sports section of the Los Angeles Times. He looked up to see Dwayne pull into the parking lot.

  The supervisor hopped out of his Ford Fusion. "Sorry I'm late. Had to sign off on some last-minute reports needing to get out this afternoon," said Dwayne.

  "Darn, you mean I missed completing another survey for headquarters. How will they ever function without my input?"

  "Sometimes those reports serve a purpose."

  "You know the FBI put the 'bureau' in bureaucracy."

  "Why don't you catch me up with the investigation, and maybe some other day you can wax eloquently about your disdain for my superiors."

  The waitress approached and Dwayne ordered coffee, high-octane, no-frills black.

  "So is anything set up?" asked Dwayne.

  "I talked to Bobby last night. He said Jesse liked me and the three of us are getting together tomorrow night. I told Bobby to suggest we meet at the Russian Veil. That at least gets me in there with a couple of credible guys."

  "Sounds like a good start."

  "Stealth or speed? You usually can't have both. Obviously each case is different, but I always find when I look back I could have pushed harder and faster. I know the boss is looking for answers so I want to give him all the ammunition he needs as quickly as possible."

  "Your call." Dwayne's Blackberry vibrated as it sat on the table next to his coffee. He read the message. "We've got a problem."

  "What?"

  "Your dinner plans tomorrow night may have just been canceled. Bobby Himmler's place blew up. Fire and police are on the scene. I better get over there,
" said Dwayne.

  "Was he in it?"

  "I don't know, Matt. The text didn't say."

  "I'll meet you there."

  "No," said Dwayne without hesitation. "Not until we sort things out. Who knows who or what will show up? It's too dangerous. I'll call you as soon as I have anything."

  Dwayne ran to his car. Matt sat stunned questioning whether he somehow overplayed his hand and Bobby's cooperation was discovered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Later that evening, as Matt pulled into the parking lot of the industrial park housing the undercover warehouse, he noted the lot was empty except for two forty-foot shipping containers at the north end. The employees of the five other businesses in the complex went home hours earlier. He often preferred the cover of darkness, and the well-lit parking lot might expose the urgent meeting Dwayne called with the ADIC and SAC. Matt phoned each of the participants and instructed them to pull around back to the alley entrance and he would let them park inside the warehouse. Matt would do the same. Too many cars in the lot at this hour might arouse suspicion even if only from the patrol officers covering the warehouse district. His call with Dwayne was brief, but the news wasn't good. The operation may have ended before it got started.

  He exited the car, unlocked the back door, and turned to the blue metal box to deactivate the alarm. He punched in the code "3-2-4-0-0-7," his private joke since "3-2-4" were the numbers corresponding to F-B-I on the telephone digital pad. Returning to the large warehouse door, he yanked on the chain, pulling it hand over hand as the door, slowly rose to a height of about six feet. He secured the chain locking the overhead door in place. Surely a world-class undercover agent deserves a warehouse with an electric garage door opener. He returned to his car, pulled into the warehouse, turned off the headlights, and waited in the dark for the others.

  As soon as everyone parked inside, Matt closed the garage door and turned on the lights to the warehouse. The four gathered around Dwayne's car as he laid out crime scene photos on the hood of the Ford Fusion.

  "We've got three dead," said Dwayne.

  "Three?" said Matt.

  "Two males and one female. The female has a round in her head, possibly a 9 mm. They found a Makarov in the ashes so at this point we assume that was the murder weapon."

  "Bobby said his cousin bought a box of handguns as well as the AK-47s. In all likelihood the handguns would have been Makarovs since they're Russian made," added Matt looking over the photos.

  "We'll have to wait for the autopsy to determine the caliber."

  "But only one shot, not three?" asked the ADIC, Jason Barnes.

  "Yes, just the female. The other two must have died in the explosion."

  Jason Barnes examined each picture carefully before he passed them to his SAC. "Do we have positive ID on the victims?"

  "Well, Himmler was easy. He had pins in his leg. They still haven't identified the other two. We know Bobby had a girlfriend so she might be the gunshot victim."

  Pamela Clinton asked, "So who was the shooter?"

  "It's a little hard to tell from the crime scene. Both the male bodies were practically on top of the weapon. Each was within arm's length of the gun."

  "It wouldn't make sense for it to be Bobby. He wasn't into guns. We didn't find one on the search the other night, and I doubt if he picked one up since his release from the hospital," said Matt.

  "Unless he got scared. He knew he was on our payroll. Maybe he believed he needed some firepower in case the word got out. Informants do stupid things," said the ADIC.

  "So do scared people," said Dwayne.

  "That's a good point. He may have figured being on board he could get away with carrying if he got caught. It just seems out of character. He was nervous the other day at the meeting with Jesse but not to the point of arming himself. I think he would have given me a clue if he was thinking about picking up some protection. What caused the fire?" said Matt.

  "The fire marshal has an idea, but it may be days before he can give us a definitive answer," said Dwayne who picked up one of the photos. "Look at this from the kitchen." He pointed to some beakers on the floor.

  Matt shook his head, "He was cooking."

  "What?" said Pamela.

  "The initial guess from the fire inspector is a meth lab explosion," said Dwayne.

  Jason Barnes interrupted, "I've had enough with all the speculation. I don't work off guesses when I have an undercover involved."

  "I understand, boss," said Dwayne. "But it's just too early to tell. Everything points to an explosion and not from a faulty furnace."

  "A bullet in a body is no accident," said Pamela.

  "No one is calling it an accident," said Dwayne.

  "Three people blown up with one already dead from a gunshot isn't an accident. I think the explosion may have been an accident, but I'm concerned about the shooting. If it wasn't Bobby, then it was this other man. I need to know why the female was killed, and does this have anything to do with what we have in the works," said the ADIC.

  "I agree we need answers before we go forward. Should we get ERT involved?" asked Pamela Clinton.

  Dwayne jumped in quickly to that suggestion. "It would make no sense to bring in the FBI. We have no plausible investigative jurisdiction. We would ordinarily have no interest in a meth lab explosion so it might alert the wrong people if we show up in blue FBI windbreakers and start nosing around the crime scene."

  "But if we're shutting down the undercover operation, it would make good liaison for us to offer up our evidence recovery people," said Pamela.

  "Who said anything about shutting down the operation?" said Matt with a little too much force.

  "Well if Jesse Himmler didn't buy your act, maybe they suspected Bobby was cooperating and you were a Fed," added Pamela.

  Like a nuclear blast, Matt mushroomed. "That's the result you'd like, isn't it? FBI, fix blame instantly, and on a brick agent if you can. Maybe we can get OPR involved before the clock strikes midnight, Cinderella."

  "Matt!" said Dwayne.

  Every street agent knew Clinton's propensity to call the Office of Professional Responsibility in D.C. at the slightest hint of controversy. It was one more reason the rank and file wanted to vote her off the island.

  "Let's get back to the business at hand," said the ADIC. "I think we better step away for awhile until we can make a determination as to the cause of this."

  Still angry but more subdued, Matt said, "Boss, with all due respect, I think that's the wrong decision. Just like they taught us in the Marines, you run to the sound of gunfire."

  Pamela interrupted, "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

  "No, he may have a point. Go on Matt," said the ADIC.

  "I need to take them on, a full frontal attack. If I pull back now, we've lost the edge, and I may never recover my credibility. If this was a professional hit gone bad, it was amateur hour. This could have been a disgruntled customer wanting a refund and not willing to seek redress in small claims court. Bobby never won the tweeker congeniality award. He had lots of enemies. Even if this was a hit, it may have nothing to do with me. No one knows he was cooperating except us. No charges were ever brought. No publicity."

  Now it was Dwayne's turn to interrupt, "Maybe Bobby was strapped and it was a rip. He killed the female, and before he got off a second shot, the place went up."

  Matt didn't buy the theory, but he appreciated Dwayne's coming to his support. "Look, let's do it this way. We will cover the funeral anyway. Put some extra firepower in the surveillance van; I'll show up and see what kind of reception I get. If Jesse walks away, then we know where we stand. He's not going to have me killed at a funeral. If I get the biker embrace, then we continue to march."

  Pamela Clinton shook her head, "I recommend we discontinue all underc
over ops until we have a definitive answer as to the cause of the blast and what happened inside that house. It's just too dangerous, and we are exposing ourselves to bureaucratic second-guessing and potential lawsuits if something happens before we have all the answers."

  Now it was Matt's turn to shake his head as he looked directly at Jason Barnes. "If we wait for the completed investigation, Bobby Himmler's corpse will be calcified and last year's news. We don't have the luxury of time."

  Barnes thought for a few seconds. "Okay, here's the compromise. Stay away until the funeral. I don't want you reaching out to Jessie or going near the house. We'll see how you are received and make our next move based on their lead."

  "I can live with that," said Matt.

  "You're gonna have to," commanded the ADIC.

  "I just want to go on the record as opposing any more undercover meetings until the cause of the explosion is resolved," said Clinton.

  "We knew your vote before the meeting began," said Matt.

  "Matt, that's enough," said Dwayne.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was a calculated risk but one he was willing to take. It wasn't the first time he'd be among the Sodomites and sinners. He was all too ready to plunge again into the darkness.

  "I'm about a minute away," said Matt barely audible over the transmitter he was wearing. Dwayne and three other agents inside the surveillance van could monitor everything Matt said and heard while at Bobby Himmler's funeral. A second van was stationed at the opposite end of the cemetery with four more armed agents ready to pounce if necessary.

  Those listening over the wire could hear "Jailhouse Rock" blasting in the background. "Does he ever get serious?" said Dwayne to no one in particular.