The Sentry_Joe Pike

by Robert Crais

“Talk to you. I guess that’s why I called.”

  She sighed. A long, slow breath into the phone that he wanted to feel on his skin.

  “Do you believe this boy?”

  “Yeah. I can’t prove it. I have nothing but his word for it, but after what Brown said, I believe him. I believe he was telling the truth.”

  “Tell him.”

  Cole nodded to himself, but found nothing to say.

  “The longer you wait, the worse it will be. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Joe’s built to save people. That’s how he sees himself, and that’s who he is. He’s trying to save her, so whatever he feels for her, it will get deeper.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. That’s you, too. That’s why you two found each other, and why you’re joined at the hip. It’s why you do what you do.”

  Cole rubbed his left eye. His throat felt thick.

  “Is that why I lost you?”

  “You didn’t lose me, baby. Here we are. If he wants to save her, fine, but he deserves to know who he’s saving.”

  “Being a friend is hard.”

  “If it was easy, anyone could do it.”

  “I love smart women.”

  “Smart women love you.”

  “I’d better go.”

  “Call me later.”

  Cole put down the phone. It was still early, but he had plenty to do, and Lucy had given him a good idea. He scanned the list of food purveyors and suppliers Smith had dealt with. All were people in the food and restaurant business who probably swapped stories about cooks, cooking, and the good and bad restaurants where they worked. It was possible Smith mentioned a New Orleans restaurant where he had worked, or maybe a chef he had worked with, and one of the people on the list might remember. Having a place to start would make Lucy’s job easier.

  Cole opened a fresh bottle of water, pulled the phone close, and got back to work.

  26

  Elvis Cole

  Cole was still at his office later that day when Pike phoned, saying he was coming over to fill Cole in about the bodies. Cole suggested they meet at his house, saying he would make dinner while they talked, and they could have a few beers. Cole did not mention Dru or Wilson, or the sick feeling he had from the ugly news he was about to share with his friend.

  The twilight sun melted into a magenta haze as Cole crept up the hill toward home. The traffic on Laurel Canyon was brutal, so Cole took a neighborhood bypass, winding between the trees and gated homes up Outpost Drive to Mulholland. Cole drove a yellow 1966 Stingray Convertible, and liked it a lot. It ran well and was fun to drive, but Cole didn’t wash it often, so it was dirty. Pike washed his Jeep every day. Its immaculate red skin was so slick with polish, Cole joked that dirt probably blew off with the wind. Thinking about Pike’s gleaming Jeep left Cole feeling sad. It would have been a lovely drive home, any other night, with the Stingray’s top down and the cool canyon air scented with eucalyptus and wild fennel. Any other night, it would have been fine.

  Home was a redwood A-frame on a narrow street off Woodrow Wilson Drive at the top of a canyon. The little house was a two-bedroom, two-bath fixer Cole bought during a flush year before prices went crazy. If he wanted to buy it today, he couldn’t. There was no yard to speak of, what with being perched on a drop-away slope, but a deck across the back of the house gave Cole a great view of the canyon and glimpse of the city.

  Cole pulled into the carport, and let himself in through the kitchen. A black cat was on the counter. It looked at its bowl when Cole walked in, and made a soft mrp.

  “Okay. Let’s get you squared away.”

  Cole put out fresh food and water, then helped himself to a beer. Negro Modelo. The cat looked up from the food.

  “Mrp.”

  “Okay, but not too much.”

  Cole poured a little beer into a saucer.

  The cat had come with the house, and had been part of Cole’s life longer than any living thing except Joe Pike. It was a mean animal, and given to attacking people. Cole did not know why. Once, a heating and air-conditioning repairman was working on the forced-air unit in Cole’s hall closet. The repairman was kneeling in the door with his back to the hall when the cat climbed his back and bit him on the neck four times. Cole’s insurance company settled the claim, but Cole had to do a personal job off the books for his broker to get a new policy.

  “It’s going to be a tough night, bud.”

  The cat bumped his hand with surprising gentleness, then went back to eating.

  The house was warm from being closed all day, so Cole opened the big deck doors. He took a small skirt steak from the freezer to thaw, then rinsed a large can of white beans and put them aside to drain. The first Modelo was gone by then, so he helped himself to a second, drinking it while he sliced zucchini, Japanese eggplant, and two large tomatoes for the grill. The joy of cooking was oblivion. Slicing and seasoning made it easier not to think. The Modelo went a long way toward helping that, too.

  When the vegetables were good to go, Cole went upstairs, changed into a T-shirt, then returned to the deck to fire up his Weber. The sky was a beautiful sangria by then, and inspired him to have another beer.

  When Cole went in, Joe Pike was in the kitchen. Unannounced and silent as a ghost. The cat was twined between his ankles, purring. Pike was the only person besides Cole the cat would abide.

  Cole tipped his empty toward the vegetables.

  “White bean salad with grilled veggies we can share. Maybe a little couscous. Carne asada for me. Sound good?”

  “Good.”

  Sure.

  Notice how the loyal friend prepares his subject for the evening’s festivities.

  “I’m having a beer. Get one, then you can fill me in while I’m prepping the coals.”

  Pike took a beer from the fridge. Cole grabbed a third, and followed him out. The cat trailed behind them. He liked to watch the slope for field mice and gophers.

  Cole pushed at the coals, which was a completely unnecessary act. Notice the immaculate technique as the World’s Greatest Best Friend stalls the moment of truth.

  “You go first, then I’ll go. What happened with Mendoza and Gomer?”

  Pike related what he knew about Mendoza, then moved on to Gomer. At first Cole only pretended to listen, but the graphic nature of their murders drew him in. Gomer’s body was found behind the wheel of a car parked near the north end of Grand Canal. The blood in the vehicle suggested Gomer was killed at the scene. The first cut was likely a downward stab wound on the left side of the neck that sliced through the carotid artery, the esophagus, most of the surrounding musculature down to visible bone, and into the upper thorax. The second cut was drawn from the right ear across the throat to the base of the left ear, also exposing visible bone.

  Pike said, “They didn’t have a good time-of-death on Mendoza, but Gomer probably died between eleven P.M. and one A.M. this morning. When the cops cut me free, I checked the spot where they found him. He had a head-on view of Wilson’s house. Mendoza was probably set up on the other side.”

  When Cole realized what Pike was saying, he held up a hand.

  “Waitaminute. Are you telling me these guys were watching the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. If they grabbed Wilson and Dru this morning, why go back to the house? What did they want?”

  “Maybe someone Wilson and Dru told them about, but that’s only a guess. It was probably the man who killed them. The light I saw in the upstairs bedroom when I called you this morning, that was probably the killer. The same man who jimmied the kitchen window.”

  Cole didn’t like it, or what it might mean.

  “Mendoza and Gomer came back for this guy, but he was already there. He saw them first, and took them out?”

  Pike cocked his head the other way, and the tangerine sunset gleamed on his glasses.

  “Yes. I think he was still watching the hous
e when I was there this morning. I could feel him.”

  Cole prodded the coals, and watched firefly embers swirl in the heat. Everything had changed in the space of a day. A neighborhood shakedown had become an illusion. Vandalism and assault were a sleight-of-hand trick to hide something worse, and now Cole knew the magicians were liars. None of it was real, and probably never had been.

  Pike’s voice came from the embers.

  “Now you.”

  Cole looked at his friend.

  “I spoke with Steve Brown today, the man who owns Smith’s house, and I had another talk with Jared. I have to tell you some things, and you’re not going to like it. I don’t think Dru has been honest with you.”

  Cole paused for Pike to react, but Pike gave him no more reaction than a department store mannequin. The cat left the edge of the deck, twined once through Pike’s legs, then sat, its eyes narrow and watchful.

  Cole put his bottle on the rail.

  “Brown has never met Wilson Smith or heard of him. He let Dru use the house because they had a relationship. She was supposed to be there alone, and Brown was furious when he found out someone was living with her. He knew nothing about her uncle, or Dru working at Wilson’s food place, or any of it. He believed she was living on alimony. Until we spoke this morning, he expected to resume their relationship when he returns.”

  Pike remained motionless, floating at the edge of the deck. Cole wished he could see behind the black glasses, but that view was hidden.

  “After I spoke with Brown, I talked to Jared. Jared told me things that put the lie to everything this woman told you about herself. It’s not good, Joe. It’s pretty damned bad.”

  “What?”

  The cat crouched at Pike’s feet. Its tail snapped and twitched as Cole repeated Jared’s story. Cole kept it brief, but left nothing out.

  “If you want to talk to him again, I’ll go with you, but I believe Jared is telling the truth. When I left him, I took some things from their house that should have their prints, and gave them to John Chen. I don’t know that these people are in the system, but they might be, and the prints might help us figure this out. Also, I spoke with Lucy. Until we hear back from Chen, all I could give her were their names, but her investigator is going to see what he can find in New Orleans. That’s it. That’s been my day.”

  Pike seemed to sway, as if pushed by a breeze, only the air was still.

  “I’m sorry, man. If you want me to call off Chen and Lucy, I will.”

  Pike turned toward the canyon and placed his hands on the rail. Cole wondered if he needed the rail to stop swaying.

  “No. Don’t call them off.”

  “All right. You want another beer?”

  Pike shook his head.

  Cole said, “What do you want to do?”

  “About what?”

  “We’re in this because you want to help this woman. I’m fine with that, but now, well, maybe things have changed.”

  “She still needs help.”

  “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  The cat whipped and twitched its tail at a furious rate, and its eyes were dangerous slits.

  Cole said, “I’m sorry, man.”

  His phone rang. Cole wasn’t going to answer, but decided to give Pike some time. He covered the grill then went inside for the phone. He scooped up the handset a second after the message machine, and spoke over the recording.

  “Hey, I’m here. Don’t hang up—it’ll stop.”

  “Mr. Cole?”

  Cole didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

  “That’s right. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Charles Laine. You were at my home today on the canal. You spoke with my housekeeper about my surveillance system.”

  Cole glanced outside to signal Pike, but Pike had left the rail.

  “Yes, sir. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “Not a problem. Is this about the police investigation? The police came by yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir, same thing, but I am not a police officer. I’m a licensed investigator working in private employ.”

  “I know. I have your card here. Irma says you asked if we record the camera feed.”

  Cole looked at the opposite end of the deck, but still did not see Pike.

  “Yes, sir. We’re looking to identify two men who might have passed by your house yesterday morning.”

  “I might be able to help. The system I have here records, but I’m not sure if you’ll see enough of the street. I know you can see some of it, but the camera is set up to show people who come to the gate.”

  “I understand. Could I take a look at whatever you have?”

  “Sure. I’ll try to burn a copy tonight. I’ve never done it before, but I have an instruction booklet somewhere around here. If it works, I’ll get it over to you tomorrow. If not, maybe you could come here.”

  “That would be great, Mr. Laine. Thank you.”

  When Cole put down the phone, he went back to the deck. He wanted to share the one piece of good news he had gotten that day, but when he stepped outside, Joe Pike was gone.

  “Joe?”

  The cat was gone, too.

  “Joseph?”

  The canyon swallowed his voice.

  Cole went to the rail. Down below, the first few flickering lights twinkled in the shadows. Darkness pooled in the deeper cuts like purple mist, and would climb as the sun died until it consumed him. But not now, and not yet.

  “It’s going to be okay, buddy. It only hurts for a while.”

  His voice a whisper meant only for himself.

  Then the cat growled, somewhere to his right and below on the slope. It started low, and spiraled louder like a terrible war cry until it filled the canyon with an anguished wail as if the cat was in pain. Cole thought it was the cat. He was pretty sure it was the cat.

  Cole leaned over the rail, trying to see. He stretched as far into space as he could, trying to find the cat by listening to its scream, but saw nothing. The cat was there, but so well hidden he could not be found.

  Sometimes you want to help them, but can’t.

  27

  The air felt clean when it cooled in the evening. Pike opened the Jeep’s windows, letting the air chill his skin. Oncoming headlights, flaring brake lights, and neon signs scribed molten arcs on the Jeep’s gleaming hood. As he neared the ocean, streetlights cast halos in the mist, each halo brighter than the last. Pike drove back to the canals.

  Gomer had been murdered in an empty lot on the west side of Grand Canal where a home had recently been razed. Pike had visited the site earlier when the police cut him free, but Gomer had been killed at night, so Pike wanted to see this place in the darkness as Gomer and his killer had seen it. He had no place else to go.

  Pike parked on the street, and walked past an abandoned trailer across bare ground to the canal. Earlier, the area had been filled with officers, but now it was deserted. Not long after the project was started, a new foundation had been poured and the trailer was brought in for the construction manager, but somewhere along the way the money dried up and the project had been abandoned. Gomer had driven up onto the construction site and parked facing the canal.

  Smith’s house was several houses to Pike’s right on the opposite bank not far beyond the mouth of an adjoining canal. The location offered a good view of Smith’s backyard, half the ground-floor windows, and the second floor, but Pike thought Gomer was an idiot for having parked where he was openly visible. Pike could see families in the houses across the canal and people crossing the footbridge that spanned the adjoining canal, and knew any of them could see him just as they could have seen Gomer. One of the people who’d seen Gomer that night had left him soaking in blood.

  Pike studied the houses and the shadows beneath the pedestrian bridge and the play of light on the water. He felt he understood everything that had happened until Mendoza and Gomer returned to the canals to be murdered. He
did not understand why they had returned, why they were killed, or who had killed them, and now this business about Dru and Wilson made him rethink himself, and them, and everything he had believed was true. Maybe that was good. He believed the answers were here in this place, so his task was to recognize the signs. If he found them, he could re-create the events, and then he would know what happened. The same as reading the words in a book. Reading each word and adding it to the next to build a sentence, then connecting the sentences to learn the story. The task was to find enough words.

  Pike slipped out his cell phone and called John Chen, who answered in his typical paranoid whisper.

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Pike. Two bodies were bagged on the Venice Canals this morning. You know about them?”

  Chen didn’t answer.

  “John?”

  “Sorry. I thought you were asking about something else.”

  “Their names were Mendoza and Gomer.”

  “That’s Sandy Lancaster. I’m not on it, but she’s here in the next cube. What do you need?”

  Pike asked if either showed signs of defensive wounds or ligature marks, and whether the police had located the place of Mendoza’s murder. Chen told him to hang on, and Pike could hear murmurs as Chen spoke with the criminalist in the next cube. A few moments later, Chen was back on the line.

  “Nah, man. Nothing defensive and negative on the ligatures. These guys didn’t see it coming, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “What about Mendoza?”

  “They think so, but they can’t confirm until the blood work comes back. She said they found a good-sized splatter on one of the pedestrian bridges they have down there. I don’t know which one.”

  “That’s okay, John. I can figure it out.”

  Pike was staring at the pedestrian bridge that joined the north end of Smith’s street. There would be another bridge at the south end. With Gomer watching the north side, Mendoza would have been watching the south. Each fact was a word to build the story.

  Pike started to end the call, but his eyes found Dru’s house again.

  “Did you find any prints on the things Elvis gave you?”