by Robert Crais
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.”
Cole put the phone aside, and picked up the note.
“I’ll see what I can do. How are these people connected?”
“Ana Markovic was the Meyers’ nanny. She died this morning. Rina was her sister. She has a friend called Yanni. I’m not sure how he spells it. Rina was at the hospital before her sister died. She was standing guard because she believed the people who shot her sister might come around to finish the job.”
“You think she knows something?”
“They’re Serbian. Rahmi says his cousin hooked up with a Serbian gangster. What are the odds?”
Cole thought about it. Los Angeles has always had a small Serbian population, but, just as the Russian and Armenian populations increased after the Soviet Union collapsed, the Serbian and expatriate Yugoslavian populations shot up after the conflicts in the nineties. Criminals and organized gangsters arrived along with everyone else, and L.A. now had significant numbers of criminal gang sets from all over Eastern Europe. But even with the increasing populations, the numbers of East Europeans remained statistically small. A Latin, African-American, or Anglo connection would have meant nothing. A Balkan connection in Westwood was worth checking out.
Cole placed the note with the phone.
“Your pal Rina, you think she’d talk to me?”
“No.”
Cole stared at the information Pike had cribbed onto the sheet. It wasn’t much.
“Where did Ana live?”
“With Frank.”
“Maybe she had another place for the weekends.”
“I don’t know.”
“I guess you and I aren’t up to speed on the nanny lifestyle.”
“No.”
The classic Pike conversation.
“What I’m getting at here is that talking to people who knew this girl might be a good place to start. I’ll need the names of her friends, maybe some phone numbers, things like that. If the sister won’t talk to us, can we get into the crime scene?”
“I’ll take care of it. Also, John Chen is on the SID team. He’s running the physical evidence.”
Cole nodded. Chen was good, and Chen had worked with them before. Cole would call him after Pike left.
Two seagulls appeared in the empty blue nothing outside the glass. Cole watched them float on their invisible sea, tiny heads turning. One of them suddenly dropped out of sight. His partner watched the other fall, then folded his wings and followed.
Cole said, “And Terrio doesn’t know about Jamal and the Serbian connection?”
“No.”
“You going to tell him?”
“No. I want to find them before the police.”
Pike was staring at him, but his face was as empty of expression as always, the dark glasses like two black holes cut into space. The stillness in Pike was amazing.
/> Cole looked for the gulls again, but they were still gone. The winter sky was a milky blue, just edging into gray from the haze. Cole got up, went around his desk to the little fridge under the Pinocchio clock, and took out a bottle of water. He offered it to Pike. Pike shook his head once. Cole brought it back to his desk.
Cole glanced at the news story again, the one Pike had not touched. The second paragraph, where the names of the murdered victims were given. Frank, Cindy, Frank, Jr., Joe. The youngest was Joey. Executed. The word chosen by the journalist to describe what had happened. Executed. Cole had not stopped thinking about that word since he read the story. He knew better, but the writer was good. She had burned a few words onto a blank page, forcing Cole and her other readers to imagine the scene, and there it was. A black steel muzzle to the head. Clenched eyes, tears squeezing through stitched lids, maybe the sobbing and screaming, and the short, sharp BAM that ends all of it. The sobbing stops, the face grows serene as its lines relax in death, and all that remains is the mother’s screams. Cindy would have been last. Cole folded the article and pushed it aside, wondering the thing he had been wondering since reading the article yesterday—whether or not the youngest boy, Joey, had been named after Pike.
Who was Frank Meyer?
One of my guys.
Cole had learned enough over the years to know what was meant. Pike had been able to hand-pick his guys, which meant he chose people he respected. Then, because they were Pike’s guys, he would have arranged for their gear, and meals, and equipment, made sure they were paid on time, that their contracts were honored, and that they were properly equipped for the job at hand. He would have taken care of them, and they would have taken care of him, and he would not have let them sell their lives cheaply.
Who was Frank Meyer?
One of my guys.
Cole said, “I don’t need to hide from what you’re going to do. You haven’t done it yet. Maybe things will change. Maybe the police will find them first.”
Pike said, “Mm.”
Cole studied Pike, and thought that Pike was studying him back, but maybe Pike was just looking. Cole never knew what Pike was thinking. Maybe Pike was just waiting for Cole to say something. Pike was very patient.
Cole said, “I want you to hear this, and think about it. I don’t think Terrio is necessarily wrong. If I were him, I would be looking at Meyer, too. What if it turns out Frank isn’t the man you knew. What if Terrio’s right?”
The flat black lenses seemed to bore into Cole as if they were portholes into another dimension.
“He’s still one of my guys.”
The seagulls reappeared, drawing Cole’s eye. They hung in the air, tiny heads flicking left and right as they glanced at each other. Then, as one, the two birds looked at Cole. They stared with their merciless eyes, then banked away. Gone.
Cole said, “You see that?”
But when Cole looked over, Pike was gone, too.
13
TWO MEN AND A WOMAN in dark blue business suits were walking up Frank’s drive when Pike cruised past. A senior uniformed officer with the stars on her collar that marked her as a deputy chief was gesturing as the three civilians followed. Downtown brass giving a few big-shots the tour.
A single black-and-white command car was parked at the curb, indicating the officer had driven the civilians herself. No other official vehicles were present. Three days after the murders, the lab rats had found everything there was to find. Pike knew the house would remain sealed until the science people were certain they wouldn’t need additional samples. When they gave the okay, the detectives would release the house to Frank and Cindy’s estate, and someone would notify Ana Markovic’s family that they could claim her possessions. Pike wondered if Ana’s parents lived in Serbia, and if they had been notified. He wondered if they were flying in to claim their daughter’s body, and whether they could afford it.
Pike circled a nearby park, slowly winding his way back to Frank’s. He approached from the opposite direction this time, and parked two blocks up the street with an easy, eyes-forward view of the command car.
The senior officer and her guests stayed inside for forty-two minutes. This was much longer than Pike would have expected, but then they came back down the drive, climbed into the command car, and drove away.
Pike waited five minutes, then pulled forward to park across from Frank’s. An older woman with white hair was walking a little white dog. The dog was short, and old, with a heavy body and eyes that had been playful before they were tired. Pike let them pass, then walked up Frank’s drive, and entered through the side gate as he had two nights before.
Someone had taped a piece of cardboard over the broken pane in the French door. Pike pushed the cardboard aside and let himself in. After four days, the blood pooled on the floors had soured and mildewed. Pike ignored the smell, and went to Ana Markovic’s room.
The handmade Valentine poster made by Frank’s boys, the posters of European soccer players, the tiny desk with its clutter of magazines and laptop computer all remained as Pike remembered. The screen saver was still playing—a young Hawaiian surf stud riding a wave that swallowed him, only to be resurrected and swallowed again in an endless loop. Pike closed the screen, unplugged the power cord, and placed the computer by the door. He searched through the drawers and clutter, hoping for some kind of address book or cell phone, but found neither. Instead, he found a high school yearbook and some birthday and holiday cards. He put the cards in the yearbook, and the yearbook with the computer.
Pike was bothered by the absence of a phone. He looked under and around the desk, then pulled a mound of sheets and a comforter from the bed. He found rumpled clothes, two open boxes of cookies, an open box of Pampers, some magazines, three partially consumed bottles of water, a paperback novel about vampires, an unopened bag of Peanut M&M’s, and a single unused tampon still in its wrapper. He found the messy clutter of a young woman who liked to shove everything in the corner, but no phone. Pike lifted the mattress. Nothing.
Pike realized he had not found a purse or wallet, either. It occurred to him that her phone had probably been in her purse, and the paramedics might have taken her purse along when they rushed her to the hospital. Pike made a mental note to tell Cole. Cole could check to see if this was what happened, and whether or not the hospital still had the purse in their possession.
The tiny room held a closet smaller than a phone booth. The bathroom was across the hall. Pike went through the closet first, then the bath. The closet floor was deep with clothes, shoes, and an empty backpack. A corkboard had been tacked to the inside of the door and was covered with snapshots, cards, pictures cut from magazines, ticket stubs, and drawings. Ana was in most of the pictures, but not all, posing with people her own age, everyone smiling or mugging for the camera. Most of them had probably been taken in the past couple of years, and a few had writing. Luv, Krissy. You da bomb! BFF! Like that.
Pike didn’t take them all. He selected pictures that appeared the most recent, and those with handwritten notes and names, and tucked them into the yearbook. He had just crossed the hall into the bathroom when he heard a car door. He picked up the computer and yearbook, hurried to the front of the house, and saw two unmarked Crown Vics. Terrio and Deets were already out of their car, and two more detectives were climbing out of the second car. Terrio and Deets went to Pike’s Jeep, then scowled toward the house.
Pike left the way he had entered, went around to the side of the house, then slipped through the hedges to the wall. He didn’t go over. He stripped a .25 caliber Beretta from his ankle and a Colt .357 Python from his waist, then chinned himself up to see what was on the other side. He dropped the computer, yearbook, and guns into a soft cushion of calla lilies, then let himself out the side gate onto the drive.
Terrio and the others were halfway up the drive when Pike stepped out, letting them see him.
Terrio said, “You forget what that yellow tape means?”
“I wanted
to see what happened.”
“You have no business seeing what happened. Did you enter the premises?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see.”
Deets grinned at the other detectives.
“I like it. We have breaking and entering, illegal entry, interfering with a lawful investigation. How about adding burglary, Pike? Did you take anything?”
Pike spread his arms, offering to let them search.
“See for yourself.”
Deets moved behind Pike.
“Good idea. I’ve heard about this guy, Jack. Never know what he might be packing.”
The younger detective ran his hands over Pike’s legs, pockets, and belt line, but his grin collapsed when he found nothing.
Terrio didn’t look so happy about it, either, but he tipped his head toward the house, speaking to the other detectives.
“I’ll catch up with you. I’m going to walk Mr. Pike to his car.”
Terrio didn’t say anything more until they reached the street. He leaned against Pike’s Jeep. This bothered Pike, but he didn’t object.
Terrio studied Frank’s house for a moment.
“Why’d you come here?”
“To see. Like I told you.”
“That why you went to the hospital?”
Pike wondered how Terrio knew.
“That’s right.”
“The girl died this morning. That makes twelve homicides. If you think I’m spending all my resources digging up dirt on your friend, you’re wrong.”
Pike didn’t respond. He figured Terrio would make his point soon enough.
“I’ve got the mayor, the police commissioner, and the brass on my arm. I’ve got a rising body count, and no certain suspects. If you know something that could help, you should tell me.”
“Can’t help you.”
Terrio stared at Pike for a moment, then laughed.
“Sure. Sure you can’t. You’re here because you want to see.”