by Robert Crais
The guard who had taken her stepped in, looked at Jack, and motioned him over.
“Jack Berman?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
As Jack passed through the crowd, Krista blocked his path for one second with her back to the guard, just long enough to whisper.
“Remember what I told you.”
Then she moved aside and sat with the Guatemalans as Jack followed the guard, trying hard to remember what Krista had told him.
The man led him to the big room off the entry of the house near the kitchen. Once upon a time this had been a living room, but now it was a box with the doors and windows covered by heavy sheets of plywood. Jack caught a strong smell of pizza that left him feeling hungry.
The man pointed at a spot on the floor near the entry, and told Jack to sit. The tough Korean kid was with two guards in the far corner, and another guard was speaking with a Latin woman in the opposite corner. The Korean glanced at Jack, then glared at his guard.
“My name is Samuel Rojas. You can call me Sam.”
Jack nodded, but said nothing. Rojas had a spiral notebook and a pen.
“There was a silver Mustang. Was this your car?”
“Yeah. Where is it?”
“You’re a U.S. citizen?”
“Yeah. What did you do with my car?”
“How do you know Krista?”
“I don’t. I know her mom. She and my mom are friends. What the fuck is going on here? Who are you?”
“What’s your mother’s name and phone number? We’d like to call her.”
“Good luck. She’s in China.”
Rojas looked doubtful.
“She lives in China?”
“A tour. She went with our church group. Why are you asking this stuff?”
“Your father?”
“He died last year. Why are we in this boarded-up house?”
While they spoke, a tall man with a ponytail and a shorter man with bad teeth emerged from the hall and stopped in the entry. They spoke softly in Spanish, but the tall man didn’t look Latin.
“You have brothers or sisters?”
“I’m it.”
“When will your mother be back?”
“A couple of weeks. Two.”
Rojas studied Jack, and Jack wondered what he was thinking. Then Rojas glanced in his notebook, turned a page, and looked up.
“The Mustang is a nice vehicle. How did you pay for it?”
“My mom bought it for me. Why does this matter? Why are we talking about this?”
“You had no driver’s license. Don’t you have a driver’s license?”
“I left it in the car.”
Rojas shook his head.
“There was nothing in the car.”
“Dude, I left it in the car with my wallet. My wallet, my credit card, my money. What happened to that stuff?”
Rojas told Jack to stay where he was, and joined the tall man and the man with bad teeth. Jack did not understand what they were saying, but the tall man frowned at Jack, and seemed to do most of the talking. Rojas did most of the nodding, as if he was receiving instructions.
Jack was watching them when the tough Korean shouted, his words exploding like rapid-fire gunshots. The Korean was on his feet when Jack turned. Two guards hit him with their shoulders down, driving him into the corner. A third guard joined in, jabbing a shock prod into the Korean’s ribs that crackled so loud when the current discharged, Jack heard it across the room. A second shock prod appeared, and the third guard swung a club. The Korean went down, but the club kept falling and the shock prods popped and snapped as the Korean pulled himself into a ball. The kicks and punches and electric snapping went on forever, until Jack lurched to his feet.
“Stop it! He’s down!”
Jack took a step, but something hit him hard from behind, and staggered him forward. An arm wrapped his throat and lifted him off his feet.
“You want some?”
He crashed belly down on the floor. The man with the bad teeth was on top of him, raspy voice in Jack’s ear.
“You want it like him? I got some, you want it.”
In that moment, Jack saw the Korean. They were both belly down on the carpet. The Korean was looking at him. The three men on his back were tying his hands behind his back.
The man with bad teeth punched Jack in the side, the back, and the back of his head, and Jack clenched his eyes. He was jerked to his feet, spun around, and the man slapped him. Jack tried to cover his face, but the man slapped him again, then pushed down his hands.
“You want me to tie your hands? I tie your hands, you’ll shit in your pants. You want that?”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“No, sir.”
“You gonna give me trouble?”
“No, no trouble.”
The man held Jack by the back of his neck with a grip like pliers. He pushed Jack out of the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He stopped in the open doorway, holding Jack as he stared at Krista. He was very close. His teeth were so jagged and crooked they looked like the teeth carved in a pumpkin. He looked from Krista to Jack, then leaned so close the warmth of his breath tickled Jack’s ear.
“I got my eye on her. You give me bullshit again, we see what happens, huh?”
The man shoved Jack hard into the room, then slammed the door. The lock bolt thudding home sounded like a headsman’s ax hitting the block.
Jack tried to make it to the bucket before he threw up, but didn’t.
Elvis Cole:
four days before he is taken
16.
The police stayed with the Sanchez brothers as the day settled into darkness, and the cooling air grew silky. I bought a Diet Coke and two chicken tacos while I waited. The tacos were Mexico City style. Two small corn tortillas wrapped around chicken, onions, and cilantro, with a generous helping of fresh jalapeño and salty green tomatillo sauce. No beans or cheese. Beans and cheese were for sissies. The tacos were hot and juicy, and the heat increased as I ate. So good I ordered two more. Delicious.
I saw movement in the office from time to time, but my angle was bad to see more. Eighteen minutes after I ate the last taco, the red-haired cop came out to their car. He took a briefcase from the back seat, took out a folder, then put the briefcase back. He started back to the office, but abruptly stopped and studied the street as if he sensed someone watching. I stepped farther behind the taco stand, watching him through the sliver of space between the stand and a telephone pole.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I did not move.
He did a slow three-sixty until his eyes settled on the taco stand. A middle-aged Latina was ordering food. The red-haired cop was forty yards away, but I still saw the lines that trapped his eyes like spiderwebs.
The phone buzzed like an insistent alarm clock. I worried the woman would hear it, and turn from the window to look. I covered the phone with my hand, and waited.
He stared at the stand for eight or ten years, then abruptly returned to the office.
I checked the call, and found a message from Carol Starkey.
“Dude. What the fuck? Call me.”
Starkey talks that way.
I called her back.
“It’s me.”
“Are you trying to fuck me, you moron?”
She didn’t sound happy.
“What’s up?”
“I had the Feds in here, man. ICE. The Immigration police? They pinged my search on your boy, Sanchez. They wanted to know my fucking interest.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Oh, are we worried now? Are we scared I ratted you out?”
“I know you wouldn’t rat me out, Starkey. What’s the fallout on you? What did you tell them?”
“The name came up in a Green Light hit I’m working in Hollywood. Told’m I ran the name for due diligence, but my Rudy Sanchez lives in Venice, not Coachella. He wasn’t my guy.”
Green Li
ght hit meant Mexican Mafia. La Eme. Dropping their name lent credibility to her search for a Spanish surname.
“Good dodge.”
“Did you know he was a coyote?”
“Yeah.”
“You asshole.”
“I wanted to find him, Starkey. What difference is it the kind of criminal he is?”
“Yeah, well, ICE was all over this fuckin’ criminal. He was involved with the Sinaloa cartel. Is there anything else you should tell me?”
“Who killed him?”
“If they know, they didn’t tell me. You got an idea?”
“Did they mention Korea or gangsters from Korea?”
“What are we talkin’ about here, the U fuckin’ N? Do you know something about this?”
“Not yet. I gotta go, Starkey. Thanks.”
“Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Gotta go.”
The three officers came out to their car as I put away the phone. I thought they would bring one or more of the brothers in handcuffs, but the brothers stayed in the office. Twelve minutes later, the youngest brother, James, came out, mounted a motorcycle parked beside the office, and buzzed through the gate. Eight minutes later, Eddie and Rudy Junior came out together, but went to separate cars. Eddie drove away first. Rudy J eased through the gate, but stopped in the street, pulled the gate closed, and locked it with a padlock. By the time he locked the gate and got back into his car, I pulled around the side of the taco stand, and turned out behind him.
Three-quarters of a mile later, Rudy Sanchez Junior pulled into the Ralphs where Pike had waited for me. Coincidence.
He was out of his car and heading inside when I pulled up alongside him.
“Get in.”
He started around me, so I tapped the gas, cutting him off.
“I’ll be here when you come out, Rudy. Get in.”
“I’m not getting in there with you.”
“All we’re going to do is talk.”
He started the other way, but I squeaked the rear end, cutting him off again.
“Talk, Rudy. I’m not going to lump up your face or arrest you. I might be able to help.”
He studied me.
“You’re not a federal agent?”
“I’m looking for Krista Morales.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“That’s okay. It’s enough that I know. C’mon. Get in the car.”
Rudy stared at me for five heartbeats, then walked around the front of my car and got in. I drove to the far side of the Ralphs, and parked in a pool of shadow. He sat quietly, staring straight ahead as if an enormous weight was crushing him and he didn’t know how to stop it.
“Are you and your brothers part of this?”
He shook his head.
“No. The old man kept us out. It was his thing, not ours. He didn’t want us involved.”
“Bringing people north.”
“Yeah. North. He started when he was a kid, bringing up his cousins. He was born here. They weren’t. I guess he liked doing it.”
“Who were the Korean guys?”
“People with guns.”
“Gangsters?”
“Jesus, look at my face. I don’t know who they are. I never saw those guys before a few days ago.”
“Did they kill your father?”
“Not them. They paid to have people brought up, and their people didn’t get here. Two hundred thousand dollars. Two hundred. Now they want their money or their people, and they sure as hell aren’t paying a ransom to get them.”
I flashed on Nita Morales, getting the ransom demand.
“The people your father brought up that night were kidnapped?”
“That’s what bajadores do. They steal people, then milk their families. The old man was hijacked.”
“How do you know a bajadore took them?”
“Some cartel assholes came to see us. They told us a bajadore ripped off the pollos.”
The feds had told Starkey Rudy J’s father was involved with the Sinaloa cartel.
“He worked for Sinaloa?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I know stuff. I’m a swami.”
“Not by choice, man. Those Sinaloa pricks stole his business.”
This fit with what Thomas Locano had told me.
“So he wasn’t a freelance coyote? The Koreans gave their money to the Sinaloas?”
“Hell, yeah. Shit, we didn’t even know the old man went out that night. Then some kids found him in the lake. That’s when Spurlow and Lange came to see us. That’s how we found out. Then the Sinaloas came around and told us the bajadore got him—some guy called the Syrian.”
Starkey was right. It was beginning to sound like the United Nations.
“A Syrian from Syria?”
Rudy J rubbed his face with both hands.
“Who the fuck knows? They made it sound like this guy rips them off all the time. Mostly, they told us they’d kill us if we talked to the police.”
“And let you hang with the Koreans?”
Rudy J slumped, and shook his head.
“They said they’d take care of it, but you saw. I think Sinaloa is scared of those guys, but they ain’t giving out refunds.”
“So the Koreans are looking to you.”
Rudy blinked hard, and I knew he was blinking back tears. He suddenly shouted.
“FUCK!”
I watched him there in the shadows, and believed him. Rudy J and his brothers had not known what their father was doing that night, were not part of his father’s business, but were now held hostage by the events of that night like Nita and Krista Morales.
I said, “You know the old crash site where a drug runner’s plane went down, south of here in the desert?”
Rudy J slowly looked at me.
“I used to go out there when I was a kid. All of us did.”
“Did your father use it as a transfer point?”
Rudy J frowned, but I could see he was thinking.
“Sometimes. Coyotes and smugglers used that old wreck all the time, then no one used it for years. I remember him saying, man, why waste a good spot?”
“What about the night he was killed?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like he told us his routes or anything, but he liked that spot. He said it was easy to find.”
Maybe too easy.
I could see Rudy Senior’s big truck lumbering out of the desert, and a man called the Syrian moving in fast to hijack his human cargo. It was easy to see Krista and Jack being caught in the Syrian’s net.
“Maybe we can help each other, Rudy. The Sinaloas who came to see you, can you reach them if you have to?”
“You’re not a fed?”
“Would it matter if I were?”
He studied me a moment longer, then turned away as if he was embarrassed to admit the truth.
“Not at this point. No. I just want to get out of this nightmare.”
“If I need to talk to them, will you set it up?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll set it up. They gave me a number.”
I brought him back to his car, dropped him off, then drove home to the city. Everyone had a story, and the stories were fitting together, but I needed more, and I wanted it fast.
Krista and Jack had been taken. They had been taken by a bajadore the Sinaloa cartel called the Syrian. I had done good work that day.
I gazed into the black landscape beyond the freeway lights, and knew Krista and Jack were out in the darkness. If I found the Syrian, I would find them.
I drove with the windows down, and the clean roaring wind, until I was free of the desert, and called Joe Pike.
17.
The silky night air was cool as I drove west toward Los Angeles. The wind’s heavy scream carved a peaceful place in the world when Joe answered my call.
“You on the hat?”
“The hat joined up with the Beemer, and followed it to a soju bar on Vermont north of Olympic. The hat and the s
uits went in, so I’m watching the bar.”
Soju was a Korean liquor.
“Is that in Koreatown?”
“Yes. The Blue Raccoon.”
I jotted the name.
“What are they doing?”
“Unknown. They’re inside, I’m a block off. The bar’s in a two-story strip mall. A barbeque place. Noraebang studios. A couple of businesses. Valet. Upscale place.”
I sketched out what I had learned from Rudy J about the Koreans and Sinaloas, and how the brothers were caught in the cross fire.
Pike said, “Is he telling the truth?”
“I think so, yes. The police are on them, the Koreans are jamming them for the two hundred thousand, and the Sinaloas are letting them hang. That can be good for us. If the Sinaloas told the truth about this guy they call the Syrian, it’s possible the Syrian scooped up Krista and Berman along with the hijack. Rudy confirmed his father sometimes used the crash site as a transfer point.”
Pike grunted.
“Would the Syrian take them south?”
If they were south of the border, it would be more difficult to find them and reach them.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the Syrian, and neither do the brothers. All they know is what the Sinaloas told them.”
“Can you find out?”
“I’m on it. I’m calling Locano as soon as we hang up. If he can’t help, we’ll find another way. If we have to, we’ll go straight to the Sinaloas.”
Pike grunted again, and this time I knew he liked it. Pike was a straight-ahead person.
I said, “We need intel on the Koreans, too. Can you get the tags off the Subaru and the Beemer?”
“Stand by.”
Pike recited the two tags as I copied them.
“How long can you stay with these guys?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Stay with the Beemer. He goes home, get the address.”
Pike hung up without another word, and I called Thomas Locano. It was after office hours, but I called his office first, and left a long, meandering message. I wanted to give him time to pick up in case he was working late, but he didn’t. I looked up his unlisted home number, and that’s where I reached him.