The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel

by Robert Crais

  Carter snorted.

  “You didn’t hike for four hours. Where did you go?”

  “Kenter to Mandeville, then up along Sullivan to the old missile base on Mulholland. They have a park up there with a bathroom and fountains. I took a break, then circled back along Mulholland to Kenter again. It’s almost twelve miles, Carter. Let’s see how fast you make the loop.”

  Stiles looked embarrassed. Carter had nothing, and all of us knew it.

  The suit finally stood and came around the table. He was in his late forties, with webs around his eyes and a deep tan.

  “Russ Mitchell. I’m a Special Agent with Homeland Security.”

  He gave me plenty of time to read his credentials. Russell D. Mitchell. Department of Homeland Security. Investigations.

  “Nice picture. Makes you look tough.”

  He shrugged as he folded the creds.

  “Not tough. I’m concerned. You were seen at a home containing stolen military munitions.”

  “I saw your badge. I didn’t see a warrant.”

  He returned to his seat, and laced his fingers across his knee. Casual.

  “I’m not required to show it. I pulled a no-knock federal warrant earlier this afternoon. As for how we got in, we had the legal authority to use any means necessary, up to and including forcible entry. I didn’t see the point. Detective Stiles offered to pick the locks.”

  I glanced at Stiles.

  “A woman of many talents.”

  Mitchell loosened his tie, telling me he was prepared to stay.

  “Did you know military munitions were in the house?”

  “No. I know now, but not then.”

  “If I dig deep enough—and I will—will I find a connection between you and Carlos Etana, or associates of Etana?”

  “No. Dig all you like.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Will you agree to take a polygraph?”

  “Only on the advice of my lawyer. Those things are wrong all the time. Unreliable.”

  Mitchell made a soft smile.

  “Don’t blame you. We have to take them as part of the job. All the times I’ve been wired up, I still get nervous.”

  Mitchell was being my pal. Good guy, bad guy. He settled back.

  “Why were you in Echo Park?”

  I told him exactly what I told Carter and Stiles. I told him why I was there, and what I saw, and who I spoke with, and what I did. The true answers didn’t change, and neither did the lies.

  Mitchell nodded when I finished.

  “So you saw only the one individual exit the home.”

  “The man I chased. Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else, male or female, enter or leave?”

  “No.”

  Mitchell studied me for a moment, then went to the glass doors that led to my deck. The uniforms and the blond guy thought he wanted them, but he didn’t.

  “I like it up here. Quiet. Woodsy. Woodsy is good.”

  He turned back to Carter.

  “We’re done.”

  Carter crossed his arms like he didn’t like being done. Like he wanted to rake me over the coals for eight or nine more hours.

  “He’s full of it. He knows something.”

  Mitchell tightened his tie, smoothed his sleeves, and ignored him.

  “You know what we found in the house?”

  “I know what I heard on the news.”

  “The grenade cartridges were stolen from Camp Pendleton, likely by a civilian employee. The RPGs were manufactured in Czechoslovakia twenty-two years ago. They were probably smuggled into the country by a collector, and later stolen. Being illegal, collectors won’t report the theft, so weapons like this end up wherever. These found their way to Echo Park—the RPGs, the grenades, and two pounds of plastic explosive in a Tupperware. That kills me, a Tupperware.”

  Mitchell stared, and seemed to be watching me.

  “You know what these things can do. I’ve read your record. Army Ranger. Combat. Damned fine combat record, by the way.”

  “They made me sound better than I was.”

  Carter made an angry flip with his hand.

  “Big fucking deal. This guy and his nutcase partner have dropped bodies all over town. Turds like Cole don’t give a shit.”

  I didn’t say anything. I could have said plenty, but didn’t.

  Mitchell still ignored him. He searched my eyes like he was trying to see into my head.

  “These are weapons of war. Weapons someone could use to bring down an airliner, or blow up a building filled with innocent people. Why do you think they were in that house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t, either. But I’m going to find out.”

  Mitchell walked out, and didn’t look back.

  Stiles called the uniforms in from the deck and followed them out after Mitchell. The blond guy tipped his head as he passed.

  “Nice play.”

  He meant it, but I didn’t react.

  Carter stayed the longest. He stood in my living room as if all his suspicions had been confirmed.

  “You’re hiding something. I can smell it on you like rotten meat. You’re hiding something.”

  Carter was a good cop. I didn’t like him, but he wanted to find whoever put the munitions in Thomas Lerner’s house for all the right reasons. I wanted him to find them, too.

  “Carter, I’d help if I could. If I can, I will.”

  “Save it. You’re a suspect. I’m on you like a suspect. If I find evidence that ties you to that house, or Etana, or those fucking explosives, I’m going to arrest you like a suspect.”

  He walked out, and left the door open.

  I didn’t move. Five engines started. Five cars drove away. I waited to make sure they were gone, and waited some more.

  After a while, I took my car to pick up the burner and books, drove home, and let myself in through the kitchen.

  Joe Pike stood by the sink, as still as a statue, waiting.

  I said, “I have a problem.”

  23

  A BLACK CAT pushed through the cat door. His fine flat head was striped with scars, his eyes were angry yellow coals, and his ears were tattered from too many fights. One ear was cocked sideways from the time someone shot him. He circled Pike’s legs, and flopped on his side. Purring. Pike picked him up and held him, the cat dripping off his arm as limp as liquid fur. Anyone else would lose a hand.

  Pike stood six-one and weighed one ninety-five, all ropy muscles and crimson arrows inked on his delts. He wore a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, sun-faded jeans, and running shoes. Dark glasses masked his eyes.

  No fashion sense.

  I told him about Amy and Jacob Breslyn, and Echo Park, and why the police and Special Agent Mitchell were on me. Pike was so still he might have been sleeping, even when I described the stories I’d heard in the X-Spot and the munitions that were found in the Echo Park house. When I finished, Pike’s head tipped to the side. Not much. Just a hair.

  “Why is Ms. Breslyn mixed up with people like this?”

  “Jacob.”

  We went to my computer, where I Googled news accounts about Jacob and the Nigerian bombing. Pages of links appeared. Pike read over my shoulder. The stories repeated, and drew the same terrible portrait: Fourteen people enjoying dinner and drinks at an outdoor café were murdered by an Islamist fanatic with a bomb strapped to her body. Another thirty-two people were wounded. Authorities believed a fringe al-Qaeda affiliate in northwest Africa was responsible, though no group or individual had claimed responsibility. Each story ended the same way. The investigation was continuing.

  I said, “Amy printed hundreds of artic
les like these. Maybe thousands. She has files filled with correspondence she’s had with the State Department. No one has answered her questions.”

  “She wants to know who killed her son.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. The government hasn’t been able to tell her, so maybe she decided to find out for herself.”

  Pike’s head tipped again.

  “She’d need access to people who move in those circles, and access is guarded.”

  I told him about the missing four hundred sixty thousand dollars and Amy Breslyn’s specialized skill set.

  “She has money to spend, and a calling card not many can offer. She’s a Ph.D. chemical engineer, and she makes explosives for the United States government.”

  Pike said, “Oh.”

  “Uh-huh. If you’re looking to contact people like this, you don’t put an ad on Craigslist. She would’ve put out the word and word always spreads.”

  Pike stroked the cat.

  “There are people who listen for the word.”

  “Who?”

  Pike squatted, and poured the cat from his arms. The cat hissed, spit, and raced through the cat door. Clack-clack.

  “Jon Stone. Jon knows people who listen.”

  Jon Stone was more Joe’s friend than mine, though ‘friend’ probably wasn’t the right word. Jon was a private military contractor, which meant he was a mercenary. He was also a Princeton graduate and a former Delta Force operator. His primary client was the Department of Defense. Same boss, different pay grade.

  Pike stood.

  “I’ll ask him.”

  Pike slipped out, and I went back to my computer.

  I opened Laura’s email, and studied the attachments she sent about Juan Medillo and the Echo Park house.

  Juan Adolfo Medillo, a resident of Los Angeles, had owned the Echo Park house for the past seven years, having taken possession from a Walter Jacobi, a resident of Stockton. The Tax Board records showed a Boyle Heights address for Medillo the year title was transferred. The property tax was up to date, with the most recent payment having been made three months earlier.

  I did a quick Internet search to see if Medillo still lived at the Boyle Heights address, only the link that appeared wasn’t the link I expected to find.

  JUAN ADOLFO MEDILLO—HOLY REMEMBRANCE

  It was an obituary.

  Juan Adolfo Medillo, beloved brother and son, was tragically murdered yesterday at the California State Prison, Solano, where he was incarcerated. His heart was pure and his soul was good. Preceded in death by his beloved mother, Mildred, and survived by his loving sisters, Nola and Marisol, and his father, Roberto. The family requests prayers for Juan’s eternal soul.

  I read the date of his death, checked the tax records, and leaned back.

  I said, “Wow.”

  Murdered.

  Juan Medillo acquired the house while he was in prison, and he was murdered not long after. He’d been dead for seven years, yet the tax record showed that he had paid the tax on his home only three months ago.

  Survived by his loving sisters, Nola and Marisol, and his father, Roberto.

  During the seven years since Medillo took title, the property taxes were paid, the house was maintained, and renters like Thomas Lerner had lived there. Only Juan Medillo was dead. I wondered if Medillo’s father or sisters had been Lerner’s landlord, and if they knew how to reach him.

  It was late. I was tired and hungry, but I called a reporter named Eddie Ditko. Eddie had walked the crime beat for every dead paper in Los Angeles. He was old and sour, but he still reported for Internet outlets.

  First words out of his mouth, “Did I tell ya about my tumor?”

  He coughed into the phone.

  “You doing anything with the murder in Echo Park?”

  He hacked up a big one and spit.

  “I couldn’t give two loose shits about a banger with scrambled brains. I want the bombs, but those pricks at the Boat are keeping it tight. Why?”

  “The house where they found the bombs is owned by a Juan Adolfo Medillo.”

  “Everybody knows that.”

  “Medillo was murdered up at Solano seven years ago.”

  “The prison?”

  “He was inside when he took title. How many people buy a house while they’re in prison?”

  “This is kinda interesting. I could maybe do something with this.”

  “Call Solano. What happened up there might be connected to what happened down here.”

  “I’m seein’ potential.”

  “The Boat knows what I know. Move fast before the door closes.”

  “I do everything fast. Old as I am, I could drop dead takin’ a shit.”

  “Thanks, Eddie.”

  I lowered the phone and stared at the obituary. The house had a criminal past to go with its criminal present. It was like finding another piece for a puzzle, only I didn’t know if the pieces were part of the same puzzle.

  Dinner was leftover chicken and hummus on pita bread. The chicken was rich with cilantro and lime and pepper and smoke from my grill. I took the food and a beer outside and sat on the edge of my deck, wondering if someone was watching.

  The cat sat beside me. I tore bits of the chicken and let him lick them from my fingers. I poured a small puddle of beer and watched him drink. We ate together and watched the sky deepen from blue to purple to black.

  Amy Breslyn might be watching the same sky, but I doubted it.

  The Amy described by Meryl Lawrence and her housekeeper was much different from the Amy described by the men at the X-Spot. Almost as if there had been a secret Amy, one hidden within the other, a secret Amy doing secret things, a world apart from the other.

  “What are you doing, Amy?”

  The cat bumped me with his head.

  We went inside when we finished. I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. After a while I slept and found myself alone in a dark jungle half a world away. Sparse moonlight penetrated the triple-canopy growth overhead, casting a glow too faint to light the trail I followed. The heat was brutal, sweat soaked my clothes, and clouds of insects relished my blood.

  Something large and unseen moved in the darkness, just out of view, a terrible beast that crept along the trails as I crept, sharing my world.

  Somewhere else in my dark dream, I knew Amy Breslyn was feeling her way along a similar trail, calling for Jacob. She looked as she did in her picture—a sad, round woman with uncertain eyes. She was alone and afraid, but the secret Amy within her did not let her stop. She moved through the darkness, calling for Jacob, lost in a nightmare she never imagined in a world not her own.

  But I was not Amy Breslyn and this world was mine. I asked to be there. I volunteered, and fierce men in black shirts trained me to thrive.

  Something dark slipped through the shadows, just out of view, enormous and hungry, seeking Amy Breslyn as it also sought me.

  I did not fear it.

  I wanted to find it.

  I whispered quietly, so quietly only Amy and I could hear.

  “I’m coming.”

  I pushed through the night, trying to find her, trying to stop the monster.

  24

  Jon Stone

  JON STONE WAS HOME. Second night back after eighteen abroad, most of them spent on the Anatolian Plateau north of the Syrian border. Except for the nights he trucked south. Home was above the Sunset Strip, a sleek contemporary offering privacy, steel and black finishes, and an enormous Italian platform bed that cost as much as a Porsche. Sprawled naked on the vast plain of the bed, Jon roused. The night air kissed his chest with a pleasant chill. Nothing like the Plateau.

  A low voice in the dark woke him.

  “Jon.”

  Jon Stone did not move nor fully open his eyes. A southern moon filled h
is bedroom with blue shadows, but the person who spoke was invisible. Jon wondered if he was dreaming.

  “Your eyes are open, Jon. It’s me.”

  Not dreaming. Pike.

  Jon still couldn’t see him.

  “Don’t wake them. Come out.”

  Deep purple moved through the blue as Pike left. Pike was creepy good at this stuff, but Pike had taken a serious risk by entering Jon’s home. A cocked-and-locked Kimber .45 was only inches away, not that it had done Jon any good.

  Embarrassing.

  Jon wondered if Pike needed money. If Pike needed money, Jon could make money. And Jon loved making money.

  The woman on the far side of the bed snored. The woman beside him stirred. Her voice was cloudy with three-hundred-dollar Scotch.

  “Qui est-il?”

  “Rendors-toi.”

  Backpacking French hippie chicks Jon met when he came through Customs.

  The girl made a hazy smile as her eyes closed.

  “Il est soldat comme toi?”

  “Personne n’est comme moi, chérie. Dors.”

  The girl asking if Pike was a soldier like Jon, Jon telling her to go back to sleep. This was the French girl, being a smart-ass.

  Point of fact, the French chicks didn’t believe he was a soldier. Jon never told people what he did for a living, but here they were, Jon and these girls, queued up with three hundred people, inch-worming their way through Customs at LAX. Jon told them he was a mercenary as a goof, wanting to see what they’d say. They giggled and called him a liar, Jon being a trim guy in his thirties with spiky blond hair and a stud in his ear. They asked what he really did, the one girl guessing he played in a band, the other insisting he worked in the movies, the two girls flirting him up. Jon flashed his surfer’s grin, told them he was a spy, which led to more giggles, a soldier of fortune, a professional warrior, a scholar, a historian and assassin, the one girl finally touching his arm, and that was it, baby, over and out. Welcome home, Jon.

  Jon Stone spoke thirteen languages and was fluent in six, French being one. He spoke it so well the girls thought he was a native Parisian pretending to be an American. This ability to blend with the natives was a valuable tool when Jon plied his trade.