by Robert Crais
Does it bother you when, you know, you-?
No.
It doesn't?
No.
She dropped the passport back with the others.
Good.
When Cole arrived, he brought a small television. Pike had not asked for it and neither had the girl, but Cole brought a thirteen-inch Sony.
It was just sitting in the guest room, he said. I'm not even sure it works.
Pike doubted Cole would have gone to the trouble of lugging it out to his car without checking to see if it worked, but he didn't say anything. They had no cable, but the set came with rabbit-ear antennas. They put it on a table in the living room, turned it on, and the little set worked fine. They couldn't get any of the cable channels, but it showed the local L. A. stations with a clear, sharp picture.
Larkin thanked Cole for the television, but with no great enthusiasm. She had been subdued all morning; not distant, just quiet. She had made a shy smile at Cole when he arrived, and watched silently as they set up the TV, and once it was going she parked herself on the couch with a cup of coffee. She stared at one of the local morning shows, but whenever Pike glanced over, she didn't seem to be paying attention. Like she was thinking about other things.
When the girl was squared up with the TV, Pike showed Cole the passports. Cole angled their pages to catch the light.
These are good fakes. Excellent fakes. A dozen of these guys came up?
What the man said. Now there are five.
Cole put the passports aside.
Unless they call reinforcements.
Pike showed Cole the maps, the airline tickets and the spiral notebook page he took from Luis. The ratty page had been folded and refolded dozens of times, and probably crushed into Luis's pockets dozens more. Indecipherable handwritten notes covered the front and back of the page at all angles, with no sentence more than a few words long. Before the girl woke, Pike had spent almost twenty minutes trying to read it, and failed. Luis had probably taken notes while he was driving, likely with a phone wedged under his ear and one hand on the wheel. Pike guessed they were names and directions. The numbers were clearly phone numbers.
Cole frowned at the page.
Guess they don't teach penmanship in thug school.
Cole glanced at the plane tickets and maps, stacked them with the spiral notebook page, then examined the watch. His eyebrows went up when he read the inscription.
George as in George King?
It's a sixty-thousand-dollar watch.
I can run the serial numbers.
Cole put the watch on the maps, then turned to the phones. Pike had made a list of the outgoing and incoming numbers in each phone's call history. He had labeled the phones JORGE and LUIS. Jorge had made only six calls, all to Luis's number. Luis had made forty-seven calls to nineteen different numbers. Cole glanced at Pike's list, then the two phones.
Which is which?
Pike touched one phone, then the other.
Jorge. Luis.
Cole turned on the phones, then studied their buttons.
Too bad we don't know the passwords. We could hear the messages. If they have messages.
Leave them on. Maybe someone will call.
Maybe you calling that guy wasn't the world's greatest idea. He'll probably dump the phone and buy another. He's probably already thrown it away.
They would have known we had the phones when they found Luis and Jorge. I wanted to stress him.
Cole glanced at the girl to make sure she wasn't listening, and lowered his voice.
You've killed seven of his people. He's slugging Maalox.
Now it's personal. Better this way.
What if he figures it's so personal he goes back to Colombia?
I'll go after him.
Cole glanced at her again.
But you don't think the guy you spoke with was Meesh?
There was the accent. It was slight, but I could hear it. French, maybe. Or French with Spanish. Yesterday I thought he couldn't be Meesh, but now I'm not sure.
Why?
How does a thug from Denver sound? His file didn't mention an accent, but those briefs leave out a lot.
Cole skimmed the numbers again.
Okay, even if they dump their phones, I might be able to do something with this. These nineteen numbers mean he called nineteen phones, and those phones called other phones. Not all of these phones are going to be throwaways. I'll talk to my friend at the phone company. Maybe she can get call records from the other service providers. Sooner or later we'll hit real phones listed to people with real names.
Pike caught the girl watching him. The morning show hosts were talking about a paternity suit filed against a movie star, but she hadn't been paying attention.
Pike said, How're you doing?
I'm real good.
She turned back to the television.
Cole had returned to the airline tickets and was making notes of his own. Neither the maps, nor the tickets, nor the little scraps of paper contained a breakthrough clue, something like a hotel receipt signed by Alexander Meesh, but Pike had not expected anything so direct. Cole would have to run the numbers just like Chen was running the guns. Sooner or later something would pay off and Pike would be closer to Meesh. Pike was patient with the process. The chase was about gaining a single step. Then you gained another. Pretty soon you had the guy in your crosshairs. It was all about gaining the one single step.
Pike left Cole to check the front windows. The cousins' Beemer remained in its spot, and the street and the houses were normal. No new cars had appeared, and no strangers lurked in the bushes. Nothing seemed out of place.
Even though it was still early, Pike felt the day warming and saw what the heat would bring. A light haze hung in a fading sky. By noon, the air would be rich with hydrocarbons and ozone, and would eat at their skin like invisible bugs.
He turned from the window. The girl was staring at the television, but had been watching him again. He caught the motion as her eyes went back to the screen.
He said, We'll turn on the AC today.
That's great. Thanks.
You okay?
Yeah. I'm good.
Pike wondered why she still wasn't looking at him. It wasn't like her. She didn't seem angry and wasn't giving him attitude. She just wouldn't look at him when he was looking at her. Pike checked to see Cole was still working, then went to the girl. He stood so close she had no choice but look up at him.
She said, What?
Don't worry about it.
What?
Last night. Forget it. We're okay, you and me.
I know.
She seemed even more uncomfortable, but made a smile as Cole called from the table.
I found something.
Cole was tipped back in the chair, holding up the spiral notebook page.
Pike said, You can make out what he wrote?
Not the words, but I got most of the numbers. Look--
Pike went over, and this time the girl came with him. Cole smoothed the page on the table, and pointed out one of the numbers. 18185.
Pike said, Like he started to write a phone number, but stopped.
818 was the area code for the San Fernando Valley.
Cole said, This isn't a phone number. It looks like he started to write a phone number, but it's an address--
Cole put one of his handmade maps over the spiral page, then looked at Larkin.
This is your street. The number jumped out because I've been making my notes by address.
Larkin said, I'm at 17922.
You're three blocks north in the 17900 block. The numbers get larger as you go south. This is where you had the accident--
Cole touched a place on the street where he had made a small X to mark the accident, then tapped the building next to it.
-and this is 18185, right on the alley they were backing out of when you nailed them.
Cole had written each building's address in small block numb
ers. 18185 was the abandoned warehouse at the mouth of the alley.
Pike said, When did Luis arrive in-country?
Cole checked the dates on the airline ticket.
Not until four days after the accident. The feds had already been all over the area. Larkin was back with her father in Beverly Hills, and the wreck was old news. If they were lining up on Larkin, they would want her loft and her home in Beverly Hills, but why would they care where the wreck happened?
Pike knew Cole was right. Luis and his hitters would have had no reason to check out the accident site.
So maybe he wasn't sent to the wreck. Maybe he went to the building.
We should take another look.
Pike went for a long-sleeved shirt as Cole gathered up his work. When Pike was buttoning the shirt, he caught the girl watching him again. He had been thinking about what to do when he left her once more, but now he decided.
You can stay here if you want. You don't have to come sit in the car.
The girl looked surprised, then glanced away again as if the weight of his eyes was painful. The Larkin he had seen dancing on the bar hadn't been awkward or uncomfortable, and neither had the Larkin in the desert, but this was a different Larkin. Pike sensed she wanted to say something, but hadn't made peace with what.
She said, I'd like to come. If that's okay.
Not telling or demanding. Asking.
Pike said, Whatever you want.
Five minutes later they went to the cars.
PIKE and Larkin followed Cole down from the hills, cruising silently along streets that were unnaturally clear. The girl wasn't sitting with her legs twisted beneath her and her shoes on the seat the way she had yesterday. She faced forward with her feet on the floor. Pike made no comment. If she wanted to speak, she would speak. Or not. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and twice she seemed about to speak, but both times she turned away. They were crossing Sunset Boulevard when John Chen called.
I couldn't call before now.
Chen was whispering so softly Pike had trouble hearing him. Other people were probably around.
Can you call from a better location?
I'm at a homicide in Monterey Park. Some douche bag poured Drano down his mother's throat. Pinned her until she stopped kicking, then turned himself in. I been out here since six fuckin' o'clock, man. I'm in the bathroom.
What do you have?
You were spot-on about those prints.
Get an ID?
Two out of two through the South American database at Interpol. Shit, hang on--
Chen's voice grew muffled, then louder, Chen saying, I can't help how long-it was bad carnitas--
Chen whispered, Pricks.
Tell me what you found.
Jorge Manuel Petrada and Luis Alva Mendoza, Petrada having been born in Colombia and showing arrests all over Colombia, Venezuela, and Ecuador. Mendoza was born in Ecuador, but he managed to spread around his career, too. Both subjects have pulled prison time and are currently wanted on multiple counts of murder, with Mendoza showing wants on three counts of rape. Where'd you get those glasses, man?
Pike ignored him.
Who do they work for?
Says they're known associates of someone named Esteban Barone, part of the Quito Cartel out of Ecuador, ID'd by DEA as one of the groups who took up the slack after the Medell+!n and Cali cartels in Colombia were broken.
Do they have associates or family here in L. A.?
Not listed here.
Anywhere in the U. S.?
Nothing.
What about gang affiliations?
Latin gangs from L. A. like Mara 18 and MS-13 had spread to Central and South America.
No, man. They were soldiers for this guy, Barone. Nothing suggests they've been here before.
Chen had confirmed what Pike learned from Jorge, but Pike wasn't hearing anything that would bring him closer to Meesh.
Did you run the guns?
Can't until I get outta here, but listen-the feds confiscated the Malibu guns, too. Rolled into the Sheriff's lab like they did with us and cleaned them out-the guns, the casings, everything.
Pitman?
The same kind of deal-no questions asked. Those stiffs from Malibu and Eagle Rock, are they part of this Quito group, too?
Yes.
Here's what I think-I think the feds already know who they are. I think they just want us out of the picture.
You're probably right, John.
I don't get it. So they're drug dealers. Why would the feds care if we ID some assholes from Ecuador? Our people work with international agencies all the time. I know some narcotics guys, they spend so much time in Mexico they damn near live there.
Pike was wondering the same. Money laundering was money laundering whether the money came from Jersey mobsters or drug lords in Ecuador. The energy the feds were burning to cover their case against the Kings made less sense by the hour, and didn't require freezing out the police. Pike trusted none of it. He believed Pitman was covering something else, but he didn't know what.
Chen said, You think if I ran the Eagle Rock and Malibu prints through Interpol, I'd get a hit? That would be a major coup, bro. That would be excellent.
Better to let it rest, John.
Better?
Let it rest, we might find it's larger than we think.
You're not telling me everything, are you?
I don't know everything yet. I know some, but not all. I'll tell you more when I know.
Chen grunted, the grunt saying he was okay with gambling on an even bigger payoff down the line.
Let me ask you something-these guys from Ecuador, what are they doing up here?
Pike gave the best answer he could.
Dying.
Pike closed his phone, then glanced at the girl. She was watching him again.
The full name is Esteban Barone.
It still doesn't ring a bell.
The men trying to kill you work for Barone.
I thought they worked for Meesh.
He's in business with Meesh. That's what Pitman claimed-that Meesh was up here investing South American money.
When she didn't respond, Pike looked at her. She was staring at him in the same thoughtful way she had all morning, but now she didn't look away.
She said, I need to ask you something-what you said last night, that I want to be seen. Why did you say that?
Pike thought it was obvious.
You feel invisible. If no one sees you, you don't exist, so you find ways to be seen.
A soft line appeared between her eyebrows, but she didn't seem angry or insulted. Pike thought she looked sad.
I've been in therapy since I was eleven. You've known me three days. Jesus, am I that obvious?
Yes.
How? Because I was dancing on the bar? Go see what they do at Mardi Gras.
Pike thought about it to give her an example.
In the desert. How you looked at your father. Not looking to see him, but to see if he was paying attention. He was focused on Bud and his lawyer and me, so you would say something outrageous to get his attention. You needed to have him see you.
She glanced out the window.
I don't care if he sees me or not.
Not now maybe, but once. You wouldn't need it so badly if you didn't care.
She looked back at him, and now the line between her brows had softened.
And you can see all that by watching me?
By seeing you. There's a difference.
And how is it you see so clearly?
Pike thought about whether or not he wanted to answer. Pike was a private man. He never talked about himself, and didn't care much for people who did, but he figured the girl had a right to ask.
My folks and I would be watching TV, my mom and dad and me, or we'd be eating, and something would set him off. My old man would knock the hell out of me. Or her. I learned to watch for the signs. How his shoulders bunched, the way his lips pressed tog
ether, how much booze he poured. Half an inch more in the glass, he was ready to go. Little things tell you. You see them, you're okay. You miss them, you go to the hospital. You learn to watch.
She was silent, and when Pike glanced over, her face was sad.
She said, I'm sorry.
Point is, I saw the play between you and your father. You needed something from him you weren't getting, and probably never had.
Pike glanced at the girl. She was still watching him.
She said, Thanks for seeing me.
Pike nodded.
Bud told Gordon and my father you would protect me. My father, he just looked at Gordon. Gordon, he just wanted to know how much. But Bud told him you were the one. I guess you are.
Pike continued driving.
Bud say anything else?
Just that he had worked with you. That we could trust you. He said you would get the job done. He guaranteed it.
Pike took that in without comment or expression, hiding his sadness from the girl as he hid most everything else.
THE SHORTSTOP LOUNGE
0720 HOURS
The Shortstop was an LAPD tradition. Located on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park, midway between Alvarado and Dodger Stadium, the Shortstop Lounge was convenient to Rampart Station and the police academy. Birthday parties were celebrated between dark wood walls lined with badges and department patches, as were divorces, retirements, promotions, memorials, and the supercharged hyper-life moments whenever an officer survived a shoot-out. Careers began at the Shortstop. Careers also ended.
At 0720 hours on his day off, Pike sat at a small table, the only man seated alone, ignoring the tense glances and comments. Pike had expected worse, but he was good with it. He had chosen this place to see Bud Flynn.
Pike now had three years, four months, and change on the job. His boot year ended twenty-eight months earlier. Of his academy classmates, Pike was the first and only to kill another human being in the line of duty, a distinction about which he held mixed feelings. Five weeks ago, he had become the first of his class to kill a second man. This second shooting occurred on a brutal afternoon at the Islander Palms Motel, a ragged roach trap where, by his own admission before an LAPD Board of Review, Joe Pike caused the shooting death of a decorated twenty-two-year LAPD veteran named Abel Wozniak while defending the life of a pedophile named Leonard DeVille. Abel Wozniak had been Pike's partner. They had sat together at this same table many times, but now that was done.
