Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Montana told the driver to radio their sit-rep and request a medical unit. He left his shotgun and his sidearm with Carmody because he didn't want to tempt any of these bastards with a weapon, then pulled on vinyl gloves. He just knew that bastard had AIDS. Every one of these scumbags probably had it.

“You cover my ass, goddamnit,” he told Carmody.

Carmody shouted at everyone to stay in their goddamned seats, trying to make himself heard over Rollins's moaning and flopping. Every time the blood squirted toward the Mexicans, they jumped in a little herd.

Montana trotted around to the rear, keyed open the door, and looked inside. Christ, there was blood everygoddamnedplace.

“Settle down, Rollins. I'm gonna help you.”

Rollins spun around on his back like he was breakdancing, kicking his feet and crying. Montana thought that Mr. 187 was a big goddamned baby.

Pike was sitting to his left and the old guy was to his right and the Mexicans were all bunched together in the front on the left side. Carmody had the shotgun at port arms, and the driver had his handgun out.

Carmody said, “Just drag his ass out of there and lock the fuckin' door. We can take care of him outside.”

That's the plan.

Pike said, “You want help?”

“Stay on that goddamned bench and don't move a fuckin' muscle.”

Montana climbed into the van, trying to watch the prisoners and get a handle on Rollins at the same time.

Rollins rolled end over end, squirting blood on Montana's pants, then flopped backward up the aisle toward the Mexicans. All three jumped up on the seats in front of Carmody.

“Goddamnit, Rollins. You got the AIDS I'm gonna beat you to death, you fucker. I swear to God I'll kill you myself.”

Montana scrambled up the aisle past Pike and the older guy to where the three Mexicans were trying to kick the hysterical Rollins away.

Montana gritted his teeth, cursed, then grabbed Rollins by the leg, standing to tow him back down the aisle, when both Carmody and the driver shouted, “Getouttatheway getouttatheway! He's running!”

Both their Mossbergs were pointing right at Montana.

Frank Montana felt an icy rush in his stomach as he dropped to the floor, spun around, and saw that Joe Pike had escaped through the open door.

The mirrored towers of Los Angeles rose up out of the basin like an island from the sea. Reflections of the setting sun ricocheted between the buildings, making them glow hot and orange in the west, backdropped with a purple sky. The freeway was a lava flow of red lights chasing the sun. Twilight was beginning.

When you're coming to my house and reach Mulholland at the top of the mountain, you make a hard turn onto Woodrow Wilson Drive, then follow it along its winding path through the trees until you reach my little road. Wide shoulders flare off Mulholland there at the mouth of Woodrow Wilson, and are often used as parking by guests visiting the surrounding houses, so I don't usually pay attention. But tonight a boxy American sedan with a man and a woman in the front seat was the only car off the road. They looked away when I glanced at them. It was like having a neon sign that read COPS.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the cool shadows of my carport, let myself in, and knew why the cops were there.

Joe Pike was leaning against my kitchen counter in the dark, arms crossed, the cat sitting nearby, staring at him with abject worship.

Joe said, “Surprise.”

It seemed normal and natural that he was here in my home, only there was no Jeep outside and he was supposed to be in jail. He wore a loose cotton beach shirt that showed little brown dolphins jumping free in the sea, the sleeves hiding his red tattoos, the shirt's tail out over his jeans. He was wearing the glasses again, even standing here in my dark house.

I flipped on the light.

“Don't.”

I flipped it off.

“Charlie didn't get you out, did he?”

“It was a do-it-yourself program.”

I went around the ground floor, pulling the drapes and drawing the shades.

“I'm home now. It would look odd if there weren't lights.”

He nodded, and we turned on the lights.

“There's a car on Mulholland at Woodrow Wilson. Anything else, or should you just start telling me why the hell you escaped?”

“There's another car at the top of Nichols Canyon. They probably have a third unit down below, coming up out of Hollywood. Two units are on my condo and another on the gun shop.”

“Sooner or later, the police are going to come here to question me.”

“I'll leave before then.”

“You have a place to stay? You've got wheels?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like it was silly of me to ask.

“They're probably watching my house, too. Maybe they weren't when you got here, but they've had time to set up. Wait until it's full dark before you leave. Full dark, you can get all the way down to Hollywood and they won't see you.”

He nodded.

“Jesus, Joe. Why?”

“I'd rather be out, Elvis. Krantz has a case. Even though

I didn't do it, they have a case, and they could win. Out here I can help clear myself. In there, I could only be their victim. I don't do victim.”

Pike told me what had happened, and how. As he spoke, he picked up the cat and held it, and I thought that there were times when even tough men needed to feel a beating heart.

When he told me that the murder weapon had been recovered off the point where he'd met the girl, I said, “They planted it.”

“Someone did. Else we're back to coincidences again. You hear about Deege?”

“He's dead.”

“Murdered. A couple of kids saw a red Jeep where it happened. Saw a guy who looked like me behind the wheel.”

I stared at him. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what to say. It just kept getting deeper.

“It fits together pretty well. I killed Dersh. I killed Deege. Pretty soon it's going to look like I killed all these people.”

“Except Lorenzo. You were in jail when Lorenzo was killed.”

Pike shrugged, like maybe he thought there might be a way to pin that one on him, too.

I said, “Krantz hates you. It all comes back to Krantz.”

“It all comes back to me and Woz and DeVille. Krantz was part of that. So was Karen.”

I said, “Maybe it isn't just Karen and Dersh. Maybe all six victims go back to that day. Before Dersh we've got a shooter who's murdered five people. He's sent no notes, left no messages, but he used the same method to murder all five. That means part of him wants the cops to know that he's responsible.”

“A power thing.”

“His way of sticking out his tongue. The vics are killed three months apart, no one can find a connection, and everything points to a serial killer. But what if he's not a serial killer? What if he's just a murderer with a grudge, and a plan for his killings?”

Pike nodded.

“I tried pulling DeVille's file, but it was missing. I know you and Wozniak located DeVille through an informant, so I pulled Wozniak's file, too, but there was nothing in there. Do you know where he got the information?”

“No. Woz had people up and down the food chain.”

“I went to see his widow, but she didn't know, either.”

Pike stopped stroking the cat.

“You went to see Paulette?”

“Her name's Renfro now. She didn't want to talk about it, but her daughter is trying to help.”

Pike stared at me for a long time, then let the cat slip from his arms. He got two beers from the kitchen, handed one to me, then poured a little beer on the counter. The cat lapped at it.

“It's been a long time, Elvis. Leave Paulette alone.”

“She might be able to help.”

A car pulled up then, and Joe vanished into the living room, but I knew the car.