Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Nothing again, and Aimes wondered why this boy said so little. Maybe he just came from people who didn't say much.

Aimes unsnapped his fighting knife from its Alice sheath. He held it out handle first to the boy. “You know what this is?”

The blue eyes never even went to the knife. “It isn't a K-Bar.”

Aimes considered his knife. “The standard Corps issue K-Bar fighting knife is a fine weapon, none finer, but not to a warrior such as myself.” He twirled the knife across the backs of his fingers. “This is a handmade fighting dagger, custom-made to my specifications by a master blade maker. This edge is so goddamned sharp that if you cut yourself the asshole standing next to you starts to bleed.”

Horse nodded, pursing his lips knowingly as if truer words had never been spoken.

Aimes flipped the knife, caught its tip, then handed it to the boy, who held it in his right hand.

Aimes spread his hands. “Try to put it in my chest.”

Pike moved without the moment's hesitation that Aimes expected, and he moved so damned blurringly fast that Aimes didn't even have time to think before he trapped the boy's arm, rolled the wrist back, and heard the awful crack as the wrist gave and the boy went down on his back.

The boy did not grimace, and he did not say a word.

Aimes and Horse both made a big deal, helping the kid to his feet, Aimes feeling just horrible, feeling like a real horses-hit donut for pulling a bush stunt like that when the private put those blue eyes on him and said, “What did you do?” Not to accuse or blame, but because he wanted to know the fact of it.

Aimes helped the young Marine into the back of the jeep, telling him, “That was an arm trap. It's something they do in a fighting art called Wing Chun. A Chinese woman invented it eight hundred years ago.”

“Woman.” The boy almost seemed to nod, not quite but almost, thinking it through. He didn't seem bothered at all that Aimes had just broken his wrist. He said, “You used me against me. A woman, smaller, would have to do that.”

Aimes blinked at him. “That's right. You were driving forward. I trapped that energy and used your own momentum to roll your hand over and toward you.”

The boy looked down at his hand as if seeing it now for the first time, and cradled it.

Aimes said, “Christ, you're fast, boy. You're so damned fast it got a little away from me. I'm sorry.”

The boy looked back up at Aimes. “You teach stuff like that in Recon training?”

“It's not part of our normal syllabus, but I teach it to some of the men. Mostly we learn ground navigation, escape and evasion tactics, ambush techniques. The art of war.”

“Will you teach it to me?”

Aimes glanced at Horse, and Horse nodded, his job now done. He got behind the jeep's wheel and waited.

Aimes said, “Yes, Marine. You come over and become one of my young men, I'll make you the most dangerous man alive.”

The young Marine didn't speak again until they were at the infirmary, where, in filling out the accident report, Aimes took full and complete responsibility for the injury. What the boy said to him then was, “It's okay you hurt me.”

That evening, still feeling nauseated from guilt, Aimes and Horse practiced the art of unarmed war in the Pendleton gym with an ugly ferocity that left both men bloody as they desperately tried to burn away their shame. Later, they drank, and later still Leon Aimes confessed all to his wife, as he always did whenever one of his young men was injured and he felt responsible, and she held him until the very small hours of the dawn.

As a warrior and a man, Leon Aimes was above reproach, none finer.

Eight days later, PFC Pike, Joseph, no middle initial, completed Advanced Infantry Training even with the broken wrist, graduated with his class, and was reassigned to the Force Recon Company for additional schooling. He was rotated to the Republic of Vietnam in the waning years of the United States'involvement in that war. Leon Aimes followed the young Marine's progress, as he did with all of his young men, and noted with pride that Private Pike served with distinction.

There were none finer, just as Leon Aimes always said.

Pike phoned to tell me that Frank would see us at three that afternoon. I passed the word to Dolan, who said, “I'm impressed, World's Greatest. I guess you're kinda useful.”

“Are you going to call me that, Dolan?”

“Beats some other things that come to mind.”

These cops think they're such a riot.

When I arrived, Frank Garcia's home was as still as a sleeping pit bull and just as inviting. No cop brass now, no city councilman; just a mourning old man and his housekeeper. I wondered if Frank would see the lie in my eyes, and thought that maybe I should borrow Pike's sunglasses.

I parked in the shade cast by one of the big maples to wait for Pike and Dolan. The tree and the neighborhood were so silent that if one of the fat green leaves fell you would hear it hit the street. The devil wind was gone, but I could not escape the feeling that it was only resting, hiding in the dry, hard canyons to the north to gather its strength before clawing back through the city from a surprising and unexpected direction.

Pike arrived a few minutes later, and got into my car. “I saw Dersh.”

Anyone else would be joking, but Pike doesn't joke. “You saw Dersh. You spoke with him?”

“No. I just saw him.”

“You went over there just to look at him.”

“Mm.”

“Why on earth did you go see him?”

“Needed to.”

“Well, that explains it.”

You see what I have to deal with?

Dolan parked her Beemer across the street. She was smoking, and dropped her butt on the street after she got out of her car. We climbed out to meet her.

“What does he know?”

“He knows what I know.” He. Like Pike wasn't there.

Dolan considered Joe for a moment, then wet her lips. “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

Joe didn't respond.

Dolan frowned. “Well?”

I said, “You got your answer, Dolan.”

Dolan grinned at Pike. “Yeah. I heard you don't say much. Keep it that way.”

Dolan walked on ahead of us toward the house. Pike and I looked at each other.

“She's on the tough side.”

Pike said, “Mm.”

The housekeeper let us in, and led us to the living room. She glanced nervously at Dolan as we went, almost as if she could sense that Dolan was a cop and that there might be trouble.

In the living room, Frank was staring out the French doors at the pool and the fruit trees where the stone lions prowled. It had been only three days since I'd seen him, but his skin was pasty with a drunk's sweat, his hair was greasy, and the air was sharp with BO. A short glass, now empty, rested in his lap. Maybe it had to be that way when you lost your only child.

Pike said, “Frank.”

Frank gazed at Dolan without comprehension, then looked at Joe. “Is Karen all right?”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Don't you start that with me, Joe. Don't you start that.”

Joe went over and took the glass. “This is Detective Dolan, the one I told you about. She needs to ask questions.”

“Hello, Mr. Garcia. I'm sorry for your loss.” Dolan held up her gold detective's shield.

Frank squinted at the badge, then considered Dolan almost as if he was afraid to ask the thing he most wanted to know. “Who killed my daughter?”

“That's why I'm here, sir. We're trying to find out.”