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Prochaska locked it and slammed Vasquez face forward into the wall. Vasquez could not stand the feel of Prochaska s hands on him, but he expected the frisk and stifled his impulse to smash his beer bottle into the gangster s face. When the pat-down was finished, Prochaska stepped back and told Vasquez to turn around. The vice cop was standing close enough to smell the garlic on Prochaska s breath. Long time, Art. If I never saw you, it wouldn t be too long, Vasquez, Prochaska answered in a voice that sounded like a car driving over crushed gravel. Vasquez took a sip of his beer and leaned back against the bathroom wall. I hear you re under indictment for possession with intent to distribute. I want to help you with the feds. Prochaska laughed. You born again? Don t be so cynical. I ve been known to help bigger turds than you when it worked to my advantage. Why don t you quit wasting my time and tell me what you want? I need some information about Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis. Don t know him. Look, Art, you know I m not wired. This is between us. I m just trying to corroborate some information I received. How can I help you if I don t know this guy? By telling me if Martin Breach sold him two kilos of cocaine. Prochaska moved very quickly for a man his size. Before Vasquez could react, Prochaska pinned him to the wall and pressed his forearm against Vasquez s windpipe. The beer bottle crashed to the floor. Prochaska tilted Vasquez s chin up, so he was forced to stare into the hit man s eyes. I should crush your throat and kick you to death for even suggesting that I rat out my best friend. Vasquez tried to struggle, but Prochaska had a hundred pounds on him. Panic made him twitch as he consumed the last of his air, but Prochaska confined him like a straitjacket. Just as Vasquez became light-headed, Prochaska eased off and stepped back. Vasquez sagged against the wall and gulped in the urine-scented air. Prochaska smiled wickedly. That s how easy it is, he said. Then he was gone.
    10 An hour later Bobby Vasquez turned onto the two-lane highway that led into the mountains near Cedar City. The highway gained altitude quickly. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the tops of high green foothills, and the air was heavy with the threat of snow. On the north side of the highway, through a break in the towering evergreens, the cold, clear water of a runoff rushed downhill over large gray stones polished smooth by the constant torrent. On the south side, the highway ran beside a river that boiled with white water in some spots and crept along with lazy indifference in others. While Mickey Parks had been undercover, Vasquez was the only person Parks could talk to without fear of giving himself away. He d confided his fears and hopes to Vasquez as if Bobby were a priest in a confessional, and Vasquez had grown to like and admire the na, dedicated cop. Parks s death hit Vasquez hard. Prochaska s refusal to corroborate his tip did not dissuade Vasquez from going after his killers. It only made him more determined to bring down Breach. A narrow dirt driveway led from the highway to the cabin. The weak light from the setting sun was cut off by thick rows of towering evergreens and the driveway was covered with dark shadows. At the end of a quarter mile the headlights settled on a modern home of rough cedar with high picture windows and a wide deck along the north and west sides. A stone chimney was part of the east side of the house and rose above the peaked shake roof. Vasquez wondered how much Cardoni s cabin cost. Even before his divorce, the best Vasquez had been able to afford had been a house half its size. Vasquez parked the car so that it was pointing back toward the road. He pulled on latex gloves and walked toward the cabin. Crime was almost nonexistent in this mountain community and the house did not have an alarm. Once he stepped inside he would be committing a felony, but Vasquez had to know if Cardoni really had two