by Robert Crais
While Pike waited for Cole to arrive, he phoned Hydeck and Betsy Harmon, hoping he was wrong about their disappearance and that Wilson or Dru had returned their calls or finally showed up at their kitchen. They hadn't, and Betsy Harmon once more complained that no one had cleaned up the mess.
Twenty-five minutes after Pike called Elvis Cole, Cole slid into Pike's Jeep outside a bar on Abbot Kinney, a few short blocks from the canals. Cole had made good time. If he was in the middle of something when Pike called, he had not mentioned it.
Cole said, "What's going on?"
Pike began with Mendoza's arrest two days earlier, and sketched the sequence of events up to and including his search for Mendoza and his call to Miguel Azzara. When he finished, Cole studied the snapshot of Mendoza before looking up.
"So you don't believe they went to Oregon."
"No. If Mendoza hadn't been seen at the house, then maybe, but Mendoza changes the game."
"So you think, what, he followed them home to threaten them, but it turned into an abduction? He forced Smith to make the call?"
Pike nodded, but did not voice his darker fear-that the abduction had become a body drop.
"Have you tried calling them again?"
"You call, you get voice mail. They don't call back."
Cole nodded, his face vacant as he thought the scene through.
"Which is what would happen if their phones were taken away from them."
"Yes."
Cole glanced over.
"Forgetting Mendoza for a minute-maybe they were so freaked out, they figured enough with the bad news and turned off their phones."
"Wilson, maybe, but not Dru. Dru would call if she could."
"She would?"
Pike realized Cole was staring.
"I know her."
"Ah."
Pike thought he probably should have phrased it another way.
"We had a beer."
"I see."
"We made a date. She asked me to call."
"I understand."
Cole asked for their numbers, saying he would try to learn about their account activity from the service provider. Pike recited the numbers, then gave him Mendoza's shoe box and Hector's phone. Cole fingered through the contents.
"Okay, good-I can work with this. What about the police? Are they treating it as an abduction?"
"They don't know about Mendoza."
Cole glanced up from the box.
"Why not?"
"I want you to see the house first. You have fresh eyes, you're faster, and you'll see things they miss."
Cole tried to look modest.
"That goes without saying."
"But you won't have much time. We get you set up, I'm going to Button. He'll move on Smith's house, so we have to move on it first."
Cole glanced at Mendoza's picture again, then handed it back.
"Let's get busy."
Pike led the way with Cole following in his own car. Because of the narrow lanes and difficult parking, they left their vehicles on Venice Boulevard and approached Smith's house on foot. Pike didn't want another conversation with the Palmers, so he stopped well out of their view to point out Smith's house. Pike had already warned Cole about Jared.
When Cole saw the house, he glanced at Pike.
"A dude trying to make a go of a sandwich shop owns this place?"
"They're house-sitting. It's owned by a retired TV writer."
"Were you inside?"
"Only to check for bodies. I entered through the side window at the laundry room, but I didn't disturb the scene."
Pike described finding no signs of forced entry outside the house, and no blood evidence or signs of struggle in the carport or courtyard inside the front gate. He wanted Cole to concentrate on the interior because their time would be limited once he went to the police.
"When I finish with Button, I'll call you, then I'll sit on the girlfriend's house. I put her and Azzara in play to stress Mendoza. When Button comes in he'll jack the pressure even more, and Mendoza might break for home."
Stressing the enemy was a tactic Pike had used in the field. Put enough stress on the target, he would panic and run. They almost always broke for home.
Cole said, "Sounds good. I'll see what I can find out about Mendoza and Gomer, and relieve you later tonight."
They were finished, and Pike knew he should roll out, but he stared at the house. He imagined Dru and Wilson inside after they returned from their shop. He saw Mendoza and the second man moving toward the gate, then put what he saw next out of his head.
Pike realized Cole had said something, but hadn't heard what. Cole was watching him with a curious expression, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle.
"You okay?"
"I told her I took care of it. That they wouldn't be bothered again."
The sudden sympathy in Cole's eyes left Pike feeling embarrassed. He looked away.
Cole said, "Hey."
Pike looked back.
"Am I not the World's Greatest Detective?"
Pike nodded.
"I'm on it, Joseph. We'll find her."
Cole walked away before Pike could respond.
Pike watched his friend for a moment, then headed back to his Jeep. Time was passing, and time was the enemy.
Pike drove hard for the Pacific Community Police Station.
16
The PCPS was a low, modern brick building surrounded by a block wall and wispy pine trees on Culver Boulevard less than a mile from Pike's home. A flagpole bearing the American flag stood proudly out front, across from a billboard advertising a bail bondsman. The middle-class homes across the boulevard were neat and attractive. These neighborhoods-like the police station-made it difficult to believe that wars between rival gangs often filled the streets with blood only a few minutes away.
Pike pulled to the curb by the flagpole at seven minutes after three. The watch would change at four, so any detectives not in court or in the field would be inside finishing up for the day. Pike needed to find out if Button was one of them.
He phoned Information for the PCPS detective desk number, then called.
"Pacific. This is Detective Harrison."
"This is Dale King at the PAB. Is Button still there?"
The Police Administration Building was the new administrative building that had replaced Parker Center.
Harrison said, "Yeah, hang on. I'll get him."
Pike waited until she put him on hold, then closed his phone. Believing Button would refuse to see him, Pike walked around the side of the station through the civilian parking lot, then hopped a low wall and went to the two-story parking structure where officers kept their cars. He didn't like losing the time, but he didn't have long to wait.
Fourteen minutes later, Button came out the rear of the station in a loose file of other detectives and uniformed officers on their way to their cars. He carried a briefcase with his jacket and tie over his opposite arm, and wore a light blue shirt with sweat rings under the arms. A small revolver was clipped to his belt.
Pike was behind a column when Button passed, angling toward a tan Toyota pickup. Button shifted his jacket from his right arm to his left, and was fishing for his keys when Pike stepped from behind the column.
"Button."
Button lurched sideways at Pike's appearance. He scrambled for his gun, dropping his briefcase and keys as he got hung up in his jacket.
Pike calmly raised his hands, showing his palms.
"We're good."
If Button was embarrassed by his reaction, he didn't show it. He picked up his briefcase and keys, and continued toward his truck.
"This is an off-limits police parking area. Get out."
"They were abducted."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne. They're gone."
Button unlocked the truck, and tossed his jacket and briefcase inside.
"They're on their way to Oregon, man. And
another thing-Straw is fucking livid, not that it matters a damn. Fucking self-important Fed. He probably hates you more than I do."
"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 easy to leave no marks.
Cole checked to see if Jared or anyone else was watching, then climbed over.
<
br /> 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.
