by Robert Crais
Pike said, “It’s okay, buddy. I understand.”
The dog strained even harder to bite him.
Pike went to the Riviera.
Moon’s key opened the Riviera perfectly, but Pike did not get in. He pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves, then searched the glove box and under the front buckets, hoping for a cell phone or some hard link to Michael Darko.
He found it on the backseat, as alien to the car’s cracked, filthy interior as a perfect white rose-a baby’s bib. Made of a soft white cloth with a pattern of blue bunnies. Orange and green stains streaked the front. Pike felt the supple material, and knew the bib had been in the car only a few days. He held it to his nose, and knew the stains were recent. The orange smelled of apricots, the green of peas.
Pike folded the bib into a square and tucked it into his pocket, wondering what Moon Williams had done with the baby. Then Pike remembered Moon’s grandmother. The freeway noise was loud, but multiple gunshots had been fired. The woman should have heard. Her grandson and the other two bodies had been here for at least three days. She would have discovered them.
Pike locked the Riviera and went to the double-wide. This time he didn’t knock.
The gray-and-white cat raced out when he opened the door, and the same terrible smell seared his throat. The living room was neat and orderly the way he had seen it through the window, but as soon as he entered he saw the broken door at the end of the hall, and heard the cheery, upbeat melody of game-show music. Pike found Ms. Mildred Gertie Williams dead on her bedroom floor. A small television on her dresser was showing a rerun of Bob Barker’s The Price Is Right. Ms. Williams was wearing pajamas, a thin robe, and furry pink slippers, and had been shot twice in the body and once in the forehead. She had been shot in the left hand, too, but the bullet had entered the palm and exited the back of her hand, making a through-and-through defensive wound. She had been trying to ward off the shooter or begging for her life when the shooter fired, shooting through her hand.
Pike turned off the television. Her bed was rumpled and unmade, with a TV remote by the pillows. She was probably watching TV when she heard the shots, and got up to see what happened. Pike pictured her standing as she would have been before she was murdered. He placed himself where the shooter would have stood, made a gun of his hand, and aimed. The spent casings would have ejected to the right, so he looked right, and found them between the wall and an overstuffed chair. Two nine-millimeters, same brand as the casings in Moon’s trailer.
Pike stood over Mildred Williams, her face now misshapen and rimed with blood. Framed pictures of children lined the dresser, smiling gap-toothed boys and girls, one of whom was probably Moon.
Pike studied the pictures. He said nothing, but thought, this is how your love was repaid.
Pike left her as he found her, went outside, and sat in one of the lawn chairs under the awning. The air was good and cool, and not filled with death. Pike exhaled with his diaphragm, pushing out the bad stuff. If death was in him, he wanted to get rid of it.
Pike phoned John Chen, who answered from the lab at SID in a hushed, paranoid whisper.
“I can’t talk. They’re all around me.”
“Just listen. In a couple of hours, SID will roll to a murder site in Willowbrook. They’ll find three deceased males, a deceased female, three nine-millimeter pistols, and spent casings from a fourth gun.”
Chen’s voice grew even softer.
“Holy Christ, did you kill them?”
“Comp their guns with the casings and bullets you have from the Meyer house. They’re going to match.”
“Holy Christ again! You got the crew who killed the Meyers?”
“The spent casings in Willowbrook will probably match with the casings you found in Ana Markovic’s room. The man who killed Ana probably committed the Willowbrook murders.”
“The fourth man?”
“Yes.”
“Waitaminute. You’re saying one of their own guys killed them?”
“Yes.”
Pike broke the connection, then phoned Elvis Cole.
“It’s me. You alone?”
“Yeah. I’m at the office. Just dropped her off.”
“She have anything?”
“She showed me three condo complexes and gave me a lecture on how Darko runs his call-girl business, but whether it’s true or helps us, I don’t know. I’m having a title and document search run, but I won’t have the results until later. I’m about to get started on her sister.”
“You won’t need to trace Rahmi’s calls.”
“You found Jamal?”
Pike did not mention George Smith by name, but described how someone with inside information connected Michael Darko with a D-Block Crip named Moon Williams, who lived down in Willowbrook. Then Pike described what he found.
“You think they were killed the same night Meyer was murdered?”
“Within hours. We’ll know if these are the same guns when Chen runs the comps, but they’re going to match.”
Pike told him about the bib.
Cole said, “But why would Darko kill them after they delivered his kid?”
“Maybe they didn’t deliver the kid. Maybe they tried to hold him up for a bigger payoff, or maybe he just wanted to get rid of the witnesses.”
Cole said, “What are you going to do?”
“Call the police. I can’t leave these people like this. Little kids live around here. They might find the bodies.”
Even as Pike said it, the pit bull growled, and Pike saw two L.A. County sheriff’s cruisers coming toward him up the street. An unmarked car was behind them.
Pike said, “Looks like I won’t have to call. The sheriffs are rolling up now.”
“How did the cops get there?”
“Cars.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know. I’m wondering that myself.”
A third cruiser appeared from the opposite direction, the three of them blocking his Jeep. Uniformed deps and the plainclothes people climbed out of their vehicles, and no one seemed in much of a hurry. Almost as if they knew what they’d find. Pike found that curious.
Pike started to end the call, then remembered the bib in his pocket.
“Don’t tell her what I found here, okay? I want to tell her.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I have to go.”
Pike put away his phone, but stayed in the chair, and raised his hands. The deputies saw him, and an older dep with gray hair and a hard face approached the gate.
“You Joe Pike?”
“I am. I was just about to call you.”
“Sure, you were. That’s what they all say.”
The deputy drew his gun, and then the other deps fanned out along the fence, and they drew down on him, too.
The dep said, “You’re under arrest. You do anything with those hands other than keep them up, I’ll shoot you out of that chair.”
The pit bull went into a frenzy, trying to break free. Pike didn’t move. He studied the two plainclothes cops who got out of the unmarked car. Middle-aged Latin guys. They looked familiar, and then he realized where he had seen them before. The last time he saw them, they were driving a Sentra.
20
Elvis Cole
Ana Markovic graduated from the East Valley Arts and Sciences High School in Glendale two years earlier. Cole knew this from the yearbook Pike took from her room. First thing Cole did, he found her picture among the senior class-a thin girl with bright features, a large nose, and two monster zits on her chin. She had tried to cover them with makeup, but they were so inflamed they had burst through. Ana had probably been mortified.
Cole thought she kinda looked like Rina, but many people kinda looked like someone else.
The yearbook stated that Ana’s class consisted of 1,284 graduating seniors, most of whom, Cole thought, had written an inscription in Ana’s book. The yearbook’s inside covers were dense with notes and signatures, mostly fro
m girls, telling Ana to remember what great times they had or teasing her about boys she had liked, everyone promising everyone else they would be best friends forever.
Pike had tucked three snapshots in the yearbook. One showed Ana with Frank Meyer’s two little boys, so Cole put it aside. The second showed Ana with two girlfriends, the three of them on a soccer field, arms around each other with huge, happy smiles. In this picture, one of the girls had short black hair with purple highlights, and the other was a tall girl with long, sandy brown hair, milky skin, and freckles. The third photo showed Ana and the brown-haired girl at what appeared to be a Halloween party. They wore identical flapper costumes, and had struck a funny pose with their splayed hands framing their faces like a couple of jazz-era dancers.
The background in the soccer field picture suggested a school campus, so Cole went back to the yearbook. He started at the beginning of the 1,284 senior class pictures and scanned the rows of portraits, hoping to get lucky. He did. The brown-haired girl was named Sarah Manning.
Cole phoned Information, and asked if they had a listing for that name in Glendale. He was hoping to get lucky again, but this time he wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have no listing by that name.”
“What about Burbank and North Hollywood?”
Burbank and North Hollywood were next to Glendale.
“Sorry, sir. I already checked.”
Cole put the yearbook aside and examined Ana’s computer. It was an inexpensive PC that took forever to boot up, but the desktop finally appeared, revealing several neatly arranged rows of icons. Cole studied the icons for an address book, and found something called Speed Dial. He typed in Sarah Manning, clicked Search, and there she was.
Cole said, “The World’s Greatest Detective strikes again.”
The entry for Sarah Manning showed an address in Glendale, an 818 phone number, and a gmail Internet address. Cole almost never called in advance. People tended to hang up on him, and never returned his calls, but driving to Glendale to find out Sarah Manning had moved didn’t appeal to him. For all he knew, she was pulling a tour in Afghanistan.
He called the number, and was surprised when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Sarah Manning?”
“Yes, who is this, please?”
She sounded breathy, as if she was in a hurry. It occurred to him she might not know that Ana Markovic had been murdered, but she did, and didn’t seem particularly upset.
Cole said, “I’d like to sit down with you for a few minutes, Sarah. I have some questions about Ana.”
“I don’t know. I’m at school.”
“East Valley High?”
“Cal State Northridge. High school was two years ago.”
“Sorry. This won’t take long, but it’s important. I understand you were close with her.”
“Did they catch the people who did it?”
“Not yet. That’s why I need your help.”
She was slow to answer, as if she had to think about it.
“Well, okay, like what?”
“In person is better.”
“I’m really busy.”
Cole studied the picture of Ana and Sarah in the flapper outfits. Cole didn’t want to ask about prostitute sisters and Serbian mobsters over the phone, especially since these things might turn out to be lies.
“It’s important, Sarah. You’re on campus? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Well, I guess so. I’ll have to cut class.”
Like it was the end of the world.
Sarah described a coffee shop on Reseda Boulevard not far from campus, and told him she would meet him in twenty minutes. Cole hung up before she could change her mind.
Twenty-two minutes later, he found her seated at an outside table. She was wearing pale blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals. Her hair was shorter than in the high school picture, but otherwise she looked the same.
“Sarah?”
Cole gave her his best smile and offered his hand. She took it, but was clearly uncomfortable. He nodded toward the deli.
“Would you like something?”
“This is just weird, that’s all. I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“Well, let’s see where the answers take us. When was the last time you spoke with her?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“A year. Maybe more than a year. We kinda drifted apart.”
“But you were close in high school?”
“Since seventh grade. We all came from different elementaries. We were the three musketeers.”
Cole flashed on the picture of the three girls on the soccer field.
“Who was the third?”
“Lisa Topping. I thought about Lisa while I was waiting. You should talk to Lisa. They stayed in touch.”
“Black hair, purple highlights?”
Sarah cocked her head, and seemed engaged for the first time.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Ana had a picture of the three of you in her room. She had a picture of you and her dressed like flappers, too. That’s how I found your name.”
Sarah stared at him for a moment, then looked away. She blinked several times, and her eyes grew pink.
Cole said, “You sure I can’t get you something? Water?”
She shook her head, glancing away as if eye contact was painful.
“No, I’m just-I don’t know-”
She suddenly reached into her purse and came out with her cell phone. She punched in a number, then held the phone to her ear. Voice mail.
“Hey, honey, it’s me. There’s this guy here, his name’s Elvis Cole and I guess he’s working with the police or something, he wants to know about Ana. Call him, okay-”
She covered her phone.
“What’s your number?”
Cole told her, and she repeated it. Then she put away her phone.
“She’ll call. It’s her you should talk to.”
“Purple hair.”
“Not anymore, but yeah. She goes to school in New York, but they stayed in touch.”
She seemed sad when she said it, and Cole wondered why.
“Great. I will. But you’re here, and you’ve known her since the seventh grade, too, so I’ll bet you can help. My understanding is she lived with her sister. Is that right?”
Sarah nodded, but stared at the street.
“That’s right. Her parents were dead. They died when she was little. Back in Serbia.”
“Uh-huh. And what was her sister’s name?”
Cole made as if he was poised to take notes. He had two objectives. He wanted to see if Rina’s story checked out, and, if so, he was hoping to learn something that might help find Darko.
Sarah said, “Rina. I think her full name was Karina, with a K, but we called her Rina.”
So far so good.
“You knew the sister?”
“Well, yeah. They lived together. Kinda.”
“What’s the ’kinda’ mean?”
Sarah suddenly shifted, and grew irritated.
“Dude, I’m not an idiot. I know you know. Rina was a prostitute. That’s how she paid the rent.”
Cole put down his pen.
“Did everyone know?”
“Ohmigod, no. Just me and Lisa, and we had to swear. Rina didn’t want anyone to know. She didn’t even want Ana to know, and Ana only told us because she had to tell someone. It was demented.”
“Her sister being a prostitute.”
“Yes! I mean, we were kids. We thought it was cool, like this glammy, sexy Hollywood thing. But it was creepy. After a while when you thought about it, it was just gross.”
She wet her lips and looked away again, and Cole sensed this was probably why they had grown apart.
“Did Rina see clients at home while Ana was there? Is that what you mean?”
“No, nothing like that. She would go away for a few days. I guess she worked at one of those place
s. She would go away for a few days, and then she would come back.”
Sarah made an exaggerated shiver.
“Yuck.”
Cole wondered how many people knew, and how far word had spread.
“Did you and Lisa tell anyone?”
Sarah glanced away again, and it took her a while to answer.
“We wouldn’t do that to her. She was our friend.”
“You ever hear them mention the name Michael Darko?”
“I don’t know. Who’s Michael Darko?”
“How about where she worked, or who she worked for? You remember anything like that?”
“Nothing to remember. Rina wouldn’t tell her anything about that part of her life. She absolutely refused to discuss it. Forget about us. She didn’t even know we knew. She wouldn’t tell Ana. It was like an open secret they had. Ana knew, but they didn’t talk about it.”
“How did Ana know if Rina wouldn’t talk about it?”
“Rina got arrested. Ana always thought Rina was a waitress or something until this time Rina called her from jail. Ana got really scared. That wasn’t until, like, ninth grade. I wanted to tell my mom and dad, but Ana totally freaked out. She made me swear. She said she’d never speak to me again if I told. So she came over and stayed with me for a couple of days like nothing was wrong-just like a regular sleepover. That’s how we explained it. Then she stayed with Lisa. She was really scared, ’cause she didn’t know what was going to happen, like, what if Rina went to prison? What would she do?”
Cole counted backward to ninth grade, and compared it with Rina’s arrest record. The year matched with the date of her first arrest.
Cole sighed. Ninth grade meant she would have been fourteen. A fourteen-year-old girl home alone, not knowing whether her only family and sole support was ever coming back. She would have been terrified.
“And nobody knew? Just you and Lisa.”
Sarah glanced away again, nodding.
“What about the other Serbian kids? Who were her Serbian friends?”
“She didn’t have any. Rina wouldn’t let her. Rina wouldn’t even tell her about the people they left behind.”
“So all she had was you.”