The First Rule

by Robert Crais

  Pike shut the engine, cracked open the windows for air, then moved back into the kitchen bay where he would be hidden from people on the street. Three blocks away, the SIS spotters would ignore him. They were too busy watching Rahmi’s apartment.

  Pike couldn’t see the apartment, but he had a good view of the Malibu, and the Malibu was all he needed.

  Pike settled in. He breathed. He waited for something to happen.

  10

  AT EIGHT-FIFTY THAT NIGHT, the Malibu pulled away, came toward Pike until the first cross street, then stopped before making the turn. The light was poor, but the black-on-black Malibu gleamed beautifully and the polished chrome dubs glittered.

  Pike watched.

  A dark blue Neon approached on the cross street as the Malibu signaled to turn. The Neon was dirty, and missing the left front hubcap. When the Malibu turned, the Neon continued across the intersection behind it. Pike figured the Neon was SIS, and at least two other vehicles were maneuvering into surrounding positions.

  Pike waited another five minutes before he slipped out of the taco truck. No lights came on when he opened and closed the door.

  When Rahmi left his apartment, the spotters would have radioed the officers in their nearby cars, and the drivers would have scrambled to get into position. After that it was their show. For the first time in hours, the spotters would relax. They would kick back, check email, call their significant others, get some exercise. They wouldn’t be staring at Rahmi Johnson’s door because Rahmi was gone.

  Pike trotted up to the same intersection, then rounded the corner to the next street and vaulted a fence into the yard butting the back side of Rahmi’s building. A dog barked, mincing and scraping at the door of the neighbor’s house, but Pike slid past the door and lifted himself over another chain-link fence directly behind Rahmi’s apartment.

  Pike stood in the shadows, waiting to see if someone would turn on a light. The little dog continued barking, but a woman in the house shouted, and after a few seconds the barking stopped. Pike got to work.

  Each of the apartments had only a single window on the back of the building, one of those high, small windows you find in bathrooms, but the windows were caged by iron bars. Rahmi’s window and the window in the street-side apartment were lit, but the rear apartment was dark. Pike wondered if it was filled with SIS operators.

  The bathroom door was open. The bathroom light was off, but lights and the television were on in the outer room. The television being on, Pike figured Rahmi would return soon, but couldn’t be sure.

  Pike examined the security bars. The bars were not individual bars, but a single cage formed of vertical rods welded to a frame like a catcher’s mask. More expensive security systems were hinged on one side, but these bars had been installed on the cheap and were likely against the building code. Pike ran his fingers along the bottom frame plate and found four screws. The owner had probably sunk wood screws through the stucco into the studs. They would be difficult to break, but not impossible.

  Pike had come prepared with a pry bar. He jimmied the pry bar under the frame, used his SOG knife to pop the heads off the screws, then levered the cage from the window. Pike placed it on the ground, pushed open the window, then lifted himself through.

  Rahmi had a studio apartment, with the bath in one corner sharing a wall with his kitchen. The furnishings were ratty and cheap, with a thread-bare couch fronting a discolored coffee table, a couple of beanbag chairs pimpled with stains, and a gray comforter suggesting the couch did double duty as a bed. The sixty-inch flat-screen hung opposite the couch like a glittering jewel, as out of place as a human head. Cables bled down the wall to a stack of components, then vined along the floor to a series of speakers. Rahmi had Surround Sound.

  Pike wanted to turn off the lights and mute the television, but if the police were watching and listening, they would wonder what happened. The police had almost certainly been inside the apartment, and probably left a listening device. Pike didn’t want them listening when Rahmi came home.

  Pike put away the pry bar and knife, and took out a small RF scanner about the size and shape of an iPod. Pike used it often in his security work. If the scanner picked up an RF signal, which pretty much all eavesdropping bugs emitted, a red light would glow.

  Pike swept the main room, the kitchen, and finally the bath, then checked the big-screen components and furniture without finding anything. Pike considered the air conditioner wedged in the window. If the device was in the AC and someone turned it on, you wouldn’t be able to hear anything, but he checked it anyway. Nothing. Then he studied the shades covering the windows. The rollers were dingy and fuzzy with dust and spiderwebs. Pike scanned them, and found the bug on the second roller. It was the size of an earbud and stuck to the roller’s bracket with a piece of earthquake putty. Pike gently removed it and placed it on the floor behind the door. This would be his position when Rahmi came home.

  Pike put away the scanner, but continued his search. He found a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson wedged between the cushions on the couch, a blue glass bong the length of a nightstick on the floor, and a baggie containing two joints and a small quantity of loose marijuana. A smaller glass rock pipe was in a wicker basket, along with a plastic bag containing three balls of rock cocaine and assorted pills. Pike unloaded the nine-millimeter, pocketed the bullets, then tucked the gun under his belt. He found nothing else of interest, so he returned to his position behind the door. Rahmi might be back in five minutes or five days, but Pike would wait. Pike was good at waiting.

  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 safe
ty 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, then 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.