by Robert Crais
Terry jumped in again.
“James bought fish and shrimp from Rainey, so the speculation is this was how Rainey and Platt met. Couple of months later, she broke up with James and moved in with Rainey. Couple of months after that, which puts us two weeks before the storm, Rainey and Platt disappeared with the Bolivians’ money. On or about that same day, a shrimper named Mike Fourchet went fishing, but didn’t come back. Mike and his boat were found at a landing on Quarantine Bay. Fourchet had been shot in the back of the head.”
“Was Fourchet one of Rainey’s fishermen?”
“That’s how the DEA made the connection. They found Fourchet’s name in Rainey’s business records. Then they really got stoked when they found out the woman’s ex-boyfriend, Tolliver James, was murdered during the storm.”
“Did Rainey do it?”
“Not even close. The DEA believes he was killed by your specialist. He was beaten to death—beat real bad, too, like he was tortured. The bones in his legs were broken so bad they were nothing but splinters down in the meat.”
Terry paused as if he realized he was being too graphic with Lucy in the room.
“Sorry, Ms. Chenier.”
“Terry, please.”
“Anyway, all this stuff I’m telling you, it took the Feds and the DOJ two or three years to figure out. You know how investigations come together—you build’m a piece at a time.”
“You said Rainey was good for a murder.”
“Fourchet. The case dicks learned Rainey delivered the twelve mil to Fourchet the morning he went out. They believe Rainey went back later without the guards, or maybe told Fourchet to meet up with him on his way out, but either way, Fourchet ended up dead, and Rainey and Platt split with the money.”
“So Rainey and Platt murdered Fourchet?”
“Everyone down here thinks so, including the Bolivians. That’s why they put out the reward and sent their man up here. This guy’s been after them for years.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“All I know is what I’ve told you. He’s their go-to executioner.”
“Executioner.”
“That’s how my guy described him before he shut down. An executioner. What else you gonna call an animal who racks up nine killings?”
Terry corrected himself.
“Eleven.”
Nobody spoke for a moment, then Terry remembered something.
“Wait, I guess there is something else. All these people he’s killed have been connected to Rainey or Platt—someone in the family, someone they worked with, someone who might know how to find them. He’s been eating his way through their friends and family. Like with Tolliver James.”
A silence settled between the three of them that no one seemed anxious to fill.
Finally, Cole said, “If the FBI comes back to you, give them my name.”
Lucy said, “Are you sure? We can delay this or stall it. I don’t want you in jeopardy.”
Cole smiled, and for the first time during the call felt a flush of comfort.
“You’re the best, Lucille.”
“Sometimes.”
“Yes, you are, but give them my name. Terry, I appreciate this, man, but if they call, put them on me. We’ll have to bring in the locals here anyway. They need to know this.”
Cole told Lucy he would call later, then printed the new pictures of Wilson and Dru. Cole corrected himself. William Rainey and Rose Platt.
Cole said, “It just keeps getting better.”
He heard Pike pull up outside as the second picture emerged from the printer, and met him in the kitchen. Cole thought Pike looked tired, his gaunt face hollow and lined behind the gleaming dark glasses. Pike drank an entire bottle of water before he came up for air.
Cole said, “How long have you been awake?”
“I’m good.”
Cole figured he was going on forty-eight hours.
“Grab something to eat.”
“I’m good to go.”
“Okay, we finally have something. Lucy found out who they are. It isn’t good news.”
Pike leaned against the counter as Cole went through it, arms crossed, as still as a hardwood statue. Pike only moved once as Cole related the information.
He said, “The names.”
Cole didn’t understand, and asked what Pike meant.
“Rainey. Rayne. You think she picked her name because it was so close to his? Maybe he picked it for her.”
Cole stared at Pike, but quickly pushed on to soothe his own aching heart.
“What do you want to do?”
“Call the police.”
“Good. I think that’s the right call. You have Button’s number?”
Pike reached into his pocket for his phone, but it buzzed with an incoming call before he got it out. The phone buzzed again as Pike studied the Caller ID, and Cole wondered why Pike was staring. Pike looked up on the third buzz.
“It’s Dru.”
Pike opened the phone and answered.
Par Five
THE SENTRY
sentry n; a soldier standing guard at a point of passage.
—Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary
36
She had not used her phone in three days, but there was her name, DRU, in the phone’s tiny window. That was how he had stored her number in the memory.
Pike opened the phone with delicate care, and answered the same way, thinking it might be Smith or Azzara or one of Azzara’s thugs playing around. He stared at Cole as he answered.
“Yes?”
“Willieyouhavetogivehimthemoneypleasegiveittohimhehasmeandhe’s—”
The words exploded out of her, but then she was gone, as if her call had been chopped by a headsman’s ax.
Cole moved closer.
“Was it her?”
Pike wondered if this was real or another incomprehensible lie.
“Talk to me, Joseph. What did she say?”
“I don’t know.”
Pike held up a finger, saying wait as he dialed her back, but his call went straight to her voice mail.
“What did she say?”
“She called me Willie. Like she was talking to Rainey. She begged Rainey to give him the money. She said he has her. That’s it.”
“Who has her, the executioner?”
“That’s how it sounded.”
Pike replayed her call in his head, her voice as tight as breaking wire. She sounded authentic, but she could have made the call from Azzara’s pool, surrounded by cowboy spectators who cheered her acting ability.
Cole said, “Let’s call Button. We have to call him anyway.”
Pike was already on his way out.
“Dru doesn’t know we found them. Let’s see if she’s still at Azzara’s.”
“Rose.”
Pike stopped at the door, not understanding.
Cole said, “It’s Rose. Not Dru.”
“If her call was real, then he has her—let’s check Azzara’s. We can call Button when we know.”
Cole didn’t look confident, but they went in Pike’s Jeep, pushing hard down Laurel Canyon to Sunset, then west to Azzara’s. Pike described the layout of the house and the position of the guards as they drove. He nailed a parking spot a block from the Regency billboard, then led Cole to the corner to scan Azzara’s street.
“There was a guard in the alley. Another guard was in the Monte Carlo. You see it?”
“The car, yeah. I don’t see any guards.”
“They’re gone.”
The Monte Carlo and the Tercel were still in front of Azzara’s, but the alley and the car appeared empty.
Cole said, “These guys don’t know me. Wait here, and I’ll take a closer look.”
Cole strolled down the sidewalk as if he were just another pedestrian.
Pike watched the surrounding cars and the alley for movement, but no one appeared as Cole reached the house. He stopped on the sidewalk beside the Monte Carlo, stared at the c
ar for a moment, then motioned Pike closer.
Pike trotted down, knowing something was wrong by Cole’s flat expression.
“Look.”
Pike saw the body, then moved to the car for a closer look. A man was curled on his side across the front seat as if he were sleeping on a red satin pillow. Hector.
Pike immediately turned for the house.
“Side gates. You right, me left. The back of the house is glass.”
They moved without another word, Cole racing across the tiny front yard as Pike headed up the drive. Pike let himself through the side gate and ran to the rear, pulling his .357 from under his sweatshirt. Cole emerged at the far side of the patio as Pike stepped from the side of the house.
The pool was empty. Dru’s beer bottle, still almost full, stood on the concrete deck by the chaise. The cowboy who had been seated by himself was sprawled on the patio, his immaculate cream-colored hat upside down three feet away. The big glass sliders were as they had been—pushed open wide so Pike and Cole had an unobstructed view of the carnage inside the house.
Cole made a soft whisper.
“This is bad.”
The cowboy from the body shop was seated on a couch, still wearing his hat, but his head was all the way back as if he were staring at the ceiling. A younger man with banger tats was piled up on the floor beside a large square coffee table, eyes open but sightless.
Cole entered the house through the left side of the opening, and Pike went in through the right. A second banger was dead beside the kitchen island and another cowboy lay crumpled outside the powder room door. The cowboy’s pants were unbuckled and a black Heckler & Koch pistol was on the floor near his body. His bowels had let go, leaving a smell that burned Pike’s eyes.
Cole whispered again.
“None of these people got off a shot. No wonder they call him the executioner.”
Pike moved past Cole into a hall.
“I’ll get the bedrooms, you check the garage. Azzara drives a black Prius.”
Pike pushed along a short hall to a bedroom where he found clothes for Rainey and Dru. The next bedroom was set up for the guards, with futons and duffels filling the floor. The last bedroom was Azzara’s. Pike swept through the rooms fast, then pounded back to the great room. Cole looked up from the cowboy sprawled on the couch.
“Anyone else?”
“No. The garage?”
“Empty. If Azzara was here, he’s gone, but look at this—”
Cole held up the cowboy’s wallet, showing a blue-and-gold star and picture ID. The ID card read POLICIA FEDERAL MEXICO.
“Mexican Federal Police. The Federales. What do you think these guys are doing here?”
Pike studied the card.
“You think they’re fakes?”
“I don’t know. The guy outside and the man by the toilet have badges, too, and they’re all packing HKs. Federales carry Hecklers.”
Pike shook his head, thinking it didn’t matter to him who they were or why they were here or how many of them were dead. The only person who mattered was Dru.
“The limo probably dropped off Azzara and Rainey and the veterano. They found this mess and split. The Tercel’s still here, so Rainey went with Azzara.”
Cole didn’t seem convinced.
“We don’t know anything, Joe. Maybe they never came back. Maybe they’re having lunch at the beach. Maybe Rainey went with the veterano.”
Pike knew Cole was right, but his last best chance was Azzara. Azzara knew what happened here, and Azzara might know how to find Dru.
Cole turned away from the body.
“What do you want to do?”
“Call the police. We’ll find Azzara faster with the police.”
They called Button from the house. Cole sketched out the bare bones about William Allan Rainey and Rose Marie Platt, and told Button they would give him the rest when he arrived. Button took it pretty well except for one brief exchange.
Cole said, “Because we only found this out an hour ago, Button. Stop wasting time, and come see for yourself.”
Pike said, “Hang up.”
They waited at Pike’s Jeep for the police to arrive. They did not want to be in the house when the first uniforms got bug-eyed by the blood and the bodies.
The passing time felt like ants marching through Pike’s veins. Cole spoke once or twice during the time they were waiting, but Pike did not answer. He was thinking about Dru, and why she had called him for help.
37
Daniel
Daniel took the woman’s phone, rolled her onto her belly, and taped her hands behind her back. Great thing about stealing a rooter-dude van, it was filled with usable stuff. Duct tape, rope, wire. Plenty of things that cut.
The woman did not speak to him or look at him, which was fine by Daniel. When her wrists were secure, he flipped her over and taped her mouth, a big silver rectangle that made her look like a robot. He liked her better that way.
They were on Wilshire Boulevard, in a parking lot across from the La Brea Tar Pits. Daniel liked the dying mammoth. There was this huge statue of a mammoth stuck in the tar like it was being sucked down to its death. Daniel enjoyed thinking about the big sonofabitch drownin’ in tar. He wondered if the heat killed it first, maybe boilin’ it to death before it drowned. That would be even better.
The satellite phone rang as he climbed into the front seat. The Bolivian. Daniel answered in his most professional, ass-slurping voice.
“This is Daniel. Do we have anything on the tag?”
Instead of answering Daniel’s question, the fuckin’ Bolivian launched into meaningless shit that ended with the inevitable question.
“I have Ms. Platt now. Yes, sir, she is in my possession. She is three feet away from me. No, sir, I do not have Mr. Rainey. He is with his Mexican friend, but I’ll have him in a few minutes, and we’ll have what we have.”
Blah blah, rant. Blah blah, rant. Jesus, the man could go on.
Tobey said, “Fuck’m.”
Cleo said, “Hang up, up.”
Daniel was getting pissed off.
“Sir, were you able to pull anything off the tag? I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”
Fucker still didn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know why Daniel asked about the plate and how the man drivin’ the Jeep was involved. Daniel felt put on the spot.
“I don’t know how he’s involved, sir. He was at Rainey’s house at least once, and I saw him today at Azzara’s. He clearly knows who these people are, and that means he’s a problem.”
More Bolivian ass gas. The guy had an endless supply.
“No, sir. I believe he followed the Mexican and Mr. Rainey back to the airport, but I can’t know that for sure. I chose to take Ms. Platt.”
Fuckin’ Bolivian blew like a ripe pimple, screaming that the Mexican might have brought the fishmonger down to Mexico. This is why Daniel hated talking to the fuckers, all the screaming hysterics.
“Sir, Mr. Rainey is still in Los Angeles. Ms. Platt just spoke with him. Can we please get back to whatever you’ve learned? I have to move quickly.”
The Bolivian puked up a wad of information about the dude with the arrows. Dude’s name was Pike. A Force Recon Marine who became a police officer. Daniel heard that, he worried the guy was a Fed, but the Bolivian then said something interesting.
“Excuse me, sir, I want to be clear on this. He is no longer in law enforcement?”
Blah blah, blah blah.
“He’s a mercenary? We know this for a fact?”
Daniel listened more carefully. The arrow dude shit-canned off the cops, then became a gun for hire, and had worked for the top Private Military Corporations out of London and Washington in conflicts all over the world, including Central America. Daniel thought, cool, and wondered if they had ever crossed paths. The cartels hired mercs from time to time, and so did the governments who fought the cartels. Daniel never met one of those boys he couldn’t kill.
“Do we
know who he’s working for?”
The Bolivian didn’t have a whole lot to say. They were asking around, still trying to find out, blah blah blah. Daniel wondered if the man was being evasive.
“I have to go, sir. The next time we speak, I’ll have more good news. That’s a promise.”
More overblown, effusive praise for Daniel’s efforts.
“Thank you, sir. Really. You’re too kind.”
Dickweed.
Daniel killed the link.
Tobey’s giggle echoed in his ear.
“You’re too kind, that’s a good one.”
Cleo joined in.
“Too kind, what an ass potato.”
They sounded like chipmunks.
“Would you two shut up?”
“Up—”
“—up.”
Daniel stared at the mammoth stuck in the sludge, head back, tusks high, like it was begging God to pluck it from the muck. He wondered if the Bolivian was lying about the arrow dude. If the guy was a merc, then maybe the Bolivians had hired the sonofabitch to find Rainey and Platt just like they hired Daniel. Maybe they fed him all the same information, and had given him all the shit they learned from Daniel. These things were possible and made Daniel’s head hurt. Made it hurt bad.
Tobey’s calm voice soothed him.
“Stop it, Daniel.”
Cleo’s gentle echo comforted him.
“Make it stop, stop.”
Daniel concentrated on the mammoth, trying to imagine what it felt like to be boiled in hot tar. Probably not so hot.
Tobey’s laugh boomed like faraway gunshots.
“That’s a good one, Daniel!”
Cleo laughed, too. Like revved-up chainsaws.
“You’re killin’ me, killin’ me!”
Daniel pushed the paranoia aside. Either the Bolivians were fuckin’ him or they weren’t, and they probably weren’t. Even the Bolivians weren’t stupid enough to fuck with a werewolf.
The dude with the arrows had probably heard about the reward, and was working for himself. Daniel was fine with it. Being a mercenary meant the guy was in it for the money, which meant he could always be bought if it came to that, but for all Daniel knew, the dumb asswipe lost Rainey and stopped off for a hamburger. Daniel might never see the tattooed, sunglasses-wearing asscheese again.
