by Robert Crais
Kenny walked to the fence, then turned toward the house. A few seconds later, Straw joined him. They spoke for a moment, then Straw went to the kayak hanging on the dock. He rocked it absently back and forth, then spoke to Kenny, who only shook his head in answer. They stared at the house as if trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle, and neither appeared ready to leave.
Pike wondered if Kenny had finished checking the video or if Straw had simply lied.
Pike called Straw on his cell. He listened to Straw’s phone ring, and watched as Straw checked the incoming call window, then returned the phone to his pocket without answering.
Pike said, “Mm.”
Pike dialed again, and again watched as Straw checked the incoming call without answering. This time he said something to Kenny, who shook his head as he walked away.
Pike immediately dialed again, and this time Straw broke. He answered his phone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Pike. How’s it coming with the video?”
“You’re becoming a pain in the ass, you know that? We’re getting there.”
“I’ll pitch in. Maybe Kenny needs some help.”
“He’s doing fine without you.”
“He find anything yet?”
“No, Pike, I told you I’d call you, but here you are calling me, and it’s slowing us down. Don’t call again.”
Pike watched as Straw lowered his phone. He said something to Kenny, which made Kenny laugh.
Pike jogged back to his Jeep and drove along Venice Boulevard until he found the green Malibu. If Straw wasn’t going to check the video, Pike would check it himself.
Pike didn’t know what he would find or if he would find anything, but the Malibu’s back seat was filled with their duffels and sleeping bags. Pike checked to make sure no one was watching, then used a jiggler key to open the car.
Pike wanted the camera case, but did not see it, so he searched through the duffels. The top duffel was jumbled with clothes and toiletry bags. He quickly checked for the camera, zipped the bag, and shoved it aside. Pike was working fast, but when he opened the second bag, he spotted a thick manila envelope with Rainey written in longhand on the cover.
Rainey’s name stopped him.
Pike could tell by the envelope’s worn condition and faded ink that nothing about it was new. It looked old, and used, and as soon as Pike saw it he knew something about Jack Straw was wrong.
The envelope contained photocopies of what appeared to be reports and documents about William Allan Rainey written on Drug Enforcement Agency letterhead and field forms. The documents appeared official, and contained blurry, black-and-white photocopies of surveillance pictures. Like the envelope, the documents showed their wear with torn edges, coffee rings, and handwritten notes in the margins. Pike was fingering through the pages without reading them when he found a smudged picture of Rose Marie Platt with a banner for Jazz Fest behind her in the background. The picture quality was so poor she was almost unrecognizable, but Pike knew it was her.
Pike pushed the pages back into the envelope, and continued looking for the camera. He found it a few seconds later, closed the duffel, and left the bags on the back seat as he had found them.
Pike hadn’t been looking for files and documents, but now he wanted to see what Straw had. He took the camera and envelope, and drove to a quiet residential street three blocks away.
Pike checked the video first. He spent a few minutes figuring out how to work the camera, then watched several seconds of Straw’s recording. He fast-forwarded, then skipped between tracks to watch more. A hard knot between his shoulder blades grew larger with each scene he watched, and soon it spread down his back.
Straw’s surveillance team had not recorded Azzara or the members of Azzara’s gang. They had recorded Rainey and Dru. Entering and leaving the shop. Entering and leaving the house on the canal. Dru in the backyard. Rainey in the kayak. Driving their Tercel.
The video confirmed what Pike suspected the moment he saw the worn envelope bearing Wilson Smith’s true name.
Special Agent Jack Straw had lied. Straw and his team never cared about Miguel Azzara. They had known who Wilson and Dru were since the beginning. They were chasing Rainey and Platt.
40
Pike put the camera aside, then skimmed the reports. Most of the documents were case notes recounting meetings or conversations with Rainey by a DEA agent named Norman Lister, who appeared to be Rainey’s handler. Most of the reports were written while Rainey was still functioning as an informant, though many were dated when the agents were investigating his disappearance. Pike skipped these parts as he did not care about Rainey. He wanted to read about Dru.
He searched the pages until he found the picture of Rose Marie Platt, and discovered a collection of documents stapled together. The first was a compilation of Lister’s notes condensing statements made by Rainey’s associates, describing how they knew Rose Platt, and what they knew, if anything, about her relationship to Rainey. Their names were highlighted in yellow, and their addresses were handwritten in the margins.
Most of those interviewed were identified as co-workers, and most knew nothing incriminating. One of those interviewed was Rose Platt’s mother and two were identified as her brothers. These condensations were as short as the others, and contained no information useful to Lister’s investigation. The brothers claimed they had not seen their sister for six years, and the mother complained she had not seen nor heard from Rose in almost ten years. Rose was alternately described as rebellious, fucked up, selfish, and a tramp.
Pike flipped past the remaining statements, but paused again when he found a copy of the warrant issued for Rose Marie Platt’s arrest. The warrant contained an information sheet with a second picture of Dru, her physical description, and background information that might prove useful to investigators. The names of friends and relatives, prior addresses, schools attended, and past employers were all neatly typed into the appropriate boxes.
Pike read this sheet carefully. A tiny box at the top of the page was checked to show she had no arrest record. Another box showed her fingerprints were not on file.
According to the investigators, Rose Marie Platt was born in Biloxi, Mississippi. She had been married three times, the first when she was seventeen years old, the second when she was nineteen, and a third time when she was twenty-two. The first two marriages occurred in Biloxi; the last in Slidell, Louisiana. The names and last known addresses of the three men were listed, along with the brief descriptives: DVR, NO CHLDRN. Divorced, no children.
Pike thought about the young girl in the snapshot Dru showed him. He could picture the little girl clearly. Amy. A pretty kid with a happy smile standing beside a couch. The love of my life.
The form listed parents and siblings. Pike studied it. Dru’s mother and father were named, but a box by the father’s name was checked. Deceased. The names of her two brothers were typed beneath her parents. Beneath the names of the two brothers was another checked box and a single descriptive: SISTERS—none.
Pike stared at this line the longest. Sisters—none.
Dru had told him Amy was staying with her sister.
Pike stared out the window at nothing, aware but not caring about passing cars or the light that dappled through tortured elms. Pike could see the scene perfectly and recall every nuance of her expression. The awkward uncertainty as she took out her billfold. How she shrugged when she showed him the picture, as if expecting him to reject her. How her smile flashed like summer lightning when he asked her out anyway.
But no sister meant there was no Amy, which meant none of it was true.
Pike tamped the pages together and slid them back into the envelope. He thought for a moment, then started the Jeep and turned toward Pacific Station. It was only five minutes away. He took out his phone as he drove and called Jerry Button. Button had returned to his office.
Pike said, “Who is Straw and what is he doing?”
“What do you me
an, who is he?”
“Were you in on it with him?”
“Pike, I’m busy. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Pike decided Button’s annoyance was real, which meant Straw had lied to Button, too.
“Straw didn’t come here to bust Azzara. They were watching Rainey. They’ve known Wilson was Rainey since the beginning.”
Button came back sounding uncertain.
“Did he tell you that?”
Pike described the DEA reports and Straw’s video but Button didn’t want to believe it.
“This better not be bullshit.”
“Meet me outside in five minutes. You can have the camera and the reports. I’ll give them to you.”
Button fell silent, and Pike knew why. Button was embarrassed.
“I’m on my way now, Jerry. You should have checked him out.”
“That fuckin’ Feeb. Those arrogant pricks always pull underhanded shit like this.”
“If you had done your due diligence, we would have known what we were dealing with. We could have stopped the Bolivian.”
Button cleared his throat, anxious to change the subject.
“I hooked up with the New Orleans agents. Did Cole tell you?”
“Yes. They don’t have a picture?”
“No, but they’re pretty sure he’s an American named Gregg Daniel Vincent. He’s not a Bolivian.”
“What do they know?”
“Not much, and most of it they can’t confirm. Made his bones guarding dope farms in Honduras from government raids. Made his rep killing snitches and cops the Bolivians want out of the way. Tortures them to death. The Bolivians have this whole rap about him escaping from some kinda nuthouse for psychopaths, but that’s probably bullshit. They use him to scare people.”
Pike didn’t care about any of that, and wasn’t impressed.
“Is there a description?”
“They know he’s a white guy, but that’s it. They don’t have a description or a photograph.”
Pike pulled to the curb by the flagpole outside Pacific Station. He put the Jeep in park, but did not turn off the engine.
“I’m here, Button. By the flag out front. Come get Straw’s stuff.”
Button sounded sick.
“You really have it?”
“Come get it. I’m leaving it on the curb.”
Pike closed his phone, got out with the envelope and the camera, and left them on the sidewalk. Less than one minute later, he was driving away when his phone rang. He thought it was Button, calling him back, but it wasn’t.
“Pike? Is this Joe Pike?”
Pike recognized the voice.
“This is Bill Rainey. You know me as Wilson Smith.”
Detective-Sergeant Jerry Button Los Angeles Police Department Paci fic Station
Button’s hands were shaking when he returned to his desk with the camera and the files. He tried to make them stop, but had to wedge them under his hams. He glanced at Futardo, who was typing in her cubicle across the room by the door. The new guy always got the desk by the door. Button had the prime desk in the rear, right outside the LT’s office. The distance between the two desks was a lot longer than it looked.
Button felt angry, humiliated, and scared. Straw—the arrogant Feeb prick—had pulled a typical, underhanded FBI move by lying about his case. Like all Quantico pricks, he thought city police were incompetent losers, to be used, abused, and kept in the dark.
And Button had proved him right.
Hello, Jerry Button, you are now the Pacific Station Jackass of the Year.
Button flipped through the DEA documents, then watched a few minutes of the camera’s video to make sure Pike hadn’t been fucking with him. But Pike, of course, had never fucked around and wasn’t fucking around now.
Button felt even more sick when he put down the camera. He picked up his phone to call Straw, then reconsidered. He was definitely going to confront the sonofabitch, that was for sure, but he wanted to have all the facts straight before he did. Button intended to file an official complaint.
Button called Dale Springer in the FBI’s New Orleans office. Springer was the agent Button had spoken with about the Rainey case less than an hour ago.
“Special Agent Springer.”
Button even hated how these condescending pricks answered their phones.
“Jerry Button in L.A. again. I stepped into something out here I need to ask about.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Button noticed Futardo looking at him, which made his stomach clench. He would have to tell her about his fuckup as soon as he got off the phone.
“You know an agent named Jack Straw?”
“Sure. Jack’s a good friend.”
“Uh-huh. Well, who’s his supervisor down there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like to speak with his supervisor. Your Mr. Straw misrepresented himself to the Los Angeles Police Department and is acting like an underhanded prick. I’d like to get this straightened out.”
Springer cleared his throat.
“Hang on, Sergeant. I’ll get him for you.”
A few seconds later, a different male voice came on the line.
“This is Jack Straw. Who is this, please?”
Button felt a stillness settle into his belly.
“Jerry Button with the Los Angeles Police Department. Your name is Jack Straw?”
“That’s right. Have we met?”
“You’re working the William Rainey case?”
“I’m one of the original case agents, Detective. Can I ask what this is about?”
“Ah, listen, is there another Jack Straw on the case?”
The New Orleans Jack Straw laughed.
“Not the last time I looked. What’s going on, Detective?”
“We have a gentleman here identifying himself as an agent named Jack Straw from your office. He has FBI credentials.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
Button leaned back in his chair and checked his hands. Steady as parked cars. He looked at Futardo. She was back on her computer, typing away. She was a good kid. He got up and walked over. She jumped to her feet when she saw him coming, but he motioned her down, and pulled up a nearby chair.
“Sit down, Nancy.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
Her eyes were dark as black forest chocolate, but wide as demitasse saucers. She probably thought he was going to chew her out, which he did, often, but now he wanted to teach her.
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I fucked up bad. That FBI asshole who came here, Straw? He had the credentials, he knew what to say, but he’s a fake. The real Jack Straw is sucking crawfish heads down in New Orleans right now. I should have checked the guy out, but I didn’t. That was a stupid, bush-league mistake, and it may have put a woman’s life in danger.”
Futardo stared at him as if one or both of them might have a stroke.
“You will never make this mistake, Nancy. For the rest of your career and beyond, you will question everything anyone tells you and you will always check out what they say. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Promise me.”
“Jesus, Jerry, what are we going to do?”
Button didn’t answer. He returned to his desk, and got the real Jack Straw back on the line. Button explained the situation and provided a detailed description of the fake Jack Straw to the best of his ability. When the real Jack Straw started telling Button how he wanted Button to handle the imposter, Button hung up. He took one deep breath, let it out, then dialed the number he had for the fake Jack Straw.
“Jack Straw.”
“Jerry Button here. We caught a break, man. We’re rolling to bag Rainey in five. You wanna go?”
“You found him?”
“A motor cop spotted the Prius. I am rolling in five, brother. You want to go or not?”
“All right.
Sure. Where do I meet you?”
“Where are you?”
“Santa Monica.”
“Okay, that’s close. I’ll pick you up on my way.”
Button gave a location, then stowed his phone. He checked his pistol, then clipped it to his belt. Not many dicks still carried the old .38 Snubbies, but Button saw no reason to change. It was small, light, and he had never fired it against another human being.
Button slipped on his jacket and headed out. He saw Futardo grab her purse and jump up to intercept him
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna bag the fucker, Nancy. That’s my job.”
“I want to come. Can I? Please?”
Like a kid. All anxious and eager, and maybe a little afraid.
Button considered letting her come, but finally shook his head.
“Finish your reports.”
He left to bag the fake Jack Straw, and did not see when she followed.
Straw was leaning against his car at the edge of a Ralph’s parking lot on Wilshire Boulevard. Button saw the fake prick as he put on his blinker to turn, and gave a little beep. Straw stepped away from his car, all ready to go.
Button wondered what the guy was up to, pretending to be a federal agent, but figured it probably had something to do with Rainey’s money.
Button turned into the lot and pulled up by Straw with the passenger door on the far side of the car.
Straw started around to the passenger side, but Button stopped him.
“Hang on a sec. I gotta give you a vest before we split. It’s in the trunk.”
Straw hesitated as Button climbed out.
“I don’t need a vest.”
“LAPD rules, man. I know it’s stupid.”
Button held up his hands to measure Straw’s shoulders, and grinned as if he was making a joke.
“It’s one size fits all, but it oughta do. I hope it doesn’t have too many bullet holes in it.”
The business with measuring Straw’s shoulders let Button get close. He grabbed Straw’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him against the car.