by Robert Crais
Now he shook as his body burned off the fear.
The back of Cole’s house was an A-shaped glass steeple, giving him a view of the canyon behind his house and a diamond-dust glimpse of the city beyond. Now, the canyon was blue with bright moonlight. The sleeping houses below were surrounded by blue-and-gray trees that shivered and danced in the St. Vitus wind. Cole wondered if someone down there had awakened like him. He wondered if they had suffered a similar nightmare—seeing their best friend shot to death in the dark.
Violence was part of him.
Elvis Cole did not want it, seek it, or enjoy it, but maybe these were only things he told himself in cold moments like now. The nature of his life had cost him the woman he loved and the little boy he had grown to love, and left him alone in this house with nothing but an angry cat for company and a pistol that did not need to be put away.
Now here was this dream that left his skin crawling—so real it felt like a premonition. He looked at the phone and told himself no—no, that’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s three in the morning.
Cole made the call.
One ring, and his call was answered. At three in the morning.
“Pike.”
“Hey, man.”
Cole didn’t know what to say after that, feeling so stupid.
“You good?”
Pike said, “Good. You?”
“Yeah. Sorry, man, it’s late.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a bad feeling is all.”
They lapsed into a silence Cole found embarrassing, but it was Pike who spoke first.
“You need me, I’m there.”
“It’s the wind. This wind is crazy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Watch yourself.”
He told Pike he would call again soon, then put down the phone.
Cole felt no relief after the call. He told himself he should, but he didn’t. The dream should have faded, but it did not. Talking to Pike now made it feel even more real.
You need me, I’m there.
How many times had Joe Pike placed himself in harm’s way to save him?
They had fought the good fight together, and won, and sometimes lost. They had shot people who had harmed or were doing harm, and been shot, and Joe Pike had saved Cole’s life more than a few times like an archangel from Heaven.
Yet here was the dream and the dream did not fade—
Muzzle flashes in a dingy room. A woman’s shadow cast on the wall. Dark glasses spinning into space. Joe Pike falling through a terrible red mist.
Cole crept downstairs through the dark house and stepped out onto his deck. Leaves and debris stung his face like sand on a windswept beach. Lights from the houses below glittered like fallen stars.
In low moments on nights like this when Elvis Cole thought of the woman and the boy, he told himself the violence in his life had cost him everything, but he knew that was not true. As lonely as he sometimes felt, he still had more to lose.
He could lose his best friend.
Or himself.
Part One
THE FISHMONGER
1
Six minutes before he saw the two men, Joe Pike stopped at a Mobil station for air. Pike sensed they were going to commit a crime the moment he saw them. Venice, California, ten thirty-five that morning, warm sunny day, not far from the sea. He had checked his tire pressure before heading to the gym, and found the right front tire three pounds low. If he had not needed air, he would not have seen the two men and gotten involved, but the tire was low. He stopped for the air.
Pike added the three pounds, then topped off his gas. While the pump ran, he inspected his red Jeep Cherokee for dings, scratches, and road tar, then checked the fluid levels.
Brake fluid—good.
Power steering—good.
Transmission—good.
Coolant—good.
The Jeep, though not a new vehicle, was spotless. Pike maintained it meticulously. Taking care of himself and his gear had been impressed upon a then-seventeen-year-old Pike by men he respected when he was a young Marine, and the lesson had served him well in his various occupations.
As Pike closed the hood, three women biked past on the opposite side of the street, fine legs churning, sleek backs arched over handlebars. Pike watched them pass, the women bringing his eye to two men walking in the opposite direction—blink—and Pike read them for trouble, two men in their twenties, necklaced with gang ink, walking with what Pike during his police officer days had called a down-low walk. Bangers were common in Venice, but these two weren’t relaxed like a couple of homies with nothing on their minds; they rolled with a stony, side-to-side swagger showing they were tensed up and tight, the one nearest the curb glancing into parked cars, which, Pike knew, suggested they were looking for something to steal.
Pike had spent three years as an LAPD patrol officer, where he learned how to read people pretty well. Then he had changed jobs, and worked in high-conflict, dangerous environments all over the world where he learned to read the subtle clues of body language and expression even better. His life had depended on it.
Now, Pike felt a tug of curiosity. If they had kept walking, Pike would have let it go, but they stopped outside a secondhand women’s clothing shop directly across the street. Pike was no longer a police officer. He did not cruise the streets looking for criminals and had other things to do, but everything about their posture and expressions triggered a dull red warning vibe. The women’s shop was an ideal place from which to snatch a purse.
Pike finished filling his tank, but did not get into his vehicle. A BMW pulled into the Mobil station behind Pike’s Jeep. The driver waited for a moment, then beeped her horn and called from her car.
“Are you going to move?”
Pike concentrated on the two men, squinting against the bright morning light even behind his dark glasses.
She tapped her horn again.
“Are you going to move or what? I need some gas.”
Pike stayed with the men.
“Jerk.”
She backed up and moved to another pump.
Pike watched the two men have a brief conversation, then continue past the clothing store to a sandwich shop. A hand-painted sign on the front window read: Wilson’s TakeOut—po’boys & sandwiches.
The two men started to enter, but immediately backed away. A middle-aged woman carrying a white bag and a large purse came out. When she emerged, one of the men quickly turned to the street and the other brought his hand to his eyes, clearly trying to hide. The tell was so obvious the corner of Pike’s mouth twitched, which was as close to a smile as Pike ever came.
When the woman was gone, the two men entered the sandwich shop.
Pike knew they were likely two guys looking to surprise a friend or buy a couple of sandwiches, but he wanted to see how it played out.
Pike crossed the street between passing cars. The sandwich shop was small, with two tiny tables up front by the window and a short counter in the rear where you ordered your food. A chalkboard menu and a New Orleans Saints Super Bowl Champions poster were on the walls behind the counter, along with a door that probably led to a storage room or pantry.
The events unfolding inside the takeout shop had happened quickly. When Pike reached the door, the two men had an older man on the floor, one punching the man’s head, the other kicking his back. The man had rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself.
The two hitters hesitated when Pike opened the door, both of them sucking air like surfacing whales. Pike saw their hands were empty, though someone else might have been behind the counter or in the back room. Then the guy throwing punches went back to pounding, and the kicker turned toward Pike, his face mottled and threatening. Pike thought of nature films he’d seen with silverback gorillas puffing themselves to look fierce.
“You wan’ this, bitch? Get outta here.”
Pike didn’t get out. He stepped inside and closed the door.
Pik
e saw a flick of surprise in the kicker’s eyes, and the puncher hesitated again. They had expected him to run, one man against two, but Pike did not run.
The victim—the man on the floor—still curled into a ball, mumbled—
“I’m okay. Jesus—”
—even as the kicker puffed himself larger. He raised his fists and stomped toward Pike, a street brawler high on his own violence, trying to frighten Pike away.
Pike moved forward fast, and the surprised kicker pulled up short, caught off guard by Pike’s advance. Then Pike dropped low and accelerated, as smoothly as water flows over rocks. He trapped the man’s arm, rolled it backward, and brought the man down hard, snapping the radius bone and dislocating the ulna. He hit the man one time in the Adam’s apple with the edge of his hand, the water now swirling off rocks as he rose to face the puncher, only the puncher had seen enough. He scrambled backward across the counter, and bounced off the wall as he ran out a back door.
The kicker gakked like a cat with a hair ball as he tried to breathe and scream at the same time. Pike dropped to a knee, watching the back door as he checked the man for a weapon. He found a nine-millimeter pistol, then left the downed man long enough to make sure no one was behind the counter or in the back room. He returned to the kicker, rolled him onto his belly, then stripped the man’s belt to bind his wrists. The man shrieked when Pike twisted the injured arm behind his back, and tried to get up, but Pike racked his face into the floor.
Pike said, “Stop.”
Pike had neutralized the assailant and secured the premises in less than six seconds.
The older man tried to sit up as Pike worked.
Pike said, “You good?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine. Blood veiled his face and spattered the floor. The man saw the red spots, touched his face, then examined the red on his fingers.
“Shit. I’m bleeding.”
The man rose to a knee, but tipped sideways and ended up on his butt.
Pike took out his phone and thumbed in 911.
“Stay down. I’m getting the paramedics.”
The man squinted at Pike, and Pike could tell he had trouble focusing.
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“I don’t need the paramedics. Catch my breath, I’ll be fine.”
The kicker twisted his head to see Pike.
“You ain’t a cop, an’ you broke my arm? You bitch, you better lemme up.”
Pike pinned him with a knee, making the kicker gasp.
When the 911 operator came on the line, Pike described the situation and the victim’s injury, told her he had a suspect in hand, and asked her to send the police.
The man made a feeble attempt to rise again.
“Fuck all that. Just throw the asshole out.”
Pike had seen pretty much every violent injury that could happen to a human being, so he knew wounds pretty well. Scalp wounds produced a lot of blood and weren’t generally serious, but it had taken a hard blow to split the man’s forehead.
“Stay down. You have a concussion.”
“Fuck that. I’m fine.”
The man pulled his legs under himself, pushed to his feet, then passed out and fell.
Pike wanted to go to him, but the kicker was bunching to rise.
“Better get off me, ese. You gonna be sorry.”
Pike dug his thumb into the side of the man’s neck where the C3 nerve root emerged from the third vertebra, crushing the root into the bone. This caused the man’s shoulder and chest to go numb with a sharp flash of pain. His diaphragm locked and his breathing stopped mid-breath. The C3 nerve controlled the diaphragm.
“If you get up, I’ll do this again. It will hurt worse.”
Pike released the pressure, and knew the man’s shoulder and arm now burned as if they had been flushed with napalm.
“We good?”
The man gave a breathless grunt, eyes rolling toward Pike like a Chihuahua watching a pit bull.
“Yuh.”
Pike straightened the man so he could breathe more easily, then checked his pulse. His pulse was strong, but his pupils were different sizes, which indicated a concussion. Pike pressed a wad of napkins to the man’s wound to stop the bleeding.
The kicker said, “Who the fuck are you, man?”
“Don’t speak again.”
If Pike had not stopped for air, he would not have seen the men or crossed the street. He would not have met the woman he was about to meet. Nothing that was about to happen would have happened. But Pike had stopped. And now the worst was coming.
The paramedics arrived six minutes later.
2
The paramedics were two sturdy, forty-something women who pulled on vinyl gloves when they saw the blood. They went to work on the victim while Pike filled them in.
The banger, facedown on the floor with Pike’s knee in his back, said, “Dude broke my arm. He attacked me, yo? I need somethin’ for the pain.”
The lead paramedic glanced at Pike. Her name was Stiles.
“He the guy who did this?”
“Him and a friend.”
“His arm really broken?”
“Uh-huh.”
She told Pike to let the man sit up, then nodded at her partner.
“Check out the lovely. I have this one.”
Stiles managed to rouse the victim, whose speech was muddy and slurred, but grew more focused as she checked his pulse and blood pressure. He identified himself as Wilson Smith, a transplant from New Orleans who relocated after the storm. Pike found it interesting Smith did not refer to Hurricane Katrina by name; he called it “the storm.” Pike also found it interesting that Mr. Smith did not have what Pike would have called a Southern accent. He sounded like he was from New York.
When Stiles flashed a penlight in his eyes, Smith tried to push her away.
“I’m okay.”
“No, sir, you’re not. You have a scalp wound with an open flap, and a concussion. My guess, you’re looking at ten or twelve stitches here. We’re bringing you in.”
“I’m fine.”
Smith tried to push her away again, but abruptly threw up. He settled down after that and closed his eyes. Pike watched the paramedics work as he waited for the officers to arrive. He was in it now, so he had to stay. There was nothing else to do.
The first responding officers showed up within minutes. The lead officer was a middle-aged Latina with calm eyes and P-3 stripes who introduced herself as Officer Hydeck, the Anglo name probably coming from a marriage. Her partner was a big, tough-looking rookie named Paul McIntosh who stood with his thumbs hooked in his Sam Browne like he wanted something to happen.
Hydeck spoke quietly with Stiles for a few minutes, asked both the victim and the suspect how they were doing, then came over to Pike.
“You the one called it in?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The emergency services operator would have relayed the information Pike provided.
“Uh-huh. And your name would be?”
“Pike.”
The banger, who was being fitted with an air splint, said, “Dude broke my arm, yo? I want him arrested. I wanna press charges.”
Hydeck asked for their identification. Pike handed over his driver’s license, which McIntosh copied onto a Field Interview card along with Pike’s phone number. The suspect had none. Pike wasn’t surprised. Ninety-five percent of the people he had arrested while a police officer did not have a valid DL. The suspect identified himself as Reuben Mendoza, and claimed he had never been arrested.
Mc Intosh towered over him.
“You ganged up?”
“No way, bro. I roll clean.”
McIntosh pointed at the initials on his neck. VT, which Pike, the paramedics, and the officers all knew meant Venice Trece—Venice Thirteen, a Latin gang.
“That why you’re inked Venice Thirteen?”
“Them’s my initials.”
Hyde
ck said, “How you get VT out of Reuben Mendoza?”
“That’s how you spell it in European.”
Pike told them what he knew to be true, in short, declarative sentences just as he had been taught when he was a boot patrol officer, and gave Hydeck the pistol he had taken from Mendoza.
“Had this in his pocket.”
Mendoza said, “That ain’t mine, man, don’t put that on me. I never seen that gun before.”
“Was he hitting Mr. Smith with it?”
“Not that I saw. It was in his pocket.”
Mendoza said, “I’m gonna sue you, bro, way you attacked me. He did something to my neck like Mr. Spock, yo? Gonna get pain and suffering.”
McIntosh told him to shut up, then turned back to Pike.
“What about the other one? He have a gun?”
“Didn’t see it if he did. When I entered, Mr. Smith was on the floor. The other man was punching him in the head. This one was kicking him. When I took this one down, his buddy ran out the back. I didn’t see a weapon.”
McIntosh grinned at Mendoza.
“Homie had your back, bro. Right out the door.”
Hydeck passed the gun to McIntosh, told him to secure it in their vehicle and call in a second EMS wagon. The victim and suspect would not be transported in the same vehicle.
Another patrol car and the second EMS ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The new officers took Mendoza out while Stiles and her partner brought in their gurney. Hydeck questioned Smith while the paramedics worked on him. Smith told her the two men asked for a sandwich, but he wanted to close so he could go to the bank, and told them to leave. He claimed the two men refused, and that’s how the fight started.
Hydeck appeared doubtful.
“So they didn’t try to rob you or anything like that? You got in a fight ’cause they wanted a po’boy and you wanted to leave.”
“I mighta said something. It got out of hand.”
The paramedics were lifting him onto the gurney when Pike saw her enter through the rear door. She hadn’t seen the ambulances and police vehicles out front, and now the uniforms crowding the small room stopped her as if she had slammed into an invisible wall. Pike watched her eyes snap from the paramedics to the gurney to the police—snap, snap, snap—sucking up the scene until—snap—her eyes came to him, and that’s where they stayed. She looked at him as if she had never seen anything like him. Pike guessed she was in her early thirties, with olive skin and lines around her eyes. She had smart eyes, and the lines made them better. She wore a sleeveless linen dress, flat sandals, and short dark hair. The dress was wrinkled. Pike liked smart eyes.