The Sentry_Joe Pike

by Robert Crais

  Straw craned his head to geyser more smoke out the window, then glanced at Button.

  “My new best friend here, Detective Button, he thinks this conversation is a mistake.”

  Button stared out the window.

  “It is. You’re going to regret it.”

  “I don’t think so, but either way I need your help, Mr. Pike, so here we are. Ms. Rayne tell you what’s going on?”

  “What would she have told me?”

  “The two carnales you bounced, Mendoza and Gomer? This wasn’t the first time they’ve been to see her uncle, and they didn’t kick the shit out of him over a sandwich—they were sending a message.”

  Button nodded along.

  “It’s what you and I talked about, Pike. Smith lied. Those pricks were shaking him down.”

  Straw had more of the cigarette. He looked fit enough, but Pike thought the man probably couldn’t run twenty feet.

  “Mikie’s spooling up a protection racket—pay the man or get your ass kicked, we’ll break your window, steal your truck, whatever. It’s a street-level thing, small-time, but it’s only one of a number of new scams he’s running. Underline new. These guys are making it up as they go.”

  Button shifted in his seat, glancing at Pike but talking to Straw.

  “The girl may not know. Smith probably doesn’t want her worried about it. He’d be up shit creek if she walked out on him.”

  Pike said, “What does this have to do with me?”

  Straw had more of the cigarette.

  “You just scared Mikie off, and that’s bad. We’re clocking his business.”

  Pike cocked his head.

  “The FBI rolled out for a neighborhood protection scam?”

  Straw smiled again.

  “I wouldn’t give two shits and a cup of coffee about this, but the new jefes like Azzara, they aren’t content to deal tar like their daddies. La Eme is entering the modern age, Mr. Pike. They’re trying new business models, and this shakedown thing is just one piece. They’re also developing international ties with several cartels, and that interests me very much. Hence, my operation and this conversation.”

  Pike glanced at Button.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Not until this morning.”

  Straw finished his cigarette, and flicked it over his shoulder.

  “With apologies to Detective Button, we didn’t have boots on the ground two weeks ago. When we learned about Mikie’s new venture, we decided this was our way into La Eme’s new food chain. It’s happening fast.”

  Pike said, “Through a neighborhood shakedown.”

  Straw shrugged.

  “It’s down at the street level, we can reach it, and it’s easy. Easy means fast. New boys like Azzara are popping up in Eme sets from Brownsville to Phoenix to San Diego, and we don’t even know who they are. If we can get inside Mikie’s set, we can find out, which is what we were doing until you got in the way.”

  Straw shifted again, and looked apologetic.

  “Brother, listen, you did the right thing. If I saw those two clowns stomping some poor guy, I’d weigh in, too. I respect that. But now it’s over, and I need things to go back to the way they were.”

  Pike said, “Meaning what?”

  Button shifted angrily.

  “He wants you to mind your own fucking business. What don’t you get about that?”

  Straw raised a hand, telling Button to take it easy.

  “I’m asking you to cool it. Stay away from Smith and let him go back to being Smith. Don’t be his personal sentry. Let Azzara be Azzara.”

  Pike saw what Straw wanted, and didn’t like it.

  “Azzara being Azzara means he puts the pressure on Smith. Mendoza and Gomer will be free to lean on him.”

  “I need the little men, so I can trade for the big men. This means I need the little men out doing crime so I can jam them. If I jam them up bad, I can use them as informants.”

  Button nodded along, still scowling at Pike.

  “Smith isn’t the only guy these turds are trying to milk, Pike. It’s not like he’s in this alone. Straw and his people are watching five or six shops—”

  Pike leaned toward Straw.

  “You were watching his place and let him get a concussion. You watched a brick go through his window.”

  Straw hit Button with a glance so hard it could have knocked him out of the car.

  “We didn’t allow those things. They just happened, and now we’ll cover him better.”

  “I won’t leave these people hanging.”

  “You’re not. I have it covered.”

  “You had it covered when he got a concussion.”

  “We’ll cover him better.”

  Straw suddenly opened his door.

  “Pike, step out for a moment. Excuse us, Detective.”

  Pike pushed out, leaving Button alone. Straw came around the car to meet Pike on the sidewalk. Straw’s lips were pursed tight, but he lit another cigarette, and lighting it seemed to relax him. He fanned at the smoke.

  “We fucked up, okay? We’re still learning how these guys do things, but we’re learning. Just back away. That’s what I’m asking.”

  Pike studied the man. Straw had serious eyes, but he also looked nervous. Like he had a lot riding on this, and might lose it all.

  Pike said, “If I tell Wilson and Dru, you’re done.”

  “You won’t tell.”

  “You have no idea what I’ll do.”

  “Maybe not. But I did some checking. You worked for top-flight PMCs. Even did some work for the government, time to time, though no one’s supposed to know. They don’t give those clearances to people who can’t keep it wrapped.”

  Straw looked at Pike, out from under his eyebrows, and now the smile was back.

  “Surprising what a guy like me can find out, isn’t it?”

  Pike didn’t respond, so Straw shrugged again.

  “Listen, you want these people safe? Brother, so do I, and I guarantee you my way is best. Wilson Smith could’ve sunk these guys right in the ER, but he didn’t. He’s scared. He’s just some poor bastard who wants to fry oysters. You let me get what I need from Azzara, I can help him for real.”

  Pike didn’t like any of it, and he didn’t like Straw or the Malibu stinking of smoke.

  “How long?”

  “Two or three weeks. Maybe less.”

  Pike scanned both sides of the street, wondering if the man in the orange shirt was watching.

  Straw said, “You think about it. In the meantime, don’t say anything to Smith or his niece. They need to act natural. If you tell them we’re watching, you know what will happen. I might as well head back to Texas.”

  Pike said, “Man in the orange shirt, he’s good.”

  Straw squinted at Pike through more smoke.

  “What man in the orange shirt?”

  Straw turned back to his car.

  “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift back.”

  “I’m good.”

  Pike walked.

  9

  Later that night, just after ten, the air was cool as Pike jogged toward home through Santa Monica, wearing the forty-pound pack. Pike was a runner. He had been a runner since he was a boy, and ran every day. He sometimes ran twice a day, once in the morning and again at night, and three or four times every week he carried a pack bearing four ten-pound bags of flour. Not nearly so much as the ninety pounds he rucked as a young Force Recon Marine, but it got his heart going.

  That night, he ran the Fourth Street steps. One hundred eighty-nine concrete steps climbing the steep bluff from the bottom of Santa Monica Canyon to San Vicente Boulevard. One hundred eighty-nine steps was as tall as a nine-story building, and Pike ran them twenty times, taking them two to a stride. He preferred running at night.

  During the day, the steps were clotted with hard-core fitness zealots, marathoners, aerobics instructors, and ordinary trudgers who were trying to get into shape. But at night in the d
ark when the footing was dangerous, the steps were deserted, and Pike could run at his peak. He liked being alone with his effort and his thoughts.

  Now, finished with the steps and jogging for home, Pike chose a route past Wilson’s takeout shop. The hour was still early enough that people were out, but the little shop was deserted. Pike wondered if the man in orange was watching, but Pike didn’t care. Pike had decided he would not tell Wilson and Dru the FBI was watching their shop, but his silence was as far as he would go. If Mikie was good at his word, the matter was settled. If not, Pike’s loyalty lay with the victims, not with a case Straw might or might not be able to make. Pike would not back away. His arrows pointed forward, not back.

  When Pike reached home, he stretched in the parking lot to cool, then peeled off his sweatshirt, deactivated the alarms, and let himself in. His condo was austere and functional with little in the way of decoration. Dining room set off the kitchen; couch, chair, and coffee table in the living room; a flat-screen television for sports and news. A black stone meditation fountain burbled in the corner. Pike found peace in the natural sound, as if he were alone in the forest.

  Pike stood for a moment, listening, not to the water, but beyond the water—checking to make sure he was alone. He did this every time he came home. Habit.

  Pike drank a half-liter of bottled water, then placed the bottle with others waiting to be recycled. His condo was quiet and empty, but sometimes felt more empty than others. He thought about Dru Rayne and the little girl in the picture, and why Dru had felt the need to show him. Pike liked it that she had shown him the picture. He thought it spoke well of her, and suggested she thought more of him than a beer at the beach.

  Pike ate a meal of leftover polenta, black beans, and broccoli sprinkled with a minced serrano pepper. He ate standing up in the kitchen.

  Pike had not been in a serious relationship for a long while. Dates, yes, and sex, and he enjoyed close friendships with several women, but nothing he would call a romantic relationship. Maybe for the same reason he didn’t have pets. He often disappeared for long periods, and often left without warning.

  Pike finished eating, drank more water, then stripped out of his remaining clothes. He spread a foam mat on the living room floor and proceeded through a series of yoga asanas. After a lifetime of strength training and martial arts, he could lay his chest on his thighs and face on his knees; he could spread his legs one hundred eighty degrees and become one with the floor.

  Pike worked slowly, allowing his body to melt into the postures. The only sounds in his life were the gurgling water, his heart, and the brush of his skin on the towel. After a while he assumed the position of resolve, and meditated. His body calmed, his breathing slowed, and all he knew was the singular sound of his heart. Forty-two slow-motion beats per minute, like thunder alive in his chest.

  Pike meditated for exactly fifteen minutes. He did not check his watch, but he had been meditating for most of his life. When fifteen minutes had passed, his consciousness floated to the surface, and Joe Pike was back.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  At eleven-fifteen that night, Pike brought his things up to his bedroom. His house was orderly and neat. His equipment was clean and squared away. He showered, dried himself, then pulled on a pair of white briefs. He went downstairs for another bottle of water, and noticed his cell phone on the kitchen counter. The screen showed a missed call. He studied the number until he realized it was Dru. She phoned while he was in the shower, but had not left a message.

  Pike called her and got her voice mail.

  “Hi, this is Dru. You know what to do, so do it.”

  Her message line beeped.

  “It’s Joe.”

  He was still thinking what else to say when the phone cut him off. He called back, and this time finished his message.

  “Call whenever. Doesn’t matter how late.”

  He brought the phone upstairs, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. His mattress was hard. The sheets were crisp and tight as the skin of a drum. He listened to the water, softly bubbling downstairs in his empty home. He wondered what it would be like to have another person’s sounds in his house.

  Pike waited for her to return his call, but the phone remained silent.

  Par Two

  PRINCESS OF THE ANGELS

  10

  Hydeck called at 10:08 the next morning, identifying herself as if they had never met.

  “This is Officer Hydeck with the Los Angeles Police Department. Sorry to bother you, but do you know how to reach Ms. Rayne?”

  The professional lack of expression in her voice told Pike something was wrong.

  “Why?”

  Hydeck hesitated long enough for Pike to hear radio calls in the background.

  “Someone trashed their place again. I have a number for Smith, but he isn’t answering. I thought you might have a number for his niece.”

  Pike wondered why she thought he would have Dru’s phone, but dropped the thought quickly. He was picturing Miguel Azzara at the coffee shop. Smiling. It’s done.

  “Are you there now?”

  “Yes, Pike, I’m here now, and I’m trying to get them here, too. The place is a mess. Do you have her number or not?”

  “Yeah, hang on.”

  Pike gave her Dru’s cell, hung up, then immediately dialed the number. Like the night before, his call went to her voice mail. Pike left another message, then decided to see the damage for himself. Gomer had almost certainly broken the window on the first night, but Mendoza had probably wanted some payback of his own after he was released. After Pike saw it, he thought he might encourage Azzara to make Gomer and Mendoza clean it up.

  When Pike arrived, he expected to find the new glass shattered, but Wilson’s shop appeared undisturbed. The new window was bright, shiny, and intact, and the CLOSED sign hung in the door. An LAPD radio car was at the curb, but Hydeck and McIntosh weren’t out front, so Pike rounded the corner to the service alley. He found them clustered at the back door along with Betsy Harmon and her son, Ethan. All four of them turned as Pike rolled up, and Hydeck walked over to meet him.

  Pike said, “Did you reach them?”

  Meaning Wilson and Dru.

  “Left more messages. Those poor people will be walking into a nightmare when they see this place. The pricks really did a job.”

  McIntosh tried to make a joke.

  “But the good news is, we can add B&E and illegal disposal of animal parts to the tab.”

  Betsy Harmon said, “You should see what they did. Disgusting.”

  She wore a bright lemon dress today. She stood with her arms tightly crossed, looking strained and rigid.

  Pike saw that the metal security door was bent at the knob where the door had been levered open. The jamb above the lock was dimpled where the lever buckled the frame. It had taken a strong man or more than one man working hard to bend the metal.

  “Ms. Harmon called when she saw the door.”

  “No, I called when I saw inside. Degenerates. What kind of people would do this?”

  McIntosh widened his eyes at Pike.

  “This shit is sick, dude. Check it out.”

  Pike stepped past the officers and opened the door.

  The dank odor of blood and raw meat enveloped him. Pike moved through the storage room, but stopped by the counter as soon as he entered the dining room. Lumbering bottle flies had already homed on the scent and buzzed in slow loops past his head. The counter was red with a viscous pool of drying blood that traced darker red paths to the floor. Long thick pieces of what was probably beef liver, kidneys, and intestines floated in the blood like blue islands. More pieces were draped over the cash register and prep area, and what appeared to be a large gray beef heart was nailed to the New Orleans Saints poster. The skinless heads of three goats hung from the ceiling lights, their lidless eyes dull and bulging. Bottle flies fed on their eyes.

  Behind him, McIntosh whispered.

  “What if it’s peopl
e?”

  “It’s not.”

  “I know these are animal heads, but this could be human blood. These organs could be from people.”

  “They aren’t. Butchered people smell different.”

  McIntosh studied Pike as if wondering how Pike knew that, then pointed out the wall behind the counter.

  “Check it. Your boys left a message.”

  Three words were written in blood on the wall above the prep counter.

  I AM HERE.

  I, not We. Singular. Pike wondered what it meant.

  Hydeck came up beside them.

  “C’mon, it’s time to go. I got some snaps for the report. All we’re doing is letting in flies.”

  Pike said, “Have you called Button?”

  Hydeck’s irritation turned to annoyance.

  “Yes, Pike, I put in a call. I’m waiting to hear back from him, too. Right now I’m more interested in getting the owners out here so they can get this place cleaned up and secure.”

  Pike stepped around the goat heads to the front door. He studied the gas station and buildings across the street, and wondered if Straw’s people had seen anything, and whether they had stood by and watched this happen.

  Hydeck said, “Let’s go, Pike. I mean it. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

  Pike followed them out.

  Betsy Harmon still had her arms locked across her chest.

  “Are we going to have the CSIs out here and all of that?”

  McIntosh said, “That’s on TV. Our people are SIDs.”

  Hydeck pushed the door closed. The bent frame made it difficult, so McIntosh leaned in to help. It still didn’t close all the way.

  “Those are animal parts, Ms. Harmon. The people who did this probably robbed a Latin market. Latin butchers sell a lot of goat meat. What time does Mr. Smith usually get here?”

  “Wilson is always here by nine, every day but Sunday. If they get a food delivery, he’ll come in earlier, but one of them should have been here. They’re always here by now.”

  Pike checked his watch and saw it was almost ten-thirty. Hydeck glanced at her watch at exactly the same time, then frowned with impatience.