The Watchman

by Robert Crais

  Harriet peered past him into the glue box. The glue box was an airtight Plexiglas chamber where superglue and other toxic chemicals were boiled to enhance fingerprints. Currently, John had a picture of Pike's girlfriend soaking in poisonous fumes.

  Harriet eyed the picture suspiciously.

  She looks familiar.

  Yeah, she has one of those faces.

  What case?

  The Drano murder. The detectives think a third person might have been at the scene.

  John had never felt such confidence in his lies. As if they were coming from a core of absolute truth.

  Harriet eyed the photograph a moment longer, then stepped back and appraised him.

  Thanks for not hitting me up for the overtime. These budget cuts are killing us.

  I know, Harriet. Is there anything else?

  No. No, thanks. Listen, how's that tooth?

  I don't even feel it.

  I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about that. I didn't mean to be insensitive.

  It's not a problem, Harriet. Don't sweat it.

  Harriet skulked away as if feeling ashamed of herself, and John smiled even wider. He had seen it in her eyes. She knew he was THE MAN.

  Chen turned back to the box and examined the picture through the glass. White smudges were appearing on the front and back surfaces of the photograph, but he still had a long way to go. Fingerprints were nothing but sweat. After the water evaporated, an organic residue was left. The fumes from the superglue reacted with the amino acids, glucose, and peptides in the organics to form a white goo, but growing the goo took time. John figured he still had another ten or fifteen minutes before the prints would be usable.

  A reflection moved in the glass, and Chen saw LaMolla at the other side of the lab. She had edged to the door, hiding from Harriet. LaMolla waved him over, gestured toward the gun room, then disappeared.

  Chen made sure Harriet was gone, then hurried out of the lab. LaMolla was waiting at the gun room, holding the door.

  She said, Get in here. I don't want anyone to see us together.

  She damn near pulled him off his feet, then locked the door behind him.

  Chen said, You get anything?

  LaMolla glared at him.

  If you're setting me up, you fucker, I'll kill you in your sleep.

  Why would I set you up?

  Trust no one, John. We work for the freakin' government.

  LaMolla led him to her workbench as she told him what she found.

  The Browning was shit; it was stolen in 1982 from a Houston police officer named David Thompson. The BIN showed zip besides the Thompson hit, and nothing rang a bell.

  The ATF maintained the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network-the BIN-logging data on firearms, bullets, and cartridge casings that had been recovered at crime scenes or otherwise entered into the system. LaMolla would have run both guns through the BIN, but computer hits were rare. Chen was far more interested in LaMolla's bell.

  LaMolla said, But the Taurus was different. Look at this--

  She brought him to her computer. On the screen was a magnified picture of the base of a cartridge casing. The brass casing was a ring surrounding a round silver primer. A shadowed indentation in the center of the primer showed where the firing pin had struck the primer.

  You see it? Kinda jumps out at you, doesn't it?

  The casing looked like every other casing Chen had ever seen.

  What?

  The pin strike. See here at the top where it's kinda pointy? I saw that, I thought, Gee, I know that pin.

  The indentation looked perfectly round to John, but this was why firearms analysts were wizards.

  LaMolla said, Last couple of years, the Taurus was used in a couple of drive-bys and a robbery-homicide in Exposition Park. No arrests were made, but the suspects were all members of the same gang. MS-13. It's a pass-around, John.

  A pass-around was a street gun, usually not owned by one person, but passed from user to user within the same gang.

  LaMolla shook her head.

  Sorry, man-wish I could give you something more specific, but that's it. Doesn't seem like much.

  It's more than we had.

  Chen left her to it and hurried back to the glue chamber. The latent prints had developed nicely, but so many prints covered the picture John wondered if any would be useful. Prints overlaid prints, one atop the other, because that's the way people handled things. No one ever grabbed a book or a cup or a magazine with a single firm grip; people picked something up, moved it around, passed it from hand to hand, put it down, then picked it up again, overlaying their prints until only a smudgy mess was left.

  The girl's picture was no different.

  Chen vented the chamber to blow out the fumes, then removed the picture using a pair of forceps and examined it under a magnifying glass. Smudged circular patterns were heaviest on the sides of the picture where people had held it with their thumbs, but the bottom and top were heavily smudged, too, and still more smudges were randomly scattered over the picture's glossy front. Chen saw several prints he thought would be usable, but the back of the picture was impossible to read. The white residue from the organics disappeared on the white paper.

  Chen clipped the picture to a small metal frame, then gently brushed a fine blue powder over its back. When the back was covered, he used a can of pressurized air to blow off the excess powder, revealing clusters of dark blue smudges, some readable, but most not. He turned over the picture, repeated the process, then examined each of the singular prints.

  Chen was pleased. He had twelve separate and singular prints, each showing defined typica. Typica were the characteristic points by which fingerprints could be identified-the loops and swirls and bifurcations that make up a fingerprint.

  Chen lifted each print off the picture with a piece of clear tape, then pressed the tape onto a clear plastic backing. One by one, he set them onto a high-resolution digital scanner and photographed them. He fed the pictures into his computer, then used a special program to identify and chart the characteristic points. The FBI's National Crime Information System didn't compare pictures of fingerprints; it compared a numerical list of identifying characteristic points. It looked at numbers. After you had the numbers, everything else was easy.

  Chen made the special request for an international database search.

  John checked his watch again. Pike and the girl were sweating out in the parking lot, and he didn't want them to sweat too long. He didn't want Pike to lose faith in him. He wanted to come through.

  Chen need not have worried.

  The NCIC/Interpol logo flashed on his screen when the incoming files opened, and John Chen read the results.

  John had positive matches on all twelve prints, identifying seven separate male individuals, two of whom Chen had earlier identified-Jorge Petrada and Luis Mendoza. Like Petrada and Mendoza, four of the remaining men were thugs from South America associated with Esteban Barone, but the seventh man was not.

  Chen realized his mouth was dry when he had trouble swallowing.

  He knew why the Department of Justice was involved.

  He knew why Parker rolled.

  John printed the seven files, carefully stapled them together, then cleared his computer so no one would see the downloads. He collected the fingerprint slides and the picture of the girl and sealed them in an envelope. He took the envelope and the files and walked out of the lab.

  The sun was low in the western sky, searing the sky with fire. The Verdugo Mountains were purple turning to black. Chen went directly to Pike's car, and he didn't give a damn if Harriet saw him because he knew this was bigger than that; this was bigger than anything he had ever worked on, and maybe ever would.

  Pike and the girl watched as he approached.

  John Chen gave Pike the files.

  Read it.

  The girl saw the picture on the cover page and said, That's him! That's the man in the pictures.

  The girl sco
oted close to Pike, and they read it together. Chen didn't think about how hot she was, or how her hand rested on Pike's thigh as she read, or fantasize about the taste of her skin. He thought only about what they were reading.

  The fingerprints belonged to a man named Khali Vahnich. Vahnich was a forty-two-year-old former investment banker from the Czech Republic who had been convicted of drug trafficking before leaving that country. His activities since that time included additional drug trafficking, illegal arms sales, and known associations with terrorist organizations in Europe and the Middle East. A large black alert warning appeared in the center of the page. John remembered it clearly and knew he would never forget it. The surface roiled. A monster appeared.

  It read:

  ALERT: THIS MAN IS ON THE TERRORIST WATCH LIST. NOTIFY THE FBI IF YOU BELIEVE HIM TO BE IN YOUR AREA. APPREHEND BY ANY MEANS.

  Pike looked up at John when he finished, and Chen would always remember his expression. Pike's face showed nothing, absolutely nothing, but the gleaming black lenses smoldered with the fire in the sky. Chen felt so proud of Pike then, so terribly, awfully proud that this man had included him.

  Pike said, Thank you, John.

  Whatever you need. Anything I can do, I'll do it. I don't care what. I'll do it.

  I know.

  Pike put out his hand, and Chen took it, and wanted never to let go, not ever, because John Chen felt he had something now, something that made him better than he had ever been or ever could have been; something Chen wanted to keep forever.

  John Chen said, Good luck, my brother.

  LATER that night they made hot jasmine tea and ate the Chinese food while Larkin watched television, a comedy about a middle-aged couple who said ugly things to each other. Pike didn't find it funny, but the girl seemed to enjoy it. Pike phoned Cole, filled him in, and they made a plan for the next day. When the show ended, Larkin went to her room, but returned a few minutes later wearing shorts and a different top. She curled up on her end of the couch and flipped through a magazine. The couch was small. Her bare feet were close to Pike. Pike wanted to rest his hand on her foot but didn't. He moved to the chair.

  Pike didn't care about Pitman or Pitman's investigation or why Pitman had lied except for how it affected the girl. He didn't care if Pitman was a good cop or a bad cop, or in business with Vahnich and the Kings. He had been hunting a man named Meesh, but now he was hunting a man named Vahnich. If Pitman was trying to hurt the girl, Pike would hunt Pitman. Pike's interest was the girl.

  Pike watched her reading. She caught him watching and smiled, not the nasty crazy-curved smile, but something softer. With just a touch of the other.

  She said, You never smile.

  Pike touched his jaw.

  This is me, smiling.

  Larkin laughed and went back to the magazine.

  Pike checked his watch. He decided they had waited long enough, so he picked up the phone.

  Here we go.

  Larkin closed her magazine on a finger and watched with serious eyes.

  Pike still had Pitman's number from when Pitman left the message, and now Pitman answered.

  This is Pike.

  You're something, man.

  Heard from Kline?

  Kline, Barkley, Flynn. What in hell do you think you're doing?

  How about Khali Vahnich? You hear from him?

  Pitman hesitated.

  You have to stop this, Pike.

  Vahnich changes everything. Larkin wants to come back.

  Pitman hesitated for the second time.

  Okay, that's good. That's the smart thing to do here. This is all about keeping her safe.

  Pike said, Yes. I'm keeping her safe.

  The girl smiled again as Pike made the arrangements.

  Day Five Rule of Law 35

  AT 6:57 A. M. the next morning, Pike watched a metallic blue Ford sedan turn off Alameda Street into the Union Station parking lot. The sedan slowed for the hundreds of subway commuters emerging from the station, then crept to the far end of the lot. Donald Pitman was driving, with Kevin Blanchette as a passenger. This was the first time Pike was seeing either man, but Cole had described them well, and Pitman had said they would be in the blue sedan. Both were clean-shaven, nice-looking men in their late thirties. Pitman had a narrow face with a sharp nose; Blanchette was larger, with chubby cheeks and a balding crown.

  Neither they nor the seven other federal agents who were concealed in a perimeter around the station saw Pike. Pike assumed they were federal, but wasn't sure and didn't care. They had moved into position ninety minutes earlier. Pike had been in position since three A. M.

  Pike watched them through his Zeiss binoculars from the second-floor pantry of an Olvera Street Mexican restaurant owned by his friend Frank Garcia. The ground floor was being remodeled, so the kitchen was closed. Pitman was expecting Pike and Larkin to arrive at seven A. M., but this did not happen. Larkin and Cole were having breakfast about now, and Pike was in the pantry.

  At 7:22, Pitman and Blanchette got out of their car. They studied the passing traffic and the commuters coming from the station, but Pike knew they were worried.

  At 7:30, they got back into the car. It wouldn't be much longer until they accepted that they had been stood up.

  Pike hurried downstairs to the employees' bathroom off the kitchen. It had a single window that looked out at Union Station. Pike had opened it when he first arrived so its movement would draw no attention.

  At 7:51, the seven agents surveilling the area emerged from their hiding places and gathered at the north corner of the parking lot. Pitman had flagged the play. Pike left the restaurant and trotted to Cole's car, which was parked at the end of Olvera Street. Cole had swapped for the Lexus.

  Pike followed the blue sedan south on Alameda toward the Roybal Building-the federal office building. The rush-hour stop-and-go was brutal, with only a few cars at a time spurting forward between grudging light changes, but Pike counted on this working for him.

  The blue sedan was three cars ahead when the yellow went red, and Pitman was trapped. Pike maneuvered Cole's car into a loading zone, got out, and watched the crossing lights ahead. When the crossing light signaled the lights were about to change, Pike trotted forward, picking up speed.

  Pike closed on the sedan like a shark tracking a blood trail and attacked out of their blind spot. Neither man saw him, and neither was expecting his assault. Pike reached Blanchette's side of the sedan just as the light turned green, and shattered Blanchette's window with his pistol.

  Pike jerked the door open and pushed his gun into Blanchette's side, screaming to keep him confused.

  Your belt. Pop your belt--

  Pike stripped Blanchette's gun, dragged him from the car, and proned him on the street, keeping his gun on Pitman.

  Hands on the wheel! On the wheel or I'll kill you.

  The cars ahead of them were gone. The lane was clear. Horns behind them shrieked as Pike slid into the car.

  Pitman said, Pike?

  Pike stripped Pitman's weapon and tossed it into the back. Outside, Blanchette was getting up.

  Drive!

  Pitman didn't move, maybe slowed by confusion, but his eyes flickered with anger.

  I'm a federal agent. You can't--

  Pike hit him hard in the forehead with his pistol, grabbed the wheel, and powered through the light.

  THEY WERE under the First Street Bridge when Pitman woke, parked between towering concrete columns at the edge of the Los Angeles River. Abandoned vehicles impounded by the city were parked in even rows there in the dead space beneath the bridge, protected by a chain-link fence from everything but dust, birds, and taggers. Pike was parked at the end of the fence. Trucks passing overhead made the fence buzz like swarming bees. They were less than eight blocks from Cole's car. Pitman jerked upright, trying to get away, but Pike had tied his wrists to the wheel with plastic restraints. Pitman twisted as far from Pike as possible.

  What are you doing? What
in hell do you think you're doing, Pike? Let me go!

  Pitman looked younger now that Pike was close. His forehead was split where Pike hit him, leaking a crusty red mask over his face. Pike watched him, holding the pistol loosely in his lap.

  Pitman said, You assaulted a federal officer. You fucking kidnapped me! Let me go! Cut me loose, and we'll forget about this. I can help you!

  Pike tapped the pistol.

  I'm not the one who needs help.

  Pitman's face twitched and popped as if moving in every direction at once.

  You are in deep shit-deep shit! You are breaking major federal laws here! Walk away now, or you will be under the jail.

  Pike said, Khali Vahnich. A terrorist.

  I'm telling you, Pike-walk away!

  A known terrorist.

  I'm not discussing this!

  Pike lifted the Kimber just enough to point it.

  We're talking about whether or not you die.

  I'm a federal officer! You would be killing a federal officer!

  Pike nodded, quiet and calm.

  If that's what it takes.

  Jesus Christ!

  Pike held up Pitman's badge. He had gone through Pitman's pockets for his credentials.

  This was never about the Kings, Pitman. This is about Vahnich. You put a target on her to bag the terrorist. Or protect him.

  That's insane. I'm not trying to protect him.

  You told her Khali Vahnich was Alex Meesh.

  We had to protect the case.

  You told her he was trying to kill her to protect his investment with the Kings, but the Kings were dead. There was no one to protect.

  We didn't know they were dead until yesterday, Pike! We didn't know! We thought he was helping them--

  There's no 'ywe' here, Pitman. It's on you. The Kings are dead, so why would Vahnich want to kill her?

  I don't know!

  I think you killed them and sold out the girl to help Vahnich.

  Pike raised his pistol again, and Pitman jerked hard against the plastic.

  We didn't know! That's the God's honest truth! Listen to me-we knew they were in business, Vahnich and the Kings, but we didn't know Vahnich was in L. A. until just before the accident. Look in the trunk-my briefcase is in the trunk. Look at it, Pike! I'm telling the truth-Pike studied Pitman, getting the read, then took the keys and found an oversize briefcase in the trunk. The briefcase was locked. He brought it back to the front seat.