Robert Crais: The First Rule

When Terrio reached the plastic screen that had been erected to block the front door from prying cameras, he waited for Deets. Across the street, he recognized two squats from the Chief’s office, huddled up with a woman who looked like a Fed. The squats saw him looking, and turned away.

Terrio thought, “Crap. Now what?”

She was maybe five six, and sturdy with that gymed-out carriage Feds have when they’re trying to move up the food chain to Washington. Navy blazer over outlet-store jeans. Wraparound shades. A little slit mouth that probably hadn’t smiled in a month.

Deets came up behind him.

“You gotta see this.”

Terrio nodded toward the woman.

“Who’s that with the squats?”

Deets squinted at the woman, then shook his head.

“I’ve been inside. It’s a mess in there, man, but you gotta see. C’mon, put on your booties-”

They were required to wear paper booties at the scene so as not to contaminate the evidence.

Deets ducked behind the screen without waiting, so Terrio hurried to catch up, steeling himself for what he was about to see. Even after eighteen years on the job and hundreds of murder cases, the sight of blood and rent human flesh left him queasy. Embarrassed by what he considered a lack of professionalism, Terrio stared at Deets’s back as he followed him past the criminalists and West L.A. Homicide detectives who currently filled the house, not wanting to see the blood or the gore until absolutely necessary.

They reached a large, open dining area where a coroner investigator was photographing the crumpled form of an adult white male.

Deets said, “Okay we touch the body?”

“Sure. I’m good.”

“Can I have one of those wet-wipes?”

The CI gave Deets a wet-wipe, then stepped to the side, giving them room.

The male victim’s shirt had been cut away so the CI could work on the body. Deets pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then glanced at Terrio. The body was lying in an irregular pool of blood almost six feet across.

“Be careful of the blood.”

“I can see fine from here. I’m not stepping in that mess.”

Deets lifted the man’s arm, cleaned a smear of blood off the shoulder with the wet-wipe, then held the arm for Terrio to see.

“What do you think? Look familiar?”

Lividity had mottled the skin with purple and black bruising, but Terrio could still make out the tattoo. He felt a low dread of recognition.

“I’ve seen this before.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Does he have one on the other arm, too?”

“One on each side. Matching.”

Deets lowered the arm, then stepped away from the body. He peeled off the latex gloves.

“Only one guy I know of has tats like this. He used to be a cop here. LAPD.”

A blocky, bright red arrow had been inked onto the outside of Frank Meyer’s shoulder. It pointed forward.

Terrio’s head was racing.

“This is good, Lou. This gives us a direction. We just gotta figure out what to do about him.”

The woman’s voice cut through behind them.

“About who?”

Terrio turned, and there she was, the woman and the two squats. Wraparounds hiding her eyes. Mouth so tight she looked like she had steel teeth.

The woman stepped forward, and didn’t seem to care if she stepped in the blood or not.

“I asked a question, Sergeant. Do about who?”

Terrio glanced at the arrow again, then gave her the answer.

“Joe Pike.”

First time Joe Pike saw the tattooed woman, she was struggling up the eastern ridge of Runyon Canyon, Pike running down, both of them blowing steam in the chill before dawn. The eastern trail was steep; a series of slopes and terraces that stepped from the apartment-lined neighborhoods at the base of the canyon to Mulholland Drive at the top of the Hollywood Hills. Seeing her in the murky light that first morning, the young woman appeared to be wearing tights, but as she drew closer, Pike realized her legs were sleeved with elaborate tattoos. More ink decorated her arms, and metal studs lined her ears, nose, and lips. Pike had only two tattoos. A red arrow on the outside of each deltoid, both pointing forward.

Pike saw her two or three times each week after that, sometimes in the early-morning dark, other times later, when the sun was bright and the park was crowded. They had never exchanged more than a word or two.

The day Pike learned about Frank and Cindy Meyer, he and the tattooed woman left the park together, jogging easily past the small homes north of Hollywood Boulevard with their whispers of faded dreams. They had not run together, but she had been at the bottom when he finished, and fell in beside him. Pike wondered if she had planned it that way, and was thinking about it when he saw the first man.

The first man waited beneath a jacaranda tree on the opposite side of the street, jeans, sunglasses, knit shirt tight at the shoulders. He openly stared as Pike passed, then fell in behind at a casual jog, three or four car lengths back.

The second man was leaning against a car with his arms crossed. He watched Pike and the woman pass, then he, too, fell in behind. Pike knew they were plainclothes police officers, so he decided to give himself room. He grunted a good-bye, and picked up his pace.

The woman said, “See you next time.”

As Pike drifted to the center of the street, a blue sedan pulled out from a cross street two blocks behind. One block ahead, a tan sedan pulled from the curb, boxing him in. Two men were in the front seat of the tan car, with a woman in back on the passenger side. Pike saw her turn to see him. Short brown hair. Wraparound sunglasses. Frown. The man in the passenger seat dangled a badge out the open window, letting Pike see.

Pike eased to a stop. The sedans and trailing officers stopped when Pike stopped, everyone keeping their distance.

The tattooed woman realized something was happening, and nervously danced on her toes.

“Dude, what is this?”

“Keep going.”

She didn’t keep going. She edged toward the nearest house, clearly frightened as she glanced from car to car.

“I don’t like this. You want me to get help?”

“They’re police. They just want to talk to me.”

If they wanted to arrest him, they wouldn’t have approached in the middle of a residential street. If they wanted to kill him, they would have already tried.

The man with the badge got out of the lead car. He was balding, with a thin mustache that was too dark for the rest of his hair. His driver got out, too, a younger man with bright eyes. The woman remained in the car, twisted around to watch. She was on her cell phone. Pike wondered what she was saying.

The man with the badge said, “Jack Terrio, LAPD. This is Lou Deets. Okay if we come over there?”

They knew who he was, and so did the officers who had established a perimeter behind the two sedans. They had blocked the street and were rerouting traffic onto the cross streets.

“Sure.”

Pike unshouldered his rucksack. He ran with a weighted ruck, and also wore a fanny pack, a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, New Balance running shoes, blue shorts, and government-issue sunglasses. The sweatshirt was dark with sweat.

When Terrio and Deets reached him, Deets stood to the side.

“That’s some nice ink you have there, Pike, the red arrows. Don’t see many like that, do we, boss?”

Terrio ignored him.

“You armed?”

“Gun’s in the fanny pack. With the license.”

Deets toed the ruck.

“What’s in there, a rocket launcher?”

“Flour.”

“No shit. You gonna bake me a cake?”

Deets fingered open the ruck, then frowned.

“He’s got four ten-pound bags of flour in here.”