by Robert Crais
Fifteen hours later, Pike arrived at the remains of a church in the high desert. The church had no doors or windows and now was broken stucco walls with empty eyes and a gaping mouth a mile off the Pearblossom Highway thirty miles north of Los Angeles. Years of brittle winds, sun, and the absence of human care had left it the color of dust. Graffiti marked its walls, but even that was old; as much a faded part of the place as the brush and sage sprouting from the walls. It was a lonely place, all the more desolate with the lowering sun at the end of the day. A black limousine with dark windows and an equally black Hummer were parked nearby, as out of place as gleaming black jewels. They had been unseeable when Pike turned off the highway, here at the edge of the desert. Pike braked his Jeep facing the two vehicles. Blacker shapes moved behind the tinted Hummer glass, but Pike saw nothing within the limo. Pike was settling in to wait when Bud Flynn and another man appeared in the church door. This man was overweight, with a face like a block and lank hair he pushed from his eyes. He appeared nervous, and went back inside the church as Bud, smiling, came out, stepping into the dwindling sun across twenty years and two lifetimes. Pike had not seen Bud since the day in the Shortstop Lounge when Pike resigned from the LAPD and wanted Bud to hear it manto-man, them being as close as they were. Bud had asked if Pike had another job lined up, and Pike told him, but Bud had not approved. He reacted like a disappointed father angered by his son’s choice, and that had been that. Pike had signed on with a professional military corporation out of London. He was going to work as a professional civilian soldier, he said-a security specialist. Bullshit, Bud said-no better than a goddamned criminal: a mercenary. Now, seeing Bud, Pike felt the warm touch of earlier, better memories, and climbed out of the Jeep. Bud was older now, but still looked good to go. Bud put out his hand. “Good to see you, Officer Pike. Been too long.” Pike pulled Bud close and hugged him, and Bud clapped Pike on the back. “I’m in corporate investigations now, Joe. Fourteen years; fifteen this March. Business is good.” “You use mercenaries as investigators?” Bud looked uncomfortable and maybe embarrassed, both of them thinking about that day in the Shortstop, but he plowed on. “Sometimes the investigation part leads to security work. A friend gave me Stone’s name. Stone has former Mossad and Secret Service agents on tap-people experienced with high-risk clients. I was looking for someone like that when he floated your name.” Pike glanced at the Hummer. The low carriage showed the weight penalty that came with armor and bullet-resistant glass. “The girl in there?” Jon Stone had explained the bare bones of it when he called back with the directions: A young woman from a well-to-do family had survived three murder attempts and Bud Flynn had been hired to protect her. Period. Stone knew nothing else because-correctly, Pike thought-Bud Flynn felt Stone did not need to know more. It was enough for Stone to know the girl was rich. A person with Pike’s resume could command top dollar, and Stone would bleed these people for every cent he could get. Flynn ignored Pike’s question about the girl and turned toward the church. “Let’s go inside. You can meet her father and I’ll explain what’s going on. If you decide you want to do this, we’ll meet the girl.” Pike followed him, thinking, it’s already been decided.
The church smelled of sage and urine. Beer cans and magazines dotted the concrete floor, filthy from the sand blown through the broken walls, and faded by time. Pike guessed the urine smell was left by animals. The man with the lank hair was standing beside a lean man with the intelligent eyes of a businessman and a mouth cut into a permanent frown. A cordovan briefcase sat on the ground by the door. Pike wondered which owned the briefcase and which was the girl’s father. He positioned himself away from the windows. Bud nodded toward the man with the lank hair. “Joe, this is Conner Barkley. Mr. Barkley, Joe Pike.” Barkley squeezed out an uncomfortable smile. “Hello.” Barkley was wearing a silk short-sleeved shirt that showed his belt bulge. The frowning man was tieless in an expensive charcoal sport coat. Pike was wearing a sleeveless grey sweatshirt, jeans, and New Balance running shoes. The frowning man took folded papers and a pen from his coat. “Mr. Pike, I’m Gordon Kline, Mr. Barkley’s attorney and an officer in his corporation. This is a confidentiality agreement, specifying that you may not repeat, relate, or in any way disclose anything about the Barkleys said today or while you are in the Barkleys’ employ. You’ll have to sign this.” Kline held out the papers and pen, but Pike made no move to take them. Bud said, “Gordon, why don’t we push on without that, considering.” “He has to sign. Everyone has to sign.” Pike watched Conner Barkley staring at the blocky red arrows inked across his deltoids. Pike was used to people staring. The arrows had been scribed into his arms before his first combat tour. They pointed forward. People stared at the tats and Pike’s faded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and saw what they wanted to see. Pike was good with that. When Barkley looked up from the tats, his eyes were worried. “This is the man you want to hire?” “He’s the best in the business, Mr. Barkley. He’ll keep Larkin alive.” Kline pushed out the papers. “If you’ll just sign here, please.” Pike said, “No.” Barkley’s eyebrows bunched like nervous caterpillars. “I think we’re all right here, Gordon. I think we can press on. Don’t you, Bud?” Kline’s frown deepened, but he put away the papers, and Bud continued. “Okay, here’s what we have: Mr. Barkley’s daughter is a federal witness. She’s set to offer testimony before the federal grand jury in two weeks. There have been three attempts on her life in the past ten days. That’s three deals for the black ace in a week and a half, and all three were close. I have no choice but to think outside the box.” “Me.” Pike shifted just enough to see the limo. The desert had filled with red light from the settling sun. He felt the temperature dropping. At night up here, the air would be sharp and clean. “Why isn’t she in a protection program?” Barkley spoke up, pushing the hair from his eyes. “She was. They almost got her killed.” Gordon Kline crossed his arms as if the entire United States government was a waste of taxpayer money. “Incompetents.” Bud said, “Larkin was in a traffic accident eleven days ago-three A. M., she T-boned a Mercedes-” Barkley interrupted again. “You don’t expect to run into these kinds of people driving your car-” Gordon Kline said, “Conner-” “Look where we are-up here in these ruins running for our lives. A traffic accident-” Barkley pushed his hair from his face again, and this time Pike saw his hand tremble. Bud went on about the Mercedes. “There were three people onboard. A married couple, George and Elaine King, it was their car; with a male passenger in the rear. You know the name, George King?” Pike shook his head, so Bud explained. “A real estate developer, squeaky clean, no wants, warrants, or priors. George was bleeding, so Larkin got out to help. The second man was hurt, too, but he left the scene on foot. Then George pulled himself together enough to drive away, but Larkin got their plate. Next day, the Kings told the police a different story-they say they were alone. A couple of days later, agents from the Justice Department contacted Larkin with a sketch artist. A couple of hundred pictures later, Larkin ID’d the missing man as one Alexander Liman Meesh, an indicted murderer the feds believed to be living in Bogota, Colombia. I have an NCIC file on him I can give you.” Pike glanced at the limo again. “How did a traffic accident become a federal investigation?” Kline moved between Pike and the limo, but no longer seemed upset that Pike hadn’t signed the papers. “The red flag was King. The DOJ told us they’ve been investigating him for laundering cash through his real estate company. They believe Meesh returned to the States with cartel money to invest with King.” Bud nodded, arching his eyebrows. “Upwards of a hundred mil.” Kline darkened even more, then glanced at the girl’s father. “The government needs Larkin to link King with a known criminal. With her testimony, they believe they can get an indictment and force him to open his books. Her father and I were against it. We’ve been against her involvement since the beginning, and look at this mess.” “So King wants her dead?” Bud said, “King is a money man. He has no criminal background, no history of violence, no connec
tion with anyone in the business short of Meesh. The Justice people think Meesh is trying to protect the cash he’s invested in King’s projects. If King is indicted, his projects will be frozen along with his assets, so Meesh doesn’t want King indicted. King might not even know that Meesh is after the girl. King might not even know where the money actually comes from.” “Anyone asked the Kings?” “They’ve fled. Their office says they’re away on a scheduled vacation, but no one at Justice believes it.” Conner Barkley raked at his hair again. “It’s a nightmare. This entire mess is a nightmare, and now we’re-” Bud interrupted him. “Conner-would you give me a minute with Joe? We’ll meet you at the car. Gordon, please-” Barkley frowned like he didn’t understand he was being asked to leave, but Kline touched his arm and they left. Bud waited until they were gone, then sighed. “These people are going through hell.” Pike said, “I’m not a bodyguard.” “Joe, listen, the first time they came for her, the kid was at home. That place they have, the Barkleys, it’s a fortress-four acres in Beverly Hills north of Sunset, full-on security, a staff. These people are rich.” “I get that.” Bud opened the cordovan briefcase and took out several grainy pictures. The pictures showed three hazy figures in dark clothes moving past a swimming pool at night, then in a courtyard, then outside a set of French doors. “These were taken by their security cams. You can make out the faces in this one and this one, but we haven’t been able to identify them yet. They grabbed a housekeeper, trying to find Larkin. They beat her bad-choked her out and broke three of her teeth and her nose.” The housekeeper was in one of the pictures. Her eyes looked like eggplants. Her lip was split so badly you could see her gums. Pike figured whoever beat her had enjoyed it. Had probably kept hitting her even after she was unconscious. “How close did they get?” “They made a clean break when the police showed. That first time, the attempt on her life came as a surprise, but then she went into federal protection. The marshals brought her to a safe house outside San Francisco that evening-that was six days ago. The next night, they came for her again.” “At the safe house.” “One U.S. Marshal was killed and another wounded. Those boys hit hard.” Pike heard a car door slam and once more shifted to the window. Larkin Conner Barkley had gotten out of the limo to meet her father and Kline. She had a heart-shaped face with a narrow nose that bent to the left. Copper-colored hair swirled around her head like coiling snakes. She was wearing tight shorts that started low and finished high, a green T-shirt, and had a small dog slung in a pink designer bag under her arm. It was one of those micro-dogs with swollen eyes that shivered when it was nervous. Pike knew it would bark at the wrong time and get her killed. He turned away from the window. “The same men?” “No way to know. Larkin called her father and was back in Beverly Hills by sunrise. They were done with federal protection. Mr. Barkley hired me later that day. I moved her out of their house and into a hotel, but they hit us again in a matter of hours.” “So they knew her location all three times.” “Yes.” Pike looked back at the limo. The dimming light in the church had taken on the color of smoke. “Your feds have a leak.” Bud clenched his jaw, like that’s what he was thinking though he didn’t want to say it. “I have a house in Malibu. I want you to take her there tonight-just you. I don’t want to bring her back to the city.” “How do the feds feel about that?” “I cut them out. Pitman, he’s the boss over there, he thinks I’m making a mistake, but this is the way the Barkleys want it.” Pike looked back at Bud Flynn. “Did Stone tell you our setup?” Bud stared at him, not understanding. “What setup?” “I don’t do contract work anymore. I owe the man a job. The one job. This is his payoff.” “You’re costing a fortune.” “I’m not taking it. That’s not the way I want it or why I’m doing it.” “He didn’t say anything about that. If your heart isn’t in it, I don’t want you to-” Pike said, “Officer Flynn-” Bud stopped. “Let’s meet the girl.”
Her father and Gordon Kline were talking when Pike and Flynn stepped from the church. Bud gestured to the Hummer, where two men in Savile Row suits began off-loading suitcases and travel bags. The girl put her hands on her hips to study Pike as if she had buyer’s remorse. The little dog, hanging beneath her arm in its pouch, watched him approaching with vindictive eyes. When they reached the car, Flynn nodded at Gordon Kline- “We’re good to go.” – then turned to the girl. “Larkin, this is Joe Pike. You’ll be going with him.” “What if he rapes me?” Barkley didn’t look at his daughter; he glanced at Gordon Kline. Kline said, “Stop it, Larkin. This is what’s best.” Barkley nodded, and Pike wondered if Kline’s job was telling Barkley’s daughter what to do. Larkin took off her sunglasses, making a drama of measuring Pike before she looked at her father. “He’s kinda cute, I guess. Are you buying him for me, Daddy?” Barkley glanced at Kline again as if he wanted his lawyer to answer his daughter. Barkley seemed afraid of her. She turned back to Pike. “You think you can protect me?” Pike studied her. She was pretty and used to it, and the clothes and the hair indicated she liked being the center of attention, which would be a problem. The Savile Row suits were still piling up bags. Larkin frowned at Flynn. “How come he isn’t saying anything? Is he stoned?” Pike made up his mind. “Yes.” Larkin laughed. “You’re stoned?” “Yes, I can protect you.” Larkin’s grin fell away, and now she considered him with uncertainty shadowed in her eyes. As if all of it was suddenly real. She said, “I want to see your eyes. Take off your glasses.” Pike tipped his head toward the growing pile of bags. “That your stuff?” “Yeah.” “One bag, one purse, that’s it. No cell phone. No electronics. No iPod.” Larkin stiffened. “But I need those things. Daddy, tell him I need those things.” The little dog’s eyes bulged spastically and it snarled. Pike said, “No dog.” Conner Barkley raked at his hair, and Gordon Kline frowned even more deeply, but no one looked at the growing pile of bags or the dog. A bad hour later, Pike and the girl were on their way. Four and a half hours later, the fourth attempt on Larkin Barkley’s life was made in Malibu. Then they were running .
6
Elvis Cole
“Joe-?”
Cole realized Pike had hung up. That was the kind of call you got from Joe Pike. You’d answer the phone, he’d grunt something like I’m coming up, and that was it. Polite communication had never been one of Pike’s strong points.
Cole put down his portable phone and went back to waxing his car-a yellow 1966 Sting Ray convertible. He was wearing gym shorts and a Harrington’s Cafe T-shirt from a great little cafe in Baton Rouge. The grey shirt was black with sweat and he wanted to take it off, but he wore it to cover his scars. Cole lived in a small A-frame house perched on the edge of a canyon off Woodrow Wilson Drive in the Hollywood Hills. It was woodsy and quiet, and his neighbors often walked their dogs past his house. Cole figured they didn’t need to see the liver-colored stitching that made him look like a lab accident. He figured he didn’t need them to see it, either.
Cole hated waxing his car, but the night before he had watched one of his favorite movies, The Karate Kid, that scene where Pat Morita trains Ralph Macchio in kung fu blocking techniques by having Macchio wax his car-wax on, wax off. Cole, watching the movie, thought maybe waxing the car would be good therapy.
Thirteen weeks earlier, a man named David Reinnike shot Cole in the back with a 12-gauge shotgun. The pellets had shattered five ribs, broke his left humerus, collapsed his left lung, and, as he later told people in a way that grated on everyone’s nerves, ruined a fine day. Fourteen weeks earlier-a week before he was shot-Cole could bend at the waist, rest his chest on his thighs, and wrap his arms around his calves; now, he moved like a robot with rusty joints. But twice a day every day he pushed past the pain, working himself back into shape. Hence, wax on, wax off.
Cole was still working on the car when a dark green Lexus stopped across his drive. Cole straightened, and was surprised to see Pike and a young woman with ragged hair and big sunglasses get out. The girl looked wary, and Pike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down. Pike never
wore long-sleeved shirts.
Cole limped out to meet them.
“Joseph. You should have told me we had guests. I would have cleaned up.”
Cole smiled at the girl, spreading his hands to show off his gym shorts, bare feet, and wax on, wax off T-shirt. Mr. Personable, making a joke of his sweat-soaked appearance.
