by Robert Crais
Deets ducked behind the screen without waiting, so Terrio hurried to catch up, steeling himself for what he was about to see. Even after eighteen years on the job and hundreds of murder cases, the sight of blood and rent human flesh left him queasy. Embarrassed by what he considered a lack of professionalism, Terrio stared at Deets’s back as he followed him past the criminalists and West L.A. Homicide detectives who currently filled the house, not wanting to see the blood or the gore until absolutely necessary.
They reached a large, open dining area where a coroner investigator was photographing the crumpled form of an adult white male.
Deets said, “Okay we touch the body?”
“Sure. I’m good.”
“Can I have one of those wet-wipes?”
The CI gave Deets a wet-wipe, then stepped to the side, giving them room.
The male victim’s shirt had been cut away so the CI could work on the body. Deets pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then glanced at Terrio. The body was lying in an irregular pool of blood almost six feet across.
“Be careful of the blood.”
“I can see fine from here. I’m not stepping in that mess.”
Deets lifted the man’s arm, cleaned a smear of blood off the shoulder with the wet-wipe, then held the arm for Terrio to see.
“What do you think? Look familiar?”
Lividity had mottled the skin with purple and black bruising, but Terrio could still make out the tattoo. He felt a low dread of recognition.
“I’ve seen this before.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“Does he have one on the other arm, too?”
“One on each side. Matching.”
Deets lowered the arm, then stepped away from the body. He peeled off the latex gloves.
“Only one guy I know of has tats like this. He used to be a cop here. LAPD.”
A blocky, bright red arrow had been inked onto the outside of Frank Meyer’s shoulder. It pointed forward.
Terrio’s head was racing.
“This is good, Lou. This gives us a direction. We just gotta figure out what to do about him.”
The woman’s voice cut through behind them.
“About who?”
Terrio turned, and there she was, the woman and the two squats. Wraparounds hiding her eyes. Mouth so tight she looked like she had steel teeth.
The woman stepped forward, and didn’t seem to care if she stepped in the blood or not.
“I asked a question, Sergeant. Do about who?”
Terrio glanced at the arrow again, then gave her the answer.
“Joe Pike.”
2
First time Joe Pike saw the tattooed woman, she was struggling up the eastern ridge of Runyon Canyon, Pike running down, both of them blowing steam in the chill before dawn. The eastern trail was steep; a series of slopes and terraces that stepped from the apartment-lined neighborhoods at the base of the canyon to Mulholland Drive at the top of the Hollywood Hills. Seeing her in the murky light that first morning, the young woman appeared to be wearing tights, but as she drew closer, Pike realized her legs were sleeved with elaborate tattoos. More ink decorated her arms, and metal studs lined her ears, nose, and lips. Pike had only two tattoos. A red arrow on the outside of each deltoid, both pointing forward.
Pike saw her two or three times each week after that, sometimes in the early-morning dark, other times later, when the sun was bright and the park was crowded. They had never exchanged more than a word or two.
The day Pike learned about Frank and Cindy Meyer, he and the tattooed woman left the park together, jogging easily past the small homes north of Hollywood Boulevard with their whispers of faded dreams. They had not run together, but she had been at the bottom when he finished, and fell in beside him. Pike wondered if she had planned it that way, and was thinking about it when he saw the first man.
The first man waited beneath a jacaranda tree on the opposite side of the street, jeans, sunglasses, knit shirt tight at the shoulders. He openly stared as Pike passed, then fell in behind at a casual jog, three or four car lengths back.
The second man was leaning against a car with his arms crossed. He watched Pike and the woman pass, then he, too, fell in behind. Pike knew they were plainclothes police officers, so he decided to give himself room. He grunted a good-bye, and picked up his pace.
The woman said, “See you next time.”
As Pike drifted to the center of the street, a blue sedan pulled out from a cross street two blocks behind. One block ahead, a tan sedan pulled from the curb, boxing him in. Two men were in the front seat of the tan car, with a woman in back on the passenger side. Pike saw her turn to see him. Short brown hair. Wraparound sunglasses. Frown. The man in the passenger seat dangled a badge out the open window, letting Pike see.
Pike eased to a stop. The sedans and trailing officers stopped when Pike stopped, everyone keeping their distance.
The tattooed woman realized something was happening, and nervously danced on her toes.
“Dude, what is this?”
“Keep going.”
She didn’t keep going. She edged toward the nearest house, clearly frightened as she glanced from car to car.
“I don’t like this. You want me to get help?”
“They’re police. They just want to talk to me.”
If they wanted to arrest him, they wouldn’t have approached in the middle of a residential street. If they wanted to kill him, they would have already tried.
The man with the badge got out of the lead car. He was balding, with a thin mustache that was too dark for the rest of his hair. His driver got out, too, a younger man with bright eyes. The woman remained in the car, twisted around to watch. She was on her cell phone. Pike wondered what she was saying.
The man with the badge said, “Jack Terrio, LAPD. This is Lou Deets. Okay if we come over there?”
They knew who he was, and so did the officers who had established a perimeter behind the two sedans. They had blocked the street and were rerouting traffic onto the cross streets.
“Sure.”
Pike unshouldered his rucksack. He ran with a weighted ruck, and also wore a fanny pack, a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, New Balance running shoes, blue shorts, and government-issue sunglasses. The sweatshirt was dark with sweat.
When Terrio and Deets reached him, Deets stood to the side.
“That’s some nice ink you have there, Pike, the red arrows. Don’t see many like that, do we, boss?”
Terrio ignored him.
“You armed?”
“Gun’s in the fanny pack. With the license.”
Deets toed the ruck.
“What’s in there, a rocket launcher?”
“Flour.”
“No shit. You gonna bake me a cake?”
Deets fingered open the ruck, then frowned.
“He’s got four ten-pound bags of flour in here.”
“That’s what he told you, didn’t he? C’mon, let’s stay on topic.”
Terrio put away his badge.
“Don’t touch the fanny pack, okay?”
Pike nodded.
“You know a man name of Frank Meyer?”
A chill spread through Pike’s belly. He had not seen Frank Meyer in years, though he frequently thought about him, and now his name hung in the mid-morning air like a frosty ghost. Pike glanced at their car. The woman was still watching, and still on the phone, as if she were reporting his reaction.
“What happened?”
Deets said, “Have you seen him in the past week or so?”
“Not in a long time. Ten years, maybe.”
“What if I told you I have a witness who claims you were with Meyer recently?”
Pike studied Deets for a moment, and read he was lying. Pike turned back to Terrio.
“You want to play games, I’ll keep running.”
“No games. Meyer and his family were murdered in their home two nights ago. The boys and the wife were executed.
A woman we’ve identified as their nanny survived, but she’s in a coma.”
No part of Joe Pike moved except for the rise and fall of his chest until he glanced at the tattooed woman. An older woman in a dingy robe had come out of her house, and the two of them were watching from the door.
Deets said, “That your girlfriend?”
“I don’t know who she is.”
Pike faced Terrio again.
“I didn’t kill them.”
“Don’t think you did. We believe a professional home invasion crew killed them. We believe that same crew has hit six other homes in the past three months, murdering a total of eleven people.”
Pike knew where they were going.
“You don’t have any suspects.”
“Nothing. No prints, pix, or witnesses. We don’t have any idea who’s doing this, so we started looking at the victims.”
Deets said, “And guess what, Pike? Turns out we found something the first six have in common. Three were drug traffickers, one was a pornogra pher who laundered money for the Israeli mob, and two were jewelry merchants who fenced stolen goods. The first six were as dirty as yesterday’s socks, so now we’re seeing what’s up with Meyer.”
“Frank wasn’t a criminal.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Frank had an import business. He sold clothes.”
Terrio fingered a photograph from his jacket. The picture showed Frank, Pike, and a chemical-company executive named Delroy Spence in the El Salvadoran jungle. The air had smelled of rotten fish and burning oil when the picture was taken. The temperature had been one hundred twelve degrees. Spence was dirty, lice-ridden, and wearing the remains of a tattered blue business suit. Meyer and Pike were wearing T-shirts, faded utility pants, and M4 rifles slung on their arms. Meyer and Spence were both smiling, though they were smiling for different reasons. Spence was smiling because Pike, Meyer, and a man named Lonny Tang had just rescued him after two months of captivity at the hands of a band of narco terrorists. Meyer was smiling because he had just cracked a joke about retiring to get married. Meyer looked like he was fourteen years old.
“What does this have to do with now?”
“You and Meyer were mercenaries.”
“So?”
Terrio studied the picture. He flexed it back and forth.
“He’s all over the world in shitholes like this, hanging out with the wrong kind of people. Maybe he started importing more than clothes.”
“Not Frank.”
“No? None of his friends or neighbors knew what he used to do. Not one of the people we interviewed. This little picture is the only thing from those days we found in his house. Why do you think that is?”
“Cindy didn’t approve.”
“Whether she approved or not, the man kept secrets. Maybe he wasn’t the man you thought.”
“I can’t help you.”
Terrio slipped the picture into his pocket.
“This home invasion crew doesn’t pick homes at random. They don’t drive around, and say, hey, that one looks good. Sooner or later, we’re going to learn Meyer had something they wanted-dope, cash, maybe the ayatol lah’s secret jewels.”
“Frank sold clothes.”
Terrio glanced at Deets, then returned to the tan sedan without another word. Deets didn’t follow.
Deets said, “So you haven’t seen this guy in ten years?”
“No.”
“Why is that? You have a falling-out?”
Pike thought how best to answer, but most of it wasn’t their business.
“Like I said, his wife.”
“But it was your picture he kept. And your tattoos. What’s up with that, Pike? Some kind of unit thing?”
Pike didn’t understand.
“The arrows?”
“Yeah, here and here, like you.”
On the day Frank’s contract expired and he left the contract service for good, Frank Meyer had no tattoos.
Pike said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Deets made a stiff smile, then lowered his voice.
“I never met someone who’s killed as many people as you, still walking free.”
Pike watched Deets walk away. Terrio was already in the car. Deets walked around to the far side, and got in behind the wheel. The woman in the backseat was talking to Terrio. They drove away. The plainclothes officers followed. The neighborhood returned to normal.
Everything was normal except Frank Meyer was dead.
The tattooed woman trotted up, excited and anxious.
“Dude, that was crazy. What did they want?”
“A friend of mine was murdered.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. That’s awful. They think you did it?”
“Nothing like that.”
She made a ragged laugh, nervous at the edges.
“Dude, listen, they do. I’m tellin’ you, man, those cats were scared of you.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not.”
The tattooed woman punched him in the arm. It was the first time she had touched him. Pike studied her for a moment, then shouldered his ruck.
“You don’t know me.”
Pike settled the pack, and continued his run.
3
When Pike reached his jeep, he drove directly to Frank Meyer’s home. Pike had lied to Terrio. He had seen Frank three years ago, though they had not spoken. A mutual friend told Pike about Frank’s new house in Westwood, so Pike cruised by. Pike also cruised by the little ranch home Frank and Cindy owned in Studio City a few years before that. Frank Meyer had been on Pike’s team, so Pike liked to make sure he was doing okay even though the two hadn’t spoken in years.
The Westwood house was taped off as an active crime scene, though the crush of lookie-loos and newspeople that would have been present the day before were gone. A black-and-white radio car was out front, along with two SID wagons, an unmarked sedan, and a single TV news van. Two female officers posted to protect the scene were slumped in the radio car, bored out of their minds with nothing to do except listen to their iPods.
Pike parked a block behind their car, then studied Frank Meyer’s house. He wanted to know how Frank died, and was thinking he would break in later that night when a tall, thin criminalist named John Chen came down the drive to an SID wagon. Chen was a friend. Pike would have called Chen anyway, but Chen being here was a stroke of good fortune that would save time.
Chen’s vehicle was directly in front of the radio car. If Chen left, Pike would follow. If Chen returned to the house, Pike would wait.
Pike was waiting to see what Chen would do when his phone rang. The caller ID read John Chen.
Pike said, “Hello, John.”
Chen was a paranoid. Even though he was alone in his vehicle his voice was guarded, as if he was worried about being overheard.
“Joe, it’s me, John Chen. I’m at a murder scene in Westwood. The police are coming to-”
“I’m behind you, John.”
“What?”
“Look behind you.”
Chen emerged from his wagon. He stared at the radio car as if the officers would jump out to arrest him.
Pike said, “Farther back. I’m on the next block.”
Chen finally saw him, then shriveled back into his wagon.
“Did the police already come see you?”
“A detective named Terrio.”
“I was calling to warn you, bro. They found a picture of you with the vic. I’m sorry, man. I only heard about it this morning.”
“I want to see what happened in there.”
Chen hesitated again.
“It’s a mess.”
Chen, warning that he would see something awful, but Pike had seen awful things before.
Chen sighed.
“Okay, listen-two dicks from West L.A. are inside. I don’t know how long they’ll be.”
“ I’ll wait.”
“They might be here all day.”
/> “ I’ll wait.”
“All right. Okay. I’ll call when it’s clear.”
Pike could tell Chen wasn’t comfortable with him being out here, but Pike didn’t care about that or how long he might have to wait. Chen reemerged from his wagon and slouched back to the house, shooting nervous glances at Pike over his shoulder.
Pike got out of his Jeep, pulled on a pair of spare jeans and a plain green windbreaker so he would be less memorable, then climbed back behind the wheel. He studied Frank’s house. A sloping front lawn led to a two-story brick home with a steep slate roof, surrounded by elm trees and feathery hedges. The house looked stable, traditional, and strong, and was suited to the Frank Pike knew. Pike liked that. Frank had done all right for himself.
After a while, a man and woman who were likely the West L.A. detectives came down the drive, got into the unmarked sedan, and drove away. Chen called as Pike watched them.
“You still out there?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come get you. We won’t have much time.”
Pike met Chen on the sidewalk, then followed him to the house. The two uniforms appeared to be dozing, and no one was visible in the media van. Neither of them spoke until they reached the front door, when Chen handed Pike a pair of blue paper booties.
“Gotta put these over your shoes, okay?”
They slipped on the booties, then stepped into a large circular entry with a winding staircase up to the second floor. A towering grandfather clock stood guard at the stair, standing tall over a rusty crust of blood footprints that dotted the floor.
Pike felt odd, entering Frank’s home, as if he were intruding into a place where it was understood he would never be welcomed. He had glimpsed Frank’s life from the outside, but never from within. He had never met Cindy, or the boys, and now here he was in their home. Pike heard movement upstairs, and Chen glanced toward the sound.
“That’s another criminalist, Amy Slovak. She’ll be up there a while.”
Pike followed Chen through the entry to a large, open family room adjoining a dining area. An irregular pool of drying blood covered the floor midway between the dining table and the hall. Bright green yarn had been stretched from the blood pool to two metal stands in the living room, two strands to one of the stands, a single strand to the other. These stands marked the probable location of the shooters. A jumble of footprints crossed and crisscrossed the drying pool where one or more of the shooters had walked through the blood. A second, smaller stain was visible across the family room.
