Robert Crais - The First Rule

“Did you find anything of her sister’s?”

Pike told him what he found-the laptop, the yearbook, a few other things. All out in the Jeep.

Cole said, “Good. I want to check out her story. Just because she tells us this stuff doesn’t make it real.”

“I’ll put everything in your car when I leave.”

“Also, I want to see what I can find out about this guy, Darko. If she’s giving it to us straight about him, then I probably know someone on LAPD who can help.”

Pike knew someone, too, though not on LAPD, and now Pike wanted to see him.

From the couch, Rina said, “I don’t like all these whispers.”

Pike turned to face her.

“You’re going to take a ride with him. Show him whatever you know about Darko’s businesses, and answer his questions.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to answer his questions, too.”

Pike glanced at Cole.

“You good?”

“Living the dream.”

Pike let himself out.

Pike placed the laptop and other things he had taken from Ana’s room in Cole’s car, then headed back to his Jeep. As he was crossing the visitors’ parking lot, a brown Nissan Sentra slowed by the entrance. Two Latin men in the front seats tumed to check out the parking lot, and seemed to be looking at Pike’s Jeep. Then the driver saw Pike. There was a slight hesitation, then the driver gestured angrily at his passenger, making as if they were in the middle of an argument and seeing Pike hadn’t meant anything. Then the Sentra sped up and was gone.

Maybe it was something, but maybe not.

Troops in the desert called it spider-sense, after the movies about the Marvel comic book character, Spider-Man, how he senses something bad before it happens.

Pike’s spider-sense tingled, but then the Sentra was gone. He tried to remember if he had seen a brown Sentra with two Latin guys earlier, but nothing came to mind.

Pike was in no hurry to leave. If the Sentra was waiting around the corner to follow him, they might get tired of waiting and come back to see what he was doing. Then Pike would have them.

Pike spent the next few minutes thinking about Michael Darko. Learning that Darko belonged to an EEOC gang set was a major break, mostly because it gave Pike direction. Los Angeles held the second largest collection of East European gangsters in the United States, most of whom were Russian. The fifteen republics of the former Soviet Union had all contributed gang sets to what most cops called Russian Organized Crime, whether they originally came from Russia or not. The Odessa Mafia was the largest set in L.A., followed by the Armenians, but smaller sets from Romania, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan, Chechnya, and the rest of Eastern Europe had been arriving for years. Most had been criminals back in their home states, but some had done other things.

Pike called Jon Stone.

“How’s your head?”

“Bugger off. My head’s fine, bro. That’s just another night for me.”

“Is Gregor still in L.A.?”

“It’s George. He’s George Smith now. You have to be careful with his name.”

“I remember. Is he here?”

“Got a new place over on La Brea. What do you want with George?”

“He might be able to help.”

“This thing with Frank?”

“An EOC gang is involved.”

“No shit?”

“Yes.”

Stone was silent for a moment, then gave Pike an address.

“Take your time getting there, okay? I’ll talk to him first. You walk in cold, he might get the wrong idea.”

“I understand.”

La Brea Avenue starts at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, and runs south through the city to the Hollywood Park racetrack. A ten-block stretch of its length between Melrose and Wilshire was known as decorators’ row because it was lined with everything from high-end custom furniture boutiques to Middle Eastern rug merchants to designer lighting and antique shops. The people who owned the stores came from all over the world, and sold to customers from all over the world, but not all of them were what they seemed.

Pike found a spot for his Jeep outside a flower shop a block south of Beverly Boulevard. Pike had watched for the Sentra on a meandering drive from the Valley, and now he checked for the Sentra again when he got out of his Jeep. The Sentra had probably been nothing more than two guys who thought they saw something they didn’t, but Pike still had the creeped out sensation of crosshairs on his back.

Pike didn’t go into the florist. He walked south one and a half blocks to an antique-lighting store. The store was narrow, with so many ceiling lights and wall sconces filling the window that the place looked like a secondhand junk store. A chime tinkled when Pike entered.

The interior of the shop was as cluttered as the window; the walls festooned with sconces, and chandeliers and pendant lamps dripping from the ceiling like moss. Lamps of different sizes sprouted from every available surface like tropical plants in a jungle.

A man’s voice said, “Hello, Joseph.”

Took Pike a moment to find him, hidden behind the lamps like a hunter hidden by undergrowth.

“Gregor.”

“It’s George now, please. Remember?”

“Sure. I’m sorry.”

George Smith materialized from between the lamps. Pike hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked the same-shorter than Pike, and not as muscular, but with the sleek, strong build of a surfer, a surfer’s tan, and pale blue eyes. George was one of the deadliest human beings Pike knew. A gifted sniper. An immaculate assassin.

George was Gregor Suvorov in those days, but had changed his name when he moved to Los Angeles. George Smith sounded as if he had grown up in Modesto, having what broadcasters called a “general American” accent, but Gregor Suvorov had grown up in Odessa, Ukraine, where he enlisted in the Army of the Russian Federation, and spent a dozen years in the Russian Special Purpose Regiment known as the Spetsnaz GRU-the Russian version of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces-which was run by the KGB. The KGB gave special schooling to their brightest troopers, and Gregor was exceptionally bright. Hence, his fluency with English.

After combat tours in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he cashed in to the private contractor market, enjoyed his newfound money and freedoms, and opted for even more. He moved to Los Angeles, where he enjoyed the sun, sold collectible lamps, and worked for the Odessa Mafia.

George offered his hand, and Pike took it. Warm iron. George smiling, welcoming Pike into his store.

“Man, it’s been forever. You good?”

“Good.”

“I was surprised when Jon called. But pleased. Watch your head. That’s a deco Tiffany, circa 1923. Eight thousand to the trade.”

Pike dipped sideways to avoid the light. Despite being filled with lamps, the shop was dingy and dim, with shadows lurking in the corners. George probably liked it that way.

Pike said, “Business good?”

“Excellent, thank you. I wish I had come to America sooner. I should have been born here, man. I’m telling you!”

“Not the lamp business. Your other business.”

“I knew what you meant. That business is good, too, both here and abroad.”

George still accepted special assignments outside of the Odessa work if the price was right, though his clients these days were almost always governments or political agencies. No one else could afford him.

Pike followed George to a desk at the rear of the shop where they could sit.

“Jon tell you why I’m here?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about Frank. Really. I never met the dude, but I’ve heard good things.”

“You still involved with Odessa?”

George’s smile flashed again.