The First Rule jp-2

by Robert Crais

  “She is not to be a whore. She is not to work for Michael. I make her go to school, and have normal friends in her life, and to be a good girl.”

  Pike said, “You protected her.”

  Rina glanced out the window.

  “Not so well.”

  Cole cleared his throat, pulling them back.

  “Who knew Ana had the baby?”

  “No one.”

  “Yanni knew.”

  Yanni raised his hands again and shook his head.

  “I not tell anyone. I am with Rina every minute.”

  Rina made an impatient wave.

  “Yanni is good. I don’t know how Michael find her there. I cannot understand.”

  Cole said, “Let’s get back to Michael. This guy is your husband, but you don’t know where he lives?”

  “Nobody knows. That is how he makes his life.”

  “No address, no picture, not even a phone?”

  “He get new phone every week. The numbers change. What do you want me to say?”

  Rina scowled at Pike.

  “When is he going to start all this finding he is so good at?”

  Pike said, “Michael hides. We get that. But you know more about him than anyone else here. We need information so we have something to work with.”

  She spread her hands.

  “I am anxious to get started.”

  Cole said, “Who are his friends?”

  “He has no friends.”

  “Where does his family live?”

  “Serbia.”

  “I meant his relatives here.”

  “He leave them all in Serbia.”

  “Okay. What about your friends? Maybe one of them can help us find Michael.”

  “I have no friends. They are all afraid of Michael.”

  Cole looked over at Pike again.

  “I can’t write fast enough to keep up.”

  Rina squinted at him.

  “Is the great finder of people making fun of me?”

  Pike cleared his throat.

  “We need some names. Who does Michael work with? Who works for him? Even if you don’t know them, you must’ve heard the names mentioned, time to time.”

  Rina frowned at Yanni as if looking for guidance. Yanni glanced at Pike, afraid to say anything. Pike nodded, giving permission. They had a brief conversation that sounded more like an argument, and then they both started spitting out names. The names were difficult to understand, and even more difficult to spell, but Cole scratched them into his notebook.

  When Cole finished with the names, he looked up, and seemed hopeful.

  “Has Darko ever been arrested? Here in L.A.?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. He has been here much longer than me.”

  Cole glanced over at Pike, arching his eyebrows again.

  “Keep your fingers crossed on that one. I’ll check out Darko and these other guys, see if they’re in the system. If Darko’s been arrested, we might get lucky here. The one person you can’t lie to about where you live or what you own is the bail bondsman.”

  Pike knew this to be true from his time as an officer. Criminals lie to everyone about everything. They would give phony names, ages, and addresses to the police, the courts, each other, and even their own lawyers, but they could not lie to a bail bondsman. A bondsman would not post a bond without collateral, and if a bondsman could not confirm that the applicant legally owned what he claimed to own, that applicant stayed in jail.

  Cole continued the questioning, but she didn’t know very much more. Darko paid for everything in cash, used no credit cards that were not stolen, and made Rina pay all the bills for herself and the baby from her own checking account, which he then reimbursed in cash. Phones changed, addresses changed, locations changed, and cars changed. He was a man who left no trails and lived a hidden life.

  Pike said, “How were you planning to find him?”

  She shrugged as if there were only one way, and they should have gotten around to it sooner.

  “I would watch for the money.”

  Cole and Pike traded a glance, then Cole turned back to her.

  “How does he make his money?”

  “Sex. He has the girls. He has the people who steal the big trucks-”

  “Hijackers? Trucks filled with TVs, clothes, things like that?”

  “Yes. He has the people who steal the credit card information. He sells the bad gasoline. He has the strip clubs and bars.”

  Pike said, “You know where these places are?”

  “Some. I mostly know the girls.”

  Cole glanced up from his notes.

  “You know where he keeps the girls?”

  “I don’t know to say the address. I can show you.”

  Now Cole glanced over, and this time he stood. Pike followed him to the far side of the room, where Cole lowered his voice. Both Rina and Yanni were watching.

  “Did you find anything of her sister’s?”

  Pike told him what he found-the laptop, the yearbook, a few other things. All out in the Jeep.

  Cole said, “Good. I want to check out her story. Just because she tells us this stuff doesn’t make it real.”

  “I’ll put everything in your car when I leave.”

  “Also, I want to see what I can find out about this guy, Darko. If she’s giving it to us straight about him, then I probably know someone on LAPD who can help.”

  Pike knew someone, too, though not on LAPD, and now Pike wanted to see him.

  From the couch, Rina said, “I don’t like all these whispers.”

  Pike turned to face her.

  “You’re going to take a ride with him. Show him whatever you know about Darko’s businesses, and answer his questions.”

  “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to answer his questions, too.”

  Pike glanced at Cole.

  “You good?”

  “Living the dream.”

  Pike let himself out.

  17

  Pike placed the laptop and other things he had taken from Ana’s room in Cole’s car, then headed back to his Jeep. As he was crossing the visitors’ parking lot, a brown Nissan Sentra slowed by the entrance. Two Latin men in the front seats tumed to check out the parking lot, and seemed to be looking at Pike’s Jeep. Then the driver saw Pike. There was a slight hesitation, then the driver gestured angrily at his passenger, making as if they were in the middle of an argument and seeing Pike hadn’t meant anything. Then the Sentra sped up and was gone.

  Maybe it was something, but maybe not.

  Troops in the desert called it spider-sense, after the movies about the Marvel comic book character, Spider-Man, how he senses something bad before it happens.

  Pike’s spider-sense tingled, but then the Sentra was gone. He tried to remember if he had seen a brown Sentra with two Latin guys earlier, but nothing came to mind.

  Pike was in no hurry to leave. If the Sentra was waiting around the corner to follow him, they might get tired of waiting and come back to see what he was doing. Then Pike would have them.

  Pike spent the next few minutes thinking about Michael Darko. Learning that Darko belonged to an EEOC gang set was a major break, mostly because it gave Pike direction. Los Angeles held the second largest collection of East European gangsters in the United States, most of whom were Russian. The fifteen republics of the former Soviet Union had all contributed gang sets to what most cops called Russian Organized Crime, whether they originally came from Russia or not. The Odessa Mafia was the largest set in L.A., followed by the Armenians, but smaller sets from Romania, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan, Chechnya, and the rest of Eastern Europe had been arriving for years. Most had been criminals back in their home states, but some had done other things.

  Pike called Jon Stone.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Bugger off. My head’s fine, bro. That’s just another night for me.”

  “Is Gr
egor still in L.A.?”

  “It’s George. He’s George Smith now. You have to be careful with his name.”

  “I remember. Is he here?”

  “Got a new place over on La Brea. What do you want with George?”

  “He might be able to help.”

  “This thing with Frank?”

  “An EOC gang is involved.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone was silent for a moment, then gave Pike an address.

  “Take your time getting there, okay? I’ll talk to him first. You walk in cold, he might get the wrong idea.”

  “I understand.”

  La Brea Avenue starts at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, and runs south through the city to the Hollywood Park racetrack. A ten-block stretch of its length between Melrose and Wilshire was known as decorators’ row because it was lined with everything from high-end custom furniture boutiques to Middle Eastern rug merchants to designer lighting and antique shops. The people who owned the stores came from all over the world, and sold to customers from all over the world, but not all of them were what they seemed.

  Pike found a spot for his Jeep outside a flower shop a block south of Beverly Boulevard. Pike had watched for the Sentra on a meandering drive from the Valley, and now he checked for the Sentra again when he got out of his Jeep. The Sentra had probably been nothing more than two guys who thought they saw something they didn’t, but Pike still had the creeped out sensation of crosshairs on his back.

  Pike didn’t go into the florist. He walked south one and a half blocks to an antique-lighting store. The store was narrow, with so many ceiling lights and wall sconces filling the window that the place looked like a secondhand junk store. A chime tinkled when Pike entered.

  The interior of the shop was as cluttered as the window; the walls festooned with sconces, and chandeliers and pendant lamps dripping from the ceiling like moss. Lamps of different sizes sprouted from every available surface like tropical plants in a jungle.

  A man’s voice said, “Hello, Joseph.”

  Took Pike a moment to find him, hidden behind the lamps like a hunter hidden by undergrowth.

  “Gregor.”

  “It’s George now, please. Remember?”

  “Sure. I’m sorry.”

  George Smith materialized from between the lamps. Pike hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked the same-shorter than Pike, and not as muscular, but with the sleek, strong build of a surfer, a surfer’s tan, and pale blue eyes. George was one of the deadliest human beings Pike knew. A gifted sniper. An immaculate assassin.

  George was Gregor Suvorov in those days, but had changed his name when he moved to Los Angeles. George Smith sounded as if he had grown up in Modesto, having what broadcasters called a “general American” accent, but Gregor Suvorov had grown up in Odessa, Ukraine, where he enlisted in the Army of the Russian Federation, and spent a dozen years in the Russian Special Purpose Regiment known as the Spetsnaz GRU-the Russian version of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces-which was run by the KGB. The KGB gave special schooling to their brightest troopers, and Gregor was exceptionally bright. Hence, his fluency with English.

  After combat tours in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he cashed in to the private contractor market, enjoyed his newfound money and freedoms, and opted for even more. He moved to Los Angeles, where he enjoyed the sun, sold collectible lamps, and worked for the Odessa Mafia.

  George offered his hand, and Pike took it. Warm iron. George smiling, welcoming Pike into his store.

  “Man, it’s been forever. You good?”

  “Good.”

  “I was surprised when Jon called. But pleased. Watch your head. That’s a deco Tiffany, circa 1923. Eight thousand to the trade.”

  Pike dipped sideways to avoid the light. Despite being filled with lamps, the shop was dingy and dim, with shadows lurking in the corners. George probably liked it that way.

  Pike said, “Business good?”

  “Excellent, thank you. I wish I had come to America sooner. I should have been born here, man. I’m telling you!”

  “Not the lamp business. Your other business.”

  “I knew what you meant. That business is good, too, both here and abroad.”

  George still accepted special assignments outside of the Odessa work if the price was right, though his clients these days were almost always governments or political agencies. No one else could afford him.

  Pike followed George to a desk at the rear of the shop where they could sit.

  “Jon tell you why I’m here?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about Frank. Really. I never met the dude, but I’ve heard good things.”

  “You still involved with Odessa?”

  George’s smile flashed again.

  “You wouldn’t mind a quick scan, would you? Would that be all right?”

  Pike spread his hands, saying scan all you want.

  George took an RF scanner similar to the one Pike owned from his desk, and ran it over Pike from his sunglasses to his shoes. Pike didn’t object. He would have been surprised if George hadn’t checked him. When George was satisfied, he put the scanner away.

  “Old habits.”

  “No problem.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea? I have the black tea. From Georgia. Not your Georgia-ours.”

  Pike didn’t want his tea and didn’t want to chat.

  “I’m good. You still in with the ROC, George?”

  George pursed his lips. Annoyed. The deadliest man Pike knew was pissy.

  “It’s Odessa, and I’m not in with them. I’m not a member. I consult on a freelance basis. I’m my own boss.”

  This seemed important to George, so Pike nodded.

  “I understand.”

  “That being said, if you want to discuss Odessa business, I can’t.”

  “I don’t care about Odessa. I want to know about the Serbs.”

  “So Jon told me. A hard people. Very tough. I fought them in Chechnya.”

  “Not there. Here. Can you talk about the gang sets here in Los Angeles?”

  George nodded, but a vagueness came to his eyes as if he had suddenly noticed something a thousand yards away.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. They do their thing, Odessa is something else. Like with the Armenians. The same, but different.”

  “You know of a Michael Darko?”

  George rocked back in his chair, the body language telling Pike that George was uncomfortable talking about Darko.

  “He killed your friend, Frank Meyer?”

  “Looks that way.”

  George grunted.

  “I know who he is. A hard man.”

  “What does hard mean?”

  “You understand the word, pakhan?”

  “No.”

  “A boss. Middle management for now, but he’s on the way up. These people aren’t given their promotions, they take them. Like cannibals eating each other.”

  Pike saw disdain in the pale eyes, and realized George felt superior to the gangsters who employed him. Maybe this was why he was adamant that Pike understand he was an independent contractor, and not part of Odessa. All of them might be killers, but George had come out of Spetsnaz-the rest were just animals.

  “What kind of crime does he do?”

  “A finger in many pies, like all these guys. Girls and sex, hijacking, extorting his own people. He’s aggressive, and trying to expand. Quick with the trigger.”

  George made a pistol with his hand and pulled the trigger.

  Pike said, “Know where I can find him?”

  “I don’t.”

  “A place of business? He must have some kind of front operation. He’d need that for taxes.”

  “I’m sure he must, but this man is just a name to me. Like I said, different circles. I’m a lamp salesman.”

  A lamp salesman who could put a bullet through your head from a thousand meters away. Then George continued.

  “They have a nicknam
e for him, the Shark. Did you know this?”

  “No.”

  “Could they be more dramatic? The Shark. He probably made this up for himself.”

  George made quote marks in the air when he said “the Shark,” and rolled his eyes.

  “He is the Shark because he never stops moving, and he moves so no one can find him. This is not a loved man, even among the Serb sets.”

  Pike grunted, now understanding why Rina didn’t know where to find him. So far, her descriptions of Michael Darko matched with Gregor’s.

  Pike said, “He’s been using a home invasion crew to take out his competition. He used the same crew on Frank. I want to find them, and I want to find him.”

  George laughed, full-bodied and deep.

  “You got part of that wrong, buddy. He isn’t taking out his competition. He’s ripping off his partners. Why do you think this asshole has to keep moving?”

  “You know about this?”

  “Enough to keep tabs. If he wants to rip off his own business partners, good riddance. If he sends a crew to Odessa, they’ll have to deal with me.”

  Pike wondered if Darko was ripping off his partners because he was returning to Europe-get some quick cash, grab his kid, go.

  “The tabs you keep include his crew?”

  George shrugged, no big deal.

  “Bangers from Compton.”

  “Jamal Johnson?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “A Compton offender who’s come into recent wealth.”

  “Is he a Crip?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A D-Block Crip called Moon Williams runs Darko’s crew. Another dramatic name. Darko feeds him the targets. Williams splits the take.”

  Pike felt a burn of excitement, as if he had taken a step closer.

  “Moon Williams. You sure?”

  George cupped a hand behind his ear as if he was listening.

  “The KGB is everywhere. Also, Mr. Moon has been making much money recently, too. He spends it in a club owned by Odessa. Cristal champagne, the finest rock, and beautiful Russian women. He loves the Russian women. He loves to tell them what a badazz life-takin’ nigga he is.”

  George burst out laughing again, an obvious glee in his eyes. For George, people like Moon Williams were here so he would always have targets.