by Robert Crais
Let's go in.
Cole led them into his house through the carport, and then into the living room, where glass doors opened onto his deck and filled his house with a view of the canyon. The girl looked out at the view.
She said, This isn't so bad.
Thanks. I think.
The money vibe came off her like heat-the Rock & Republic jeans, the Kitson top, the Oliver Peoples shades. Cole was good at reading people, and had learned-over time-that he was almost always right. The trouble vibe came off her, too. She looked familiar, but Cole couldn't place her.
Cole said, I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.
The girl glanced at Pike.
Can I tell him?
Pike said, This is Larkin Barkley. She's a witness in a federal investigation. She was in a program, but that didn't work out.
Larkin said, Ha.
We could use something to eat, maybe a shower, and I'll tell you what's up.
Cole sensed Pike didn't want to talk in front of the girl, so he gave her the smile again.
Why don't you use the shower while I make something to eat?
Larkin glanced back at him, and Cole read a new vibe. She gave him the same crooked smile she had made in the drive, only now she was telling him he could say and do nothing that would surprise her, affect her, or impress her, here in his little house that wasn't so bad. Like a challenge, Cole thought; or maybe a test.
She said, Why don't I eat first? The Pikester won't feed me. He only wants sex.
Cole said, He's like that with me, too, but we've learned to adjust.
Larkin blinked once, then burst out laughing.
Cole said, One point, me; zero, you. Take the shower or wait on the deck. Either way, we don't want you around while we talk.
She chose the shower.
Pike brought in her bag and showed her to the guest bathroom while Cole went to work in the kitchen. He sliced zucchini, summer squash, and Japanese eggplant the long way, then drizzled them with olive oil and salt, and put on a grill pan to heat. After a few minutes Pike joined him, but neither of them spoke until they heard the water running. Then Cole settled back against the counter.
The Pikester?
Pike dealt out a driver's license and two credit cards. The DL picture showed the girl with spectacular red hair. The credit cards showed her name. The AmEx card was black. Money.
Pike said, I met her for the first time yesterday, but I don't know anything about her. I need you to help me with that.
Pike followed the credit cards with what appeared to be a text-only criminal-history file from the FBI's National Crime Information Center.
This is the man who's trying to kill her. His name is Alex Meesh, from Colorado by way of Bogot+i, Colombia.
Cole glanced over the cover page. Alexander Meesh. Wanted for murder.
South America?
Went down to flee the murder warrants. The feds gave Bud his record, but I didn't see much that would help. Maybe you'll see something different.
Cole listened as Pike described Larkin Barkley's situation in the flat, declarative sentences of a patrol officer making a report. Pike described how the girl had found herself in a Justice Department investigation involving a suspected money launderer named George King and how her agreement to testify had led to the attempts on her life. Cole listened without comment until Pike described the shootings in Malibu and Eagle Rock. Then the skin on his back prickled and he stepped away from the counter.
Wait. You shot someone?
Five. Two last night, three this morning.
Pike, standing there in his kitchen without expression, saying it like anyone else would say their car needed gas.
Joe. Jesus, Joe-are the police after you?
I don't know. Malibu was last night and Eagle Rock was only a couple of hours ago. But if not now, then soon-I lost a gun in Eagle Rock.
Cole felt a momentary lightness, like when the earth drops in a temblor. Ten minutes ago, he had been waxing his car. Three days ago, he and Pike had spent the evening planning a backpacking trip.
This was self-defense, right? You were defending your life and the life of a federal witness. The feds are with you on that.
I don't know.
You fled the scene in fear for your life and reported what happened to the Justice Department. All of this happened with the full knowledge of the Justice Department. These people are good with that?
I never met them.
Cole stared at his friend. Pike stood on the opposite side of the kitchen with his back to the wall, so effortlessly he might have been floating. His dark glasses were black holes, as if part of him had been cut away.
Pike said, Either way, we have a bigger problem than the police. The shooters knew our location at both safe houses. They had her when she was with the marshals and again when Bud took her to a hotel. You see how it is?
Even with the water, Cole lowered his voice. Now he understood why Pike wouldn't talk in front of the girl.
Someone on her side is giving her up.
I took her. I cut Bud and the feds out of the loop. I figure as long as no one knows where she is, I can protect her.
What are you going to do?
Find Meesh.
Cole glanced at the printout again. Currently believed to be residing in Bogot+i, Colombia.
Meesh might not even be in Los Angeles. He might be back in Colombia.
He's tried to kill this girl five times. You don't want someone dead that badly, then go away and hope it gets done-you make sure it happens.
Pike went to the pad and pen Cole kept by his phone and scribbled something.
I dropped the Jeep and got a new phone. This is the number.
Cole's insides felt queasy, but he felt that way often since he was shot. The doctors said it would take time. They said it might never be better.
You have any idea who's giving her up?
Bud is working on it, but who can I trust? Might be one of his people. Might even be one of the feds.
Cole put the number aside. He turned back to the pan and laid in the vegetables. The pan was too hot, but he loved the smell when they hit the hot steel.
Cole and Pike had been through a lot. They had been friends a long time. When Cole woke from his coma, Joe Pike had been holding his hand.
Cole put down the fork and turned.
I don't like this. I don't like you getting involved in something and not knowing who you're involved with. This guy Meesh. These feds you haven't met. Your friend Flynn you haven't seen in twenty years. It is not up to our standards.
Pike was as still as a statue, as if parts of the story were hidden by shadows.
Well?
I didn't come just for your help. If these people know who I am, they might try to find me through you.
An unexpected sadness emanated from behind the black glasses.
Pike said, I'm sorry.
Cole felt a sudden flush of embarrassment and turned back to the food.
Those clowns show up here, I'll kick their bitch asses.
Pike nodded.
Cole said, I'll see what I can find out about your boy Meesh. We'll start with Larkin when she's done with the shower. Maybe she knows more than she thinks.
Pike shifted against the wall.
We can't hang here, Elvis.
Cole understood. If the shooters or the police showed up, Pike wanted the girl gone.
Then you talk to her. But one more thing. When I'm looking into Meesh, I'm going to check out your friend Bud Flynn, too.
Pike's mouth twitched, and Cole wondered if Larkin had noticed that Pike never laughed or smiled. As if the part of a man who could feel that free was dead in Pike, or buried so deep that only a twitch could escape.
Pike said, Whatever.
Cole was building the sandwiches when Pike's cell phone rang, and Pike brought the phone out to the deck.
Cole layered the vegetables onto whole wheat bread, spread the layers with hummus, then
placed the sandwiches back in the grill pan to crisp the bread.
The running water suddenly stopped and its absence was loud in the silence. A few minutes later, the girl came down the hall. Pike was still outside with his phone.
The girl said, That smells incredible.
Would you like a glass of milk, or water?
Please. The milk.
With her sunglasses off, her eyes were red, and Cole wondered if she had been crying. She caught him looking, and flashed the crooked smile. It was smart and inviting, and could never be made by someone who had just been crying, but there it was. Cole thought, this kid has had plenty of practice hiding herself.
Cole said, You look familiar.
I do?
Are you an actress?
Oh God, no.
She opened the sandwich and made a little squeal that didn't go with the smile.
This is perfect! I didn't want to be a pain before, but I'm a vegetarian. How did you know?
Didn't. I made these for Joe. He's a vegetarian, too.
Him?
She glanced out at Pike, and Cole thought her smile straightened.
Red meat makes him aggressive.
She laughed, and Cole found himself liking her. She took a tremendous bite of the sandwich, then another. She watched Pike on the deck as she chewed.
He doesn't say much.
He's into telepathy. He can also walk through walls.
She took another bite, though this one was not so large. She went back to staring at Pike again, but her smile was gone and her eyes seemed thoughtful.
He shot a man right in front of me. I saw the blood.
A man who was trying to kill you.
It was so loud. Not like in the movies.
No. It's loud.
You can feel it.
I know.
They keep finding me.
Cole touched her back.
HeyHer eyes fixed on Pike.
Can he get in trouble?
Cole didn't answer because Pike stepped in from the deck.
We have a place. Let's go.
She glanced at her sandwich again, then his.
But you haven't eaten. I haven't finished.
We'll eat in the car.
Cole followed them out, said his good-byes, and watched them drive away. He did not ask Pike where they were going, and Pike didn't say. He knew Pike would call him when they were safe.
Cole looked at his house, then considered his car. Joe Pike was the only thing that had been in Cole's life longer than the house and the car. They met back when Pike was still riding a black-and-white and Cole was working as an apprentice to old George Feider, Cole still piling up the three thousand hours of experience he needed to be licensed as a private investigator. Pike had referred to George as Cole's T. O.-his training officer. Bud Flynn had been Pike's training officer when Pike was a rookie, and Pike had revered the man.
Cole found himself smiling. A few years later when Cole had the hours and Pike was off the job, George retired, so Cole and Pike pooled their money to buy Feider's business, both of them agreeing Cole's name would be the only name on the door. Pike had no intention of getting a license. He had other businesses by then and only wanted to help Cole part-time, saying without him covering Cole's back, Cole would probably get himself killed. Cole hadn't known whether or not Pike had been joking, but that was part of Pike's charm.
If these people know who I am, they might try to find me through you.
Cole took a deep breath. He drew the air deep, expanding his chest until the pain made his eyes water, then he went back into the house.
They might try to find me through you.
Cole thought, Let'm bring it-I got your back, too, brother.
He went to work.
PIKE CRUISED east on Sunset Boulevard into the purpling sky, driving easy for the first time in twenty hours, invisible in the anonymous car. When they passed Echo Lake with its fountain, dim in the twilight, Pike turned north into the low hills of Echo Park. The houses would be nicer east of the park, but the twisting residential streets to the north were narrow and the homes were clapboard shotguns. Prewar street lamps were flickering on when they reached the address. Pike said, This is it.
A narrow grey house with a steep roof sat off the street. A covered front porch guarded the door and a one-car garage filled the backyard. Pike's real estate friend had left a key under a potted plant near the door.
Larkin looked warily at the house.
Who lives here?
It's a rental. The owners live in Las Vegas, and they're between tenants. When you get out, go directly to the front door.
A sunset breeze out of Chavez Ravine stirred the warm air. Families were outside on their porches, some listening to the radio and others just talking. Pike heard Vin Scully, calling the game from nearby Dodger Stadium, Dodgers up over the Giants, five to two. Most of the neighbors appeared to be Eastern Europeans. Across the street, five young men who sounded Armenian were standing around a late-model BMW. They laughed together, and one of them spoke loudly, trying to make a point over the laughter.
Larkin didn't move toward the front door. She stared at the house like it was waiting to eat her, then looked at the surrounding houses, then the five men.
Pike said, It's okay. Let's go.
Pike carried her bags. He could have carried his as well, but didn't. He found the key, then let them into a small living room. A door to their right branched into a bathroom and a front and back bedroom. The little house was fully furnished and the interior was clean and neat, but the furniture was worn and the rooms were small. A single window air conditioner hummed in the living room, left on by Pike's friend to cool the house.
Larkin said, I've been thinking. No one knows where we are now, right? We have my credit cards. We have my ATM. We can go wherever we want.
Pike dropped her bags.
It has two bedrooms. Take whichever you want.
Pike continued on through both bedrooms and the bath and kitchen, checking the windows and pulling the shades. Larkin didn't touch her bags or pick a bedroom. She followed him, walking so close that twice she stepped on his heels.
Just listen. We can take the Gulfstream. My father won't care. We have a fabulous apartment in Sydney. Have you ever been to Oz?
You'll be recognized. Someone at the airport, there's Larkin Barkley in her jet.
Pike opened the fridge. Two grocery bags, a case of bottled water, and a six-pack of Corona were waiting.
My friend left this. Help yourself.
You're being a prick. Okay, look-we have a house on the rue Georges Cinq a block from the Champs-Elys+!es. I'll pay our way on a commercial flight. It's not a problem.
Credit cards leave a trail. Airplanes file flight plans.
Pike headed back into the living room, and Larkin caught up.
I'll take cash from the ATM. It's really no problem. This place doesn't even have a TV.
The window unit made a heavy thump when the compressor kicked on, like someone had stumbled into the wall. The air blowing from the vent roared like a windstorm with a faraway metallic vibration. Pike turned it off. The silence from the dying air conditioner was filled by barking dogs, a motorcycle echoing between the hills, and the laughter of the men across the street.
Larkin looked horrified.
What are you doing? Why did you turn off the air?
I couldn't hear.
But it's hot. It's going to be an oven in here.
She had crossed her arms, and her fingers had dug into her flesh. Pike knew this wasn't about Paris or Sydney. It was about being scared.
Pike touched her arm.
I know this isn't what you're used to, but we have what we need. Right here-right now-this is a safe place. We're safe.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a bitch.
I'm going to get my things from the car. You okay alone for a few minutes?
I miss my dog.
Pike didn't know wha
t to say about that, so he didn't say anything.
Larkin made a tired smile.
Of course. I'll be fine.
Pike turned off the lamps so he wouldn't be framed in the door, then let himself out. He had left his bags so he could return alone to check his messages. If he needed to call someone, he wanted to speak freely. He climbed into the Lexus, then used his new phone to check the messages left on his old phone. Seven messages were waiting for him. Bud had left three in a row, all pretty much the same-Call me, damnit! You can't just disappear with this girl! She's a federal witness, for Chrissakes! They'll have the FBI looking for you!
Bud had left a fourth message about an hour after the first three. Pike noted Bud was calmer in the fourth message. He wasn't shouting--
Joe, listen, you have to check in. For all I know those bastards tagged you, and you're both dead. Please don't leave me hanging like this.
Jon Stone had left the fifth message in a quiet and wary voice.
This is Stone. You got heavy people worried, bro. Don't call me back. Do not call. Stay groovy.
Pike hesitated before deleting Stone's message. Staying groovy had nothing to do with being cool. It was an expression used by small recon units and sniper teams in hostile terrain. They would tell one another to stay groovy when the danger level was so insanely high they popped amphetamines to stay awake and ready to rock twenty-four/seven, because anything less would get them all killed. Stay groovy; take your pill. Stay groovy; safety off, finger on. Stay groovy; welcome to hell. Stone had left a warning within his message, and Pike wondered why.
Pike wanted to call Stone, but assumed Stone told him not to call for good reason. Bud and the feds had probably pushed Stone for information. He wondered if Meesh had done the same.
The sixth message was again from Bud, this time sounding drained.
Here's what I have so far-the stiffs from Malibu weren't identified. I don't know about Eagle Rock, but I'll find out tomorrow. LAPD and the Sheriff's haven't connected you with the shootings. I spoke with Don Pitman-Pitman's the DOJ agent. He'll do what he can to take care of you with the locals, but he wants to talk to you-he absolutely must talk to you. You gotta call me, man. I don't know what to tell her father. He wants to call the police. Joe, if you're still alive-call.
A dry male voice had left the last message.
