The Last Detective

by Robert Crais

  I told him where I was hiding.

  “Okay, I'm at the drive where he said to turn. I'm making the turn.”

  Light swept between two hangars, and then the limousine emerged and turned toward me. They were fifty yards away. Maybe sixty.

  The limousine stopped.

  I said, “I'm right in front of you.”

  “Copy. We're getting out. We have to call him now.”

  “Don't hurry. Wait.”

  The limousine sat with its engine running and lights on. From the end of the trailer I saw all of the ramp and the taxiway and most of the service road that ran along the south side of the airport. Everything was quiet.

  “We're getting out. I'm putting in my earpiece so I can hear you. You see something, you tell me, goddamnit.”

  The passenger door opened, and Myers stepped out. He stood by himself alongside the car.

  I checked the roofline and service road again, looking for the telltale bump of a human head or the bulge of a shoulder, but saw nothing. I watched the shadows at the base of the ramp, and saw still more nothing.

  The third fuel truck from the end of the row flicked its lights.

  I said, “Myers.”

  His voice came back low.

  “I got it. Richard's calling the number.”

  I strained hard to see inside the truck but it was dark with shadows and too far away. I took out my gun and trained it on the truck's grill. The grip was slippery. I would put down the phone as soon as I saw Ben. My aim was better with both hands.

  I said, “Tell him to get out with Ben. Make him show Ben.”

  Pike would have moved up on the far side. He would be closer than me and have a better position. He was a better shot.

  Myers's soft voice came through again.

  “Richard's talking to him. Richard's getting out to show the money. He wants to see the bags.”

  “Don't do that, Myers. Make him show Ben.”

  “Richard's scared.”

  “Myers, make him show Ben. I don't see Ben.”

  “Ben's on the phone.”

  “That's not good enough. You have to see him.”

  “Keep your eyes on that fucking truck. Richard's flashing the money.”

  The limo's back door opened. Myers helped Richard out with the two bags, and then they looked at the truck. Three million dollars is heavy, and five had to look still heavier.

  I heard Myers whisper, “C'mon, you fucker.”

  The truck lights flicked again. All of us waited. All of us stared at the truck.

  Twenty feet behind Richard and Myers, a shadow moved between the oil drums that were stacked at the mouth of the hangar. I caught the movement as Myers turned. Schilling and Mazi surged out of the shadows with their pistols up and ready. I had stared at those oil drums again and again, but I had seen nothing.

  I yelled, “MYERS!”

  Their hands exploded like tiny suns, flashbulbing their faces with red light. Myers went down. They kept shooting him until they reached the money, and then they fired at Richard. He fell backwards into the car.

  I fired two fast shots, then turned for the fuel truck, screaming. I expected the truck to rumble to life or shots to come from the darkness, but none of that happened. I sprinted as hard as I could, shouting Ben's name.

  Behind me, Schilling and Mazi heaved the money into the limo and got in with it.

  Pike ran onto the ramp from the far side of the trucks and fired as the limo squealed away. All of us had thought that they would approach and leave in their own vehicle, but they didn't; the limo was their getaway, just as they'd planned.

  I ran low and hard all the way to the truck, but I knew before I reached it that the truck was empty and always had been. Fallon had rigged the lights with a remote. He was someplace else, and Ben was still with him.

  I spun back around, but the limo was gone.

  Pike

  Pike thought, they're beating us. These people are so damned good that they're beating us.

  Schilling and Ibo stepped out from between the oil drums as if they had come through an invisible door, one moment impossible to see, the next their hands flashing fire, with the absolute efficiency of a striking snake. Pike had studied those drums, but seen nothing. They struck so fast that he could not warn Myers. It happened so quickly, and Pike was so far away, that he was nothing more than a witness to the execution.

  They were as good as anyone Joe Pike had ever seen.

  Pike ran forward, trying to get into range, as Cole shouted. Pike and Cole fired at almost the same instant, but Pike knew they were too late; the limo's left headlight shattered and a bullet careened off its hood. The limo ripped away as Cole raced toward the truck. Pike didn't bother because he knew what Cole would find.

  Pike twisted around, searching for movement; someone had controlled the truck's lights, and that would be Fallon, somewhere nearby with a line of sight on the scene; now that Schilling and Ibo had the money, Fallon would also run, and might give himself away.

  Then a heavy shot boomed to the north, and Pike spun toward the sound. Not a handgun shot, but something loud and heavy. Light flashed in one of the parked cars, followed fast by a second boom.

  Pike saw shadows in the car. A man and a boy.

  Pike shouted at Cole as the car pulled away, then ran hard down the hill for his Jeep, his shoulder sending sharp lightning through his arm as he ran.

  Pike thought, I'm scared.

  Ben

  Mike wasn't like Eric or Mazi. Mike didn't bullshit or play the radio and leer at the hot chicks they passed on San Vicente Boulevard. Mike spoke only to give commands. He looked at Ben only to make sure Ben got the point. That was it.

  They turned into a parking lot at the airport, then sat with the engine running. Mike never turned off the engine. Like he was scared that it wouldn't start when he needed it. After a while, Mike had lifted the binoculars to watch something across the field. Ben couldn't tell what was happening because it was so far away.

  The shotgun rested with the muzzle on the floor and the stock leaning against Mike's knee. It wasn't a regular shotgun like the 20-gauge Ithaca that Ben's grandpa had given him for Christmas; this shotgun was really short, with a black stock, but Ben saw a little button in the trigger guard that he knew was the safety. His own shotgun had the same kind of safety. The safety was off. Ben thought, I'll bet he's got one in the box and good to go just like Eric.

  Ben glanced up at Mike again, but Mike was still focused across the field.

  Mike scared him. Eric and Mazi were scared of Mike, too. If it had been Eric sitting here concentrating on something across the field, Ben thought he would go for the gun. All he had to do was grab the trigger and the gun would go off. But that was Eric and this was Mike. Mike reminded him of a sleeping cobra, all coiled up and good to go. You might think it was sleeping but you never knew.

  Mike lowered the binoculars just long enough to find what looked like a small walkie-talkie from the dashboard, then raised the binoculars again. He keyed the walkie-talkie, and lights flickered across the runway. Mike spoke on his cell phone, and then put the phone to Ben's ear.

  “It's your dad. Say something.”

  Ben grabbed the phone.

  “Daddy?”

  His father sobbed, and just like that Ben cried like a baby, gushing tears and hiccuping.

  “I wanna go home.”

  Mike took back the phone. Ben grabbed for it, but Mike held him at arm's length. Ben clawed and bit and punched, but Mike's arm was an iron rod. Mike squeezed Ben's shoulder so hard that his shoulder felt crushed.

  Mike said, “You going to stop?”

  Ben shrank away from Mike as far as possible, embarrassed and ashamed. He cried even harder.

  Mike dropped the phone, then peered through the binoculars again. He keyed the walkie-talkie once more, and now the far lights flashed and stayed on.

  Overlapping erratic pops came from the far side of the airport then, and Mike straightened
, focused so completely on whatever was happening that Ben thought: Now!

  Ben lunged across the seat. His fingers wrapped around the trigger guard just as Mike grabbed his arm, but Ben had it by then. The shotgun went off like a bomb, and kicked hard into the steering wheel. Ben jerked the trigger again as fast as he could, and the shotgun thundered again, blowing a second hole in the floorboard.

  Mike pulled Ben's hand off the gun as easy as tearing paper, and shoved Ben back into his seat. Ben threw his arms over his head, certain that Mike would beat him or kill him, but Mike put the shotgun back in its place, and started maneuvering out of the parking lot.

  Once they were going, Mike glanced over at him.

  “You're a tough little bastard.”

  Ben thought, too bad I missed.

  24

  time missing: 53 hours, 32 minutes

  Fallon's car moved in the north parking lot, speeding toward the exit. He would have to drive past the soccer field and the Museum of Flying, then between the office buildings before he came out onto Ocean Boulevard. Once he reached Ocean, he would be gone.

  My hands shook so badly that they felt like clubs, but I punched Pike's number on speed dial.

  “C'mon, Joe—answer. C'mon.”

  Fallon's car turned past the soccer field and picked up speed. White midsize coupe, looked like two doors. He would be on his way to meet Schilling and Ibo. The limo was big and obvious, and now it was missing a headlight. They would abandon it soon.

  Pike suddenly answered.

  “I'm moving.”

  “Eastbound at the end of the soccer field, white two-door coupe. He's at the museum. He'll come out on Ocean. I lost him.”

  I broke and ran for my car. I ran as hard as I could, phone in one hand, gun in the other, past the hangars and the houses. Pike would be racing north toward Ocean Boulevard, and then he would turn east. He would either spot Fallon's car coming out of the airport or he wouldn't.

  A woman was walking a small orange dog in the middle of the street. She saw me running toward her with the gun. She didn't try to get away or go to a house; instead, she hopped from foot to foot, screaming aiee, aiee, aiee, and the dog spun in circles. Here was this woman out for a walk, and I thought that if she tried to stop me I would shoot her and her little dog, too. That wasn't me. That wasn't anything like me. Welcome to madness.

  I hit the car running and jammed away from the curb so hard that the car fishtailed and the tachometer needle was swallowed in red.

  “Joe?”

  “East on Ocean.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Stop screaming. He's eastbound on Ocean, wait, turning south on Centinela. I have him. Six cars ahead.”

  Centinela was behind me. I jerked the hand brake to lock the back end and spun the car, smoking the tires out of a one-eighty. Horns all around me blew, but they sounded far away.

  I still screamed into the phone.

  “Myers is dead. They shot Richard, too. They shot him, and he fell back into the limo. I don't know whether they killed him or not.”

  “Just take it easy. We're still southbound. Fallon doesn't know we're still in the game.”

  Fallon drove with a low profile so he wouldn't get stopped by a passing cop, but all I cared about was catching him. I hit eighty on the side streets, turned parallel to Centinela, then jammed it to a hundred.

  “Where is he? Gimme cross streets!”

  My car bounced off a dip in the street, but I went even faster. Pike called out the cross streets they were passing. I passed the same cross streets running parallel. I caught up to them one street at a time, and then I pulled ahead. I turned toward Centinela with all four tires sliding and blew a valve coming out of the turn. Smoke poured out behind me, and my engine clattered.

  Pike said, “We're picking up speed.”

  I was close to Centinela and getting closer, three blocks away and then two. I snapped off my lights and jerked to the curb just as Fallon's car rolled through the intersection and turned toward the freeway. Ben sat in the passenger seat. He stared out the window.

  “I'm on him, Joe. I see him.”

  Pike said, “Fall in behind after I make the turn.”

  Fallon didn't go far, but he wouldn't. He had thought it through well. They would change cars, and then they would get rid of Ben, and Richard if he was still alive. No kidnapping ends any other way.

  Pike said, “He's slowing.”

  Fallon's car slipped under the freeway, then turned.

  Pike didn't follow. His lights went off and he pulled to the curb at the corner, watching. I did the same. After a bit, Pike's Jeep crept forward and turned. We eased past building-supply outlets and a veterinarian's clinic to a row of small houses. A dog howled in the clinic. It sounded in pain.

  Pike eased into a parking lot and got out. I followed him. We closed our doors just enough for them to catch, and Pike nodded toward a small house across the street with a For Sale sign in its front yard.

  “That one.”

  The limo was mostly hidden behind the house and the white car was as far up the drive as it could go. A dark blue sedan was parked in the front yard. The sedan would probably be their escape vehicle. Lights moved in the house. Fallon and Ben hadn't been there more than two minutes, the limo no more than three. I wondered if Richard was dead in the back. I wondered if they had finished him on the way. The dog howled again.

  I started across the street, but Pike stopped me.

  “You have a plan or you just going to kick down the door?”

  “You know what's going to happen. We don't have any time.”

  Pike stared at me; he was as still as a glade in a sleeping forest, but with a thunderhead riding the trees.

  I pulled away from him, but Pike stepped closer. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me eye to eye.

  “Don't die on me.”

  “Ben's inside.”

  Pike held on.

  “They were right in front of us at the airport, and we didn't see them. They beat us. You know what happens if they beat us now.”

  I took a deep breath. Pike was right. Pike was almost always right. Shadows moved across the windows. The dog howled even louder.

  I said, “Check the windows on the far side. I'll go down the drive. We'll meet at the back. They probably entered the house through the back door. They're in a hurry, so maybe they left it unlocked.”

  Pike said, “Just keep it tight. Maybe we can get shots through the windows, but if we have to go in, we go in together.”

  “I know. I know what to do.”

  “Then let's do it.”

  We split apart as we crossed the street. Pike went to the far side of the house as I moved down the drive. Sheer drapes covered the windows, but they didn't stop me from seeing. The first two windows showed a dark living room, but the hall beyond it was bright. The next windows showed an empty dining room, and then I reached the last two windows on my side of the house. They were brightly lit. I moved away from the house so their glow wouldn't illuminate me, and looked in the windows from the dark shadow of a bush in the neighbor's yard. Mazi Ibo and Eric Schilling were in the kitchen. Ibo walked into another part of the house, but Schilling came out the back door. He had two large duffel bags slung over his shoulders.

  An old saying is that no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

  Schilling stopped by the limo, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He was less than twenty feet away from me. I didn't move. I held myself absolutely still. My heart hammered, but I didn't let myself breathe.

  Schilling took a step, then stopped again as if sensing something. He cocked his head. The dog howled.

  Schilling hitched the duffels, then stepped past the white car into the driveway and went toward the front, bringing the money to the blue sedan. I moved softly at first but picked up speed. He heard me when he was halfway down the drive. He dropped low into a crouch and turned fast, but it was too late by then. I hit him hard between the e
yes with my pistol, then grabbed him to keep him from falling and hit him twice more.

  I eased Schilling down, found his gun, and tucked it in my pants. I hurried to the back door. It was open and the kitchen was empty. Nothing moved in the house, and the silence was awful. Ibo and Fallon might come back at any moment with more bags of money, but the stillness in the house frightened me far more than that. Maybe they heard. Maybe Fallon and Ibo were already tending to business. All kidnappings end the same way for the victim.

  I should have waited for Pike, but I stepped into the kitchen and moved toward the hall. My head was buzzing and my heart beat loud. Maybe that was why I didn't hear Fallon behind me until it was way too late.

  Ben

  Mike turned into a narrow drive that ran alongside a small dark house.

  Ben said, “Where are we?”

  “End of the line.”

  Mike pulled him across the seat and into the house. Eric was waiting for them in a dingy pink kitchen with smudged walls and a big empty hole where a refrigerator once stood. Two green duffel bags were heaped on the floor. Dust bunnies the size of Pekinese dogs cowered in the corners.

  “We got a problem back here. Look.”

  “With the money?”

  “No, the dickhead.”

  They followed Eric out of the kitchen and into a small bedroom. Ben saw Mazi shoving money into two more green duffels, but then he saw his father. Richard Chenier was sprawled on the floor against the wall, holding his stomach with blood all over his pants and arm.

  Ben shouted, “DADDY!”

  Ben ran to his father and none of them stopped him. His father groaned when Ben hugged him, and Ben started crying again. He felt the wet blood and cried harder.

  “Hey, pal. Hey.”

  His dad stroked the side of his face, and started crying, too. Ben was terrified that his father would die.

  “I'm so sorry, bud. I am so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “Are you going to be all right? Daddy, are you okay?”

  His daddy's eyes were so sad that Ben sobbed even louder, and it was hard to breathe.

  His father said, “I love you so much. You know that, don't you? I love you.”