The Sentry

by Robert Crais

  He took the stairs three at a time to the second floor, flowing through a large office, an enormous master bedroom, and the master bath as smoothly as if he were liquid.

  He went through the entire house in less than sixty seconds, and never once stopped moving until he knew there were no bodies. Wilson and Dru had not been murdered here. Their dead bodies were not waiting here.

  Pike came out of the master bedroom and paused for the first time on the second-floor landing. Only now, for the first time, the outside world slowly found its way in. Pike felt himself sway, just a little, as if from a tiny temblor. A helicopter passed nearby. He caught the scent of lilacs, and knew the scent was Dru’s.

  Pike left the house as he entered, and moved quickly back to his Jeep. He saw Reuben Mendoza, and the heads in Wilson Smith’s shop. He saw two men opening Wilson’s gate, one with a cast on his arm. He saw Miguel Azzara with his brilliant male-model smile, saying it would never happen again.

  Hello, Reuben.

  Hello, Miguel.

  I am here.

  12

  Pike cruised past the Our Way Body Mods shop, turned at the next block, then circled the block and pulled into a loading zone on the opposite side of the street. Their corner location on the busy street made reconnoitering easy.

  Pike wanted Gomer or Mendoza, but they were not around. Neither was Michael Azzara or his shiny new Prius, but the maroon Monte Carlo was parked at the curb outside the fence.

  Pike studied the number and locations of the people, the position of the vehicles in the parking lot, and everything surrounding the building. Something about the body shop bothered him.

  Pike counted one man in the service bays and two in the parking lot by a 1969 candy-gold SS396. The man in the service bay was fitting a fender onto a car, but having a difficult time. None of them were familiar, but the men by the 396 drew Pike’s attention. One was a younger man in grease-stained work clothes who was showing the other man something under the hood. The other man was duded up in lizard-skin cowboy boots, an immaculate white Stetson, and a pink-and-white cowboy shirt under a suede sport coat. A Western belt with an enormous brass buckle held up jeans sporting a razor crease. A few minutes later, the cowboy had seen enough. He walked over to the service bays, said something to the man with the fender, and that’s when a man Pike recognized from the Monte Carlo appeared. He was the man who had pointed his gun hand at Pike; the man who lifted Mendoza off his feet to welcome him home. The two men shook hands, then the cowboy walked through the main gate to an anonymous Buick and drove away.

  Watching the cowboy leave, Pike understood what had been troubling him. Yesterday, a dozen men were present and the yard was busy. Today, only three men remained, leaving the body shop deserted. Pike found this curious, but it would also make his job easier.

  Pike circled the block again, but this time he parked on a residential street behind the body shop. He stripped off his sweatshirt, then strapped into a lightweight ballistic vest. He cinched the Velcro tight, pulled the sweatshirt back on, and reset his holster. When he was good to go, he let himself out of the Jeep and approached the body shop from the rear.

  The man from the Monte Carlo had disappeared, but Pike saw the yard man helping his co-worker with the fender in the far bay. Pike did not care about them. He wanted Mendoza’s friend.

  Pike stepped into the first bay and spotted the man from the Monte Carlo in an office at the rear of the building. He was in front of a television with his back to the door. The Dodgers were playing a day game. Pike checked to see that the other two men were still struggling with the fender, then slipped toward the office as silently as a fish gliding through water.

  On TV, Vin Scully called the play as the Dodgers took a 2-0 lead in the first off a two-run homer by David Snell. The man watching pumped his fist and shouted to himself.

  “Thass what I’m talking about! Show them bitches how we do it out here!”

  Pike hooked an arm around the man’s neck, lifted his feet from the floor, and closed his carotid artery. This shut off the blood to his brain. The man struggled hard for the first few seconds, but sagged as he lost consciousness. Pike held him until the man went limp, then lowered him and tied his wrists behind his back with a plasticuff. Pike had made dozens of high-speed entries in different parts of the world, usually into tear-gassed rooms where armed hostiles hid behind hostages, desperate to kill him. His moves now were practiced and efficient.

  Out in the far service bay, the two men were still busy with the fender when Pike left the office. They were fitting the driver’s side front fender in place, one man bolting the front, the other the back. Pike angled to their midpoint blind spot, and drew his .357 as he closed. Behind him, Vin Scully filled the silence, saying what a fine acquisition Snell had been from the Kansas City Royals.

  Pike hit the first man with the pistol above the right ear, then pivoted to meet the second man, thumbing the hammer to let the man hear the pistol cock.

  The man stared, mouth open but soundless.

  Pike tipped the muzzle toward the floor.

  “Down. Hands behind your head.”

  The man did it immediately.

  Pike tied off both men at their ankles and wrists, then whispered to the man who was still awake.

  “Man in the office. What’s his name?”

  “Hector Perra.”

  “Close your eyes. Make a sound, I’ll kill you.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Hector was on his feet when Pike returned to the office. He was spinning in a circle like a dog chasing its tail, trying to see his wrists. Then he saw Pike, lowered his head, and charged.

  Pike guided him headfirst into the door frame, jerked him upright, then snapped a backfist onto the bridge of his nose. Hector’s eyes fogged, but Pike held him up.

  “Look at me. Focus.”

  Hector’s eyes cleared.

  Pike made his hand like a gun with his thumb up and index finger out, and pointed at Hector.

  “Remember?”

  Pike hit him again, moving so fast Hector did not see it coming. His head snapped back, but Pike had not hit him hard. Pike wanted him awake.

  “Where are they?”

  “Whachu talking about?”

  “The people who own the sandwich shop.”

  “I don’t know, bro. Whachu talking about?”

  Pike studied the dark eyes. They were angry and fearful, but also confused. Father Art told him the Malevos had over sixty known members spread throughout Venice. Not all of them would be part of every crime committed, nor even know what the other members were doing. Pike decided Hector was telling the truth.

  “Where’s Mendoza?”

  “How the fuck I’m supposed to know? Off doing his thing.”

  “You see him this morning?”

  “Man, we ain’t married. I got my own life.”

  Pike hit him again, harder than before, then shook him to help clear his head.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Yesterday. After his release.”

  “Where?”

  Pike wanted to see if Hector was playing it straight.

  “Here, bro. Homes made bail, he hung out for a while, then split. You know how it is.”

  “Where’d he go when he left here?”

  “Home to his old lady, I guess. I dunno. We was gonna get together, but I never heard back.”

  “Was Gomer with him?”

  “I dunno.”

  Pike searched Hector for weapons, but found only keys, a cell phone, and a wallet. He held up the keys.

  “The Monte Carlo?”

  Hector nodded, and Pike jerked him to the door.

  “Let’s go. Outside.”

  “You takin’ my car?”

  “I’m taking you.”

  13

  Pike shoved Hector into the passenger seat, then slid in behind the wheel and powered away. Hector shriveled from Pike like a deflating balloon, his eyes snapping like shut
ters.

  “Where you takin’ me? Where we goin’, homes?”

  Pike didn’t answer. He drove five blocks into the residential neighborhood to put distance between himself and the body shop before he pulled to the curb. Hector shrank even farther away, inching up the door.

  Pike went through Hector’s wallet. He found thirty-two dollars, pictures of people who were probably Hector’s family, some discount coupons, and two California driver’s licenses. Both showed Hector’s picture, but with different names, addresses, and DOBs. One identified Hector as Hector Francis Perra with a Ghost Town address, the other as Juan Rico with a Van Nuys address. Pike returned everything to the wallet, then looked at Hector.

  “Mendoza.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I tol’ you. How the fuck I’m supposed to know?”

  Pike drew the Python and pressed it into Hector’s thigh.

  “Show me where he lives.”

  Hector directed him to a small flat-roofed bungalow at the edge of Ghost Town near Inglewood. The stucco siding flowered with water damage, but the yard was surprisingly neat. Two stringy palms cast Marks-A-Lot shadows across a Honda Maxima in the drive. Pike cruised past, then parked on the next block with an eyes-forward view of the house.

  Pike said, “That his car?”

  “His girlfriend. This is her place. He lives with her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Carla Fuentes.”

  “Kids?”

  “No, but that bitch is tryin’. I tell him he better watch out.”

  The house showed no life, but the same was true for most of the surrounding houses. An older woman pruned dusty roses in a yard farther down the street, and a mongrel dog that had probably dug its way to freedom sniffed at a street sign, then burst away at a sprint. Pike would have preferred to watch the house until Mendoza emerged or returned, but felt he didn’t have time. Pike’s nature was to drive the play, and driving the play meant moving forward.

  Pike holstered his gun, took the keys from the ignition, then reached under the dash at the base of the steering column. He disconnected the wires that controlled the turn signals and horn, then got out of the car. When he pulled Hector across the seat, Hector looked hopeful.

  “You lettin’ me go?”

  “No.”

  Pike clipped the plasticuffs off Hector’s wrists, but immediately tied his right wrist to the top of the steering wheel and his left to the bottom. He pulled the plasticuffs tight.

  “Damn, bro, that cuts.”

  Pike closed the door.

  “Start screaming, you won’t like how it ends.”

  Pike walked directly to Mendoza’s house, then cut down the drive and picked up his pace. The drive led to a detached one-car garage, but Pike broke hard to the side of the house. He stayed low, rising only long enough to glance in each window as he circled the house. He slipped past a screenless back door, then across a small patio. The next two windows were blocked by drawn shades, but he could see into a bathroom and bedroom on the opposite side of the house. Both were empty, but the bathroom allowed a narrow view across a hall into the living room. He saw a TV playing, but not who was watching. There were at least three rooms that Pike could not see into. Mendoza and Gomer could be in any of them, but Pike would not know this until he entered the home.

  Pike was still watching the living room when a young woman carried a large bundle past the bathroom. Mendoza’s girlfriend, Carla. She went into the living room, then disappeared as she turned toward the kitchen.

  Pike ran to the backyard and reached the corner of the house as the screen door kicked open. Carla Fuentes came out, carrying her bundle to the garage. She wore a thin tank top that was too tight for her bulges, bright purple shorts, and was barefoot. She elbowed open a door on the side of the garage, and went in. Laundry.

  Pike waited a five-count to see if anyone would follow her out, then crossed the yard fast. He slipped in behind her as she pushed sheets into a top-loading washer. She didn’t know he was there until he wrapped his arms around her, one hand over her mouth, the other pinning her arms. Her body went stiff with an electric jolt of fear. She was strong. She arched her back, trying to twist away, kicking and stomping his legs. Pike held her close, trapping her, and made his voice calm.

  “You’re safe. I want Mendoza.”

  She tried to bite him.

  “Is Mendoza inside?”

  She finally stopped fighting, but her body was rigid. He took his hand from her mouth, but stayed ready to clamp down if she screamed. She didn’t.

  “You motherfucker. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Is Mendoza inside?”

  “Lemme go, you bastard. You the police? Who are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m the police. Is Mendoza inside?”

  “Ain’t nobody here. I don’t know where that bastard is.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Pike walked her to the house, keeping her in front of him as he drew his weapon. He let her open the door, but listened hard before they entered. The kitchen smelled of bacon and marijuana. Pike heard the television, but no living voices or movement. He whispered in her ear.

  “Slow.”

  As they stepped inside, the girl suddenly called out.

  “Loo-cee, I hoannn!”

  Pike gripped her tighter, but she barked out a laugh.

  “Homes, he ain’t here. You gotta relax.”

  Pike walked her into the living room first. A large glass hash pipe sat on a coffee table opposite the television as if it were watching. He pushed her through the living room to the hall, then through the rest of the house. He checked the closets, the bathtub, and under the beds. He didn’t release her until they were back in the kitchen, where he pulled a chair from the table and told her to sit.

  “Fuck you, you bitch. I ain’t gotta sit in my own fuckin’ house.”

  “Sit, or I’ll make you.”

  Pike saw a fading bruise high on her left cheek as Carla Fuentes looked him over. Her eyes held on his tattoos as if seeing something familiar, and then she sat.

  “You ain’t five-oh. You’re the dude broke his arm.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You find him, you tell me. I hope you kicked his ass good.”

  Pike circled the kitchen, looking for something that would give him leverage over the girlfriend or help him find Mendoza.

  “If you know about me, it means you’ve seen him.”

  “Bullshit it does. Means he called when they were processing him. Said he would be home last night, but that bitch never showed. I got stress in my life.”

  Pike found a pink cell phone on the counter by a pack of cigarettes. He opened it, and scrolled through the directory.

  “Was he here this morning?”

  “You listenin’ to me? I got no call, no nothing, so fuck him and fuck you. I signed off this house to guarantee that bond. That bitch runs off, I’m losing my home.”

  Pike glanced over. Azzara had told him he covered Mendoza’s bond, but now the girlfriend was telling a different story. Pike believed the girl. Her eyes were red and the corners of her mouth were dimpled with tension. The bond on Mendoza’s assault wouldn’t have been more than fifty thousand dollars, and would likely be less. The bondsman was ripping her off.

  Pike returned to the phone and found a speed-dial listing for REUBEN. He memorized the number, then held out the phone.

  “Call him. Let’s see where he is.”

  “He ain’t gonna answer. I been callin’ all day.”

  Pike checked the outgoing call list, and saw she was telling the truth. Mendoza’s number had been dialed fourteen consecutive times. Pike dialed the number again. Mendoza’s phone immediately went to voice mail, so Pike killed the call.

  “He tell you what he was doing when I broke his arm?”

  “Said you were fighting. Said he was gonna fuck you up real good, he catch you again.”

  “Is he looking for me?”

  “Said he was,
but seein’ you now, that was just him spinnin’ shit.”

  Pike wondered if this meant the harassment toward Wilson was directed at him. Hurting Wilson and Dru to get back at Pike. He put the phone with the cigarettes, then stood in front of her.

  “Is that why he wasn’t going to be home until last night, he was looking for me?”

  “That was just mouth. He said he had business.”

  “Business like what?”

  “He hadda go help some friends. Thass what he says when it’s Trece.”

  “Gang business?”

  “Thass what it means, helpin’ some friends. He was callin’ from jail, homes, the Sheriffs right there, you can’t just say what you’re sayin’. He said he hadda help some friends, and tol’ me he would be home, only he never showed up and he ain’t callin’ back, and now I got you in my house. I signed off my home for that fuckin’ bitch, and for all I know he jumped bail and left.”

  Pike believed she didn’t know anything more, but he still didn’t have anything that would help him find Mendoza.

  “Where else does he stay when he’s not here with you?”

  “This is his home. I let him move in here. We’re gonna get married.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “An eighty-six El Camino. It’s brown. Like a turd.”

  “Where does he keep his paperwork? Car registration, bills, things like that.”

  Pike followed her back to the bedroom where she pulled a cardboard shoe box from the top drawer of a scarred and faded cabinet. It contained a few family photos, birth information, and miscellaneous warranties and receipts. Pike found the bill of sale and registration information for the El Camino along with the tag and VIN numbers. He didn’t waste time copying the numbers. He tucked the box under his arm.

  “What you doin’, man, thass his things!”

  Pike noticed a large blue purse on the dresser. He went through it and found Carla’s wallet.

  “I ain’t got no money in there.”