L.A. Requiem

by Robert Crais

  When I reached the park, a Garcia tortilla company truck was parked off the road. I left my car behind it, hurried into the park, and made my way up the caged metal stairs to the top of the tower. The observation tower had once been a giant radar dome, and from it you could see south to the ocean and north across the San Fernando Valley.

  Joe Pike was waiting on the platform.

  He stiffened even though I didn't hug him hard. He was pale, and thinner than I'd ever seen him, though the white Garcia bakery shirt made him seem dark.

  I said, “Took you long enough to call, goddamnit. Can you spell ‘worry’?”

  “I was down in Mexico, getting better.”

  “You got to a hospital?”

  Pike's mouth twitched. “Not quite. How's the arm?”

  “Stiff, but it's okay. I'm more concerned about you. You need anything?”

  “I need to find Trudy.”

  “I've been looking.” I told him what Watts had reported, and what my own searches had confirmed. Nothing on a black minivan or Trudy or Matt existed anywhere in the system. I also told him that I had no leads.

  Pike took that in, and went to the rail. “The police are on my house and the gun shop. They've frozen my accounts, and flagged my credit cards. They've been to see Paulette.”

  “Maybe you should go south again. Sooner or later I'll get a hit that we can work with.”

  Pike shook his head. “I won't go south to hide, Elvis. I'm going to live it out here, one way or the other.”

  “I'm not saying go south to hide. Go to stay free. Coming up here is too big a risk.”

  “I'm willing to risk it.”

  “And go back to jail?”

  Pike's mouth flickered in an awful way. “I'll never go to jail again.”

  Then he looked past me, and straightened in a way that made my scalp prickle. “They're on us.”

  A flat blue detective sedan and an LAPD radio car slid to a stop by the Garcia van. A second radio car barreled in from the opposite direction, stopping in the center of the road. We didn't wait to see who they were or what they were planning.

  Pike went low fast, and snaked down the twisting metal stair toward the ground. I was right behind him. We couldn't see the stair from the platform, or the ground from the stair, but if we could get away from the observation tower, the park opened onto miles of undeveloped mountains that stretched south to Sunset Boulevard and west to the sea. If Pike could get into the sage, there was no way the police could follow him without dogs or helicopters.

  As we banged down the stairs, I said, “There's a trail works south through the mountains to a subdivision above the Sunset Strip.”

  “I know it.”

  “If you follow the trail down, I can pick you up there later.”

  It was planning done for nothing.

  When we reached the bottom of the stair, Harvey Krantz and two SWAT cops with M16s were waiting.

  The SWAT cops covered Joe Pike like he was a coiled cobra. They spread to the sides for crossing fire, their black rifles zeroed on Pike's chest even from ten feet away. Behind them, a cop shouted our location to the people on the road.

  Krantz wasn't holding a gun, but his eyes were on Pike as if he were a down-range target. I expected him to start with our rights, or tell us we were under arrest, or maybe even gloat, but he didn't.

  Krantz said, “Go for it, Pike. Shoot it out, and you might get away.”

  The SWAT cops shifted.

  Pike stood with his weight on the balls of his feet, hands away from his body, as relaxed as if he were in a Zen rock garden. He would have a gun somewhere, and he would be wondering if he could get to it, and fire before the SWAT cops cut loose. Even wounded and weak, he would be thinking that. Or maybe he wasn't thinking anything at all; maybe he would just act.

  Krantz took a step forward, and spread his hands. “I don't have a gun, Pike. Maybe you'll get me.”

  I looked from Krantz to Joe, and knew in that moment that something more than an arrest was happening. The SWAT cops traded an uncertain glance, but didn't lower their guns.

  “What's wrong with you, Krantz?” I put up my hands. “Raise your hands, Joe. Goddamnit, raise them!”

  Pike didn't move.

  Krantz smiled, but it was strained and ugly. He took another step. “Time's running out, Joe. More officers are on the way.”

  “Raise your hands, damnit! If you don't, then Krantz wins!”

  Pike took a single breath, then looked past Krantz to the SWAT cops, talking to them now. “My hands are going up.”

  He raised them.

  “Gun in my waistband under my shirt.”

  Krantz didn't move.

  One of the SWAT cops said, “Krantz, get his damned gun.”

  Krantz took out his own gun.

  Stan Watts trotted up the path, breathing hard, and stopped when he saw us.

  The SWAT cops said, “Hey, Watts, get this bastard's gun.”

  Stan Watts took Pike's gun, then took mine, and he stared at Krantz, standing there with his gun at his side. “What in hell's going on, Krantz? Didn't you tell them?”

  Krantz's jaw rippled as if he were chewing hard candy, and still his eyes didn't leave Pike. “I wanted Pike to spook. I was hoping he'd give us the excuse.”

  I said, “Take his gun, Stan. Please take his gun.”

  Watts stared at Krantz, then the gun Krantz held. Krantz's fingers worked at the gun like they had a life of their own. They kneaded and gripped the gun, and maybe wanted to raise it. Stan Watts went over and pried the gun away, and then pushed Krantz back hard.

  “Go wait in the car.”

  “I'm your superior officer!”

  Watts told the SWAT cops they were done, then told us to put our hands down. He wet his lips like his mouth was dry. “You're not under arrest. Branford's dropping the charges. You hear that, Pike? Branford's with your attorney right now. SID put Sobek's vehicle at Dersh's house. That's enough to get you off the hook.”

  I gripped Pike's arm, and held it. John Chen had come through.

  Krantz pushed past Watts and jabbed his finger at Pike. It was exactly the same move he'd made at Lake Hollywood the first time I saw him. “I don't give a rat's ass what SID says, Pike; you're a murderer.”

  Watts said, “Stop it, Harvey.”

  Krantz jabbed again.

  “You killed Wozniak, and I still believe you killed Dersh.”

  Krantz jabbed again, and this time Pike grabbed his finger so quickly that Harvey Krantz did not see him move. Krantz shrieked as he dropped to the ground, screaming, “You're under arrest, goddamnit! That's assaulting an officer! You're under arrest.”

  Pike and Watts and I stared at him there on the ground, red-faced and screaming, and then Watts helped him up, saying, “We're not going to arrest anyone, Harvey. Go back to the car and wait for me.”

  Krantz shook him off, and walked away without another word.

  I said, “Get him off the street, Watts. He came up here to murder Pike. He meant what he said.”

  Watts pursed his lips, watching until Krantz was gone, then considered Pike. “You could make a complaint, I guess. There's grounds.”

  Pike shook his head.

  I said, “That's it? We're just going to forget what happened here?”

  Watts put the frying pan face on me. “What happened, Cole? We came up to give you the word, we did.”

  “How'd you know we were here?”

  “We've been running taps twenty-four/seven on phones Pike's employees are known to use. The wire guys heard Pike's boy tell you about this place, and figured it out.”

  Watts glanced back to the road where Harvey Krantz was waiting in their car, alone.

  Watts handed back our guns, holding on to Pike's as Pike reached for it. “What Krantz said about hoping you'd give us an excuse, that's bullshit. He's just upset. I don't play it that way, and he wouldn't either. Bauman said you hadn't been in touch, so we figured if there was a shot at reaching you
up here, we should take it.”

  I said, “Sure, Watts.”

  “Screw you, Cole. That's the way it is.”

  “Sure.”

  Watts followed after Krantz, and pretty soon the police mounted their cars, and left great brown clouds of dust as they drove away. I guess Harvey Krantz hated Pike so much he had to believe Pike was guilty no matter what. I guess that kind of hate can make you do things you ordinarily wouldn't do.

  “Watts can say whatever he wants, but Krantz wanted it. You don't bring tactical officers to tell some guy he's off the hook. You don't even roll out. If Krantz didn't want it, he could've put the word through me and Charlie and the guys at your shop. You would've heard.”

  Pike nodded without comment, and I wondered if he even gave a damn. Maybe it was better not to.

  I said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Call Paulette.”

  “Does it bother you, what Krantz said about Wozniak? That you're still carrying the blame?”

  Pike shrugged, and this time I knew he didn't give a damn.

  “Let Krantz and everyone think what they want. What I think, and do, is more important.”

  Pike took a deep breath then, and cocked the dark glasses my way.

  “I missed you, Elvis.”

  That made me smile.

  “Yeah, Joseph, I missed you, too. It's good to have you back.”

  We shook hands then, and I watched him walk down to the Garcia bakery truck and drive away. I stood in the hot wind for a time, telling myself that it was over, that Pike was home, and safe, but even as I told myself these things, it was without a sense that any of it was finished, or resolved.

  We were different now. The world had changed.

  I wondered if our lives would ever be the same, or as good, and if we were less than we had been.

  The devils take their toll, even in this angel town.

  Maybe here most of all.

  I have lived in my house for many years, but it wasn't my house anymore. It wasn't the cozy A-frame that wrapped me in warm woods and copper sunset light, hanging there off the side of a mountain. It had become a great cavern that left me listening to echoes as I walked from room to room searching for something I could not find. Climbing to the loft took days. Going into the kitchen weeks. Funny, how the absence of a friend can do that. Funny, how it takes a woman three beats of a heart to walk out a door, but the man she's walking away from can't make that same trip in a lifetime.

  Guess that's why you're smiling, Cole. It's so damned funny.

  That night, I locked my door, and worked my way down the crooked mountain streets into Hollywood. It gets dark in the canyons first, shadows pooling in the deep cuts as the high ridges hide the sun. Here's a tip: If you leave the canyons you can find the light again, and get a second chance at the day. It doesn't last long, but nobody said second chances will wait for you.

  The Sunset Strip was a carnival of middle-aged hipsters rat-racing Porsches, and goateed Val-dudes smoking twenty-dollar Cubano Robustos, and a couple of million young women with flat bellies flashing Rodeo Drive navel rings. I didn't see any of it. Shriners from Des Moines were lined up outside House of Blues like catalog models for JCPenney. Yellow-haired kids clumped outside Johnny Depp's Viper Room, laughing with LAPD motorcycle cops about the latest acid casualty. Didn't see it; didn't hear it. Twilight faded to full-on night, and the night grew later. I drove all the way to the water, then north through the steep mountain passes of Malibu, then back along the Ventura Freeway, just another mass of speeding metal. I felt edgy and unsettled, and thought that maybe if I drove long enough I might find a solution.

  I love L.A.

  It's a great, sprawling, spread-to-hell city that protects us by its sheer size. Four hundred sixty-five square miles. Eleven million beating hearts in Los Angeles County, documented and not. Eleven million. What are the odds? The girl raped beneath the Hollywood sign isn't your sister, the boy backstroking in a red pool isn't your son, the splatter patterns on the ATM machine are sourceless urban art. We're safe that way. When it happens it's going to happen to someone else. Only thing is, when she walks out of your door, it isn't someone else. It's you.

  I let myself off the freeway at the top of the Santa Monica Mountains and turned east along Mulholland. It's quiet up there, and dark; a million miles from the city even though it lies in the city's heart. The dry air breezed over me like sheer silk, and the desert smells of eucalyptus and sage were strong. A black-tailed deer flashed through my headlights. Coyotes with ruby eyes watched me from the grass. I was tired, and thought I should go home because this was silly, all this aimless driving. Just go home and go to sleep and get on with my life. You can save the world tomorrow. Find all the answers you want tomorrow.

  After a time I pulled off the road, cut the engine, and stared at the lights that filled the valley floor. Two million people down there. Put them end to end and they would wrap around the moon. Red taillights lit the freeways like blood pumping through sluggish arteries. An LAPD helicopter orbited over Sherman Oaks, spotlighting something on the ground. Another opera I didn't want to be part of.

  I got out of my car and sat cross-legged on the hood. The barrel shape of an owl sat atop a power pole, watching me.

  The owl said, “Who?”

  You get that from owls.

  A month ago, I had almost been killed. My best friend and partner had almost died, too, and I'd spent every day since then thinking that he was gone. Today, he came very close to dying again. Samantha Dolan was dead, my girlfriend had walked out on me, and here I was sitting in the dark with an owl. The world had changed, all right. Some great large place inside me was empty, and I didn't know if I could fill it again. I was scared.

  The air was sultry, and felt good. When I first came here, I fell in love with this place. During the day, Los Angeles is a great playful puppy of a town, anxious to please and quick with a smile. At night, it becomes a treasure chest filled with magic and dreams. All you have to do is chase your dreams. All you need is the magic. All you have to do is survive, but it's that way anywhere. That's what I found here when I first came; that's what more and more people find here every day, always had and always would. It's why they come; that treasure chest of hope.

  I could make it right with Lucy. I could pull my life together again and fill that empty place.

  The owl said, “Who?”

  I said, “Me.”

  I climbed back in the car, but I didn't go home. I turned on the radio and made myself comfortable. I didn't need to go home anymore. I was already there.

  L.A. isn't the end; it's the beginning.

  So was I.

  If you enjoyed Robert Crais's L.A. Requiem,

  you won't want to miss his next novel,

  THE LAST DETECTIVE

  coming from Ballantine Books in April 2004.

  Look for it at your favorite bookseller's.

  And, in the interim, turn the page

  for an exciting preview.

  The Church of Pike

  Angoon, Alaska

  The cold Alaskan water pulled at the fishing boats that lined the dock, the boats straining against their moorings to run free with the tide. The water here in the small harbor at Angoon, a fishing village on the western shore of Admiralty Island off southeast Alaska, was steel-black beneath the clouds and dimpled by rain, but was clear even with that, a window beneath the weathered pilings to a world of sunburst starfish as wide as garbage cans, jellyfish the size of basketballs, and barnacles as heavy as a longshoreman's fist. Alaska was like that; so vigorous with life that it could fill a man and lift him and maybe even bring him back from the dead.

  A Tlingit Indian named Elliot MacArthur watched as Joe Pike stowed his duffel in a fourteen-foot fiberglass skiff. Pike had rented the skiff from MacArthur, who now nervously toed Pike's rifle case.

  “You didn't tell me you were goin' after those bears up there. It ain't so smart goin' in those woods by yourself. I don
't wanna lose my boat.”

  Pike secured his duffel between the skiff's bench seats, then took hold of the gun case. Pike's weapon of choice that day was a stainless-steel Remington Model 700 chambered in .375 Holland & Holland Magnum. It was a powerful gun, built heavy to dampen the .375's hard recoil. Pike lifted the case with his bad arm, but the arm failed with a sharp pain that left his shoulder burning. He shifted its weight to his good arm.

  MacArthur didn't like this business with the arm.

  “Now you listen. Goin' after that bear with a bad arm ain't the brightest idea, either. You're gonna have my boat, and you're gonna be alone, and that's a big bear up there. Has to be big, what he did to those people.”

  Pike strapped the rifle case across the duffel, then checked the fuel. It was going to be a long trip, getting from Angoon up to Chaik Bay where the killings had taken place.

  “You better be thinkin' about this. Don't matter what kinda bounty the families put up, it ain't worth gettin' killed for.”

  “I won't lose your boat.”

  MacArthur wasn't sure if Pike had insulted him or not.

  Pike finished with his gear, then stepped back onto the dock. He took ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and held out the money.

  “Here. Now you won't have to worry about it.”

  MacArthur looked embarrassed and put his hands in his pocket.

  “Let's just forget it. You rented it, it's yours. You're makin' me feel like a miser and I don't appreciate that.”

  Pike put the money away and stepped down into the skiff, keeping his weight low. He cast off the lines.

  “You bank the boat when you get up Chaik, use that orange tape to flag a tree so I can find ya if I have to come looking.”

  Pike nodded.

  “Anyone you want me to call, you know, if you need me to call someone?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Pike nosed away from the dock without answering and set off for deeper water, holding his bad arm close.

  The light rain became fat drops, then a low foggy mist. Pike zipped his parka. A family of seals watched him pass from their perch on a promontory of rocks. Humpback whales spouted further out in the channel, one great tail tipping into the sky as a whale sounded, Pike's only thought to wonder at the perfect quiet that waited in the waters below.