by Robert Crais
Bud let the big Hummer idle down the street; Pike rode shotgun, Cole and Barkley had the back.
Conner Barkley leaned forward to see.
“Where are we?”
Bud said, “ Boyle Heights. You should buy it. Build a big fuckin’ mall.”
Pike knew Barkley was nervous, but Bud was nervous, too.
Bud said, “You see him? I don’t see him.”
“He’ll come. He said wait in the car until he gets here.”
“I’m not getting out whether he’s here or not, these friggin’ punks.”
Bud eased on the brakes as they reached the address, stopping outside a small home identical to all the others except for a boat in the drive and an American flag hanging from the eaves. A yellow ribbon was pinned to the flag, and both the flag and the ribbon had been there so long they were bleached by the sun. More than one of the homes they passed were hung with similar ribbons.
Hard-looking young guys were sitting in the parked cars or standing in small groups as if they were impervious to the heat. Most wore white T-shirts and jeans baggy enough to hide a microwave oven, and most were heavily tattooed. They eyed the Hummer with studied indifference.
Bud read their gang affiliations by their ink.
“Look at these guys-Florencia 13, Latin Kings, Surenos, 18th Street-Jesus, 18th Street and Mara kill each other on sight. They friggin’ hate each other.”
Barkley said, “Are they gangbangers?”
Cole said, “Pretend you’re watching TV. You’ll be fine.”
Pike said, “Frank.”
A black Lincoln limousine appeared at the far end of the street and rolled toward them. Its appearance rippled through the young gangbangers, who got out of their cars, craning to see. Barkley saw their reactions and leaned forward again.
“Is he the head gangbanger?”
Cole laughed.
Pike thought that was funny, too. He thought if he lived through this, he would tell Frank, and Frank would also laugh.
Pike said, “He’s a cook.”
Bud smiled at Pike. When he realized Pike wasn’t going to say more, he twisted toward Barkley to explain.
“You eat Mexican food? At home? I know you have cooks, but maybe it’s late and you want something fast, you keep tortillas in the house?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Monsterito?”
“Oh, sure, that’s my favorite.”
Pike thought this was a helluva thing to be talking about.
Bud turned forward again to keep an eye on Frank’s limo.
“You and everybody else. Me, too. The little drawing they have on the package, the Latin guy with the bushy mustache? That’s Mr. Garcia forty years ago. These kids out here-Frank used to be one of them. That was before he went to work making tortillas for his aunt. Used to make’m in her kitchen, that whole family recipe thing. Turned those tortillas into a food empire worth, what-?”
Bud glanced at Pike, but Pike ignored him.
Cole said, “Five, six hundred mil.”
Pike wished they would stop talking, but Bud turned to Barkley again.
“Not your kind of money, but nothing to sneeze at. Thing is, he never forgot where he came from. He’s paid a lot of doctor bills down here. He’s paid for a lot of educations. He gives back. There are men in prison-and, by the way, I put some of those bastards there-Frank’s been supporting their families for years. You think those boys wouldn’t do anything for him? He’s rich now, and he’s old, but they all know he was one of them and didn’t turn his back when he made it.”
Frank’s limo stopped, nose to nose with the Hummer. The front doors opened, and two nicely dressed young men popped out, one Frank’s bodyguard, the other his assistant. Pike knew them both from visits to Frank’s house.
Barkley said, “How do you know him, Pike?”
Bud said, “Joe almost married his daughter.”
Pike pushed open the door and got out, wanting to get away from Bud’s story. Pike had met the Garcias when he was a young patrol officer, still riding with Abel Wozniak. Years later, when Karen Garcia was murdered, Pike and Cole found her killer.
Pike waited as Frank emerged from the car. Frank Garcia looked to be a hundred years old. His skin, burnished as dark as saddle leather, had the crusty texture of bark, and his hair was a silver crown. He was frail, and had to be wheeled through the endless rooms of his Hancock Park mansion, but he could walk a bit if someone steadied his arm. When his bodyguard was unfolding his chair, Frank waved it away. He wanted to walk.
A craggy smile cracked his face when he saw Pike, and he clutched Joe’s arm.
“Hello, my heart.”
Pike returned his embrace, then stepped away.
“Carlos inside?”
“Abbot spoke with the people who could make it so. He will not know why he is here. I thought that best. So this man Vahnich could not be warned.”
Frank Garcia was a sharp old man, and so was his attorney and right-hand man, Abbot Montoya. They had grown up together, Montoya like Frank’s little brother. They had been White Fence together, and risen above it together as well.
The bodyguard and the driver took the old man’s arms and the four of them crept up the walk, moving at an old man’s pace. The front door opened almost at once, revealing a burly man in his middle forties. He was short but wide, with a weight lifter’s chest and thin legs. His face was round, and pocked so badly he looked like a pineapple; his arms were covered with gang tats and scars. He studied Pike, then looked at the old man and held his door wider.
“Welcome to my home, sir. I’m Aldo Saenz. My mother, Lupe Benitez, was married to Mr. Montoya’s wife’s cousin, Hector Guerrero.”
Frank shook his hand warmly.
“Thank you for your indulgence, Mr. Saenz. You do me an honor today.”
Pike followed Frank into a small living room not unlike the Echo Park house, with furniture that had seen much use but was clean and orderly. This was a family home, with photographs of children and adults surrounding a crucifix on the wall. The pictures showed children of different ages, one of a young man in a Marine Corps dress uniform.
Including Aldo Saenz, Pike counted six men, two in the dining room and four in the living room. Their eyes hit Pike the instant he entered, and two of the men appeared nervous. Saenz gestured impatiently at the men in the dining room.
“Chair. C’mon.”
One of the men hustled a chair from the dining room for Frank.
Frank said, “Please sit. Don’t let an old man keep you on your feet. I must introduce myself-Frank Garcia. And may I introduce my friend-”
Frank waved Pike closer and gripped his arm. Pike was always surprised how strong the old man was. Hand like a talon.
“When I lost my daughter-when she was murdered-this man found the animal who took her. And now, now he is my heart. This man is a son to me. To help him is to help me. I wish you all to know this. Now, may we speak with Mr. Maroto?”
Saenz pointed at one of the men in the dining room. Maroto was a younger man, maybe in his early thirties, and now he tensed as if he was about to be executed. Powerful people had ordered him to be here; people who might end his life without hesitation. Every man in the room was watching.
Frank said, “Carlos Maroto of Mara Salvatrucha?”
Maroto’s eyes flicked around the room. He was afraid, but Pike could see he was thinking. He had been told to be here, so he was here, but now he was preparing himself to fight if he had to fight.
Maroto said, “I am.”
Frank once more clutched Pike’s arm.
“This man, the son of my heart, he is going to ask something of you. Here, in front of the other members of our home. Before he does, let me say I understand these are sensitive issues, that business arrangements of long standing between individuals and groups might be involved. What we ask, we do not ask lightly.”
The old man released Pike’s arm and made a little wave.
“Ask.”<
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Pike looked at Maroto.
“Where can I find Khali Vahnich?”
Maroto narrowed his eyes to show he was hard, and slowly shook his head.
“No fuckin’ idea. Who’s that?”
It occurred to Pike that Maroto might not know Vahnich by his real name. He took out the page with Vahnich’s picture and held it out. Maroto did not take it, which told Pike Maroto knew him.
“Your crew is in business with Esteban Barone. Barone asked you to take care of him and some boys from Ecuador. You’re helping a friend. I get that.”
Saenz said, “Answer him, homes. No one is on trial here.”
Maroto was angry and feeling on the spot.
“What the fuck? Yeah, that’s right, why is this anyone’s business?”
Pike said, “I want you to give him to me.”
Maroto shifted again, and now he wasn’t looking at Pike. He was looking at the others.
“What is this? We don’t know this fuck. For all we know, he’s a cop.”
Aldo Saenz crossed the big arms, and Pike could see he was trying to control himself. When Saenz spoke, his voice was a low rumble.
“You are here as my guest. I treat you with respect, but do not insult Mr. Garcia in my home.”
“I meant no disrespect to Mr. Garcia, but my clique has business with Esteban Barone. A long-standing and profitable business. He asked a favor, we do it. What do you want me to say?”
Pike said, “Khali Vahnich is Barone’s friend, but that isn’t all he is.”
Pike passed the Interpol sheet to Saenz.
“Read to the bottom of the page.”
Pike watched Saenz reach the bottom of the page, then saw him frown.
“What does this mean? Terrorist watch list? What is this?”
Frank clutched Pike’s arm again and pulled himself to his feet.
“It means he is my enemy. He feeds the people who want to kill us, and arms their lunatics, and now-right now while we are standing here in this house-he is in Los Angeles-our barrio! And I want that motherfucker!”
Saenz was motionless except for the rise and fall of his massive chest. His face creased like layers of slate, with a fierce tic in his cheek. He passed the sheet to the nearest man, then stared at Maroto.
Maroto grew pale and shook his head.
“Barone said help the guy, we helped. You think we know something like this? You think he said, Here’s my friend, the terrorist? What the fuck?”
The man with the sheet passed it to the next man, and he to the next. Pike remembered the flag outside and the yellow ribbon. Saenz was staring at the picture of the young Marine, and Pike knew Frank Garcia had chosen this house well.
Saenz cleared his throat, then looked at Frank.
“If you could give us a moment, please. I mean no disrespect. Just a moment.”
The bodyguard and the driver helped Frank up, and Pike followed them out. They were only halfway to his car when Saenz caught up and told them where to find Vahnich.
43
Vahnich was using a small house on a low rise in the elbow where the Glendale Freeway met the L.A. River. Orange orchards had once stretched as far as anyone could see, but the orchards fell to developers, and the low rises and rolling hills of Glassell Park were covered with houses. Withered orange trees still peeked between the older homes; original tenants with gnarled trunks as black as soot. Pike and Bud both knew the area well; it was directly across the river from the police academy.
Pike was still bitching.
“This fucking Hummer stands out like a tank. We might as well be coming up here with a big sign, Here we come.”
Pike said, “Right at the next street, then up the hill. It should be on the left.”
Maroto told them the house sat at the end of a long drive, hidden from the street by scrub oak and olive trees and neighboring homes. Vahnich didn’t live in the house, but had wanted a place to meet with the men from Ecuador. Vahnich had liked the privacy.
Larkin’s father leaned forward, trying to see.
“What if she isn’t here? What if he took her somewhere else?”
Cole said, “Then Maroto is gonna have a bad night. That’s why Saenz and those guys kept him-so he couldn’t warn this guy and to make sure he didn’t lie.”
Bud slowed.
“Coming up. Look to the left.”
The drive curved down and away from the street, following the roll of the hill. Pike saw the near corner of the house and the tail of a blue car, and then they were past.
Cole said, “Saw a blue car, but that’s it. He could have an army in there.”
Pike didn’t mind. If you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you.
Bud kept rolling.
“Let’s call the police. We gotta bring in LAPD.”
Pike turned to watch the drive to see if anyone came out to look.
“Let’s make sure she’s here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go see. Wait up the street. I’ll call.”
Conner Barkley said, “I want to come.”
“I’m just going to look.”
Pike stepped out at a fast walk, then trotted up the neighboring drive. The homes on this part of the street stepped up the gentle rise, each house a few feet above the one below. Pike followed a low retaining wall alongside the house past plastic garbage cans and old rain gutters and unused bags of fertilizer so old they had erupted. He stopped long enough to make sure the backyard was empty, then crossed the yard between three ancient orange trees and stepped over the edge.
Pike side-hilled the slope through ivy and ice plants and more orange trees until he was below Vahnich’s house, then worked his way up. From his present position, he saw a ranch-style house in need of paint, set on a dead yard littered with rotten oranges. The neighboring house was above it. The drive curved up to a carport at the front of the house. The blue car he glimpsed from the street was blocking the lowrider described by the cousins, and a new Chrysler LeBaron in the carport.
Two men stood at the front of the lowrider, a liquid black 1962 Bel Air that shone like burning coal. The hood was up, and both men were lost in the joys of the engine.
The way the house was cut into the slope, Pike knew a retaining wall and walkway would run along the opposite side of the house along its entire length. He was pretty sure he would find windows, and then he might find Larkin.
Pike started through the skeletal fruit trees toward the near end of the house, but as soon as his sight line changed, he saw her through the sliding glass doors cut into the back of the house. Larkin was sitting on the floor against the far wall in an empty room, facing the sliding doors. A man walked past her moving from left to right, heading for the front of the house. He wasn’t Vahnich. Pike thought it through. At least six men were present-the five remaining Ecuadoreans, plus Vahnich.
Pike studied Larkin and felt an enormous sense of relief. He had lost her, but now had found her. She was sitting with her knees together, and her hands behind her back. Pike couldn’t tell if she was tied, but he wanted to know; if she was bound, her movement would be limited. She didn’t seem uncomfortable or injured. Her head was up, her eyes were open, and she was looking toward the front of the house. The choppy black hair made her look tough and good to go. Pike wondered if she would grow it out again and go back to the red. She was saying something to whoever she was looking at. Pike decided she was angry, which made his mouth twitch. He settled back, thinking, You are one damn fine young woman.
Pike opened his phone to dial Vahnich, and Vahnich answered immediately.
“Yes?”
“He’ll transfer the money. He’s setting it up now.”
“This is a wise man. He has made the right choice.”
“I’m supposed to make sure you didn’t cut off her hand or hurt her. He wants to be sure. Put her on for a second.”
Vahnich didn’t object.
A man entered from the right, squatted beside the
girl, and held a phone to her head. It was Vahnich, and now Pike knew Larkin was tied.
Her voice came to his ear.
“Joe?”
“I won’t let him hurt you.”
“He says to tell you he hasn’t hurt me.”
“Stay groovy.”
Vahnich came to the glass with the phone. Pike wasn’t alarmed. Vahnich was simply looking out over the Glendale Freeway toward the Verdugo Mountains. Pike could have killed him, but three other men were still inside with the girl.
Vahnich said, “She is well, you see? I am a man of my word. I will honor our agreement.”
“His business guy says it’s going to take another few minutes to compile this much money for transfer. They have it spread all over hell and back.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll call you again. At that time, her father will want to personally hear her voice. Just to be sure. Then they’ll hit the button.”
“Of course. I have no problem with that.”
“Good. You won’t have any problems.”
A reasonable terrorist. Polite and considerate.
Pike ended the call, then dialed Cole. While he was waiting for the ring, Vahnich turned away from the sliding doors and exited to the left. Pike didn’t like it. Now he had Vahnich somewhere in the back of the house, another man in the front, and two men in unknown locations.
Cole answered.
Pike said, “She’s here. Two men are out front by the cars. The girl is inside in what looks like a family room or den at the back. At least three more men are inside, but I can’t say where.”
“You see Vahnich?”
“That’s affirm.”
“So Vahnich is confirmed in the house.”
“Yes.”
“Bud says he’s calling the police.”
“Whatever. Where are you?”
“We’re across the street.”