Taken ec-13

by Robert Crais

  “This is her.”

  Pike looked at the card. Desert Gold Realty. Residential and Commercial Rentals. The realtor was Megan Orlato.

  The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched when he saw the name. Orlato. She would be Dennis Orlato’s sister or wife or maybe his mother. Orlato supplied the Syrian’s houses.

  “I hope it’s available. You’d make a nice addition to the neighborhood.”

  Pike thanked her, but wasn’t sure what else to say. He let the dog lick his hand, then patted her head.

  “They’re war dogs. She would die for you.”

  Pike left Joanie Fryman with her dog and returned to the Rover. Desert Gold’s office was in Palm Desert, not far away. Pike entered the address into the Rover’s GPS, put on his sunglasses, and arrived ten minutes later.

  40

  Jon Stone

  Jon Stone sat quietly in a clean, bright interview room at the Riverside County Sheriff’s Station in Indio. He was handcuffed to the table, but the detectives who hooked him up left without explanation, and also without asking questions. Stone found this interesting, and wondered if they had been directed to do so, and by whom.

  Jon sat there alone for almost an hour before a businesslike woman with short brown hair came in. He smiled when he saw her. She wore a wrinkled black suit, and Jon thought she looked tired.

  “How’re you doing in here, Mr. Stone?”

  “Fine, ma’am. How about you?”

  Jon stood as best he could with the handcuffs, and she waved him down.

  “Please sit. I’ve had better days, but I suspect you can say the same.”

  “Some better, some worse. It goes with the job.”

  She took the seat opposite him.

  “And what would that job be?”

  Jon gave her one of his brightest smiles.

  “I’m a military consultant under contract to the United States government and certain multinational corporations approved by the United States to employ someone such as myself.”

  She smiled back, and arched her eyebrows as if he was a moron.

  “For real?”

  “Doesn’t get realer.”

  She laced her fingers, and introduced herself. Nancie Stendahl. ATF. Assistant Deputy Director, out of Washington. Jon was impressed. She was obviously behind the Pinetta arrest, and now here she was in the interview room. Alone. This was interesting.

  She cleared her throat, and made it even more interesting.

  “Do you know of and are you associated with a man named Elvis Cole?”

  That one caught him out of left field, but he answered without hesitation.

  “Rings a bell. He sing?”

  “I’m trying to find him.”

  “Wish I could help.”

  “Mr. Haddad says you’re trying to find him, too.”

  “I don’t know a Mr. Haddad.”

  “Do you know a man named Joe Pike?”

  Jon gave her the smile that made him look like a cruising tiger shark.

  “I’d like my attorney if we’re going to talk. I asked the detectives to call him, but they said something rude.”

  Her face tightened with irritation for the first time.

  “You gave them a Washington phone number and told them to call the Deputy Director of the National Security Agency.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’ll take your call if you use my name. Boy has me on speed-dial.”

  She completely ignored him, which impressed Jon even more. All that “right to an attorney” business went straight out the window.

  “Mr. Haddad claims you and Mr. Pike murdered a man named Dennis Orlato and a Colombian citizen named Pedro Ruiz not far from here in the desert.”

  Jon made the shark smile grow wider.

  “Sounds far-fetched. Live Scan kick back anything on my prints?”

  Jon’s fingerprints were digitally scanned when he was booked, and automatically submitted to the Department of Justice for a criminal history and identification check. Jon knew what his record would kick, and waited for her reaction.

  “It did. You have no criminal history, and an interesting military record.”

  “Did it say ‘interesting’?”

  “It was blank except for a note instructing us to contact the Department of Defense for additional details.”

  “Huh. They do that sometimes. For people with special jobs, if you catch my drift.”

  Jon arched his eyebrows and smiled again.

  “I know why they do it, Mr. Stone. Mr. Haddad also claims Mr. Pike shot Orlato in the head at point-blank range.”

  “Another far-fetched lie. See those green teeth? Drug addict.”

  “Where is Mr. Pike now?”

  “No idea.”

  “Mr. Haddad says Mr. Pike was with you in the Jeep, and fled only seconds before you were arrested.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. You believe one lie, you’ll believe them all.”

  She glanced down at her laced fingers, and Jon realized her fingers were laced because she was holding herself together. She looked up, and wet her lips.

  “This isn’t a lie. A woman named Nita Morales hired Mr. Cole to find her daughter, a girl named Krista Morales. She hired Mr. Cole because she thought Krista was eloping with a boy named Jack Berman. Jack Berman is my nephew.”

  Jon nodded one time, and it took all his training and discipline not to show more.

  “Mr. Pike and Mr. Cole work together, and now we find you driving Mr. Pike’s Jeep with a bound man and a fully automatic M4 battle rifle. Do you see how these things link together?”

  Jon Stone smiled, but this time he didn’t look like a shark.

  “Funny how lies can start to look like the truth, isn’t it?”

  “So you understand, I’ve been trying to find Mr. Cole to offer my help, but he hasn’t returned my calls, and now he appears to be missing.”

  Stone nodded, and wondered how much she knew about her nephew’s situation.

  “It may be he can’t return your calls.”

  “So you and Mr. Pike were trying to find him?”

  “One of us still is.”

  “Okay, now here’s something I need you to understand. My interest is in saving my nephew and any other people who have been abducted. I have the full force and authority of the United States government behind me. Help me use that power, Mr. Stone. Let me help you.”

  “I’m in jail.”

  “This is where you’re going to stay. I’m going to find my nephew, but I can’t have civilians riding around with illegal weapons, killing people.”

  “I understand.”

  “Will you help me?”

  Stone knew she wouldn’t like his answer, but he believed it with all his heart.

  “Your nephew’s best bet is already on the hunt. Let Mr. Pike do his thing.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Ms. Stendahl, you can’t stop him.”

  Stone gave her his very best killer smile.

  “Now do your nephew a favor, and please call my attorney. I’m trying to make your life easier.”

  She left without a word. Jon watched her go, and knew she would be back.

  41

  Joe Pike

  Desert Gold Realty was a narrow storefront closer to Cathedral City than Palm Desert, wedged between a gift shop and a women’s clothing store. The shops and offices were closed, which suited Pike because the surrounding streets were deserted.

  The realty office had a glass front with color flyers of available properties taped to the glass. The flyers suggested Megan Orlato’s primary business was vacation rentals for weekenders and snowbirds. The interior was dark. The only light came from a computer on a desk at the rear. A small round table with chairs for customers was up front, but there was only the one desk in back with posters above it, and a low filing cabinet behind it. Pike looked for the telltale red light from an alarm touch pad by the back door, but saw nothing.

  Pike drove around to the parking area behi
nd the office. The back door was the typical fireproof commercial door found everywhere, with a single commercial-grade deadbolt. He studied the lock, then drove to a Chevron station three blocks away to look through Stone’s gear. He found an electric pick gun and tension wrenches. State-of-the-art lock-picking equipment.

  When the Rover was gassed, Pike drove back to the office, cracked the lock, and opened the door. He expected an alarm, but when nothing happened he assumed the alarm was silent.

  Pike had at least four minutes inside if the breach registered at a top private security firm. The duty monitor would run a system diagnostic to make sure the alarm hadn’t been triggered by a malfunction, then phone the subscriber. If the subscriber could not be reached, the monitor would alert a mobile unit or the police, who would respond only after finishing their current call. Four minutes was the best-case response time, but Pike knew the real-world response times were much longer.

  Pike turned on the lights. The posters he saw from the street were promotions for Desert Gold Realty. Serving the Desert Communities for 13 GOLDen Years!

  Pike went directly to the file cabinets, and ignored the computer. Searching unfamiliar computer files could take forever, but the file cabinet contained only three drawers. The first drawer contained files with labels like Visa, Amex, License amp; Fees, Utilities, Autos, and Medical. Pike decided these were personal files, so he moved to the next drawer. The second drawer contained files alphabetized by street names and addresses. Pike quickly checked for the three addresses the Syrian used, but they were not among the files. He pulled two random folders to check the contents, and discovered signed leases. The files in the second drawer were of properties currently being rented.

  The third drawer held a yellow box file labeled Available Properties. The three addresses the Syrian used were here. Each of the three folders contained a listing agreement between the property owners and Desert Gold Realty. Pike checked to see if the properties were owned by the same person, but saw the owners were different. All three also lived out of state, which meant they probably had no idea how their property was being used. Since the owners lived out of state, Desert Gold Realty was specified as the property manager. This meant Desert Gold oversaw maintenance, gardening, and repair for the absentee owners. This allowed the Orlatos to keep unwanted visitors away for the two or three weeks a property was used by the Syrian.

  There were thirty or forty folders in the yellow file, including the three. This meant Cole was almost certainly in one of the remaining locations, and it would be a location with an absentee owner. Pike took the files, closed the drawer, and was turning to leave when he saw the picture.

  A framed photograph stood on the desk showing a woman with Dennis Orlato. He wore a blue suit and she wore a tight, flowery dress. They were smiling, and posed with an array of white roses beneath a neon sign saying WEDDED BLISS CHAPEL LAS VEGAS. Megan Orlato wasn’t his sister or mother. She was his wife.

  Pike checked the time. He had been in the office four minutes and twenty seconds.

  He looked at the picture. They weren’t kids. Megan Orlato was younger than Dennis, but he appeared only a few years younger than he had when Pike shot him. The picture was taken no more than six or eight years ago, which meant the marriage was recent.

  Megan Orlato was an attractive woman. She was taller than her husband, and slim, with high cheekbones, a long nose, and almond-shaped eyes. Looking at her now, Pike remembered something Orlato said before he died.

  The Syrian will trade for me. I’m married to his sister.

  Pike checked his watch again. Four minutes fifty seconds.

  Pike hadn’t believed it at the time, but now he wondered if it was true.

  He glanced at the posters. Desert Gold Realty. Serving the Desert Communities for 13 GOLDen Years! Longer than her marriage to Dennis Orlato.

  Pike turned to the first drawer, and took out the file labeled License amp; Fees. Copies of her real estate license and business license were the first two items in the file. The licenses dated from long before Dennis Orlato, and so did her name. Both had been issued to Maysan al-Diri.

  Pike took out the files labeled Autos and Medical. The auto file contained receipts for repairs, two of which had been mailed to Megan Orlato at 2717 Croydon Avenue in Indio. The medical file contained insurance forms mailed to Megan Orlato at the same address. Megan Orlato’s home.

  The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched for the second time that day. He had something better than a list of locations.

  He had Ghazi al-Diri’s sister. the date farm

  42

  Elvis Cole

  Two men carried a body wrapped in thick plastic and duct tape to the garage. I watched from the floor with my wrists plasticuffed behind my back.

  When they passed with the second body, I pushed to my feet and charged with my head down like a bull. Their faces were bright with surprise when they dropped the body. I hit the first man with a front kick to the center of his chest, then spun low into the second man with a come-around roundhouse sweep that cut off his legs, but by then the dude with the bad cleft lip shoulder-cocked me from behind.

  I woke up back in my spot by the lamp, dreaming that Krista Morales was watching me through a peephole and laughing it up with the Syrian because I was such a lousy detective. I had found her for all of five minutes, and lost her in record time. Now I didn’t know where she was or I was, or even if she was still alive. I tried to get up, but someone had cuffed my ankles.

  The third body went out. The third body was small. The woman with the bindi. I tried to remember if I thanked her for the water. I couldn’t remember. Had I thanked her? Was her last memory of me one of rudeness?

  Tears dripped off my nose. I looked down, and the tears were blood. I worked the Jiminy Nita Morales gave me out of my pocket, and wedged it under the lamp.

  I said, “Bread crumbs.”

  Somewhere between Burger King and now, the Syrian’s sleight-of-hand security system worked. Pike wasn’t here. I never doubted, not once, he would find me. My task was to stay alive until it happened or I could escape on my own. The United States Army sent me to something called Ranger School. The Ranger motto was sua sponte. It meant you’re on your own, asshole.

  Okay.

  Bring it.

  We do not quit.

  Four hours later, Washington and Pinetta clipped the ankle strap, bagged my head, and took me for another ride. Pavement changed to gravel, we slowed, entered another garage, and stopped. Only this time when Washington pulled off the hood, we were in a large, dirty room the size of six garages. A sliding door half the width of the wall had been pushed open so we could drive inside. Three SUVs and five off-road pickups with knobby tires were parked around us. Trucks like these had left skid marks and tracks at the crash site where they hunted down Sanchez.

  I said, “What is this place?”

  “Old date farm. This building here is where they used to box up the shit and load it onto trucks.”

  Rows of long-dead date palms were visible through the big door. The trunks were thick and tall, and plated with diamond-shaped scales. The sun was setting, and cast the trunks with coppery light. They would have been beautiful when they were topped with green fronds, but now the dead, topless trunks looked like forlorn totem poles. I wondered if Krista and Jack Berman were here, or if they had been taken somewhere else.

  “Are these the new digs?”

  “For you.”

  We passed from the packing shed into a building split between offices and a small commissary. Three guards were hooking up a gas range while two more rigged a power cable, and four others carried sheets of thick plywood. There were more guards here than in the earlier two houses, and none I recognized.

  Washington and Pinetta guided me to a small office with a reinforced door. A bottle of water and yellow bucket were on the concrete floor, but nothing else.

  Washington said, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the snakebugs bite.”

  Pi
netta laughed, and I turned to show my wrists.

  “You want to cut these off so I can pee?”

  “No.”

  They left and locked the door. I heard screw guns, saws, and hammers throughout the night, and sat on the dirty concrete but did not sleep. I managed to rub my pants down so I could pee, then rub them up again.

  Late the next day, a hunched Latin guard with a big Adam’s apple and an overweight Anglo skinhead with a Texas drawl opened the door.

  I said, “Where’s Washington and Pinetta? They were bringing Starbucks.”

  The skinhead said, “On your feet, dickhead.”

  Glib.

  Ghazi al-Diri was waiting when they pulled me from the room, and didn’t look happy.

  I said, “How long does it take to check me out? This is getting ridiculous.”

  “The girl tells me this boy is worse. You have medical training?”

  Everything shifted with his question. Ten seconds earlier, I had not known if I would see Krista Morales and Jack Berman again. Now they were here.

  “I’ve handled injuries and health problems with my crews. You want me to look at the kid, I’ll look at him. I can probably help.”

  They led me across the commissary and along a short hall into the next building. The skinhead was named Royce, and Royce liked to bitch. He and most of the other guards had arrived yesterday, and didn’t like busting their asses all night to put up the plywood. He went on about it until the Syrian told him to shut up. Then he shut, and we passed more guards. Most carried shock prods and clubs, but some had short black shotguns and one had a Chinese Kalashnikov. They looked tense and anxious, and their silence and weapons made me wonder what the Syrian was expecting.

  The next building was split down the center by a single long hall running the length of the building. Two doors were on each side of the hall with another door at the end, but the door at the end and the two far doors were now blocked with plywood. More guards lingered in the hall.

  The gawky guard unlocked the door to our left, and let us into a long room that ran the length of the building. It had probably been used as a storage room or lunch room, but was now stripped to bare concrete, and its windows were covered with plywood. Men and women were seated along the walls and huddled in small groups across the floor. There were more prisoners now than at the earlier house. More Latins. More black people and Anglos. A handful who could have been Middle Eastern. Berman was lying against the wall, with Krista and a muscular young Asian man at either end of him. Krista stood when she saw us.