The Sentry_Joe Pike

by Robert Crais

  “Reuben Mendoza and a second man who might have been Gomer were at their home at eight forty-five this morning. What time did Smith call?”

  Button already had one leg in the truck, but now he backed out, squinting at Pike.

  “How do you know he called me?”

  “Hydeck. I was at Smith’s shop when you spoke with her. From there, I went to Smith’s house.”

  “Is this for real?”

  “They have a locked front gate you have to go through to enter the property. The kid next door saw Mendoza and another man going through the gate at eight forty-five. Jared Palmer. Talk to him.”

  Pike saw the strain on Button’s face as he weighed his hatred of Pike against what he was hearing, as if he had to climb a wall before he could move forward. He finally walked over, leaving the Toyota’s door open.

  “How’s the kid know Mendoza?”

  “He doesn’t. I showed him this.”

  Pike held out the snapshot. Button gave it a glance, but did not touch it.

  “One to ten, how confident was he?”

  “Ten.”

  “He’s sure about the time?”

  “The mother pegged it to the Today show. Jared went out for some chocolate milk at the beginning of the eight-o’clock hour and got back a few minutes after the half-hour break. That puts Mendoza there at about eight forty-five. When did you hear from Smith?”

  Button glanced at the snapshot again, and this time he took it to examine Mendoza more closely.

  “What about the second man? Was it Gomer?”

  “I didn’t have a picture of Gomer. What time did you talk to Smith?”

  “Around nine, right in there, maybe a few minutes after.”

  Button frowned as he thought about it and what it would mean if it were true, but he still didn’t buy it. He shook his head.

  “There’s no way. He didn’t say anything about this.”

  “Maybe Mendoza had a gun to his head.”

  “There’s no way. The kid was confused.”

  “He saw the cast. I didn’t prompt him, Button. He told me the man was wearing a cast. He saw them going in through the front gate at eight forty-five.”

  Button glanced at the picture again as if he still couldn’t see it clearly.

  “I talked to the man. He was fine.”

  “Not if Mendoza was with him.”

  Button flushed, and his eyes shrank into dark little bullets.

  “Are you saying I missed something?”

  “Did you?”

  The Academy taught officers that people making statements under duress exhibited telltale cues. They were typically terse and hesitant because they were scared to say the wrong thing. Their sentence structure was often confused or repetitive for the same reason, and their voices would quaver or break due to a constricted trachea brought on by the adrenaline flooding their systems.

  “He was fine. The guy did not sound like a man with a gun to his head. Even thinking back now, there were none of the cues.”

  “Then forget the cues. What did he say?”

  “That people like us—that would be me and you, Pike, who he specifically mentioned—were making things worse, costing him a fortune, and were gonna get him killed. You want more? He told me to shove Mendoza and pretty much the rest of Los Angeles up my ass.”

  Button grew loud as he went through it, which caused three passing officers to stare. He waited until they were gone before he spoke again, but his eyes remained angry.

  “What the hell do you care anyway? This isn’t your business.”

  “Like Smith said, maybe I made it worse.”

  Button glanced away as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Why do you think they’re missing?”

  “You’re the last person they had contact with. A lot of people have been calling them, but they don’t answer and haven’t returned the calls.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit. You can come up with a hundred different reasons for that.”

  “Until Mendoza goes through the gate.”

  Button stared at the pavement again, then sighed.

  “The guy was angry, okay? But he sounded natural. Just pissed off and venting. Told me what they did to his shop with the heads and all that, and that they were going to get out of Dodge for a few weeks to let things cool down.”

  “Oregon.”

  “Said they have friends up there. That was it. Even if I accept this business about Mendoza going through the gate, nothing the man said stands out. He wasn’t trying to send a hidden message. There weren’t any subtle pleas for help. I don’t see it.”

  Pike took Button’s read at face value, though his description of Smith’s call didn’t jibe with Mendoza’s presence. Pike had hoped for some hint or clue to what had happened and where they might be.

  “Then what was Mendoza doing at his house?”

  Button sighed, and Pike knew he was wondering the same thing.

  “What’s the kid’s name?”

  “Jared Palmer. He lives in the white modern next door to Smith.”

  Button took a pad and pen from his pocket and jotted the note.

  “Okay. I’ll bring along the six-pack with Gomer.”

  He slipped the pad back into the pocket, but didn’t look happy about it.

  “He told you about the cast on his own? You didn’t tell him about it first?”

  Pike shook his head, and Button scowled.

  “Fucking douchebags. Mendoza’s looking at an assault charge he knows the D.A. will dispo down to a battery, and he just can’t leave it alone.”

  Pike knew what Button was saying, but offered nothing in response because his thoughts were too dark. Prisons were filled with convicted murderers who got a drumstick when they wanted a thigh, or who felt dissed when a woman wouldn’t speak to them on a bus, or who decided a bartender was ignoring them. When a man felt frustrated or angry enough, any reason would do.

  Button started away, then turned back. Pike saw he still had the picture of Mendoza. He held it out, but when Pike took it, Button did not let go.

  “I guess you don’t remember the rules of the road, you giving up the badge. If we have to make a case on this asshole, you took this kid Jared off the board as a witness. You showing him the one picture like this, his attorney is going to argue you convinced this kid that Mendoza is who he saw, even though he saw someone else. And the judge is going to go with it.”

  Button released the picture, and went back to his truck.

  Pike knew Button was right, but he didn’t care about the case. He cared about saving Dru Rayne.

  He was halfway back to his Jeep when Elvis Cole called.

  17

  Elvis Cole

  Standing in the alley between the canals as Joe Pike left to find Button, Cole knew Pike already thought the worst, and was in full-on Terminator mode. Pike had focused on a goal and would drive forward like a relentless machine. Back in Cole’s Ranger days, they had called this mission commitment, and Pike’s mission commitment was off the charts. But Cole wasn’t convinced the worst was at hand. He wanted to enter the house without preconceived notions, and interpret the facts as he found them. Like Joe said—he wanted to see with fresh eyes.

  Cole ambled to Smith’s front gate as if he were just another resident out for an afternoon stroll. Pike had warned him about the problem with Jared and explained it was safer to hop the fence on the opposite side of the carport, but Cole wanted to see the gate Mendoza used. Jared’s window was clear, so he studied the handle. It was set with a simple key lock that was weathered and scraped. A button on the post could be pushed to let people inside know you were here. There was probably another button inside the house that would unlock the gate. A metal shield covered the gap between the gate and the gatepost where the bolt fit into the post. The shield was designed to prevent someone from slipping the bolt, but Cole knew these were easy to beat. He saw no fresh cuts or scrapes on the surrounding metal, but Cole also knew it was eas
y to leave no marks.

  Cole checked to see if Jared or anyone else was watching, then climbed over.

  The front door was a standard wood entry, stained dark to match the house. A Master deadbolt was set in the frame above the knob lock. Cole pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves, selected a pick and a tension wrench from his pick kit, and went to work. Two minutes for the deadbolt, one for the knob. On-the-job training courtesy of the United States Army.

  Cole opened the door slowly, and stepped into a small tiled entry. The house was cool. He smelled grease, seafood, and a flowery scent he could not place. Cole listened for several seconds, then announced himself with authority.

  “Police department. This is Detective Banning with LAPD. Is anyone in the house?”

  Cole gave it a full ten seconds, then closed and locked the door. The entry was the stressful part. Cole had walked into pit bulls, sleepwalkers, three naked men practicing yoga, seven abandoned children under the age of four, and, once, two cranked-up meth addicts with 12-gauge shotguns laying in wait for their dealer. That had not been one of his better days.

  Without moving, Cole scanned the entry’s floor and walls. He saw no blood, heavy scuff marks, shell casings, upended or out of place furniture, or other evidence of a struggle.

  His plan of attack was to search the second floor first in case the police showed up, so he moved to the stairs, checking each step as he climbed. He cleared the landing quickly, then went to the office. Pike had already briefed him on the layout.

  The office was nicely furnished, and clearly belonged to someone who had enjoyed a successful career in television. Framed credits from crime shows that were no longer on the air dotted the walls, most of which Cole recognized by the actors. The credits all showed the same name. Produced by Steve Brown. Written by Steve Brown. Directed by Steve Brown.

  Though Cole didn’t recognize the name, he liked the shows.

  “Nice work, Steve. Well done.”

  Though the room was well furnished, Cole noticed empty places on the walls where pictures were missing and gaps on bookshelves where books had been removed. There was also no computer, typewriter, or other office equipment present except for a phone. These were probably items Brown had placed into storage while away. No sense tempting the guests.

  Cole picked up the phone, but found the line dead. Brown had probably turned off the service.

  Even though a forced entry on the second floor was unlikely, Cole checked the windows and doors leading out to the deck. He found them undisturbed, and moved to the master bedroom.

  The master was large, messy, and disappointing. Cole had hoped to learn whether Smith left voluntarily by seeing if his clothes and toiletries were missing, but it was obvious the owner had left a huge wardrobe behind. The large master closet and bathroom were crowded with many more clothes and toiletries than a temporary house sitter would have brought. Cole had no way of knowing what belonged to Brown and what, if anything, belonged to Smith, so he couldn’t tell if any of Smith’s things were missing. There were even a few women’s clothes, but these could as easily belong to a girlfriend of Brown’s as Dru Rayne.

  Cole found only one item he knew belonged to Smith. A battered metal file box was on the floor beside the bed. It contained receipts, invoices, and billing statements pertaining to the sandwich shop, a pink slip for a 2002 Tercel, insurance policies, and the other mundane paperwork of day-to-day life. Nothing that couldn’t be left behind for a couple of weeks, and nothing anyone would steal.

  Finished with the second floor, Cole went downstairs. He began in the laundry room, saw Pike’s marks on the window, then quickly moved to the downstairs bedroom. Wilson up in the master, his niece in the lower. Unlike the master, the bed was made and the room was clean, neat, and orderly. The windows had not been tampered with. Cole found a few women’s tops, dresses, and jeans in the closet. There weren’t many clothes, but Cole had no way to know if this was everything the woman owned or if she had packed a few things for a trip.

  Cole moved to the kitchen, which opened into a large family room lined with French doors showing a pleasant view of the canal. Another dead digital phone sat on the counter near a sink stacked with dishes. The dishes bothered him. It was like the goat heads and blood. Nobody would walk away from a mess like that, but Button claimed that was exactly what Wilson had done. Cole had a bad feeling about it, but in and of itself it proved nothing. Except maybe that Smith was a slob.

  The fridge was scaled with takeout menus held on by magnets. Cole opened it and found the refrigerator stocked with milk, beer, soda, and what appeared to be fried oysters and shrimp in greasy white cartons. Would two people in the restaurant business leave food they knew would go bad in the refrigerator?

  When Cole closed the fridge, he noticed a hand-printed note taped to the door. He hadn’t seen it before because it was lost among the takeout menus.

  IF EMERGENCY, CALL 911.

  PLUMBING PROBLEM, CALL NICKY TATE - 323-555-8402 IF YOU NEED ME WHILE I’M IN LONDON STEVE - 310-555-3691

  London was eight hours ahead. It was late, but Steve Brown might be up. If Smith took the time to call Button, maybe he called his landlord, too. Cole dialed the number.

  Brown’s phone rang six times before voice mail picked up.

  “Mr. Brown, my name is Elvis Cole. I’m in Los Angeles. Would you please give me a call about Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne?”

  Cole left his number, hung up, then went to the window over the sink. It was the last thing he would check before leaving. He had found no hard evidence of either an abduction or a trip, and was already deciding which of his LAPD contacts to call about Mendoza and Gomer. The house had been a bust, and his head was out of the game.

  He studied the window’s latches and interior frame, and that’s when he saw a single deep cut on an exterior part of the frame. A thin, bright groove sparkled across the metal near the latch, far shinier than the surrounding metal. Cole touched the handle, and the window slid effortlessly open. Once the window was open, he saw a deep dimple in the frame. Cole closed the window. He stared at it for a few seconds, then called Joe Pike.

  “Did you check the kitchen window?”

  “Yes. All the windows.”

  “The window over the sink.”

  “You found something?”

  “Someone forced it open. I’m looking at it. There’s a scratch on the frame where the screwdriver slipped, and the frame is bent by the latch. None of this was here this morning?”

  “No.”

  “The latch is broken. The window slides free.”

  “Not this morning.”

  “Which means this didn’t happen until three or four hours after Jared saw Mendoza.”

  “Find anything in the house?”

  “Nada. No sign they were taken. No sign they went on a trip. Nothing.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Understand later. I just left Button. You don’t have much time.”

  Cole put away his phone and stared at the window. Maybe he did not find evidence of a crime because someone had already found it. Maybe there had been many signs of a struggle, but someone cleaned the crime scene.

  Cole returned to the front entry and was about to let himself out when he noticed the empty bookcase. Steve Brown showed prudence by storing his valuable items. Maybe his books and computers weren’t the only things he decided to hide.

  Cole ran his fingers along the top of the bookcase and found a weathered key. He tried it in the front door, and found that it fit the deadbolt perfectly. Brown had stashed his spare key inside while he was gone instead of leaving it outside where a passing burglar might find it. A smart move made by someone who knew all the tricks because he had written so many cop shows.

  Cole let himself out. He used the key to lock the deadbolt, then hid it behind the fence.

  Cole cracked open the front gate, made sure no one was watching, then pulled off the vinyl gloves and let himself out. H
e took a single deep breath, released it, and let the tension he carried out with it. He had seen with fresh eyes, and now everything was different, and maybe everything Pike feared was true.

  Cole crossed the alley for a better view of Smith’s house, then looked from one end of the alley to the other. It was crowded by wall-to-wall houses, with only one way in or out for cars. A person could enter or leave by the pedestrian bridges, but for cars there was only one way out. It was a lousy place to do crime, but lousy places for crime were great places for witnesses.

  A skinny guy with stringy black hair came to the upper window at the Palmer house. This would be Jared. He stared at Cole with a serious frown, and Cole stared back, thinking if there was one Jared, there might be more.

  Cole had decided to knock on doors when a tan Crown Victoria turned into the alley, heading his way. A man was driving, with a woman in the passenger seat. Cole knew they were cops, and wondered if the man was Button.

  The outsized Detroit sedan was so wide it filled the street. Cole stepped to the side to let them pass, and gave them a cheery wave.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Great walking weather.”

  The man looked at Cole as if Cole was litter.

  “Great if you don’t have to work for a living.”

  The woman seemed embarrassed.

  Cole continued on his way. Behind him, the Crown Vic stopped in front of the Palmers’ house, and the man and the woman got out.

  Cole strolled down the center of the street, checking the houses for large facing windows or decks with clear views of the street, but found something better.

  A dark green contemporary home sat across the street and two doors down from the Smith house. It had sleek lines, a flat roof, and a large steel door. A security camera that looked like a black bubble clung to a wall beside the door.

  Cole checked to see what the police were doing, and saw that the Palmers’ front door was now open. Jared and his mother were in the street with the officers.

  Cole drifted closer to the camera. Because it was focused on the gate, the camera probably did not have a full-on view of the street, but it might see enough for a glimpse of a passing car.