Robert Crais - The sentry

John Chen said, "Can you talk?"

"Yeah. Where are you?"

"On my way to Los Feliz. Some idiot lost a game of Russian roulette. This is the only time I get any privacy, man, driving to a crime scene. I've been waiting all morning to call."

"You get some prints?"

"Am I not the Chen? Eleven distinct samples, and I'm pretty sure some belong to a female. That's based on size, so I'm only guessing, but whoever it is isn't in the system. You don't have to worry about her. The other guy is a different story."

"You got a hit on the man?"

"Kinda."

"What's kinda, John? C'mon. What's his name?"

"I don't know. That's why I said kinda. I got a sealed file. All you get is a file number and a directive telling you who to contact."

"What does that mean?"

"Could mean anything. The guy could be a cop, a federal agent, maybe in witness protection, something like that. We see these with military personnel, too, like when it's a Delta guy or a SEAL or one of those top-secret things."

"Are you telling me this guy is a spook?"

"I was just giving examples. I'm guessing the guy is a criminal or a cop."

"Why?"

"The directive. It says to contact the FBI or the Louisiana Department of Justice for information. That kinda rules out him being a spook."

"Did you?"

"Hell, no! They'd know I'm involved. It's bad enough they're gonna ping our computer for submitting the print. They might come snooping around to see why we had his prints."

Cole felt a stab of concern.

"Are you going to get jammed up because of this?"

"Nah. I used Harriet's password when I logged on. It can't get back to me."

Harriet was John's boss.

Chen said, "Sorry I couldn't get the information, bro, but this is as far as I can take it. I really wanted to help. Tell Joe, okay?"

"You helped, John. You really did. What's that file number?"

Cole copied the file number, then immediately phoned Lucy Chenier. She was in a meeting, but had left instructions to be interrupted. When she came on the line, Cole explained what he needed.

"Does Terry have a contact in the Louisiana Department of Justice?"

"Probably more than one. Why?"

Cole told her about the sealed file with its directive to contact the Louisiana DOJ.

"The DOJ and the FBI. I don't like these things we're learning."

"Me, neither. Can I give you the file number?"

Cole read it off, waited as she copied, then listened as she read it back to make sure she had the correct number.

"Okay. I'll see how Terry wants to handle it."

"Thanks, Luce."

"One thing-"

He waited.

"These sealed files can mean anything, but one thing they always mean is that it's important to someone that this individual's identity is protected. Once Terry makes the inquiry-even through one of his sources-we can't put the genie back in the bottle. The people who are hiding this man might turn out to be a very pissed-off genie."

"I understand."

"Are you sure you want to go forward?"

"Yes."

"We'll get back to you when we can."

Cole put down the phone with an uneasy sense that his legs had been swept from beneath him by a furious river of unknown events and unknowable people, and the river was carrying him with it. He stretched until his shoulders cracked, then remembered the pictures, and realized what had been bothering him.

He placed the pictures of Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne on his keyboard, and studied their faces again. Their eyes didn't show the anxious tension of people with a gun at their backs. They didn't look scared. Cole wondered why.

Pike rolled hard down the canyon from Elvis Cole's house until he was free of the high ridges. He called Arturo Alvarez as he entered the flats. The phone rang so many times Pike thought no one would answer, but finally a young woman picked up, her voice so subdued Pike wasn't sure if she was the same young woman he'd met at the Angel Eyes house.

"Hello."

"Marisol?"

"Yes. May I help you?"

"This is Joe Pike. Can I speak with Artie?"

The line was so quiet Pike wondered if she put him on hold.

Pike said, "Hello?"

"Go to hell."

She hung up without saying more, and Pike knew by her anger, something ugly had happened to Art.

The freshly painted stucco house was as subdued as Marisol's voice when Pike arrived. The crowd of kids Pike had seen on his last visit was gone, and the yard was deserted except for a shirtless male counselor on the roof, replacing a tile shingle in the late-morning sun.

The front door was open for air, so Pike did not knock. He stepped inside, and found the living room empty.

"Anyone here?"

Pike heard a voice in the rear, then Marisol appeared in the hall, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her eyes angry black gunsights.

"Get out of here."

"Where's Art?"

"You brought them here. Go."

Pike called into the house.

"Art?"

A low mumble he recognized as Art's voice came from the back rooms, but Marisol spoke over him.

"We don't want you here. Go away."

Pike pushed past her and found Father Art in a small bedroom across from his office, one of the tiny rooms a kid used when they had no place else to go. Already hot, but the windows were up and a small electric fan stirred the air. Art was propped on a single bed with couch cushions for support. His left eye was swollen to a slit, and both were purpled and black. Contusions like the Verdugo Mountains crossed his forehead. His nose was twice its normal size and bent to the right, pointing at his split upper lip and a discolored mouse on his cheek. A loose white T-shirt made him look thin.

Pike said, "Azzara."

Not a question. A statement.

Marisol came up behind him, and punched him in the back.

"He don't want to see you. Get out of here."

She punched him again.

"You listenin' to me, motherfucker?"

Art lifted his hand and spoke through the split.

"Marisol. Not like that."

Pike ignored her, staring at Art's good eye.

"Let's get you to a hospital."

"Won't happen, brother. No hospital."

Pike moved closer, Art's good eye following him.

"Because of me?"

Behind him, Marisol answered again.

"What you think? They blamed him for whatever shit you did at that body shop. They brought it back on Art. He never should've helped you."

Pike lifted Art's shirt. His chest and abdomen were blotchy with purple and green bruises from haymakers and kicks. They had beaten Art so hard the kicks and punches flowed out of Art into Pike until Art pulled his shirt back to cover the marks.

"This is what I teach these kids. You see how violence spreads? You let me down, man."

"Are your ribs broken?"

"I'm fine."

"Let me take you to a doctor."

"It's over. Forget it."

Pike glanced at Marisol.

"You should have called me."

"I was, but he wouldn't let me, not you, the police, nobody."

Art's hand came up again.

"It was done. Now I have to rebuild the trust that was lost."

Marisol said something in Spanish Pike did not understand, but it was harsh and angry, and Pike knew it was directed at Art.

"Where can I find him, Artie? Tell me where he lives."

"So you will kill him? No."

Pike took out the picture of Azzara and Mendoza in the car behind Wilson and Dru.

"So I can save these people or find their bodies. Azzara lied to me. He told me he would stop Mendoza. He told me he didn't know what happened to them, but here he is with them and Mendoza. Miguel is going to tell me where they are, Art. He knows."

"No, no more. If I can't make it here, who is going to help these kids? Who will reach out? Go away, Joe-get out."

Pike studied Arturo Alvarez, and knew there was no more to say. Artie was old-school hard despite the college degrees. In his world, toughness wasn't judged by how well you could give a beating, but by how well you took a beating.