The Watchman jp-1

by Robert Crais

  The man looked surprised that Pike didn’t know, and straightened against the tape. He seemed to grow stronger for the first time since he wet his pants.

  “Esteban Barone. We all of us work for Barone. This is why you have made a mistake, my friend. You will know fear if you know Barone.”

  “What is he? A gangster? A businessman? You understand what I’m asking?”

  “You know dis word, cartel?”

  “Si.”

  A coarse smile split the man’s face, as if he took pride in being part of this thing.

  “Barone, he have many soldiers. How many you have?”

  Pike took the pictures of the five dead men from his pocket. He held them up one by one, watching the man’s face darken.

  Pike said, “I’m evening the odds.”

  The man muttered something in Spanish, but Pike did not understand.

  Pike went to the window again. The manager was gone, but the office door was still open. Pike wanted the door closed. He planned to drive away in the Corolla with Jorge, but for now he returned to the bed.

  “How many of you are left?”

  The man spit.

  This time Pike did not move slowly. He dug his thumb into a dim mak point between the man’s ribs, beneath his pectoral muscle.

  “Siete!”

  Pike released the pressure.

  “Four of you sleep here. Where do the other three sleep?”

  “I don’ know nutheen’ about dat.”

  Pike dug his finger into the dim mak point again, and this time the man shrieked. Pike dug harder and held it until the man sobbed. Then he released the pressure.

  “Where do they sleep?”

  “I don’ know where dey stay. Carlos, he put us here from de LAX. He don’ say where dey are. He bring us to Luis, an’ Luis say dis where we stay. I not even see dem!”

  Pike sat back. Carlos. A new player had entered the game.

  “Who’s Carlos?”

  “Norte Americano. He meet us at de airport. He bring us here an’ take care of us.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  The man glanced at the window, and Pike looked with him. The thin, airy drape showed the roofline and the sun glinting off the cars, but nothing else.

  “All I know, Carlos. He give us things. De phone, de guns.”

  “All right. Where are the others right now?”

  “I don’ know. I have my job, dey have dere’s.”

  The man wet his lips. He was growing more nervous and glanced at the window again. Pike wondered if he had seen something.

  “They coming back now, Jorge?”

  “No. No, dey not comin’ back.”

  Pike drew his pistol as he watched the window.

  Jorge said, “Tonight dey come. Dey come tonight.”

  A shadow crossed the drapes, then three fast explosions shattered the glass. The drapes billowed in like a sail catching air, but Pike was already on the floor; the door crashed open, Luis with a gun, shooting even as Pike fired back, his shots punching Luis into the wall. Then the room was silent. Luis slid down the wall, leaving a red smear.

  Pike stayed on the floor, but no more men appeared. He glanced at Jorge, but Jorge’s head now sagged, and most of his forehead was missing. Pike went to the door, irritated that he had failed to control the situation. Luis had probably heard Jorge shrieking or was tipped off by the drapes, but either way the man who was likely his best source of information was dead. Now, the overweight man had come out of his office and a housekeeper stood at the far end of the motel. Pike pulled Luis out of the way and closed the shattered door.

  Pike holstered his gun, then went through Luis’s pockets. He found a cell phone, keys, twenty-four dollars, and a torn scrap of newspaper with a phone number in the margin. Pike put all of it into the backpack, then went back to the drapes. The overweight man had returned to his office. He would be calling the police. The housekeeper was inside with him, peeking out the open door.

  Pike hurried into the bathroom. It was a cramped space right out of the fifties, with cheesy tile, crumbly grout, and a small opaque window over the tub. The housekeeper had left two glasses wrapped in plastic on the lavatory. Pike took them to the bodies. He removed a glass from its plastic, folded Jorge’s fingers onto the glass, then placed the glass back in its wrapper. He did the same with Luis, and that’s when he saw the watch. Luis was wearing a platinum Patek Philippe that was as out of place on this man as a diamond on a pile of dung. Pike took off the watch and turned it over. The back of the watch was engraved: For my lovely George.

  Pike put the watch and the glasses into the backpack, wiped the surfaces he had touched, and trotted into the bathroom as he heard the approaching sirens. Pike broke the bathroom window with his pistol, hoisted himself through, and dropped into an alley. He hooked the backpack over his shoulder and trotted around the side of the building. He slowed when he reached the street, and walked past the motel office as the first patrol car arrived. People on both sides of the street were hiding behind cars and in doorways as if they might be shot, and others ran into stores. Pike watched like everyone else for a moment, then continued to his car. He drove away as the second police car arrived.

  It occurred to him then as it had in the past that policemen were people who ran toward danger. Everyone else ran away.

  22

  Pike pulled into a shopping center near the base of Griffith Park. A high-pitched whine hummed in his ears from the gunshots, and his shoulders ached. Later that night when the girl was sleeping, he would put himself in a peaceful green forest. Jorge and Luis would fade like spirits between the trees, but now the shooting lived in him and kept him on edge. It was a good edge. It helped him stay groovy.

  The motel manager would describe him as a man wearing sunglasses, a brown shirt, and jeans. Anonymous. He had been careful to leave no prints. Nothing about the bodies or crime scene would point to Eagle Rock or Malibu or himself, until-and if-the bullets were matched, and that would take weeks. The police would have no reason to make the connection, and Pitman would have no reason to take notice. Jorge and Luis would be two more unidentified bodies in the City of Angels; an open homicide with questions but no answers, likely a drug buy gone bad.

  Pike reloaded his pistol, then looked through the things he had taken. He went through the papers and maps first, searching for something immediately useful like Meesh’s name or the name of a hotel, but found nothing. He would go over these things more closely with Cole, so for now he put them away.

  He gave a cursory glance to the watch and the guns, but hesitated with the girl’s picture. He imagined Luis showing it to the others; telling them, This is the one. He saw Meesh giving the picture to Luis; saying, We’re gonna kill her. Pike stared at the picture, thinking, No, you won’t.

  Pike brushed over the other things because he wanted the phones. The phones might give him a direct and immediate connection to Alexander Meesh.

  The two cell phones were identical and not unlike the phone Pike now used-bought anonymously with cash and front-loaded with prepaid calling time. Pike studied Jorge’s phone first, then used the menu to bring up Jorge’s number and calling history. Jorge had made only three calls, and all were to the same number. Pike guessed it was probably Luis’s number-the new guys got into town, Luis would give them his number, tell them, Here, this is how you reach me. Pike pressed the send button on Jorge’s phone to redial the number. Luis’s phone rang. Pike turned off Jorge’s phone and returned it to the backpack.

  Luis had made many calls. Pike scrolled through a lengthy list that included at least a dozen calls to Ecuador. Each entry showed the number called, the date, and the time of the call. Later, he and Cole would copy the numbers, but now Pike was more interested in the recent calls.

  Luis made his final call only four minutes before he died. Luis would have been at the motel, and had likely called for help or to inform the others. Pike scrolled back through the call history and found Luis had called
this same number five or six times every day. No other number had been called as often.

  Pike wondered if it was Meesh.

  Maybe Luis had heard him with Jorge and called Meesh to see how Meesh wanted him to play it.

  Pike pressed the send button to redial the number. The phone at the other end rang four times. The person at that end would see the number and think Luis was calling. Calling back to report what happened in the room.

  A man answered on the fifth ring.

  “Did you get the sonofabitch?”

  The man had a deep, resonant voice, but did not sound like a gangster from Denver or Ecuador. His voice was cultured, and held a trace of something Pike thought might be French.

  “Hello? Did we get cut off? Can you hear me?”

  Pike said, “Alex Meesh.”

  “Wrong number.”

  The man hung up.

  Pike pressed the send button again.

  This time the man answered on the first ring. “Luis?”

  “Luis and Jorge are dead.”

  The line was silent. This time when the man spoke, his voice was wary.

  “Who is this?”

  “The sonofabitch.”

  The man hesitated again.

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  Pike turned off the phone.

  23

  John Chen

  John Chen was terrified after Pike called. He was so scared he thought he might toss his cookies; Pike on the phone, not even waiting for an answer, just growling out the threat-

  “Meet me outside in an hour.”

  Yeah. Right.

  First thing Chen did was run to the bathroom. He was convinced Pike was going to kill him. Pike probably blamed him for losing the guns, and would probably beat him to death in full view of everyone.

  Chen paced in the bathroom for over an hour, sweating buckets, getting on and off the pot, trying to figure out what to do. He considered asking the security guards to follow him to his car, but decided the only chance he had of talking his way out of it was by pretending everything was cool. Make like he could get back the guns. Make up a believable lie.

  Chen crept out of the bathroom, made his way to the lobby, and peered through the glass doors into the parking lot. He saw his ’tangmobile easily enough, but he did not see Pike, or Pike’s red Cherokee, or the green Lexus Pike used to shag the hottie. Chen stepped outside, glanced back inside at the waiting area, then scanned the parking lot again.

  Still no Pike.

  Chen wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Pike had already come and gone. Maybe Pike had not yet arrived, and Chen could still get away!

  Chen sprinted for the ’tangmobile. He hadn’t planned to run; he just ran. He flat-out hauled ass, wheezing and puffing after only fifty feet, but stoked on adrenaline. Chen jabbed his remote ’cause he had it made – he was home free, MOTHERFUCKER!! – and was throwing open that beautiful German-built door when-

  – Pike spoke behind him.

  “John.”

  “Ahh!”

  Chen jumped sideways, but Pike once again caught him and held the door.

  “Get in.”

  Pike was carrying a black backpack. Chen was certain it contained a gun.

  Chen latched onto the door like a cat clinging to a sofa, the nervous tic under his eye popping in spasms.

  Chen said, “Please don’t kill me.”

  Pike pointed inside.

  “Don’t be stupid. Get in.”

  Pike pushed him in, then went around to the passenger side. Chen couldn’t take his eyes off the backpack.

  “I know how this works. You’re going to take me someplace deserted. You’re going to shoot me in the head-”

  Pike said, “Breathe.”

  Chen couldn’t stop talking. The words rushed out with no more thought than his decision to run.

  “The feds took the guns. I would have run them, honest to God. I didn’t have anything to do with-”

  One moment Chen was talking; the next, Pike’s hand clamped his mouth like a vise.

  Pike said, “You’re my friend, John. You don’t have to be afraid. Can I let go now?”

  Chen nodded. His friend?

  Pike let go. He opened the backpack, then held it out. Chen thought it might be a trick guys like Pike were always playing on guys like him; you look in the bag and a snake jumps out.

  Chen slowly peeked into the bag, ready to jump, but it wasn’t a snake.

  “What is this?”

  “Guns the feds don’t know about and two sets of fingerprints.”

  Chen peered into the bag but touched nothing. He saw two small glasses in plastic sleeves, and what appeared to be two 9mm pistols, both pocked with rust and beat to hell. He knew right away from their shabby condition they were street guns; guns that had been stolen many years earlier, then traded for dope or sold, then sold or traded again, passing from scumbag to scumbag. He also saw three spent shell casings.

  “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “The feds who confiscated the guns-did you get their names?”

  Pike had ignored his question.

  “Pitman. Pitman and something else.”

  “Blanchette?”

  “I don’t know. Harriet didn’t remember.”

  Chen glanced back at the shell casings. Their once-gleaming brass was scorched, and the backpack smelled of burnt gunpowder. Chen began to feel afraid again, but not afraid Pike would beat him to death; afraid of something deeper. Chen found Pike watching him. John saw himself reflected in Pike’s dark glasses as if they were reflecting pools. In a weird way he would later wonder about, Chen grew calm. Here was Pike, calm there in the water, and his calmness spread to Chen.

  John settled back.

  “Are there more bodies to go with these guns?”

  “Two.”

  “Are they connected with Eagle Rock and Malibu?”

  “Yes. LAPD is on the scene now. Shots were fired, so they’ll know guns are missing, but they won’t know who has them. Bullets will be recovered, and those bullets will match one of these guns-the Taurus-but not the other.”

  Chen nodded, taking it in. If his shift hadn’t ended when it did, he might have rolled out to the crime.

  “If the feds knew we had these guns, would they take them?”

  “Yes, but they won’t know. Only you and I know, John. You’re going to have to make a choice.”

  Chen didn’t understand.

  “Choice about what?”

  “Seven men are dead. The Department of Justice is involved. Here we are with these guns. Least case, you could be looking at obstructing a federal investigation. Worst case, accessory to homicide.”

  Chen still didn’t understand.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Tell me you want no part, I’ll walk away.”

  Chen was stunned. He was flabbergasted.

  “Wait. Waitaminute. You’re giving me a choice?”

  “Of course, it’s your choice. What did you think?”

  Chen stared at Pike and wondered how Pike could be so calm. His impassive face; his even voice. He studied Pike, and once more saw himself in Pike’s glasses, two faces in one. In that moment, Chen remembered a meditation pool he once saw at a Buddhist monastery, its surface flat, featureless, and perfect. Chen was six years old. His uncle brought him to the monastery, and Chen had been fascinated by the pool. The mirrored surface was absolutely smooth; no leaf, no mote of dust or insect marred it; no breeze stirred its face. The pool was so like a mirror that Chen could not see beneath the surface, and believed it was no more than a few inches deep. His uncle turned away, and Chen decided to jump. It was a hot day in the San Gabriel Valley, and Chen was only six. He wanted to splash in the cool water and run to the other side. Only an inch or two deep. As empty as glass. Chen readied himself to leap, but in that moment the surface roiled and a monster reached for him, scaled in glistening armor. Red, black, and orange plates, shimmering and horr
ible; it broke the surface with frightening power and then it was gone. A koi, his uncle later told him, when Chen stopped crying; but the lesson was not lost on John Chen, even at six years old. A calm surface could hide great turmoil.

  Chen said, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to find out. I think the feds confiscated your evidence to hide something. If they knew about these guns, they would confiscate them, too.”

  “This is tied in with Eagle Rock and Malibu?”

  “Yes.”

  Chen stared down at the guns again.

  “The firearms analysts are specialists, man. What they do, it isn’t just science-it’s an art. She’s already gone home.”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  “I can’t just walk in, here’s two guns. I need a case number.”

  “Use the Eagle Rock number.”

  “She knows the feds took those guns. She’s the one who told me.”

  “Tell her you got them back. Make up something, John. It’s important.”

  Chen knew it was important. Everything Pike and Cole brought to him had been important.

  He looked into the backpack again.

  “What are the glasses, the fingerprints? Or you want me to print the guns?”

  “The men who used these guns will end up with the coroner, but the coroner won’t be able to identify them. You will.”

  Chen shook his head.

  “I can lift the prints and run them, but it’s all the same database. Live Scan is Live Scan. If the coroner didn’t pull a hit, neither will I.”

  “These people aren’t in the database. They came from Ecuador.”

  Chen glanced at the glasses again. A standard NCIC/Live Scan search was not a worldwide search. An international search required a special request, and even then you pretty much had to request each search by country. No single worldwide database existed, so if you didn’t know where to look, you were shit out of luck.

  Pike said, “Can you do that, John?”

  “This is something big, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Big, and getting bigger.”

  Chen chewed at his upper lip as he thought through what he would have to do, both for the guns and the prints. He was pretty sure he could get LaMolla to run the guns; she was still bat-shit furious with the feds for taking her toys, and doubly furious that neither Harriet nor Parker would tell her why. LaMolla would run the guns just to fuck them over.