The Sentry_Joe Pike

by Robert Crais

  Pike was glad he had given his number to Dru Rayne.

  4

  He hadn’t expected her to call so soon.

  Twenty-two minutes after eight the next morning, Pike was driving to his gun shop when his cell phone rang. He did not recognize the incoming number, but answered anyway.

  “Pike.”

  “They came back. You said to call, and, well, I didn’t know if I should—”

  Dru Rayne.

  Pike glanced at his watch to note the time, then turned toward the sandwich shop, thinking he could make it to her in less than six minutes.

  “Are they at your shop now?”

  He heard voices behind her and pressed the accelerator harder.

  “Ms. Rayne? Are you safe?”

  “They broke the window, and—Yes, I’m all right. I guess it happened last night. Oh, man, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. Wilson is—I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  Pike eased off the accelerator, but continued to their shop, and once more pulled into the gas station across the street. He left his Jeep, and went to the curb for a better view. The front window was mostly missing, and the front door was now propped open with a black garbage can. A young man with a two-by-four was calmly breaking what was left of the glass from the frame. A woman wearing a bright aqua dress stood nearby, pointing out the remaining glass teeth as if directing him which to knock out next. Shadows moved inside, but Pike couldn’t tell whether Dru Rayne was one of them.

  Pike studied the surrounding area, but saw no one who looked suspicious. Mendoza would still be in jail awaiting arraignment, so Gomer or Mendoza’s banger friends had probably been behind it. Offering up a little payback for his arrest.

  Pike walked along the sidewalk for a better view of the surrounding buildings. No one drew his attention, but an inner radar slowly pinged with the weight of watching eyes. The young troops Pike knew, fresh back from the desert, called it spider-sense, taking the term from the Spider-Man movies. They told him if you humped the desert long enough you developed a sixth sense that tingled like angry ants when the crosshairs found your skin. Pike had humped jungles, deserts, and pretty much everywhere a man could hump for most of his life, and now he felt the tingle. He turned in a slow three-sixty to clock the storefronts and rooflines and passing cars, but saw nothing. Then the feeling ebbed like a receding tide until it was gone.

  The station manager came out of his office when Pike returned to his Jeep. He looked worried.

  “You aren’t going to leave it here again, are you? You tied up my pump for more than an hour yesterday.”

  “Not today.”

  The manager looked relieved.

  Pike drove along the alley behind Wilson’s shop, parked beside the Tercel, and let himself in.

  Wilson and Dru were in the front room, along with a second young man and the woman in aqua. The tables normally by the window were pushed to the side. Dru stood near them, speaking into her phone as Wilson swept glass onto a piece of cardboard the second kid was using as a dustpan. Wilson had been good at his word when he told the paramedics he wasn’t going to stay at the hospital. A square yellow bandage now covered half of his forehead.

  The aqua woman was pleading with Wilson.

  “Would you please listen to Dru? You shouldn’t be doing this. Your brain will fall out.”

  “Let it. I’ll be out of my misery.”

  Pike saw the vandals had done more than shatter the window. A large splash of green paint cut across the floor, and another green smear made a freak rainbow on the wall behind the counter.

  Dru saw Pike first. The smile flickered in her eyes, then she held up a finger, telling him she had to finish the call.

  Wilson saw him next, and pushed angrily to force the glass onto the cardboard.

  “Look at this mess. You see this? I told you, just throw the bastard out, but no—now I’ve got these asshats on a vendetta.”

  The aqua woman fluttered at the boy holding the cardboard.

  “Ethan, be careful of that glass. Watch you don’t get cut.”

  Dru quickly finished the call and came over, gesturing with the phone.

  “The glass people. They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

  Wilson swept even harder.

  “They coming for free?”

  Pike was focused on Dru. She had thrown on shorts and a faded T-shirt in her rush to the shop, and now her hair was mussed and her feet were smudged with green. Pike thought the smart eyes seemed worried this morning, but he couldn’t stop looking at her—as if she were a book he wanted to read.

  “You okay?”

  The smile again, quick and calming, and she moved a step closer.

  “I’m fine. Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

  “You should call the police.”

  Dru glanced at the aqua woman.

  “They’ve already been here. Betsy saw the glass when she got in this morning. She called the police even before she called us.”

  The aqua woman introduced herself.

  “Betsy Harmon. I have the shop next door. That was quite something, the way you saved Wilson.”

  Wilson said, “Nobody saved me. I had it under control.”

  Betsy rolled her eyes.

  “Just be glad he saved your scrawny butt and you should thank me for calling the police this morning. You’ll need their report for your insurance.”

  Wilson made a disgusted snort as he helped Ethan carry the pile of shattered glass on the cardboard to the garbage can.

  “There’s no insurance here, lady. We pay as we go, one oyster at a time. I’m not made of money.”

  He cocked an eye at Pike.

  “You know what that emergency room is gonna cost?”

  Wilson appeared to be breathing hard. Pike thought he had probably left the hospital against the doctor’s advice, but here he was, making his place right. Pike liked him for that, and knew he would play it the same way. He turned back to Dru.

  “Anything missing?”

  “No, the police had us look. They just broke the window and threw in the paint. I don’t think they came inside.”

  Wilson said, “It was the same two cops as yesterday, the Mexican gal, what’s her name?”

  Dru frowned.

  “Officer Hydeck probably wouldn’t appreciate being called a Mexican. Or a gal.”

  “She’s supposed to tell the detectives, for all the good that’s gonna do. I said, you know what, do me a favor, don’t. You shoulda seen those idiots who came to the hospital.”

  Wilson stopped sweeping to squint at Pike.

  “What’s with all the questions about you? They were more interested in you than me. They’re not gonna find the asshat who did this.”

  Dru glanced up at Pike.

  “It has to be the man they arrested, doesn’t it? Him and his friend?”

  Pike explained about Mendoza being still in custody, which left Wilson thoroughly disgusted.

  “Doesn’t matter if it was him or his friends or his goddamned relatives. You watch. When he gets out, he’s gonna come back and break it himself.”

  Wilson lifted the broom to continue sweeping, but hesitated as if he had lost his train of thought. Then he pivoted in a slow circle and staggered into the tables.

  Dru screamed, “Wilson!”

  Ethan caught him first, sagging with the older man’s weight as Pike grabbed Wilson’s arms.

  Wilson clutched a table for support and eased onto a stool.

  “I’m okay. Just lemme sit—”

  Dru’s face had paled.

  “You take it easy now. Breathe. You calm down, and I’m taking you home.”

  He pushed at her hands, but Pike caught his wrists and put himself between them. Wilson tried to pull away, but couldn’t. Pike made his voice gentle.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself. You see?”

  Wilson glared up at him, but Pike did not move, and didn’t let go. Pike held him until Wilson
relaxed. Then Pike let go, and Wilson averted his eyes.

  “We got the glass man coming. We have to get this mess cleaned up. We get this mess squared away, I’ll go home, but, Jesus, give it a rest.”

  Pike looked at Dru, then gave them some space.

  He walked out the front door and stood on the sidewalk. He thought about the police. Hydeck was a good officer, but this wasn’t the crime of the century. Button and Futardo would have issued paper on Alberto Gomer yesterday. They might or might not have visited his last known address, but if Gomer didn’t answer the door, they weren’t going to spend a lot of time on a simple assault case. They would kick it back to the patrol officers like Hydeck and McIntosh. Gomer’s picture would have been distributed at roll call along with the pictures and warrants of the rapists, murderers, pedophiles, and other dangerous criminals believed to be in the area. Hydeck and McIntosh would probably drop a word with the Venice bangers they knew, asking about the vandalism, and telling them it better not happen again, but that was as far as their investigation would go. They were too busy cleaning up after the rapists and murderers.

  Pike scanned the buildings and cars and rooflines again. He waited for the feeling that he was being watched, but now he felt nothing and went back inside.

  He looked at Wilson first, then Dru.

  “This won’t happen again.”

  Wilson scowled.

  “What are you, a swami? How do you know it won’t happen again?”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  Wilson leaned back on the stool as if Pike was no smarter than the asshats who came to the hospital.

  “You know what? It’s over, all right? It’s done with, and we don’t know who did it, so let’s not make it worse.”

  He waved toward Betsy.

  “Between you and this one, I’m gonna wake up murdered.”

  Betsy said, “Don’t be a jackass.”

  Dru stared at Wilson with worried eyes, then turned away and went into the storage room. Pike followed her, and found her crying. She closed her eyes hard, then opened them, but the wet didn’t go away.

  “He’s impossible. It’s been so hard, trying to make a go of this place, and now we have these people on top of everything else.”

  She closed her eyes again, and raised a hand, stopping herself.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Pike touched her arm. One touch, then he lowered his hand.

  “It will be fine.”

  “I’ve been telling myself that for years.”

  “This time is different.”

  Pike went back to his Jeep and once more checked the time. Gomer was in the wind, but Pike knew where to find Mendoza. He would have been transported to the Pacific Community Police Station to await his arraignment after he was released from the hospital. The District Attorney’s Office had forty-eight hours to arraign him from the time of his arrest, but Pike knew they would likely bump him to the head of the line because of his injury. This meant he would probably be arraigned sometime today. If he made bail or posted bond, he would be released.

  Pike phoned his gun shop. He had five employees, two who were full-time and three who were former police officers. A man named Ronnie ran the shop, and had been with Pike a long time.

  Pike said, “You okay without me this morning?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Something came up. I’m going to be busy for a while.”

  “Take your time. Do it right.”

  “Can Liz find out something for me?”

  “If she can. Whatcha need?”

  Ronnie’s youngest daughter was a Hardcore Gang prosecutor for the D.A.’s Office in Compton. Pike explained about Reuben Mendoza waiting at Pacific Station for his court appearance.

  “They’ll probably arraign him today, but they might hold him until tomorrow. Can she find out?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Cell.”

  “Call you right back.”

  Ronnie got back to him eight minutes later.

  “It’s today. They took him over this morning. That’s gonna be the Airport Courthouse down in Hawthorne. You need some help with this?”

  “I’m good.”

  Pike closed his phone and went hunting for Reuben Mendoza.

  5

  The Airport Courthouse was one of forty-eight superior courts spread among the four thousand square miles of Los Angeles County. It sat in the southwest corner of the Century Freeway/San Diego Freeway interchange, less than a pistol shot from LAX, and looked like a giant green moth with glass wings, struggling to get into the air.

  Pike left the 405, dropped down La Cienega to the courthouse, and found a place to park with an easy, eyes-forward view of the back entrance. The public could enter the building through either a front or a back entrance, but Pike knew from experience that defendants who made bail were released through the back. Pike also knew the arraignment court had no hard-and-fast calendar for seeing defendants. Right now, Mendoza would be in a holding cell with a number of other defendants. Their order of appearance before the judge would change with the changing schedules of public and private defense attorneys, attorney-client meetings, motions, and arguments. Pike was okay with waiting and would wait all day if necessary, but he suspected the court staff would take pity on Mendoza’s broken arm.

  Pike made himself comfortable. He took a deep breath, exhaled from the bottom of his lungs, then did it again. He felt his body relax and his heart rate slow. He watched the door, and breathed, and thought about nothing. Pike could sit like this for days, and had, in places far less comfortable than a dry, clean vehicle in the shade of a giant moth. He found much peace in waiting, and the waiting was made easier by thinking of nothing.

  At seven minutes after eleven that morning, the maroon Monte Carlo drifted into the parking lot. The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched. The Monte Carlo suggested Mendoza had made bail, called his friends for a ride, and was now being processed out.

  Pike studied the lone occupant. Pike had been hoping for Gomer, but this wasn’t Gomer. The driver was a young, thin Latin dude with a bandanna around his head and a pencil mustache. He didn’t park in a designated parking place, but eased to the curb near the door. Another good sign.

  Ninety seconds later, Reuben Mendoza emerged from the moth with a smile on his face and a cast that extended up his forearm from his right hand to just below his elbow. He wasn’t using a sling. Mendoza pointed at his friend with both hands, broke into an exaggerated, shoulder-rolling shuffle to show off his cast, then flipped off the court with both hands and climbed into the car.

  Pike followed them back onto the 405, letting the Monte Carlo float five or six cars ahead in the light, late-morning traffic. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so neither was Pike. The Monte Carlo slipped onto the Marina Freeway, then cruised up Lincoln Boulevard into a low-end commercial area off Venice Boulevard. Several blocks later, they pulled into a place called Our Way Body Mods. A six-foot wrought-iron fence guarded the lot, with double-wide gates on the main and side street entrances. The gates were open. A service building with two open bays sat behind a small parking lot where damaged vehicles waited for work, and freshly repaired or customized cars waited to be picked up. Most of the vehicles were hobby cars—Japanese imports sporting elaborate spoilers and nitrous-blown engines, or American classics like Bel Airs and Impalas that had been chopped to ride low and painted as bright as M&M’s.

  When the Monte Carlo pulled in, several men emerged from the bays to greet Mendoza. Pike counted nine heads, excluding Mendoza and his driver. Businesses like Our Way Body Mods were often owned by multigenerational gang families. They were run as legitimate or semi-legitimate businesses, but their primary purpose was so gang members could claim they were employed when making their appeals to judges and parole officers. Such businesses also served as clubhouses, drop points, and tax dodges to launder illegal gang income.

  As the men crowded around Mendoza, Pike studied their faces. Most sported el
aborate gang tats and shaved heads, which had replaced slicked-back hair as the homeboy style of choice. Pike knew that not all of these men would be in the gang. Most were, but a couple would likely be wannabes, and a couple more were probably just friends. Three of the men showed the grease and soil of work, but most of them had just been hanging around. Pike saw the man who had aimed his gun hand from the Monte Carlo’s back seat, but Gomer wasn’t among them. The man hugged Mendoza and lifted him from the ground. When other men made a joke of grabbing Mendoza’s cast, the back-seat man playfully pushed them away. Protecting his friend. Any of these people could have vandalized Wilson’s takeout shop, but Pike had no way to know, though he thought he knew someone who could help deal with the problem.

  Pike scrolled the directory in his cell phone until he found the number, then dialed. A cheery young woman answered.

  “Angel Eyes. May I help you?”

  “Artie there?”

  “Yes, he is. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Tell him Joe Pike is coming by.”

  Pike drove to a small stucco house in a residential neighborhood east of Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Known by the people who lived there as Ghost Town, the streets were lined by modest homes originally built for African-American laborers during the thirties. Ghost Town had seen a slow gentrification in some of its neighborhoods, but not all, leaving a sad reminder of days gone past and dreams unrealized. But men like Father Arturo Alvarez were trying to change that.

  Father Art was not a priest, though the women and kids in his care called him Father and blessed him with the love and respect of a man of God. Artie Alvarez was a murderer. He murdered his first and only victim when he was eleven years old—a thirteen-year-old Shoreline Crip named Lucious T. Jefferson, whose only mistake was pedaling a blue Schwinn bike past Artie’s house. Artie was brutally honest when he told the story of how and why he killed the boy, which he told often to elementary-school children, civic leaders, and business groups throughout the Southland. He spoke to kids because he hoped to change their lives for the better. He spoke to civic leaders and business groups to raise money to fund his programs.