by Robert Crais
“You heard wrong, Cole. Now what do you have?”
Her response felt natural, spontaneous, and real. So did my question.
“Really? I heard you had names.”
“C’mon, Cole, I’m up to my eyes. You have something or not? I gotta go.”
Everything about her tone and energy level felt real, but cops lied better than normal people. Working undercover sharpened their skills.
I decided she was keeping it quiet while they developed their case. With eighteen rich people breathing down her neck, she couldn’t afford to screw up. Rich people wanted convictions.
“Hey, Cassett, can I ask a favor?”
“Is this why you called?”
“How about giving me a victim list? The more I know, the more I can help.”
“So far, you haven’t. Goodbye, Cole. I’m hanging up.”
“Kids are selling stolen property at a flea market in Venice. I got a witness might know who they are.”
Cassett’s voice turned cold and held a threatening edge.
“Who told you about the flea market?”
“I have sources. I’m a detective.”
“If one of my guys told you, I’ll have his ass. Pass the word, Cole. His ass is mine.”
“Relax, Sergeant. I wouldn’t know your guys if I tripped over them.”
She was upset.
“Whatever, but make sure you keep your mouth shut. Don’t go blabbing about the flea market.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“The deal is we sat on it. Nobody knows these kids move their take at a flea market. I’ve had undercovers on that market since we found out, and if those kids sniff cop, they’ll never go back.”
The truth in her voice was as real and unmistakable as a solid steel door. Cassett did not know Tyson and Amber and Alec were the three unknown subjects. Neff and Hensman knew, but Cassett knew nothing.
I said, “Neff and Hensman told me.”
“Told you what?”
“About the flea market.”
“So who are Neff and Hensman, and why do I give a shit?”
Keeping secrets about an investigation was typical. Pretending you didn’t know the detectives who worked on your task force made no sense.
“They told me about Louise August.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cole.”
I drew a slow breath, and didn’t like what I was thinking.
“Cole? Are you there?”
“Louise August. Someone saw her talking to a couple of kids.”
“Okay. And?”
“That’s it. I didn’t talk to her. Haven’t found her.”
“So you called with a tip that isn’t really a tip because you don’t know anything except for the name of someone you haven’t been able to find. Do I have this right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cassett hung up.
I lowered the phone, and stared out the window. Two girls and a boy zinged past on skateboards. I watched them. A man carried a tiny Chihuahua out of a building. He put the dog down on the sidewalk. The little dog sniffed the air, looked at the man, and trembled. The man took a step toward a small patch of grass, and coaxed the dog toward the grass. The dog didn’t move. The man lifted the dog, set it in the grass, and waited. The tiny dog shivered. The man picked up his dog, and carried it into the building.
I called Charlotte Crenza.
“It’s Elvis. Can you talk?”
“Hang on. I’ll go in the bathroom.”
More whispering. Everyone I spoke with whispered. Maybe it was me.
The phone buzzed with an incoming call as I waited. Chen. I sent him to voice mail. Charlotte came back on the line a few seconds later.
“She’s such a bitch.”
“When the asshats came to your office, how did they identify themselves?”
“They said hello and showed me their badges.”
“Were their names Neff and Hensman?”
“I’m sure they said, but I’m such a dummy. I don’t remember.”
“Okay. So they flashed their badges and said hello. They must’ve said something else, right?”
“The shorter one, he’s the one who did the talking, he said Detective Cassett sent them to see my uncle.”
“They told you Detective Cassett sent them.”
“The shorter one. He was still pretty big, but the other man was bigger.”
“Did they say why Cassett sent them?”
“Something about Mr. Fiedler’s camera, but I didn’t listen. It was Food Truck Friday, so Martin was next door, and Marge said—”
I interrupted.
“Did they ask if Alec and Amber were selling laptop computers?”
“OhmiGod, they did. The shorter one, he actually asked us to describe them. I mean, really?”
I heard a muffled sound, and Charlotte whispered again.
“I have to go. Marge is calling.”
“One last thing. Did they have a picture of the green boy?”
“Of course, and they made us look at it like every other cop who’s been here.”
I hung up again, only now my head hurt and something large throbbed behind my eye. The phone buzzed. It was Chen, calling a second time. His whisper was frantic and fast.
“How do you know his name?”
“Was Rickey alone?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t shot while he was driving. He crashed over a guardrail. Somebody pulled him out of the car. They shot him on the embankment.”
The throb behind my eye beat harder.
“Suspects?”
“Did you kill him? Did you and Pike kill him? I’m not gonna help you cover up a murder.”
The throb pounded so hard it was difficult to think.
“We didn’t kill him.”
“Then how do you know his name? You told me his name, but he hasn’t been identified. They don’t know who he is.”
“The police know.”
“They don’t know. Nobody knows but you. He was torched, bruh. Soaked him with high-test, and fired him up. They haven’t been able to identify him.”
Neff and Hensman knew.
“Suspects and evidence?”
“Pulled shoe prints off the embankment. Men’s shoes.”
I said, “Two pair.”
“It was you and Pike, wasn’t it? You murdered him.”
I hung up, and remembered the little sign in Louise August’s yard.
Please be kind.
I didn’t feel kind. I felt angry, and scared.
Two men opened Louise August’s gate, and then she was dead. Alec Rickey was murdered, and two men who might or might not be police officers searched his apartment, asking about laptops and Tyson and Amber. Maybe the same two men who left shoe prints on the embankment.
Two men wanted a stolen laptop, and they were killing people to find it. They knew Tyson’s name, and if they had his name they could find his address, and Tyson lived with his mother.
I scooped up my phone, but I didn’t call Devon. Devon was my second call.
18
DEVON CONNOR
DEVON DROVE HOME from her meeting with Leslie Sanger as if she were trapped within a cloud. She glanced at herself in the rearview, and regretted it. Deep lines, crepey skin, and smudgy caves instead of eyes. She looked a million years old. She felt even older. Life with Tyson was draining.
Devon told herself his Volvo would be waiting, but the driveway was empty. She prayed the Volvo would be in the garage, but her hopes crashed again as the garage door opened. Devon pulled into the empty garage, gathered her purse, and noticed the laundry door.
The door from the garage to the laundry was ajar.
Devon tried to recall whether she locked it earlier. She
thought she had, she always did, but with so much on her mind, it was possible she didn’t.
Devon slid out of her Audi and entered her house. She passed through the laundry into the kitchen, just as she’d done ten thousand times, and pulled up short.
The cabinets were open, as if someone had looked inside, and not bothered to close them.
Tyson.
Devon frowned toward the hall.
“Tyson! Are you here?”
Leaving the cabinets open would be just like him.
“Tyson!”
The sadness she’d felt for her son only seconds ago blossomed to anger.
“Tyson, you answer me!”
Devon stalked into the dining room, and stopped short again. The sliding glass door to the backyard was full-on wide open. A lazy black fly buzzed past her head. She swatted at it, and missed.
I’m gonna kill him.
“Tyson!”
Devon moved down the hall to his bedroom.
His door was closed, and she certainly didn’t bother to knock. Devon flung open the door, and the sight of his room made her gasp.
Tyson’s bed was upended. His desk and chest of drawers had been pulled from the walls. Their contents were dumped on the floor. His monitors and games had been swept from the desk, and lay in the jumble, scattered about the room.
Devon tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. His room looked as if it had been ransacked by vandals.
Tyson would not have done this. Devon did not want to believe Tyson would do this, but the girl or Alec might have put him up to it. They might have encouraged him, and goaded him on.
Terrible, criminal, teenage assholes!
Did they vandalize her entire home? Was this an expression of anger?
His bathroom was gutted. Towels and toilet tissue lay on the floor, scraped from the linen closet and cabinets.
Assholes!
She stormed into her bedroom.
“You little shits!”
Her dresser and chest were emptied like Tyson’s. Boxes, handbags, and a suitcase were pulled from her closet. The jewelry box Tyson gave her when he was twelve was gone. She didn’t bother to look in her closet.
Devon went to her office at the end of the hall. The last room in the house.
Drawers and file cabinets had been emptied, and storage bins pulled from the closet. She felt a breeze, and noticed the open window.
The window was wrong.
Tyson had a key. He wouldn’t have to open the window.
She stared at the window, and wondered why it was open. She wanted to close it, but couldn’t bring herself to enter the room. The house was quiet. Deathly still.
Stop being silly. Close the damn window, and clean up this mess.
The neighbor’s dog burst into frenzied barking.
Devon jumped so hard, she clutched the door. Toby was a big dog with a loud bark. He sounded right outside the window, crazy loud snarling barks like he wanted to tear something apart.
The barking stopped.
Devon heard a car, and a faraway truck, and birds.
Then a creak from the front of the house.
Her heart slammed.
Devon couldn’t tell if the sound came from inside the house, or out. It could have been the wind. It might be Toby.
Thump.
Devon peeked up the hall. The hall was empty, but her heart beat a vicious patter, and she wanted to run.
Thump. Creak.
She ducked into the office, but stayed at the door. Listening. Straining to hear.
Inside or out, she still couldn’t tell.
Stop! You’re imagining things!
Maybe from the dining room, a noise from outside coming through the open slider.
Her phone buzzed, startling her as much as the barking. Devon had forgotten her phone. She saw Cole’s name, and covered her mouth.
“Someone’s in my house.”
“You’re home?”
“Yes! Someone searched my house, and I think they’re still here.”
“Where are you?”
“I heard something.”
“Devon, listen. I need you to listen.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. Where are you?”
“In the office. In back.”
“Can you see the front door?”
“Yes.”
“Leave. Go straight to the front door, and open it.”
Devon’s throat felt swollen, and her eyes burned. She peered up the hall.
“I heard something. I think someone’s in the dining room.”
“Go to the front door, Devon. Go now. Get out of the house.”
“I can’t. I’ll pass the dining room.”
“Do it. Leave now. Go.”
Devon’s heart thundered. She closed her eyes, and told herself to stop being a baby.
She crept from the office, and stared down the length of the hall and across the living room to the front door. She listened, but a high-pitched hum filled her ears.
Elvis said, “Are you moving?”
She took a step.
“Yes.”
“Go to the door. Straight to the door.”
She stepped again, and then again. She watched the entrance to the dining room, and readied herself, steeled herself to fight and scream if someone lunged from the room.
She walked faster, and then she ran, flying past the dining room.
“I’m there! I’m there!”
“Open it. I sent a friend.”
She threw open the door, and shrieked. A tall, rough man loomed large at the door. He gripped her arm so quickly she shrieked again. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and a sleeveless gray sweatshirt revealed battle-scarred arms roped with muscle. Red arrow tattoos on his deltoids seemed to point at her.
The man pulled her close, and whispered.
“I’m Pike. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He folded his arm around her, and rushed Devon away from the house.
19
JOE PIKE
THE WOMAN HUDDLED against the door in his red Jeep Cherokee, staying as far from him as possible. Pike thought she looked small, pressed to the door, and more fearful of him than of what she’d found in her home. Pike understood.
Pike held out his phone.
“Elvis.”
She glanced at the phone, but didn’t take it. Afraid to reach out.
“Talk.”
She took the phone and held it to her ear.
“Hello?”
Her eyes never left him. She listened, but said almost nothing. After a minute, she handed back the phone. Wary, but not so afraid.
“He wants you.”
Pike watched her house as they spoke. He had shoved her into the Jeep, fired the engine, and roared away all of fifty feet. No one pursued them, so now they sat idling, talking to Cole.
Pike said, “Yes?”
“She’s okay?”
“Scared.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“One or two men dressed like police detectives. Sport coats and ties.”
“No.”
“Did she?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“I wouldn’t ask so many questions if you told me what happened.”
“She’s safe.”
Pike cut the line and lowered his phone. He stared at Devon Connor. Ms. Connor stared back. Pike offered his hand.
“Joe Pike. You doing okay?”
She worked up her nerve, and took his hand. Her hand was damp. His was dry.
“Devon Connor. Thank you. I guess.”
Pike took that to mean she was okay. He went back to watching the house.
“Did you see who
did this?”
“I thought Tyson was home until I saw his room. His room looks like it exploded. My office is upside down. All my clothes, the things in my drawers, everything’s on the floor.”
Pike took this to be a no. He studied the neighboring houses, and the street in both directions. This wasn’t a neighborhood where people had security cameras.
She said, “Mr. Cole says you work together.”
He nodded.
“Are you a detective?”
“No.”
Pike let the Jeep idle forward. When they reached her driveway, he stopped, and studied the sides of her house, and the windows, and roof. He stared into her garage.
She said, “What are we doing?”
“Looking.”
Pike took a Colt Python .357 Magnum in a clip holster from under his seat. The woman’s eyes got big when she saw the gun.
“What’s that?”
“A gun.”
“Why do you have a gun?”
“The men who came here have guns. I’m going to see if they’re gone.”
“What men? Who did this?”
The answers would only upset her, so Pike didn’t answer. He clipped the Python to his waist, and covered the butt with his sweatshirt.
“We’re going to change seats. You’re going to drive around the block. When you get back, you’ll see me. If you hear shots, keep driving. Call Elvis.”
“Shots? I don’t want to hear shots.”
“If something happens, call Elvis.”
“I don’t want to drive around the block. I don’t want you to—”
Pike got out and rounded to the passenger door. She wasn’t moving, so he opened the door.
“Get behind the wheel. C’mon.”
She stumbled out of the Jeep, and climbed in behind the wheel. She wasted time adjusting the seat, so he slapped the fender.
“Go now. Drive.”
She screeched away, barely missing an oncoming car.
Pike ran directly to the front door and drew the Python as he entered. He went in fast, gun first, and stepped to the side. One sweep to clear the space, then Pike locked the door so no one could enter behind him. Or leave.
Pike had cleared homes and buildings as a combat Marine, a police officer, and a military contractor in the deadliest, most dangerous regions of the world. He had cleared so many hostile structures he moved by muscle memory. Living room, kitchen, laundry room, garage, back through the kitchen into the dining room, moving without effort or pause like water flowing around rocks in a stream. Stepped through the open dining room sliders, scanned the backyard, turned away and into the hall. Bathroom, linen closet, the boy’s room, his closet. Her room, her closet, her bath, and out. Office, checked the closet and under the desk, glanced out the open window, one side, the other, and back through the house.
