The First Rule jp-2

by Robert Crais

  Chen nodded toward the big stain at their feet.

  “Mr. Meyer was here. His wife and one of the boys there by the French doors. The nanny was in her room. I can give you a pretty good take on how it unfolded.”

  A blue three-ring binder was open on a nearby table where Chen had been making sketches. He flipped to a scaled floor plan showing the location and position of the bodies, along with recovered shell casings.

  “The family was probably having dinner when the shooters broke in. You saw the door. Bam, they scared the shit out of everybody. Meyer probably advanced on them, brief struggle, boom, boom-he had cuts on his face like they hit him with a hard object, probably a gun-and that’s when they killed him.”

  Pike studied the three strands of yarn.

  “They shot him three times?”

  “Yeah, once high on his hip, once in the side, and once in his back. Two shooters, like they were trying to put him down fast. This suggests he was fighting. The others were shot once in the forehead at close range, which suggests a deliberate execution.”

  The others. Cindy and the boys.

  The ugly stain where Meyer bled out looked like the Salton Sea. Meyer had been a good fighter. He had superb training and great instincts, else Pike would never have made him part of his team.

  “How many men all together?”

  “Four, which makes this one a little different. The earlier invasions, there were only three guys. They added a fourth.”

  “Four guns?”

  “Looks like, but we’re still running the casings and bullets. It’s the shoe prints. We’ve got four distinct shoe prints.”

  Pike glanced at the black smudges on door jambs and handles.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Gloves. We didn’t get anything from the earlier crime scenes, either. No identifying prints, no DNA, no nothing except the shoes. C’mon, I’ll show you where we found the nanny.”

  Chen led Pike across the dining room, through the kitchen, then past the laundry room to a tiny bedroom where the door and jamb were split.

  “See how they crunched the door? It was locked. She was probably trying to hide.”

  Chen glanced at his notes.

  “Ana Markovic, age twenty. Two shots close range, one in the face, one in the chest, two casings here in the room. Both nine-millimeter. Did I mention that?”

  “No.”

  “These guys used nines. All the bullets and casings we found-nines.”

  The room was a small place to die, filled by a bed and a table, with only a casement window for light. Pictures of a smiling young woman hugging Frank’s boys were taped over the desk, part of a birthday card the kids had made of construction paper. We love Ana.

  Pike said, “Her?”

  “Uh-huh. An au pair.”

  Smears of blood on the floor and the door indicated she tried to crawl away after being shot.

  Pike said, “Did she describe them?”

  “Uh-uh. She was unconscious when the uniforms found her. They got her over to UCLA, but she’s not going to make it.”

  Pike stared at the streaks of blood. It was easy to imagine her outstretched hand.

  “Does Terrio have any suspects?”

  “No one we’ve identified. If he has someone from the other side, I couldn’t tell you. They haven’t issued any warrants.”

  SID was the science side. The other side was shoe leather-whatever detectives turned from informants and witnesses.

  “How many people have they killed?”

  “Four. If the nanny dies, five.”

  “Not here, John. All together.”

  “Eleven. Hey, that’s why they set up a task force. They’re using divisional dicks from all over the city.”

  Chen suddenly glanced at his watch, looking uncomfortable.

  “Listen, I gotta get busy. Those dicks are coming back.”

  Pike followed Chen back to the dining room, but he still wasn’t ready to leave.

  Pike said, “Let me see the pictures.”

  Criminalists, coroner investigators, and homicide detectives photo-documented everything. Chen would have photographed the scene before he made the sketches.

  “Bro, these people were your friends. You sure?”

  “Let me see.”

  Chen went to his case and returned with a black digital camera. He scrolled through the images until he found what he wanted, then held it so Pike could see.

  The image was tiny, but Pike saw Frank splayed on the floor. He was on his back, his left leg straight and right leg cocked to the side, floating in a pool of deep red that shined with the flash. Pike had wanted to see if the red arrows were inked on his arms like Deets said, but Frank was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, rolled to his forearms.

  “I want to see his face. Can you zoom it?”

  Chen adjusted the picture, then held out the camera again. Frank was cut beneath his right eye in two places, indicating he had been hit more than once. Pike wondered if Frank had been trying to disarm the man or men closest to him when the men across the room shot him.

  Pike said, “Was a time, he would have beat them.”

  Chen said, “What?”

  Pike felt embarrassed for saying it, so he didn’t answer.

  “You want to see the wife and kids?”

  “No.”

  Chen looked relieved.

  “You knew him pretty well?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he holding?”

  “Frank wasn’t a criminal.”

  “All the other vics in the string were dirty. That’s part of the pattern.”

  “Not Frank.”

  Chen read something in Pike’s voice.

  “Sorry. They probably made a mistake. Assholes like this, they probably hit the wrong house.”

  “Yes,” Pike said. “They made a mistake.”

  “Listen, I gotta get back to work. I gotta get you outta here.”

  Pike followed the hall back to the front door, but he did not immediately leave. On the way in, they had passed what appeared to be a home office.

  Photographs of Frank and his family hung on the walls. Movie posters from The Magnificent Seven, Shane, and the original Star Wars, Frank’s three favorite films. Frank used to joke he was a Jedi. He called Pike Yoda.

  Pike studied the pictures, comparing the Frank he had known with the Frank who had lived in this house. When Pike met Frank for the first time, Frank was fresh out of eight years in the Marine Corps, having seen service in Central America and the Middle East. Frank had been young and lean, but had the chunky build of a kid who would put on weight quickly if he stopped working out. The Frank in these pictures had gained weight, but looked happy and safe.

  Pike found a picture of Frank and Cindy, then moved to a picture of Frank and Cindy with the two boys. Cindy was squat and sturdy, with short brown hair, happy eyes, and a crooked nose that made her pretty. Pike studied more pictures. The two boys, then the four of them together, father, mother, children, family.

  Pike moved through the office until he came to a space on a shelf with an empty frame. The frame was the right size for the El Salvador picture.

  Pike took a breath, let it out, then found Chen back in the dining room.

  “Show me his family.”

  “You want to see what they did to his wife and his kids?”

  Pike wanted to see. He wanted to fix them in his mind, and have them close when he found the men who killed them.

  4

  Pike lived alone in a two-bedroom condo in Culver City. He drove home, then stripped and showered away the sweat. He let hot water beat into him, then turned on the cold. Pike didn’t flinch when the icy water fired his skin. He rubbed the cold over his face and scalp, and stayed in the cold much longer than the hot, then toweled himself off.

  Before he dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror. Pike was six foot one. He weighed two hundred five pounds. He had been shot seven times, hit by shrapnel on fourteen separate occas
ions, and stabbed or cut eleven times. Scars from the wounds and resulting surgeries mapped his body like roads that always came back to the same place. Pike knew exactly which scars had been earned when he worked with Frank Meyer.

  Pike leaned close to the mirror, examining each eye. Left eye, right eye. The scleras were clear and bright, the irises a deep, liquid blue. The skin surrounding the eyes was lined from squinting into too many suns. Pike’s eyes were sensitive to light, but his visual acuity was amazing. 20/11 in his left eye, 20/12 in his right. They had loved that in sniper school.

  Pike dressed, then put on his sunglasses.

  “Yoda.”

  Lunch was leftover Thai food nuked in the microwave. Tofu, cabbage, broccoli, and rice. He drank a liter of water, then washed the one plate and fork while thinking about what he had learned from Chen and Terrio, and how he could use it.

  Jumping Pike in broad daylight on a residential street to ask a few questions was a panic move. This confirmed that after three months, seven invasions, and eleven homicides, Terrio had not developed enough evidence to initiate an arrest. But a lack of proof did not necessarily mean a lack of suspects or usable information, what Chen had called “shoe leather” information. Professional home invasion crews almost always comprised career criminals who did violent crime for a living. If caught, they would be off the streets for the period of their incarceration, but would almost always commit more crimes when released. Experienced investigators like Terrio knew this, and would compare the date of the original robbery to release dates of criminals with a similar history, trying to identify high-probability suspects. Pike wanted to know what they had.

  Pike went upstairs to his bedroom closet, opened his safe, and took out a list of telephone numbers. The numbers were not written as numbers, but as an alphanumeric code. Pike found the number he wanted, then brought it downstairs, sat on the floor with his back to the wall, and made the call.

  Jon Stone answered on the second ring, the sound of old-school N.W.A pounding loud behind him. Stone must have recognized Pike’s number on the caller ID.

  “Well. Look who it is.”

  “Got a couple of questions.”

  “How much will you pay for a couple of answers?”

  Jon Stone was a talent agent for professional military contractors. Stone used to be a PMC himself, but now placed talent with the large private military corporations and security firms favored by Washington and corporate America. Safer that way, and much more profitable.

  Pike didn’t respond, and after a while the N.W.A was turned down.

  Stone said, “Tell you what, let’s table that for now. You go ahead, ask, we’ll see what develops.”

  “Remember Frank Meyer?”

  “Fearless Frank, my man on the tanks? Sure.”

  “Has Frank been working?”

  “Frank was one of your guys. You tell me.”

  “Has he been on the market?”

  “He retired ten years ago, at least.”

  “So you haven’t heard any rumors?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Frank getting involved with people you wouldn’t expect.”

  Jon snorted.

  “Fearless Frank? Get control of yourself.”

  “He didn’t like being called Fearless Frank. It made him uncomfortable.”

  Stone lapsed into silence, probably embarrassed, and Pike went on.

  “Less than two hours ago, a police detective named Terrio told me Frank was dirty. He believes Frank was using his import business for something illegal.”

  “Why was a cop talking about Frank?”

  “Frank and his family were murdered.”

  Stone was silent for a time, and when he spoke again, his voice was low.

  “For real?”

  “A robbery crew broke into their home two nights ago. Frank, his wife, their kids. They zero in on targets with a cash payoff-dope dealers, money launderers, like that. Frank wasn’t their first.”

  “I’ll ask around, I guess. I can’t believe Frank went wrong, but I’ll ask.”

  “Another thing. You have juice with Fugitive Section or Special Investigations?”

  Now Stone grew wary.

  “Why?”

  “You know why, Jon. If Terrio’s task force has any suspects, Fugitive Section or SIS will be trying to find them. I want to know what they have.”

  Fugitive Section detectives specialized in tracking down and apprehending wanted felons in high-risk situations. Special Investigation Section were elite operators who ran long-term, covert surveillance on criminals suspected of committing violent serial crime. With their expertise, skill, and experience, retired Fugitive Section and SIS operators commanded top dollar at private security firms, and Jon Stone had placed more than a few into fat corporate jobs.

  Stone hesitated, and Pike listened to the N.W.A tracks behind him, back in the day before Ice Cube went legit.

  “C’mon, Jon. You have ins with those guys.”

  Stone cleared his throat, sounding uncomfortable.

  “I might have a friend who has a friend. I’m just saying, is all.”

  “I need this information before they make an arrest.”

  Stone lapsed into another silence, and now seemed thoughtful when he spoke.

  “I guess you would, then, Joseph.”

  “Frank was one of my guys.”

  “Listen, that business about Frank, I have an idea. Ask Lonny. Lonny might know.”

  Lonny Tang. The man who had taken the picture in El Salvador. Thirteen days later, on a job in Kuwait, Frank Meyer would save Lonny Tang’s life on what would turn out to be Lonny’s last job.

  Pike said, “Why would Lonny know?”

  “Frank kept in touch with him. You didn’t know? He sent Lonny Christmas cards, stuff like that. I’ll bet you ten bucks his wife never knew.”

  Pike didn’t respond because Pike hadn’t known, either. He hadn’t spoken with Lonny in years, and Frank even longer. Stone went on, finishing his idea.

  “If Frank was mixed up in something, he’d tell Lonny if he was gonna tell anyone.”

  “That’s a good idea, asking Lonny. I will.”

  “You gotta set it up through his lawyer. You want the number?”

  “I have it.”

  “I’ll let you know about the other thing after I talk to my guys.”

  “Thanks, Jon. How much do I owe you?”

  Stone cranked up the N.W.A. Something about guns in Compton. Something about making a muthuhfucka pay.

  “Forget it. Frank was one of my guys, too.”

  Pike lowered the phone, thought over what he needed to do, then raised the phone again. Pike owned a small gun shop not far from his condo. He had five employees who were expecting him that afternoon.

  “Gun shop. This is Sheila. May I help you?”

  Sheila Lambert was a retired FBI agent who worked part-time at the store.

  “Me. Everything good?”

  “Yeah, we’re groovy. What’s up?”

  “I won’t be in this afternoon. That okay?”

  “Not a problem. You wanna speak with Ronnie?”

  Ronnie managed Pike’s store.

  “Just pass the word. If he needs me, I’m on the cell.”

  “Roger that.”

  Pike hung up, cleared two other appointments he had that afternoon, then called Lonny Tang’s attorney, a man named Carson Epp.

  Pike said, “I need to speak with him. Can you set it up?”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon. It’s a family emergency.”

  “May I tell him what this is about?”

  Pike decided Lonny should hear about Frank from him, and not Epp or someone else. Lonny had been one of Pike’s guys, too.

  “Frank the Tank.”

  “Frank the Tank?”

  “He’ll know. Let me give you my cell.”

  Pike gave him his number, then lowered the phone, thinking he couldn’t wait for Stone to come up with somethi
ng Terrio might or might not have developed. He wondered if Ana Markovic was still alive, and if she had managed to speak. Chen said she hadn’t, but Chen was only repeating what he had heard from the cops, and the cops would have left as soon as a doctor told them she was not going to wake up. Pike wanted to talk to the nurses. Even unconscious, she might have mumbled something after the cops were gone. A word or a name could give him an edge. Pike wanted the edge.

  Pike changed into a pale blue dress shirt to make himself presentable, then bought a bouquet of daisies and drove to the hospital.

  5

  The intensive care unit was on the sixth floor of the UCLA Medical Center. Pike stepped out of the elevator and followed signs to an octagonal command post at the end of a hall lined by glass-walled rooms. Curtains could be pulled for privacy, but most of the rooms were open so the staff could see the patients from the hall.

  Pike walked the length of the hall checking for officers, but any officers who had been present were gone. He returned to the nurses’ station, and waited until a harried female nurse turned to him. Her name tag read BARBARA FARNHAM.

  “May I help you?”

  Pike and his dress shirt held out the flowers.

  “Ana Markovic.”

  The nurse’s expression softened when she saw the daisies.

  “I’m sorry. Are you a relative?”

  “I know the family.”

  “We limit our visitors in ICU, only one person at a time, and then only for a few minutes. Her sister’s here now, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  Pike nodded.

  “Room twelve, but you can’t leave the flowers. If a patient has an allergic reaction, it could weaken their immune system.”

  Pike had expected this, and handed over the flowers. The nurse admired them as she placed them on the counter.

  “Pretty. I like daisies. You can pick them up when you leave or we can send them to another part of the hospital. We usually send them to Maternity.”