by Robert Crais
Pike copied her contact info as he had the others, then put away his phone. The ATF wanted Cole badly enough to work from both Washington and L.A., and Pike was convinced it had to do with the Syrian, but he didn’t see how knowing this helped him find Cole.
Pike focused on the three drop houses, including the house where the Indians were murdered. The number of houses the Syrian had access to bothered him, and so did the plywood. Pike understood sending men to remove DNA and forensic evidence, but taking the time to remove the plywood seemed needlessly risky. The longer a criminal stayed at a crime scene, the greater the odds he or she would be caught. The Syrian obviously felt the risk was necessary. Pike wondered if this had to do with the source of his houses.
Pike started the Rover and drove south to the Indio house.
The neighborhood was quiet with the lateness of the hour, and the house was dark. Its garage was a gaping black cavern with the door pushed down, but if anyone had come to gawk at the damage, they were no longer present.
Pike cruised past to see if someone was watching, then parked one street over and approached the house on foot from the rear. He checked the neighboring houses, yards, roofs, and vehicles. When he was confident no one was watching the house, he returned to the Rover, rounded the block again, and parked in front of the dog lady’s home.
Her windows were lit, so Pike went to the door. This late, he knew she would be reluctant to open the door, so he took off his sunglasses to make himself less threatening, and brushed the dust from his jeans and sweatshirt.
The big German shepherd barked when Pike was halfway up the drive, and kept barking when the woman shouted at it to shut up. A pattern, like the tug-of-war when they walked.
Pike rang the bell, and the barking grew frenzied.
“Shut up! Would you please shut up! Jesus! What am I going to do with you?”
The location of her voice told him she was looking through the peephole.
“It’s late. What do you want?”
“My name is Pike. I’d like to ask about the house next door.”
“What? Jesus, would you shut the fuck up, I can’t hear the man! I’m sorry, what about the house?”
Pike stepped away from the door, and waited. A few seconds later, the door cracked open, and the dog barked even louder.
The woman peered through the crack, hunched over because she held the dog’s collar. The woman’s eye was dark brown. The dog’s eye was golden.
“I couldn’t hear you. I’m sorry. She’s very protective.”
Pike studied the golden eye.
“She’s scared. She’ll quiet if you open the door.”
“I’m not kidding. She bites.”
“She’s fine.”
The woman opened the door enough for the shepherd’s head to push through, but she didn’t stop barking. She was a good-looking dog, with a black mask that lightened to gold between dark golden eyes. The woman now blocked the door with her hip so the dog couldn’t escape, and shouted at her to shut up.
Pike said, “Good dog.”
The dog lowered her ears and stopped barking.
Pike held his knuckles to her nose. She sniffed, then whined at him through the crack.
The woman said, “OhmiGod, I’ve never seen her like this.”
“She’s a good dog.”
The woman opened the door, and came out holding the dog by its collar. The dog strained to get closer to Pike, and thumped its tail on the porch. The woman introduced herself.
“Joanie Fryman. Are you the police?”
“No, ma’am. I want to ask about this house.”
“That’s why I thought you were the cops. I called about that place.”
“Today?”
“Four or five days ago. There’s something going on over there. These cars come and go, but you never see anyone, and I thought I heard someone moaning.”
She frowned at the house as if it was the most disgusting place on earth, then noticed the garage.
“Jesus, what happened to their garage?”
Pike said, “It looked deserted, so I knocked. You know the people who live there?”
“Just cars going in and out. It’s a rental. Jesus, I hope they’re gone.”
“How long have they had it?”
“Only a couple of weeks. A family named Simmons lived there before. They were nice.”
Joanie Fryman suddenly looked at him.
“Are you interested in renting it?”
“Maybe.”
She flashed a bright smile.
“Maybe renters aren’t so bad.”
“Know the owner?”
“That’s Mr. Castro, but he lives in Idaho. He uses a rental agent. I met her. I have her card in here—”
Joanie turned to go for the card, but the German shepherd dug in to stay with Pike.
“Jesus, dog, would you come?”
“Leave her with me.”
Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes, and released the dog’s collar. The dog scrambled to Pike, ears back, tail wagging as she licked and nuzzled his hands.
“OhmiGod, this is insane.”
Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes even wider, and hurried into her home.
Pike squatted in front of the dog. He ran his fingers through the thick fur on her shoulders and neck, and scratched the sides of her head. She was a strong, powerful dog with all the right instincts, but no rules to guide her. A good dog needed rules, same as a man.
Pike studied the golden eyes. He had known K-9 handlers, when he was a Marine and an LAPD officer, who had killed men to protect their dogs, and he had seen those same tough men resign when they lost a dog, as if they had failed their partners and could not live with their grief.
Pike said, “Take care of her. Do your job.”
Pike scratched the dog’s ears until Joanie Fryman returned with a beige business card.
“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 behind 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 & 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 li
ved 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 & 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.
