Robert Crais - The sentry

Yammer.

Cleo said, "Yammer."

Tobey said, "Yammer."

Daniel shushed them.

"Shh."

Daniel listened carefully while the Bolivian rattled out the latest intel from Mexico. The crush of information from Mexico and New Orleans during the past two days had been invaluable, but there would have been no information without Daniel, and the Bolivians knew it. Daniel had finally found the fuckers, and the dumb fucks had tried to cut a deal instead of running, and now their deal was killing them.

"Yes, sir, I will keep you advised-absolutely."

Daniel wanted to get off the phone, but the Bolivian kept going, saying how pleased they all were with Daniel, his loyalty, his determination, yadayadayada.

"Thank you, sir. No, really-I appreciate your faith in me. Thank you."

Daniel killed the link.

"Asshole."

Cleo snickered. "What an assfart."

Tobey laughed. "Big gapin' assclown, clown."

Daniel squinted across the runway at the control tower, then up into a hazy white sky. He leaned back until he looked straight up, enjoying the morning sky, and this place, and this moment. Daniel had assassinated people at airports like this all over South and Central America. He had also kidnapped people, blown up airplanes, stolen cargo, and pretty much every other damn thing a person could do.

"Been a long hunt, boys."

Tobey said, "Way too long."

Cleo said, "Too damn long."

Santa Monica Airport was a single runway lined by hangars and businesses, along with a very nice viewing area where Daniel now sat. He would be able to see the jet land, and still have plenty of time to get into position. Daniel already knew where the inbound jet would park. A stretch limo, a candy-gold SS396, and a chopped-down Monte Carlo were waiting directly across the tarmac. A moron's idea of a welcoming committee, for sure, but the limo was a fat black roach that would lead him to the promised land.

Daniel checked his watch. If the Bolivian was right, the Mexican would touch down in less than an hour, then be on his way to their meeting.

"You guys ready to kill some people?"

Tobey said, "Fuck yeah."

Cleo said, "Kill'm real good, good."

Daniel chuckled.

"Me, too, boys."

"Kill'm and eat'm?"

"Eat'm?"

"You boys are insane."

"'Sane?"

"'Sane?"

Daniel enjoyed the sun on his face and the pleasant company of their echoing voices.

Elvis Cole

Cole watched Pike drive away, then returned to his desk for the pictures of Dru and Wilson, who weren't really Dru Rayne or Wilson Smith. People change their names to hide, but hide from what, and who? Cole had been an investigator long enough to know people sometimes had good reasons to hide, but most of the time their reasons were bad. Cole had a bad feeling about these people, and the more he learned the worse his feeling grew.

The woman's picture was best. She was turned to her left as if she was speaking with Mendoza or Azzara, so she was facing the camera. Wilson was peering over the steering wheel, which gave a three-quarter view with part of his face blocked by the side view mirror.

Something about their expressions bothered him, but Cole couldn't decide why. After a few minutes, he put the pictures aside, and called Bree Sloan at the phone company to follow up on the cell numbers. Sometimes they called back right away. Sometimes he had to nag.

She said, "Are you a mind reader? I was just about to call."

"Good news?"

"No, you're going to hate it, but I still get the tickets, right?"

"Of course."

Cole got premium Dodgers tickets from a former client, and shared them with people who helped him. Especially people like Bree, who was a regional manager at a midsized local telecommunications provider. Seats in the exclusive Dodgers Dugout Club worked better than search warrants.

"You at your computer?"

"Staring at it. It isn't as sexy as you."

Bree laughed. She had an excellent laugh.

"Man, you're something."

"Amazing, aren't I?"

"Okay, now stop that and listen. These three numbers you gave me-8272, 3563, and 3502?"

Cole glanced at his notes. These were the last four digits on the numbers for Wilson's shop, Wilson's cell phone, and Dru's cell.

"Uh-huh. I'm with you."

"8272 is a landline with ATT billed to Wilson's Takeout Foods. I'm going to send you the inbound and outbound records for the past forty-five days, okay? That's all they have."

"I understand."

Phone service providers usually kept call histories for only forty-five days, though they kept billing information longer. Cole had expected this when he examined the bills he found in Smith's file box.

"Now the bad news. 3563 and 3502 are prepaids out of a small provider based in Phoenix. You owe me big-time for these two-the guy I talked to over there was a monumental jackass."

"These are the cell numbers?"

"Yeah. The provider is a company called Electrotelepathy. They rent antenna space from the larger companies like we do, but on a way smaller scale. They specialize in prepaid options. Keeps their infrastructure down."

"Did you get the histories?"

"I'm sending them in the email, but this is the part you aren't going to like. The numbers were activated only twelve days ago. There isn't much in the way of history."

Cole tipped back in the chair. Wilson and Dru used throwaways, which probably meant they changed numbers often. Fake names. Untraceable numbers. How much more perfect could it get?

"Was there a text history?"

"Electrotelepathy doesn't keep texts or emails. That isn't unusual. Some of the big companies don't, either. And before you ask-because I'm a mind reader, too, and I know you're going to ask me-these phones are not GPS-enabled. Electrotelepathy is a low-end company, so they sell a low-end product."

"How recent are the histories?"

"Through this morning. That's when I spoke with him. For the third time."

"Okay, pal, thanks. I appreciate it."

"A Giants game, right?"

"The Giants."

Bree was a Dodgers fan, but her life partner, Estelle, was a Giants fan from San Francisco. Theirs was a mixed marriage.

"You're my hero, Elvis. Estelle will love it."

"Tell her she's the luckiest woman alive."

"I do. Every night."

"Go Blue."

"Go Blue."

Cole laughed as they hung up.

When Bree's email appeared, Cole opened it and found three attached documents, one for each of the three phone numbers. The two cell histories were short, just as Bree warned. Cole didn't know which was Dru's and which was Wilson's until he skimmed them and found Pike's cell number on the 3502 log. 3502 would be Dru's phone. Her last call was made to Pike's number almost three days earlier at 11:32 P.M. Cole decided this was the missed call Pike had told him about. She had made no calls on the phone since that time. Cole checked 3563, and found no entries since earlier that same day, which meant Wilson had made no calls in the past three days, either. This coincided with the abduction, but Cole knew Wilson phoned Detective Button after seeing the carnage at his shop. No such call was listed on the call list. Cole checked to see if the call had been made from Wilson's shop phone, but found that no calls had been made from the shop that morning, either. This left Cole puzzled and suspicious. If the call to Button did not show on any of the three records, how many phones did Wilson Smith have?

Cole printed all three documents, then found himself staring at the two pictures again. It was as if the pictures were trying to tell him something that he couldn't quite hear.

Frustrated, he put them aside, poured himself another cup of coffee, then went through the call histories looking for recurring numbers. He was making a list of the most frequently called numbers when his phone rang.