by Robert Crais
When Pike approached the trailer’s door, the dog slammed into the interior side like a linebacker.
Pike said, “Easy.”
The door was hinged to open out, which Pike figured would work to his advantage. He pressed his shoulder against the door, unshipped the latch, and the big dog immediately tried to push the door open.
Pike let it open enough to offer the end of the two-by-four. The dog crunched into the wood, shaking its head as if trying to break a smaller dog’s back. Pike let the noose slip off the board over the dog’s head, then pulled the noose tight, and dragged the dog out of the trailer. The dog spit out the two-by-four and lunged, so Pike lifted its front legs off the ground. The pit twisted and snapped, streamers of drool flying. The dog wasn’t trying to get away; it was trying to bite.
He worked the dog to the tow hitch, and wrapped the chain so the dog’s head was held close to the steel. The dog’s head and shoulders were blistered with scars, its nubby ears were shredded, and the left eye was milky. Mangy scabs covered its rump. A fight dog, tossed in the pit with similar dogs because Moon and his friends dug watching them rip each other apart. The dog licked the dried blood on its muzzle.
Pike said, “Guess you had the last laugh.”
Pike entered the trailer, picking a careful path around tendrils of blood that spread from the bodies. The chemical stink of decay gases, dog shit, and spoiled human meat was terrible. Pike pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then noticed that Williams’s right elbow appeared injured. The inside of the elbow above the 187s was badly discolored, showing a prominent lump under the skin as if Williams had two elbows instead of one. Pike felt the lump and realized it was bone. Moon’s elbow had been broken.
Pike thought Frank Meyer might have done the deed, and the corner of his mouth twitched, Pike’s version of a smile.
Pike searched Williams first, and found a nine-millimeter Glock in Williams’s back pocket. Pike checked the chamber, then the magazine, and counted thirteen cartridges in a magazine designed to hold seventeen. With one remaining in the chamber, this meant three shots could have been fired. Pike wondered if the bullets found in Frank’s house had come from this gun. SID would test-fire the weapon, and run a comparison, and then they would know. Pike put the clip back into the gun, and the gun in Moon’s pocket.
Moon’s remaining pockets produced a wallet, a ring of keys, a blue bandanna, a pack of Kools, two joints, a pink Bic lighter, and a PayDay candy bar. The wallet contained three hundred forty-two dollars, seven Visa cards in seven different names (none of them Earvin Williams), and no driver’s license. Pike examined the keys, and found one with worn teeth bearing the Buick emblem. He kept the keys.
The second body yielded another nine-millimeter Glock, this one missing two bullets. Elsewhere on the body, Pike found eighty-six dollars, a pack of Salem Lights, a stick of Juicy Fruit, and another set of keys, but no wallet or cell phone. Neither Moon nor the man outside had cell phones, either, which made it three for three.
Pike moved to the door for some fresh air, and looked back at the scene. Open beer bottles, two crack pipes on a wide ceramic ashtray, and a plastic baggie of rock—these guys were chilling when they were shot, and Moon had been trying to dull the pain of his damaged elbow. Moon had been shot twice in the face. The other man had been shot once in the chest and once in the head. Both were armed, but neither had drawn their weapons, suggesting they had been caught off guard by someone they knew. The third man probably bailed when the shooting started, but was chased down outside and shot.
Pike studied the floor, wondering if the murders had been committed by more than one person. The dog had been trapped for days, endlessly moving from door to windows, in and out of each room, and on the furniture. Blood, dog crap, and piss were smeared everywhere, obliterating any footprints.
Pike found three shell casings. He examined each one without touching it, noting that all three were nine-millimeter casings. He wondered if the bullets in Moon and his friends would match the bullets in Frank, and if Michael Darko had killed them.
Pike quickly searched the rest of the trailer, but found no evidence that a baby had been present. He decided to check the Buick, but when he stepped outside and saw the dog, he stopped. The pit bull made a low, huff ing bark, then pawed the earth. Its tongue lolled like a strip of purple liver.
Pike pulled the metal water pan from beneath the trailer, found a hose, then set the pan at the dog’s feet. The dog strained to drink, but the lead was too short, so Pike played out enough chain for the dog to reach the water. The dog slurped noisily, splashing most of the water out of the pan.
Pike laid a hand on the dog’s hard back, and the dog spun fast as a striking snake, exploding out of the water as it went for Pike’s throat. The dog was fast, but Pike was faster, one instant beside the dog, the next a pace away, just out of reach. The dog clamped its jaws in a frenzy.
Pike felt no fear or anger at the dog. He simply got the hose, and refilled the bowl from a safe distance. He figured the animal had been beaten regularly to make it mean. Wasn’t the dog’s fault. Even now, the dog tried so hard to reach him that its neck bulged over the chain and its eyes rolled with rage.
Pike said, “It’s okay, buddy. I understand.”
The dog strained even harder to bite him.
Pike went to the Riviera.
Moon’s key opened the Riviera perfectly, but Pike did not get in. He pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves, then searched the glove box and under the front buckets, hoping for a cell phone or some hard link to Michael Darko.
He found it on the backseat, as alien to the car’s cracked, filthy interior as a perfect white rose—a baby’s bib. Made of a soft white cloth with a pattern of blue bunnies. Orange and green stains streaked the front. Pike felt the supple material, and knew the bib had been in the car only a few days. He held it to his nose, and knew the stains were recent. The orange smelled of apricots, the green of peas.
Pike folded the bib into a square and tucked it into his pocket, wondering what Moon Williams had done with the baby. Then Pike remembered Moon’s grandmother. The freeway noise was loud, but multiple gunshots had been fired. The woman should have heard. Her grandson and the other two bodies had been here for at least three days. She would have discovered them.
Pike locked the Riviera and went to the double-wide. This time he didn’t knock.
The gray-and-white cat raced out when he opened the door, and the same terrible smell seared his throat. The living room was neat and orderly the way he had seen it through the window, but as soon as he entered he saw the broken door at the end of the hall, and heard the cheery, upbeat melody of game-show music. Pike found Ms. Mildred Gertie Williams dead on her bedroom floor. A small television on her dresser was showing a rerun of Bob Barker’s The Price Is Right. Ms. Williams was wearing pajamas, a thin robe, and furry pink slippers, and had been shot twice in the body and once in the forehead. She had been shot in the left hand, too, but the bullet had entered the palm and exited the back of her hand, making a through-and-through defensive wound. She had been trying to ward off the shooter or begging for her life when the shooter fired, shooting through her hand.
Pike turned off the television. Her bed was rumpled and unmade, with a TV remote by the pillows. She was probably watching TV when she heard the shots, and got up to see what happened. Pike pictured her standing as she would have been before she was murdered. He placed himself where the shooter would have stood, made a gun of his hand, and aimed. The spent casings would have ejected to the right, so he looked right, and found them between the wall and an overstuffed chair. Two nine-millimeters, same brand as the casings in Moon’s trailer.
Pike stood over Mildred Williams, her face now misshapen and rimed with blood. Framed pictures of children lined the dresser, smiling gap-toothed boys and girls, one of whom was probably Moon.
Pike studied the pictures. He said nothing, but thought, this is how your love was repaid.
Pike le
ft her as he found her, went outside, and sat in one of the lawn chairs under the awning. The air was good and cool, and not filled with death. Pike exhaled with his diaphragm, pushing out the bad stuff. If death was in him, he wanted to get rid of it.
Pike phoned John Chen, who answered from the lab at SID in a hushed, paranoid whisper.
“I can’t talk. They’re all around me.”
“Just listen. In a couple of hours, SID will roll to a murder site in Willowbrook. They’ll find three deceased males, a deceased female, three nine-millimeter pistols, and spent casings from a fourth gun.”
Chen’s voice grew even softer.
“Holy Christ, did you kill them?”
“Comp their guns with the casings and bullets you have from the Meyer house. They’re going to match.”
“Holy Christ again! You got the crew who killed the Meyers?”
“The spent casings in Willowbrook will probably match with the casings you found in Ana Markovic’s room. The man who killed Ana probably committed the Willowbrook murders.”
“The fourth man?”
“Yes.”
“Waitaminute. You’re saying one of their own guys killed them?”
“Yes.”
Pike broke the connection, then phoned Elvis Cole.
“It’s me. You alone?”
“Yeah. I’m at the office. Just dropped her off.”
“She have anything?”
“She showed me three condo complexes and gave me a lecture on how Darko runs his call-girl business, but whether it’s true or helps us, I don’t know. I’m having a title and document search run, but I won’t have the results until later. I’m about to get started on her sister.”
“You won’t need to trace Rahmi’s calls.”
“You found Jamal?”
Pike did not mention George Smith by name, but described how someone with inside information connected Michael Darko with a D-Block Crip named Moon Williams, who lived down in Willowbrook. Then Pike described what he found.
“You think they were killed the same night Meyer was murdered?”
“Within hours. We’ll know if these are the same guns when Chen runs the comps, but they’re going to match.”
Pike told him about the bib.
Cole said, “But why would Darko kill them after they delivered his kid?”
“Maybe they didn’t deliver the kid. Maybe they tried to hold him up for a bigger payoff, or maybe he just wanted to get rid of the witnesses.”
Cole said, “What are you going to do?”
“Call the police. I can’t leave these people like this. Little kids live around here. They might find the bodies.”
Even as Pike said it, the pit bull growled, and Pike saw two L.A. County sheriff’s cruisers coming toward him up the street. An unmarked car was behind them.
Pike said, “Looks like I won’t have to call. The sheriffs are rolling up now.”
“How did the cops get there?”
“Cars.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know. I’m wondering that myself.”
A third cruiser appeared from the opposite direction, the three of them blocking his Jeep. Uniformed deps and the plainclothes people climbed out of their vehicles, and no one seemed in much of a hurry. Almost as if they knew what they’d find. Pike found that curious.
Pike started to end the call, then remembered the bib in his pocket.
“Don’t tell her what I found here, okay? I want to tell her.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I have to go.”
Pike put away his phone, but stayed in the chair, and raised his hands. The deputies saw him, and an older dep with gray hair and a hard face approached the gate.
“You Joe Pike?”
“I am. I was just about to call you.”
“Sure, you were. That’s what they all say.”
The deputy drew his gun, and then the other deps fanned out along the fence, and they drew down on him, too.
The dep said, “You’re under arrest. You do anything with those hands other than keep them up, I’ll shoot you out of that chair.”
The pit bull went into a frenzy, trying to break free. Pike didn’t move. He studied the two plainclothes cops who got out of the unmarked car. Middle-aged Latin guys. They looked familiar, and then he realized where he had seen them before. The last time he saw them, they were driving a Sentra.
20
Elvis Cole
ANA MARKOVIC GRADUATED FROM the East Valley Arts and Sciences High School in Glendale two years earlier. Cole knew this from the yearbook Pike took from her room. First thing Cole did, he found her picture among the senior class—a thin girl with bright features, a large nose, and two monster zits on her chin. She had tried to cover them with makeup, but they were so inflamed they had burst through. Ana had probably been mortified.
Cole thought she kinda looked like Rina, but many people kinda looked like someone else.
The yearbook stated that Ana’s class consisted of 1,284 graduating seniors, most of whom, Cole thought, had written an inscription in Ana’s book. The yearbook’s inside covers were dense with notes and signatures, mostly from girls, telling Ana to remember what great times they had or teasing her about boys she had liked, everyone promising everyone else they would be best friends forever.
Pike had tucked three snapshots in the yearbook. One showed Ana with Frank Meyer’s two little boys, so Cole put it aside. The second showed Ana with two girlfriends, the three of them on a soccer field, arms around each other with huge, happy smiles. In this picture, one of the girls had short black hair with purple highlights, and the other was a tall girl with long, sandy brown hair, milky skin, and freckles. The third photo showed Ana and the brown-haired girl at what appeared to be a Halloween party. They wore identical flapper costumes, and had struck a funny pose with their splayed hands framing their faces like a couple of jazz-era dancers.
The background in the soccer field picture suggested a school campus, so Cole went back to the yearbook. He started at the beginning of the 1,284 senior class pictures and scanned the rows of portraits, hoping to get lucky. He did. The brown-haired girl was named Sarah Manning.
Cole phoned Information, and asked if they had a listing for that name in Glendale. He was hoping to get lucky again, but this time he wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have no listing by that name.”
“What about Burbank and North Hollywood?”
Burbank and North Hollywood were next to Glendale.
“Sorry, sir. I already checked.”
Cole put the yearbook aside and examined Ana’s computer. It was an inexpensive PC that took forever to boot up, but the desktop finally appeared, revealing several neatly arranged rows of icons. Cole studied the icons for an address book, and found something called Speed Dial. He typed in Sarah Manning, clicked Search, and there she was.
Cole said, “The World’s Greatest Detective strikes again.”
The entry for Sarah Manning showed an address in Glendale, an 818 phone number, and a gmail Internet address. Cole almost never called in advance. People tended to hang up on him, and never returned his calls, but driving to Glendale to find out Sarah Manning had moved didn’t appeal to him. For all he knew, she was pulling a tour in Afghanistan.
He called the number, and was surprised when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Sarah Manning?”
“Yes, who is this, please?”
She sounded breathy, as if she was in a hurry. It occurred to him she might not know that Ana Markovic had been murdered, but she did, and didn’t seem particularly upset.
Cole said, “I’d like to sit down with you for a few minutes, Sarah. I have some questions about Ana.”
“I don’t know. I’m at school.”
“East Valley High?”
“Cal State Northridge. High school was two years ago.”
“Sorry. This won’t take long, but it’s im
portant. I understand you were close with her.”
“Did they catch the people who did it?”
“Not yet. That’s why I need your help.”
She was slow to answer, as if she had to think about it.
“Well, okay, like what?”
“In person is better.”
“I’m really busy.”
Cole studied the picture of Ana and Sarah in the flapper outfits. Cole didn’t want to ask about prostitute sisters and Serbian mobsters over the phone, especially since these things might turn out to be lies.
“It’s important, Sarah. You’re on campus? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Well, I guess so. I’ll have to cut class.”
Like it was the end of the world.
Sarah described a coffee shop on Reseda Boulevard not far from campus, and told him she would meet him in twenty minutes. Cole hung up before she could change her mind.
Twenty-two minutes later, he found her seated at an outside table. She was wearing pale blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals. Her hair was shorter than in the high school picture, but otherwise she looked the same.
“Sarah?”
Cole gave her his best smile and offered his hand. She took it, but was clearly uncomfortable. He nodded toward the deli.
“Would you like something?”
“This is just weird, that’s all. I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“Well, let’s see where the answers take us. When was the last time you spoke with her?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“A year. Maybe more than a year. We kinda drifted apart.”
“But you were close in high school?”
“Since seventh grade. We all came from different elementaries. We were the three musketeers.”
Cole flashed on the picture of the three girls on the soccer field.
“Who was the third?”
“Lisa Topping. I thought about Lisa while I was waiting. You should talk to Lisa. They stayed in touch.”
“Black hair, purple highlights?”
