The Last Detective

by Robert Crais

  “You going to let go?”

  DeNice said, “You better let go, you motherfucker!”

  I said, “It's okay now, Joe. Let him go.”

  Pike said, “Whatever.”

  DeNice could have played it smart, but didn't. When Pike released him, DeNice spun and threw a hard straight punch. He moved a lot faster than a thick man should and used his legs with his elbow tight to his body. DeNice had probably surprised a lot of men with his speed, which is why he thought he could do it. Pike slipped the punch, trapped DeNice's arm in a joint lock, and hooked DeNice's legs from under him in the same moment. DeNice hit the sidewalk flat on his back. His head bounced on the concrete.

  Richard called from the limo.

  “Goddamnit, Lee!”

  Myers checked DeNice's eyes. They were glassy. He pulled DeNice to his feet and pushed him toward the Marquis. Fontenot was already behind the wheel, holding a bloody handkerchief to his face.

  Myers considered Pike for a moment, then me.

  “They're just cops.”

  He joined Richard at the limo, and then both cars drove away.

  When I turned to Joe, I saw a dark glimmer at the edge of his lip.

  “Hey. What's that?”

  I looked more closely. A red pearl colored the corner of his mouth.

  “You're bleeding. Did that guy tag you?”

  Pike never got tagged. Pike was way too fast ever to get tagged. He touched away the blood, then climbed into my car.

  “Tell me about Ben.”

  Boy Meets Queen

  Help!”

  Ben pressed his ear to a tiny hole cut into the top of the box, but all he heard was a faraway shush like when you hold a seashell to your ear.

  He cupped his mouth to the hole.

  “Can anyone hear me?”

  No one answered.

  A light had appeared over Ben's head that morning, shining like a faraway star. An air hole had been cut into the box. Ben put his eye to the hole, and saw a tiny disk of blue at the end of a tube.

  “I'm down here! Help me! Help!”

  No one answered.

  “HELP!”

  Ben had ripped the tape from his wrists and legs, then freaked out during the night: He kicked the walls like a baby having a tantrum, and tried to push off the top by getting on all fours. He thrashed around like a worm on a hot sidewalk because he thought that bugs were eating him alive. Ben was absolutely and completely certain that Mike and Eric and the African had been T-boned by a speeding bus on their way to the In-N-Out Burger. They had been crushed to red goo and bone chips, and now no one knew that he was trapped in this awful box. He would starve to death and die of thirst and end up looking like something on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

  Ben lost track of time and drifted at the edges of sleep. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep.

  “HELPI'MDOWNHERE!PLEASELETMEOUT!”

  No one answered.

  “MA-MAAAAAAAAA!”

  Something kicked his foot and he jumped as if ten thousand volts had amped through his body.

  “Jesus, kid! Stop whining!”

  The Queen of Blame leaned on her elbow at the far end of the box: a beautiful young woman with silky black hair, long golden legs, and voluptuous breasts spilling out of a tiny halter. She didn't look happy.

  Ben shrieked, and the Queen plugged her ears.

  “Christ, you're loud.”

  “You're not real! You're only a game!”

  “Then this won't hurt.”

  She twisted his foot. Hard.

  “Ow!”

  Ben scrambled backwards, slipping and sliding with no place to go. She couldn't be real! He was trapped in a nightmare!

  The Queen grinned nastily, then touched him with the toe of a gleaming vinyl boot.

  “You don't think I'm real, big guy? Go ahead. Feel it.”

  “No!”

  She arched her eyebrows knowingly and stroked her boot along his leg.

  “You know how many boys wanna touch that boot? Feel it. See if I'm real.”

  Ben reached out with a finger. The boot was as slick as a polished car and as solid as the box around him. Her toes flexed. Ben jerked back his hand.

  The Queen laughed.

  “You wouldn't last two seconds against Modus!”

  “I'm only ten! I'm scared and I want to go home!”

  The Queen examined her nails as if she was bored. Each nail was a glistening razor-sharp emerald.

  “So go. You can leave any time you want.”

  “I've been trying to go. We're trapped!”

  The Queen raised her eyebrows again.

  “Are we?”

  She watched him without expression, tracing her nails over a belly that was as flat as tiles on a floor. Her nails were so sharp that they scratched her skin.

  “You can leave any time you want.”

  Ben thought she was teasing him, and his eyes welled with tears.

  “That isn't funny! I've been calling for help all night and no one can hear me!”

  The Queen's beautiful face grew fierce. Her eyes blazed like deranged yellow orbs and her hand raked the air like a claw.

  “Claw your way out, you idiot! See how SHARP!”

  Ben cowered back, terrified.

  “Get away from me!”

  She leaned closer, fingers weaving like snakes. Her nails were glittering knives.

  “FEEL THE SHARP POINTS! FEEL HOW THEY CUT!”

  “Go away!”

  She lunged at him.

  Ben threw his arms over his head. He screamed as the razor-sharp points dug into his leg.

  Then he woke up.

  Ben found himself curled into a ball, cowering. He blinked into the darkness, listening. The box was silent and empty. He was alone. It had all been a nightmare, except that Ben could still feel the sharp pain of her nails in his thigh.

  He rolled onto his side, and the sharp thing bit deeper.

  “Ouch!”

  He felt to see what was sticking him. Elvis Cole's Silver Star was in his pocket. He took it out, and traced the medal's five points with his fingers. They were hard and sharp, just like a knife. He pressed a point into the plastic overhead, then sawed the medal back and forth. He felt the plastic with his fingers. A thin line was scribed in his sky.

  Ben worked the medal back and forth some more, and the line grew deeper. He pushed faster and harder, his arms pumping like pistons. Tiny bits of plastic fell through the darkness like rain.

  7

  The Operator

  Michael Fallon was naked except for faded blue shorts. With the windows covered and the central air off so that the neighbors wouldn't hear it running, the house felt like an oven. Fallon didn't mind. He had been in plenty of Third World shitholes where heat like this was a breath of cool air.

  Schilling and Ibo had gone out to steal a car, so Fallon stripped down to exercise. He tried to work out every day, because if your edge wasn't clean the other guy had you, and nobody had Mike Fallon.

  He did two hundred push-ups, two hundred crunches, two hundred leg lifts, and two hundred back bends without pausing between sets, repeated the cycle twice more, then triple-timed in place for twenty minutes, bringing his knees high to his chest. Sweat glazed his skin like icing and splattered the floor like rain, but it wasn't much of a workout; Fallon regularly ran ten miles with a sixty-pound ruck.

  Fallon was toweling off the sweat when the garage door rumbled open. That would be Schilling and Ibo, but he picked up his .45 just in case.

  They came through the kitchen with two bags from Ralphs, Schilling calling like some stiff who was getting home in the 'burbs.

  “Mike? Yo, Mike?”

  Fallon stepped out behind them. He tapped Schilling with the gun.

  Schilling jumped like a bitch.

  “Jesus, fuck! You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Pay more attention next time. If I was the wrong guy, you wouldn't have a next time.”

  “Whatev
er.”

  Schilling and Ibo put down the bags, Schilling bitching because Fallon had gotten the drop on him. Ibo tossed a green apple to Fallon, then took a bottle of Orangina for himself. It had to be orange—orange juice, orange soda, Orangina; Ibo wouldn't drink anything else. Fallon needled Schilling about getting the drop, but they both knew that Eric was good. In fact, Eric was excellent. Fallon just happened to be better.

  Fallon said, “You get the car okay?”

  “Mazi got it. We went down to Inglewood. Half the rides down there are rolling stolen, anyway; the cops won't pay attention even if the owner calls it in.”

  Ibo said, “Eets good cahr. Nyce seets.”

  Schilling took two cell phones from a bag and tossed them to Fallon, one, two, a Nokia and a Motorola. They needed the car and the phones for what they had planned.

  Fallon watched for a moment as they put out the food, then said, “Listen up.”

  Schilling and Ibo looked over. They had been planning this for a long time, but now they were getting close to the edge. It would be go or no-go in just a few hours.

  “Once we double-cross this guy, there's no going back. Are we all good on this?”

  Schilling said, “Hell, yes. I want the money. So does Mazi. Dude, this op is nothing compared to that other shit; fuck what some asshole thinks.”

  Ibo rapped fists with Schilling, the two of them grinning. Fallon knew how they would answer, but he was glad he had asked. They were in it for the money, like professionals.

  “Hoo.”

  Schilling and Ibo answered, “Hoo.”

  Fallon dropped to the floor to pull on his socks and shoes. He wanted a shower, but the shower could wait.

  “I'm gonna go find an AO. Stow the chow, then check the kid. Make sure he's tight.”

  The AO was the location they would secure and maintain as the area of operation for the double-cross.

  “He's tight. He's under three feet of dirt.”

  “Check him anyway, Eric. I'll be back after dark, then we can pull him up to make the call. We'll probably have to put him on the phone to convince these guys.”

  Fallon slipped his gun into his pants, then started for the garage. Schilling called after him.

  “Yo. What are we going to do with the kid if we don't get the money?”

  Fallon didn't even look back or break stride.

  “Put him back in the box and plug up the hole.”

  8

  time missing: 18 hours, 38 minutes

  Laurence Sobek murdered seven people. Joe Pike was supposed to be the eighth. They were seven innocent human beings, but Sobek blamed them for putting a pedophile named Leonard DeVille into prison for the rape and sodomy of a five-year-old girl named Ramona Ann Escobar. As often happens to men with “short eyes,” DeVille was murdered by inmates. All of that had happened fifteen years ago. Joe Pike, who was then with LAPD, had been the arresting officer, and Sobek's seven victims had been witnesses for the prosecution. Sobek shot Pike twice before Pike put him down, and Pike almost died. His recovery had been slow, and sometimes I doubted it. I guess Pike doubted it, too, but with Pike you never know. The Sphinx is a chatterbox compared to Pike.

  I told him about Ben and the call as we drove to my house.

  Pike said, “The man on the phone didn't make any demands?”

  “He told me it was payback. That's all he said. Just that it was payback for what happened in Vietnam.”

  “You think he's for real?”

  “I don't know.”

  Pike grunted. He knew what happened to me that day in Vietnam. He was the only person I'd told about that day outside of Army personnel and the families of the other four men. Maybe all of us needed to play the Sphinx, time to time.

  When we reached my house, a pale blue SID van was parked across my drive, where Starkey was helping a tall, gangly criminalist named John Chen unload his equipment. Gittamon was changing shoes in the backseat of his car. Richard and his people had gathered at the side of my house with their jackets off and sleeves rolled. A nasty purple bruise had risen under Fontenot's eye. DeNice openly glared at us.

  Pike and I parked off the road past my house, then walked back to the van. Starkey shot a resentful glance at Gittamon and lowered her voice. She was still smoking.

  “You see all these people? Gittamon is letting them come down the hill.”

  “This is my partner, Joe Pike. He's coming, too.”

  “Jesus, Cole, this is a fuckin' crime scene, not a safari.”

  John Chen emerged from the van with a day pack and an evidence kit like a large metal tackle box. He bobbed his head when he saw us.

  “Hey, I know these guys. Hi, Elvis. Hiya, Joe. We worked together on the Sobek thing.”

  Starkey sucked at her cigarette, then squinted at Pike.

  “So you're the one. I heard Sobek put two in your guts and fucked you up pretty bad.”

  Starkey wasn't long on sensitivity. She blew out a huge bloom of smoke, and Pike moved to stand with Chen. Upwind.

  Myers walked over and asked Starkey for the list of names.

  She said, “I phoned them in while I was waiting. Any luck, we'll hear back later today.”

  “Cole said I could have the list. We'll run our own check.”

  Starkey frowned past her cigarette at me, then took out the list. She gave it to me. I handed it to Myers.

  He said, “What are we waiting for?”

  Starkey glanced at Gittamon, clearly irritated that he was taking so long, and called out to prod him.

  “Any time, Sergeant.”

  “Almost ready.”

  He was red-faced from bending over. Myers went back to the others, and Starkey had more of her cigarette.

  “Prick.”

  The black cat who shares the house with me came around the corner. He's old and scruffy and carries his head cocked to the side from when he was shot with a .22. He probably came because he smelled Pike, but when he saw other people standing in front of the house, he arched his back and growled. Even DeNice looked over.

  Starkey said, “What's wrong with that thing?”

  “He doesn't like people. Don't take it personally. He doesn't like anyone except for me and Joe.”

  “Maybe he'll like this.”

  Starkey flicked her cigarette at him. It hit the ground in a shower of sparks.

  I said, “Jesus, Starkey, are you nuts?”

  The cat didn't run away like most cats would. Instead, his fur stood like a fright mask and he growled even louder. He stalked toward her sideways.

  Starkey said, “Holy Christ, look at that bastard.”

  Pike went over to the cat and stroked its fur. The cat flopped onto its side and rolled onto its back. That cat worships Joe Pike. Starkey scowled at them like the whole thing was distasteful.

  “I hate cats.”

  Gittamon finished with his shoes and climbed out of his car.

  “All right, Carol. Let's see what you found. John, are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Chenier?”

  Starkey said, “Go first, Cole. Take us down.”

  Pike and I went over the edge first, paralleling Ben's path like I did that morning. Starkey kept up better this time even though she helped Chen with his equipment, but Gittamon and DeNice had trouble with the footing. Myers moved as if he was annoyed with having to wait for the others.

  We passed through the walnut trees, then circled the rise to come out above the area where I found the Game Freak. The sprigs of rosemary that Starkey used to mark the footprints stood in the soil like miniature headstones. I pointed out where Ben's footprints ended, then showed them the partial. I squatted at its heel again, and showed them how it was headed toward Ben. Chen opened his evidence kit, and marked the location with an orange flag. Pike bent next to me to study the partial, then moved downhill without a word.

  Starkey said, “Hey, be careful. We don't want to disturb anything.”

  Gittamon and Richard cr
owded between Chen and Starkey to see the print, with DeNice and Fontenot behind them. Myers considered the print without expression.

  “You haven't found any other evidence?”

  Starkey said, “Not yet.”

  Richard stared at the partial print, so still that he might have been numb. He touched the dry soil beside it, then glanced around at the rosemary and manzanita brush as if to fix the place in his mind.

  “Is this where my son was taken, Cole? Is this where you lost him?”

  I didn't answer. I stared at the print, and once more followed its line toward Ben. I had searched the ground between the partial and the terminus of Ben's prints at least three times. The distance between them was at least ten feet. The ground between them was soft and dusty, and should have been covered with prints.

  I pointed out what I saw, talking more to myself than the others.

  “Ben was over there, facing away from us, playing the Game Freak.”

  Ben Chenier's ghost walked past on the path, its feet leaving Ben's prints. His ghost was hunched over the Game Freak, which was loud with shrieks and the splat of wet blows. A darker ghost stepped through me, moving toward him. Its right foot kissed the impression into the dust in front of me.

  “Ben didn't know he was here until he reached this spot. Then maybe Ben heard something or turned for no reason, I don't know which, but the man was scared that Ben would see him and call out.”

  The dark ghost suddenly accelerated toward Ben, pushing off in the soft soil and leaving the partial print. I watched it happen.

  “Ben still didn't know what was happening, not really, or we'd see scuffs in his footprints. Ben had his back turned. He grabbed Ben from behind and lifted him off his feet. He covered Ben's mouth so he couldn't scream.”

  The dark ghost carried a struggling boy into the brush. When the ghosts faded, I was shaking.

  “That's what happened.”

  Myers was staring at me. So were Starkey and Chen. Myers shook his head, but I couldn't read his expression.

  “So where are his other prints?”

  “That's how good he was, Myers. He didn't leave other prints. This one was a mistake.”

  Richard shook his head, disgusted, then got up. Myers got up with him.