The Watchman jp-1

by Robert Crais

  When Cole finished with Marla, he studied the list of phone numbers, then called his friend at the phone company.

  First thing she said was, “I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore.”

  “You just love me ’cause I get good Dodgers tickets.”

  “No, my husband loves you because you get good Dodgers tickets. I love you ’cause your tickets make him happy.”

  “I think all three of us are about to feel the love.”

  Cole had helped a best-selling novelist convince an Internet stalker that his time was better spent in more positive ways. The novelist had killer seats in the exclusive Dodgers Dugout Club, and shared them with Cole several times each year. Gratis.

  Cole said, “I have a list of phone numbers I need to identify.”

  “No problemo.”

  “Before you say that, let me warn you. Most of these numbers are probably registered to disposable phones, and four of the numbers are international.”

  “I might have a problem with the international numbers if they’re unlisted.”

  “They’re likely in Ecuador.”

  “They could be in Siberia, it wouldn’t matter: Foreign providers are reluctant to cooperate unless we go through official channels, which I can’t, considering I’m doing this for Dodger tickets.”

  “I gotcha.”

  “The disposables-well, I’m just letting you know-if the phones were cash buys, I can’t find out who owns them. That information won’t exist.”

  “If you can’t ID an owner for a particular number, could you get the call records for that number?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Sooner or later these phones called real phones, and those phones have names. Maybe we can come at it backwards.”

  She didn’t say anything for several seconds. Cole let her think.

  Finally she said, “I’ll try. It depends on the provider. Some of these little companies, well-give me the numbers. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It’s a long list. Can I fax them?”

  Cole copied her fax number, sent the list, then put on a pot of coffee. When it started dripping, he returned to his desk and reread the NCIC brief on Alexander Meesh. He wanted to see if he had missed anything that would explain the accent Pike reported, or connect Meesh to Esteban Barone or someone named Carlos. He hadn’t. Only a single line connected Meesh to South America: “…fled the country and currently believed to be residing in Bogota, Colombia .”

  Cole decided the investigating agents must have developed evidence or statements that placed Meesh in Bogota, else they would not have entered the statement into the record. Cole paged to the end of the report and noted the investigator’s name-Special Agent Daryl Willis with the Colorado State Justice Department, a state agency. The FBI had probably come in later, but Willis was the point man because murder was a state crime. A phone number was listed under Willis’s name. It was six years old, but Cole dialed it anyway.

  A woman answered.

  “Investigations.”

  “Daryl Willis, please.”

  She put him on hold for almost five minutes. Cole passed the time watching Pinocchio’s eyes until a man’s voice came on the line.

  “This is Willis.”

  “Sir, this is Hugh Farnham. I’m a D-2 here at Devonshire Homicide with the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m calling about a homicide you worked a few years ago, a fugitive named Alexander Meesh.”

  Cole made up a badge number and rattled it off. He doubted Willis would actually copy it, but he knew it was the thing to do.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. What do you need?”

  Willis sounded no more interested than if Cole had asked what color car he drove.

  “We pulled his brief off NCIC, and you have this alert here saying he fled to Colombia -”

  “That’s right. He was tied in with a boy down there about the time of the murders. Wasn’t enough money up here for him in hijacking; he wanted to bring in drugs, so he worked out something with a-lemme think a minute-a boy named Gonzalo Lehder. Made a few trips down there working out the deal, and I guess they hit it off. When we put the indictments on him, that’s where he went.”

  Cole wrote down the name. Lehder.

  “Lehder was a supplier?”

  “One of the fellas who popped up when the Cali and Medellin cartels fell. Little operations popped up all over down there, maybe thirty or forty of’m. Some of’m aren’t so little anymore.”

  “Was Meesh hooked up with someone named Esteban Barone?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Barone is out of Ecuador.”

  “All I knew was Lehder.”

  Six years was a long time. Meesh probably started with Lehder, then branched out to Barone and the other cartels. One hundred twenty million dollars was a lot of investment capital.

  Cole said, “All right, then. Let’s get back to Meesh. Did he have any dealings here in L.A.?”

  “Can’t say that rings a bell. Sorry.”

  “How about Lehder? L.A. ring a bell when you think about Lehder?”

  “Farnham, listen, I haven’t paid much attention to this in, what is it, five or six years? Can I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Meesh is in Los Angeles. We believe he’s involved in a multiple homicide.”

  Willis didn’t say anything, so Cole watched Pinocchio’s eyes. Waiting.

  Willis said, “This is Alexander Meesh you’re talking about?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Alexander Liman Meesh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Meesh isn’t in Los Angeles, partner. Alex Meesh is dead.”

  Cole stopped looking at Pinocchio and dropped his feet to the floor. He wasn’t sure what to say. A room filled with federal agents had interviewed Larkin over the course of a week, and were confident with her identification. Cole suspected they had also identified Meesh’s fingerprints in George King’s car, but Willis sounded absolutely certain, and now all traces of boredom were gone from his voice.

  Cole said, “We have a confirmed identification from the Department of Justice.”

  “What are they basing that on? They got a fingerprint match? They got the DNA?”

  Cole didn’t know what they had, but if Meesh was Meesh, then Meesh was Meesh.

  “Yes on both counts.”

  “Then those boys don’t know a lab test from a hemorrhoid. Alexander Meesh is dead.”

  Willis had moved from bored to interested to angry, as if he was taking it personally.

  Cole said, “Why do you say he’s dead?”

  Willis hesitated, almost as if he was deciding whether to answer, so Cole pressed him.

  “I have a multiple homicide here, Mr. Willis. I’ve been told to find Alex Meesh, and now you’re telling me the DOJ is wrong. How can you be sure?”

  Willis made a grunt, then cleared his throat.

  “The Colombians and the DEA were after Lehder in a big way. That’s how we knew Meesh went down. The Colombian National Police called the DEA, and the DEA called me. Meesh had been down there about eight months by then, setting up a drug deal between Lehder and some Venezuelans, only Lehder turned on him. Killed him.”

  “If Meesh is dead, why haven’t you closed the warrant for his arrest?”

  “The DEA. We knew Meesh was down there through under-cover agents in Lehder’s operation. If we tagged the file with a note about Meesh’s death, or named Lehder as a known associate, those agents would be compromised. Also, you can’t confirm a death without a death certificate, and we’re not likely to get one.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Lehder found out Meesh was lying to him about how much dope the Venezuelans were going to sell. Meesh was lying about it so he could steal the difference for himself. Lehder found out, he played like he didn’t know and sent Meesh up to Venezuela to pick up the dope along with three or four of his boys. Only Lehder’s boys shot Meesh to death in the jungle. It’s a big
jungle. His remains were never recovered and aren’t likely to be.”

  “Then how can you be sure he’s dead? Maybe he escaped or survived. Maybe he bought off Lehder’s men.”

  “DEA and Colombian UC agents were present when Lehder’s boys got back. They brought Meesh’s head so Lehder could see. Left the body, but brought back the head. Both agents were standing there with Lehder when these boys pulled the head out of a bag. Lehder says, Good work, fellas, and that was that.”

  Cole didn’t know what to say. But then Willis went on.

  “At the time, we all believed Lehder really had sent Meesh up there to bring back the dope. We expected Meesh to come tooling back with a couple hundred kilos of raw cocaine, so the DEA and the Colombians planned to arrest them. They didn’t care about Meesh, but they wanted Lehder. I wanted Meesh for the murders up here, so they let me tag along. I was with’m in that room, Detective, I saw the head. Without the drugs present, the Colombians waved off the bust. They didn’t even wanna try busting the fucker for killin’ Meesh, so I hadda sit there and drink tea for another hour, makin’ like nothing was wrong. I still don’t know what Lehder’s boys did with the head, but I saw it. I recognized him. It was Meesh. So whoever you got there in L.A., he’s not Alexander Meesh.”

  Cole felt hollow, with a faraway buzz in his head like he had gone too long without eating.

  “Can I ask one more question, Mr. Willis?”

  “Kinda takes your breath away, don’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Did Meesh have a speech impediment or maybe speak with an accent?”

  Willis laughed.

  “Why would he have a damned accent?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Willis. I appreciate your time.”

  Cole put his feet up, leaned back, and stared at the Pinocchio clock. The only sound in his office was the tocking of its eyes.

  The call to Willis should have been simple. Cole went into it hoping to learn something about Meesh’s connection to Barone, and Barone’s connections to Los Angeles, and maybe even whether or not Meesh spoke with an accent-but not this.

  Is this the man you saw, Ms. Barkley?

  Yes. Who is he?

  His name is Alexander Meesh.

  Cole stared at the Pinocchio clock, then a small ceramic figurine of Jiminy Cricket a client had given him. Let your conscience be your guide. Everyone needed a Jiminy.

  He flipped through the NCIC brief, which did not contain fingerprints or photographs or DNA markers. Why would you need those things if you believed what you were told?

  31

  Pike drove slowly when they left the warehouse. He rolled the windows down so the air would wash them, and took a long, meandering route through Chinatown, driving for more than an hour. They hadn’t eaten breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry. He stopped anyway and picked up Chinese for later. Pike hoped the drive and the air would help her leave the bodies, but the first thing she did when they got to the house was go to the table with his gun-cleaning things. She poured powder solvent onto the cotton cloth and pressed it to her nose like a huffer sniffing paint.

  She said, “I can still smell them. They’re in my hair. They’re all over me.”

  The Kings.

  He took the cloth from her.

  “Take a shower and brush your teeth. Put on fresh clothes. I’ll clean up after you.”

  Pike phoned Bud while she was in the shower, but Bud didn’t answer. Pike considered leaving a message, but a message might be discovered by someone else, so he decided to call again later.

  When the girl returned with new clothes and wet hair, Pike took care of himself. He scrubbed hard, massaging the soap in deep, then rinsed and washed again, running the hot water until none was left. When he finished, he wet his clothes, rubbed in the soap, then left them soaking in the tub. He would have washed the girl’s clothes, too, but they were fancy. He didn’t want to ruin them.

  Pike dressed in his last set of clean clothes, then stepped out of the bathroom to find Cole and Larkin in the living room. Cole was holding a manila envelope.

  “I missed you guys so much I had to come back.”

  Larkin said, “He just walked in. He says he can still smell them, too.”

  Pike knew something was wrong. The tension in Cole’s body was as obvious as a corpse hanging from the ceiling. Cole was pretending to be fine for the girl.

  Pike said, “What’s up?”

  “Got something here to show Larkin. Let’s take a look.”

  Pike followed them to the table, where Cole opened the envelope. He put two grainy photographs that looked as if they had been run through a fax machine on the table. They were booking photos showing a dark-haired man with a round face, pocks on his nose, and small eyes. Cole stepped back so Larkin could get a good look, but Pike watched Cole.

  “What do you think? Ever seen this guy?”

  Conversational with a no-big-deal nonchalance. Would you like fries with that, ma’am?

  “Uh-uh. Who is he?”

  “Alexander Meesh.”

  Larkin shook her head as if Cole had made an innocent mistake.

  “No, this isn’t Meesh.”

  “It’s Meesh. He was murdered in Colombia five years ago. These are his booking photos from the Denver Police Department.”

  Pike put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the tension in her trapezius muscle. She didn’t want to believe it.

  “Well, maybe he had plastic surgery. That’s possible, isn’t it? Don’t criminals do that?”

  Cole shook his head.

  “Larkin, I’m sorry. This is Meesh. The record Pitman gave you, it’s Meesh’s record, but the man you saw with the Kings wasn’t Meesh.”

  “Then who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would they tell me he was this guy?”

  Pike said, “Same reason they lied about everything else.”

  Cole looked at Pike.

  “Better talk to your friend Bud. See what else they’ve been lying about.”

  Larkin suddenly stiffened under Pike’s hand.

  “Ohmigod, we have to tell my father.”

  Pike hesitated. Whatever Pitman was doing, they had an advantage so long as Pitman didn’t know they were onto him. Pike didn’t trust Conner Barkley and his lawyers not to give them away.

  “We can’t tell your father. Not yet.”

  Larkin went rigid and flushed.

  “I can’t not tell him! These people have lied about everything, and now Meesh isn’t even Meesh! Who is he? Why are they lying?”

  “Larkin-”

  She grabbed his shirt.

  “They’re lying to him, too, and he still believes them! He’s my father. If you won’t tell him, I’ll tell him myself!”

  Pike studied her, seeing both fear and hope in her eyes. Conner Barkley was her father. She wanted to protect him. And maybe by protecting him, he might finally see her.

  Pike took out his phone and punched in Bud’s number. This time Bud answered. Pike told Bud they needed to see him and the girl’s father as soon as possible. It was serious, Pike told him. Pike set the location, then ended the call before Bud could ask questions. When he lowered the phone, the girl squeezed his arm. She was calmer by then, though not particularly happy. Pike couldn’t blame her.

  Cole said, “When we were at the warehouse-”

  Pike waited.

  “I’m glad you didn’t tell her things couldn’t get worse.”

  Pike looked at the girl.

  “Get your stuff. Let’s go.”

  32

  The war in California between Mexico and the United States had ended in Universal City. Far from the skirmishes still being waged near Mexico City and the Texas border, the treaty to end local hostilities was signed in a small adobe mission known as Campo de Cahuenga at the top of the Cahuenga Pass. The mission was preserved, but it now stood invisible and unnoticed across the street from Universal Studios,
hidden in plain sight by freeway ramps, parking lots, and two strange towers marking the entrance to an underground subway station. It was a good place to meet.

  Pike and the girl were waiting with the engine running when the black Hummer turned in from Lankershim.

  The Hummer made its way past the mission, then through the parking lot. The doors opened the moment it stopped, and Bud, Conner Barkley, and Barkley’s lawyer, Gordon Kline, stepped out. Pike wasn’t pleased to see Kline.

  Pike said, “Let’s do it.”

  They got out as Bud and the others came to meet them.

  Her father said, “Larkin, it’s about time-we’ve been worried sick. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Larkin didn’t move.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Her father seemed flustered, as if he feared she was about to explode.

  “But you have to come home. We were so worried.”

  He looked at Kline.

  “Tell her, Gordon. Tell her to stop this.”

  Pike was already tired of them. He faced Bud and spoke only for him.

  “Pitman hasn’t been straight. The man he named as Alexander Meesh is not Meesh. Meesh died five years ago.”

  Gordon Kline threw up his hands. Pike had seen plenty of that when he was a cop. Courtroom Theatrics 101.

  “We’re not going to listen to this. I will have you prosecuted for kidnapping. I knew you were a lunatic the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  Larkin raised her voice, and now it had a hard, angry edge.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  Barkley was still looking at Kline. Larkin grabbed her father’s arm.

  “Will you listen to me? Will you please just look at me and listen? We came here to warn you.”

  Conner Barkley looked pained.

  “Don’t be like that, Larkin. Everyone’s worried.”

  Kline said, “We’re bringing you home-”

  He reached for her, but Pike caught his hand and rolled it. Kline jumped back.

  “You sonofabitch! Flynn! Do something-”

  “He could have ripped it out by the root, Gordon. Let’s see what they have.”

  Pike took the faxed booking photo from his pocket and gave it to Flynn.

  “This is Meesh. This is not the man in the pictures Pitman showed Larkin.”