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two men from Seattle within the week. Where is this cabin? The caller told Vasquez the location. This is very interesting, Vasquez was saying when the line went dead. He gazed at the receiver, then stared into space. The mystery snitch had said the magic word. Vasquez could care less about some junkie doctor. Martin Breach was another matter. The closest they had come to indicting Breach was two years ago when Mickey Parks, a cop on loan from a southern Oregon police department, infiltrated Breach s organization. Vasquez had been Parks s control, and they had grown close. A week before Breach was going to be arrested, Parks disappeared. Over the next month, the vice and narcotics squad received untraceable packages containing the policeman s body parts. Everyone knew that Breach had killed Parks, knowing that he was a cop, but there was not a shred of evidence connecting Breach to the murder. Breach had cracked jokes during his interrogation while the detectives, including Vasquez, looked on helplessly. Vasquez swiveled his chair and imagined a doctor in handcuffs slumped forward in an interrogation room, his tie undone, his shirt rumpled, sweat beading his forehead. A doctor in those circumstances would be very vulnerable. Draw a few pictures for him of the downside of spending time in the company of deranged bikers, honkie-hating homeboys and slavering queers and the doctor would drink gasoline to avoid prison. It wouldn t take much effort to convince a terrified physician that ratting out Martin Breach was easier than guzzling premium unleaded. Vasquez swiveled again and confronted the first problem he foresaw. To arrest the doctor Vasquez needed evidence. The cocaine would do it, but how was he going to find Cardoni s stash? The courts had ruled that the phone tip of an anonymous informant was not a sufficient basis for securing a search warrant. If the informant would not give his name, he could be a liar with a grudge or a prankster. Information provided by an anonymous informant had to be corroborated before a judge would consider it. Vasquez could not get a warrant to search the cabin unless he could present some proof that the cocaine was inside. That was not going to be easy, but nailing Breach was worth the effort.
    9 The gravel in the nearly empty parking lot of the Rebel Tavern crunched under the tires of Bobby Vasquez s dull green Camaro. Two Harleys and a dust-coated pickup truck were parked on either side of the entrance. Vasquez checked the rear and found Art Prochaska s cherry red Cadillac parked under the barren limbs of the lot s only tree. At night, the Rebel Tavern looked like a scene from a postapocalyptic sci-fi flick. Bearded, unwashed bodies clad in leather and decorated with terrifying tattoos stood four deep at the bar, eardrum-busting music made speech impossible and blood flowed at the slightest excuse. But at three on a Friday afternoon the cruel sun spotlighted the tavern s fading paint job and the jukebox was turned low enough for the hung-over to bear. Vasquez entered the tavern and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dark. His investigation was not going well. Vincent Cardoni was under investigation by the Board of Medical Examiners, and his behavior at St. Francis Medical Center was becoming increasingly erratic and violent; there were even rumors about cocaine use. But none of this information provided probable cause to search Cardoni s mountain cabin for two kilos of cocaine. Vasquez was desperate, so he had set up this meeting with Art Prochaska, who had been busted by the DEA recently. Vasquez would have to help Prochaska with his federal beef if he wanted information, a prospect he found as appealing as a prostate examination, but it was starting to look as though Breach s enforcer might be his only hope. Prochaska was nursing a scotch at the bar. While Vasquez bought a bottle of beer, Prochaska went to the men s room. Vasquez followed a moment later. As soon as the door closed,