Robert Crais - The sentry

"Hang on-I'll call him back. No more calls now, Loretta, I am out of the office-all right, hon, I'm back. Tell me what I can do."

Cole smiled, and loved the way she said it without hesitation. Tell me what I can do.

"If I can locate someone who knows them, maybe I can get a line on what's happening. Getting a line is the problem. All I have are their names. No former addresses, no social security numbers, no last known addresses, nothing. I don't even have a picture of these people."

"I understand. I'm thinking-"

She fell silent, and Cole let her think.

"They left with the storm?"

"That's what I'm told. I don't know if it's true."

"He owned a restaurant in New Orleans?"

"Owned or worked in, I don't know which, and I don't even know if it's true. He's a cook."

"Okay, pretending it's true, do you have a name for the place?"

"Sorry, Luce."

She fell silent again.

"The storm was so many years ago. There were sites and services for refugees to reconnect with missing family, but I don't know if those things still exist. Did you meet Terry when you were here?"

Terry Babinette was the investigator used by Lucy's firm. He was a retired Baton Rouge Police detective.

"Shook his hand."

"Let me talk it over with him to see if he has any ideas."

"That would be terrific, Lucille. Thank you."

"Why aren't you convinced?"

Cole didn't understand.

"About what?"

"Earlier, you said you weren't convinced they were honest with Joe. Why aren't you convinced?"

Cole propped his foot on the edge of his desk, feeling bad all over again with the deep-in-the-gut fear you might lose something precious.

"I have reason to believe their relationship is not as they've described it."

"Joe and Dru?"

"Dru and her uncle."

Elvis described his conversation with Steve Brown, then repeated the things Jared Palmer told him.

Lucy sounded hollow when she spoke.

"Oh my God."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you believe this kid?"

"He's been spot-on about everything else. And Brown was furious. Smith's been living there without his knowledge, and he's been talking to the woman every couple of weeks. That makes her a liar. She told Joe she moved in with Wilson, not the other way around, so that makes her a liar twice. So she could be lying about their relationship, too."

"What does Joe think?"

Cole hesitated, because this had been eating at him since he spoke with Jared.

"Joe doesn't know. I haven't told him."

"Oh, man, this is so hard."

"I'd like to have more than Jared's word before I lay this on him."

Neither of them said anything for a very long time.

"I miss you, Luce."

"I know, baby. I miss you, too. What are you going to do?"

"Talk to you. I guess that's why I called."

She sighed. A long, slow breath into the phone that he wanted to feel on his skin.

"Do you believe this boy?"

"Yeah. I can't prove it. I have nothing but his word for it, but after what Brown said, I believe him. I believe he was telling the truth."

"Tell him."

Cole nodded to himself, but found nothing to say.

"The longer you wait, the worse it will be. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah."

"Joe's built to save people. That's how he sees himself, and that's who he is. He's trying to save her, so whatever he feels for her, it will get deeper."

"I know."

"I know you know. That's you, too. That's why you two found each other, and why you're joined at the hip. It's why you do what you do."

Cole rubbed his left eye. His throat felt thick.

"Is that why I lost you?"

"You didn't lose me, baby. Here we are. If he wants to save her, fine, but he deserves to know who he's saving."

"Being a friend is hard."

"If it was easy, anyone could do it."

"I love smart women."

"Smart women love you."

"I'd better go."

"Call me later."

Cole put down the phone. It was still early, but he had plenty to do, and Lucy had given him a good idea. He scanned the list of food purveyors and suppliers Smith had dealt with. All were people in the food and restaurant business who probably swapped stories about cooks, cooking, and the good and bad restaurants where they worked. It was possible Smith mentioned a New Orleans restaurant where he had worked, or maybe a chef he had worked with, and one of the people on the list might remember. Having a place to start would make Lucy's job easier.

Cole opened a fresh bottle of water, pulled the phone close, and got back to work.

Elvis Cole

Cole was still at his office later that day when Pike phoned, saying he was coming over to fill Cole in about the bodies. Cole suggested they meet at his house, saying he would make dinner while they talked, and they could have a few beers. Cole did not mention Dru or Wilson, or the sick feeling he had from the ugly news he was about to share with his friend.

The twilight sun melted into a magenta haze as Cole crept up the hill toward home. The traffic on Laurel Canyon was brutal, so Cole took a neighborhood bypass, winding between the trees and gated homes up Outpost Drive to Mulholland. Cole drove a yellow 1966 Stingray Convertible, and liked it a lot. It ran well and was fun to drive, but Cole didn't wash it often, so it was dirty. Pike washed his Jeep every day. Its immaculate red skin was so slick with polish, Cole joked that dirt probably blew off with the wind. Thinking about Pike's gleaming Jeep left Cole feeling sad. It would have been a lovely drive home, any other night, with the Stingray's top down and the cool canyon air scented with eucalyptus and wild fennel. Any other night, it would have been fine.

Home was a redwood A-frame on a narrow street off Woodrow Wilson Drive at the top of a canyon. The little house was a two-bedroom, two-bath fixer Cole bought during a flush year before prices went crazy. If he wanted to buy it today, he couldn't. There was no yard to speak of, what with being perched on a drop-away slope, but a deck across the back of the house gave Cole a great view of the canyon and glimpse of the city.

Cole pulled into the carport, and let himself in through the kitchen. A black cat was on the counter. It looked at its bowl when Cole walked in, and made a soft mrp.

"Okay. Let's get you squared away."

Cole put out fresh food and water, then helped himself to a beer. Negro Modelo. The cat looked up from the food.

"Mrp."

"Okay, but not too much."

Cole poured a little beer into a saucer.

The cat had come with the house, and had been part of Cole's life longer than any living thing except Joe Pike. It was a mean animal, and given to attacking people. Cole did not know why. Once, a heating and air-conditioning repairman was working on the forced-air unit in Cole's hall closet. The repairman was kneeling in the door with his back to the hall when the cat climbed his back and bit him on the neck four times. Cole's insurance company settled the claim, but Cole had to do a personal job off the books for his broker to get a new policy.

"It's going to be a tough night, bud."

The cat bumped his hand with surprising gentleness, then went back to eating.

The house was warm from being closed all day, so Cole opened the big deck doors. He took a small skirt steak from the freezer to thaw, then rinsed a large can of white beans and put them aside to drain. The first Modelo was gone by then, so he helped himself to a second, drinking it while he sliced zucchini, Japanese eggplant, and two large tomatoes for the grill. The joy of cooking was oblivion. Slicing and seasoning made it easier not to think. The Modelo went a long way toward helping that, too.

When the vegetables were good to go, Cole went upstairs, changed into a T-shirt, then returned to the deck to fire up his Weber. The sky was a beautiful sangria by then, and inspired him to have another beer.