by Robert Crais
Twenty-five minutes later, Pike heard the chain-link gate, and drew Rahmi’s pistol.
Three locks were built into the door. Someone unlocked them one by one, and then the door swung in. Pike stepped on the bug as the door opened. Rahmi Johnson entered carrying a white paper bag, closed the door, and saw Pike just as Pike hit him with the pistol. The police would have resumed their watchful positions and would be wondering why the sound went dead, but would assume the closing door had somehow knocked it loose.
Rahmi raised his hands for protection, but didn’t get them up fast enough. Pike hit him a second time, and Rahmi staggered sideways. Tacos spilled out of the bag, smelling of grease and chili sauce.
Pike twisted Rahmi’s arm behind his back, clipped his knees, and rode him down.
Rahmi said, “Bro, hey, the fuck?”
Pike held the gun out.
“See?”
Rahmi probably thought Pike was a cop, the white facedown here in Compton.
“What you want, man? I ain’t done nuthin’.” Pike tapped him again.
“Sh.”
Pike muted the television, then went through Rahmi’s pockets. He found a cell phone, a fold of cash, a pack of Parliaments, and a yellow Bic lighter. No wallet. He pulled Rahmi to his feet and pushed him to the couch.
“Sit.”
Rahmi sat, glaring at Pike like a sullen teenager. Rahmi was trying to read him, trying to figure out who Pike was and what was in store. Pike understood he looked like a cop, but he didn’t want Rahmi to think he was a cop.
Pike stuffed Rahmi’s cash into his pocket, and Rahmi jerked forward.
“Yo! That’s my money, muthuhfucka!”
“Not anymore. Jamal owes me cash.”
“You a cop?”
“Where’s Jamal?”
“I don’t know where Jamal is. Shit.”
“Jamal has my money. I’ll get it from him, or from you.”
“I don’t know you, man. I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no money.”
Rahmi wet his lips, thinking if Pike wasn’t a cop, maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought, but Pike wanted him to think it was worse.
Pike threw the cell phone at him, so hard Rahmi caught it to protect himself.
“Call him.”
“Man, I ain’t seen Jamal since visiting day. He in prison.”
Pike swung the Smith backhand, hitting the sixty-inch plasma dead in the center of the screen. The safety glass split, and multicolored blocks danced and shimmered where the image had been. Rahmi lunged up from the couch, eyes trembling like runny eggs.
Pike aimed the Smith at Rahmi’s forehead and thumbed back the hammer.
“Call.”
“I’ll call. I’ll call all you want, but we ain’t gonna get no answer. I been leavin’ messages. His message box full.”
Rahmi fumbled with the phone, then held it out for Pike to see.
“Here. Listen here. You’ll see. I called him right now.”
Pike held out his free hand, and Rahmi tossed the phone over. Pike caught it to hear a computer voice say the recipient’s message box was full.
Pike ended the connection, then brought up the call log. The last call out showed as Jamal. Pike closed the phone, then put it into his pocket. He would go through the other numbers later.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he is. Layin’ up with some ho, I imagine. Maybe in Vegas.”
“He told me he was crashing here. How else would I have your address?”
Now Rahmi appeared confused, as if he thought all this might be possible, but wasn’t sure how.
“Man, that was weeks ago. I don’t know where he cribs now. He don’t tell me, and I don’t wanna know.”
“Why not?”
“Aw, man, you know. The police came around looking, so he’s gotta stay low. He didn’t say where he went and I didn’t ask. If I don’t know, I can’t say.”
Pike decided Rahmi was telling the truth, but Jamal was only one of the people he wanted to find.
“When’s the last time you spoke?”
“Few days, I guess. Maybe a week.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Just talkin’ shit. This cop show I’m watching on DVD, The Shield. That shit is righteous, here on the sixty-inch. We talkin’ about The Shield. Jamal say up there in Soledad, they all into The Shield.”
“I think you’re lying. I think he left my money with you, and you spent it.”
Pike aimed the Smith at Rahmi’s left eye. Rahmi held up a hand as if he could ward off the bullet.
“That’s crazy. I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no money.”
“He tell you I was coming?”
“He ain’t said nuthin’ ’bout no money, you, or anything else. How much he owe you?”
“Thirty-two thousand dollars. I’m getting it from him, or you.”
“I ain’t got no thirty-two kay.”
“You were driving it. Now I’m driving it.”
Rahmi blinked at what was left of his big-screen television, then slumped in defeat.
“Nigga, please, whatever passed between you and Jamal, I got no part in that. Jamal, he gave me these things ’cause he doin’ so well. We family, dog.”
“How’d he get to be doing so well?”
“He got in with a good crew.”
“Who? Maybe I can find him through them.”
“Jamal never told me no names.”
“He never told you I’d come for my money, either. I think he stole it from me. I think this stuff is mine.”
Pike raised the gun again, and this time Rahmi pleaded.
“It’s true, bro. They hooked up with this Serbian cat, lays off one fat score after another. They makin’ the bank!”
Pike lowered the gun.
“Serbian.”
“They in with this dude set’m up with the scores. Tell’m who to hit, they split the cash. He say it the easiest money he ever made.”
“He said Serbian? Not Russian or Armenian?”
“What difference it make? How’s a brother know the difference?”
“What was the name?”
“Just some Serbian muthuhfucka, that’s all.”
Ana Markovic was from Serbia. Dying in the hospital with her sister standing guard.
Pike studied Rahmi, but wasn’t really looking at Rahmi. He thought for a moment, then went to the bag of tacos. He stepped on it. Crunch.
Rahmi looked pained.
“Muthuhfuckin’ dinner, muthuhfucka. Why you do a mean-hearted thing like that?”
Pike picked up Rahmi’s keys, then tossed them to him.
“Get some more tacos.”
“What?”
Pike held up the fold of bills.
“Take your car. Go get more tacos.”
Rahmi wet his lips as if he was expecting a trick, then snatched the bills and went to the door.
“How you know Jamal?”
“He murdered me.”
Rahmi froze with his hand on the knob.
Pike said, “You see Jamal before I find him, tell him Frank Meyer is coming.”
Rahmi let himself out.
Pike stood by the door, listening. He heard the gate. He heard the Malibu rumble, and the tires screech. Just as before, the SIS detail would scramble to follow.
Pike slipped out the bathroom window, and returned to the night.
11
Pike returned to UCLA the next morning. When he stepped off the elevator onto the ICU floor, he saw Rina outside her sister’s door with a doctor and two nurses. Pike stepped back onto the elevator and rode down to the lobby. He wanted to speak with her alone.
Pike repositioned his Jeep so he could watch the lobby entrance, then turned on the phone he had taken from Rahmi Johnson. He had bought a power cord for the phone on the way to the hospital. Pike wanted to keep the phone charged in case Jamal called his cousin.
Pike scrolled through the list until he reached Jamal’s number, the
n pressed the button to dial. Pike had called the number twice last night, and now again, but the response was the same. A female computer voice came on, informing Pike that Jamal’s message box was full.
Pike put away the phone, then stared at the lobby. He was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but Rina emerged a few minutes later. Same jeans and jacket as yesterday. Same shoulder bag clutched to her chest.
Pike moved through a row of cars as she crossed into the parking lot. She walked fast, with hard, clipped steps, as if she wanted to cover as much ground as possible.
She didn’t see Pike until he stepped from between the cars, then she gasped.
Pike said, “Do you know who did this?”
“Of course not. How could I know?”
“Is that why you’re afraid? You know who did this?”
She edged away, keeping the purse close.
“I don’t know what you are saying. Of course I don’t know. The police are looking.”
Pike stepped in front of her.
“The people who shot her were sent by a Serbian.”
“And this means what? Please-”
She tried to get around him, but Pike caught her arm.
“The crew who shot your sister bought the score from a Serbian gangster. They bought information about a house where your sister worked. And now here you are, afraid, with the gun.”
She glared at his hand, then drew herself up.
“Leave go of me.”
Pike let go because he saw her look past him. Pike drifted to the side, and saw a large, burly man approaching. He was jumbo large, with sloping shoulders, a big gut, and a dark, unshaven face. His beard was thick enough to grind marble.
He stopped when Pike turned, still two rows away, and said something Pike did not understand. Rina answered in the same language.
“My friend, Yanni. He see you grab me. I tell him we’re fine.”
Yanni was probably six five and weighed three hundred pounds. He was scowling at Pike like a Balkan grizzly, but Pike wasn’t impressed. Size meant little.
Pike turned back to the woman.
“If you know who did this, tell me. I can protect you better than him.” Rina stepped back.
“I don’t know what you mean, Serbian gangster.”
“How did Frank and Cindy meet your sister? How did she get the job with them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did someone you know recommend her to them?”
She moved farther away.
“If you think you know something, you should tell the police.”
“Who are you afraid of?”
She studied him a long time, then shook her head.
“Ana is dead now. I have much to do.”
She turned and walked past Yanni, the two of them exchanging words Pike could not understand. She walked quickly, as if she still had all the ground to cover but was falling behind. Yanni continued scowling, but now his scowl seemed sad.
Pike returned to his Jeep. He watched them cross the parking lot to a small white Toyota. The woman got in behind the wheel.
Pike let them gain ground before he followed them, creeping along several cars back through the ugly Westwood Village traffic, then onto the freeway. He kept the Toyota in sight, rolling north into the San Fernando Valley, then east to Studio City. Pike worked closer when they left the freeway, following them into a residential area between the L.A. River channel and Ventura Boulevard, and then into the parking lot of a large apartment complex. It was one of those complexes with gated entries and visitor parking, and lots of used brick and trees.
Pike parked at the curb and followed her on foot, staying along the edge of the building. He stopped when her brake lights flared. Yanni got out, spoke with her for a moment through the open window, then climbed into a metallic tan F-150 pickup truck. The Toyota continued into the residents’ parking lot.
Pike noted the F-150’s license plate, but stayed back until Yanni drove away, then jumped the gate into the parking structure. He continued along the line of parked vehicles until he found Rina’s Toyota parked in a space marked 2205. Pike thought it likely that 2205 would also be Rina’s apartment number.
Pike returned to his Jeep, wrote down the various license plates and numbers before he forgot them, then phoned a friend.
Pike was good at some things, but not so good at others. He wanted information about Ana and Rina Markovic, and on the phone numbers in Rahmi Johnson’s phone. Pike was a warrior. He could hunt, stalk, and defeat an enemy in almost any environment, but detective work required relationships Pike did not possess.
A man answered on the second ring.
“Elvis Cole Detective Agency. We find more for less. Check our prices.”
Pike said, “I need your help.”
12
Elvis Cole
Elvis Cole put down the phone, feeling even more concerned than he was before Pike called. Cole couldn’t count the times Pike had saved his life, or the endless moments of silence they had shared when just being with someone who has seen the same horrible things you have seen was the last best way to survive. But he could count on one hand the times Joe Pike had asked for help.
Cole hadn’t felt right since Detective-Sergeant Jack Terrio hit him with questions he couldn’t answer about a multiple homicide he knew nothing about, and now Cole was irritated he had to wait to find out what was going on. As usual, Pike hadn’t explained anything over the phone. Just said he was on his way, and hung up. Ever the mannered conversationalist.
The Elvis Cole Detective Agency maintained a two-office suite four flights above Santa Monica Boulevard. The selling point had been the balcony. Cole could step outside on a clear day and see all the way down Santa Monica to the sea. Sometimes, the seagulls flew inland, floating in the air like white porcelain kites, blinking at him with beady eyes. Sometimes, the woman in the next suite stepped onto her balcony to sun herself. Her selection of bikinis was impressive.
Cole’s name was on the door, but Joe Pike was his partner, as well as his friend. They bought the agency the same year Pike left the LAPD and Cole was licensed by the state of California as a private investigator.
That morning, the sky was milky, but bright, cool, but not chilly, and the French doors were open so Cole could enjoy the air. Cole was wearing a killer Jams World aloha shirt (colors for the day: sunburst and lime), khaki cargo pants, and an Italian suede shoulder holster of impeccable design, said holster currently gunless. Cole was wearing the holster in hopes the woman next door would emerge in her latest bikini, see it, and swoon, but so far, Cole was zero for two: no woman, no swooning.
Twenty minutes later, Cole was balancing his checkbook when Pike arrived. Cole didn’t hear the door open or close. This was just how Pike moved. As if he was so used to moving quietly he no longer touched the earth.
Cole pushed the checkbook aside, letting Pike see his irritation.
“So I’m sitting here, the door opens, and these cops walk in, badge, badge, badge. Three of them, so I know it’s important. They say, what do I know about Frank Meyer? I say, who? They say, Meyer was a merc with your boy Pike. I say, okay, and? They say, Meyer and his family were shot to death. I don’t know what to say to that, but that’s when the alpha cop, a guy named Terrio, asked what I knew about your personal relationship with Meyer, and whether you had a business relationship. I said, brother, I have never heard that name before.”
Cole watched as Pike settled into a spot against the wall. Pike rarely sat when he was at their office. He leaned against the wall.
Pike said, “No reason you would. Frank was one of my guys. From before.”
“Terrio told me they had reason to believe this crew hit Meyer because he had cash or drugs at his home.”
“Terrio’s wrong. He believes the other six victims were crooked, so he’s gunning for Frank.”
Cole frowned, feeling even less in the know.
“Other six?”
“Frank’s home was
the seventh hit in a string. Same crew, working the Westside and Encino. They’ve been ripping off criminals.”
“Terrio left out that part. So did the paper.”
After Terrio left, Cole had searched the L.A. Times website and local news stations for their coverage of the murders. The Times had provided the most information, describing Frank Meyer as a successful, self-made businessman. No mention was made of his past as a professional military contractor, but maybe that hadn’t been known at the time the article was written. A detective named Stan Watts was quoted, saying he believed a professional home invasion crew numbering between three and four men entered the home between eight and ten P.M., with robbery as the likely motive. Watts provided no details about what might have been stolen.
Cole had printed out the article, and now pushed it toward Pike, but Pike didn’t look at it.
Cole said, “If Terrio’s wrong, then what did these people go there to steal?”
Pike took a sheet of notepaper and a cell phone from his pocket, and placed them on Cole’s desk.
“I found a connection Terrio doesn’t know about.”
Cole listened as Pike told him about a recently released criminal named Jamal Johnson and his cousin, Rahmi. Pike told him about a new Malibu, and that Jamal told Rahmi his crew bought scores from someone in the Serbian mob. Pike was in the middle of telling it when Cole raised a hand, stopping him.
“Waitaminute. SIS is watching this guy, and you broke into his place?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
Pike tossed the phone to Cole.
“Rahmi’s phone. Jamal’s number is in the memory. Maybe you could ID the service provider, and back-trace Jamal’s call list. We might be able to find him through his friends.”
