Robert Crais: The First Rule

“That’s what he told you, didn’t he? C’mon, let’s stay on topic.”

Terrio put away his badge.

“Don’t touch the fanny pack, okay?”

Pike nodded.

“You know a man name of Frank Meyer?”

A chill spread through Pike’s belly. He had not seen Frank Meyer in years, though he frequently thought about him, and now his name hung in the mid-morning air like a frosty ghost. Pike glanced at their car. The woman was still watching, and still on the phone, as if she were reporting his reaction.

“What happened?”

Deets said, “Have you seen him in the past week or so?”

“Not in a long time. Ten years, maybe.”

“What if I told you I have a witness who claims you were with Meyer recently?”

Pike studied Deets for a moment, and read he was lying. Pike turned back to Terrio.

“You want to play games, I’ll keep running.”

“No games. Meyer and his family were murdered in their home two nights ago. The boys and the wife were executed. A woman we’ve identified as their nanny survived, but she’s in a coma.”

No part of Joe Pike moved except for the rise and fall of his chest until he glanced at the tattooed woman. An older woman in a dingy robe had come out of her house, and the two of them were watching from the door.

Deets said, “That your girlfriend?”

“I don’t know who she is.”

Pike faced Terrio again.

“I didn’t kill them.”

“Don’t think you did. We believe a professional home invasion crew killed them. We believe that same crew has hit six other homes in the past three months, murdering a total of eleven people.”

Pike knew where they were going.

“You don’t have any suspects.”

“Nothing. No prints, pix, or witnesses. We don’t have any idea who’s doing this, so we started looking at the victims.”

Deets said, “And guess what, Pike? Turns out we found something the first six have in common. Three were drug traffickers, one was a pornogra pher who laundered money for the Israeli mob, and two were jewelry merchants who fenced stolen goods. The first six were as dirty as yesterday’s socks, so now we’re seeing what’s up with Meyer.”

“Frank wasn’t a criminal.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Frank had an import business. He sold clothes.”

Terrio fingered a photograph from his jacket. The picture showed Frank, Pike, and a chemical-company executive named Delroy Spence in the El Salvadoran jungle. The air had smelled of rotten fish and burning oil when the picture was taken. The temperature had been one hundred twelve degrees. Spence was dirty, lice-ridden, and wearing the remains of a tattered blue business suit. Meyer and Pike were wearing T-shirts, faded utility pants, and M4 rifles slung on their arms. Meyer and Spence were both smiling, though they were smiling for different reasons. Spence was smiling because Pike, Meyer, and a man named Lonny Tang had just rescued him after two months of captivity at the hands of a band of narco terrorists. Meyer was smiling because he had just cracked a joke about retiring to get married. Meyer looked like he was fourteen years old.

“What does this have to do with now?”

“You and Meyer were mercenaries.”

“So?”

Terrio studied the picture. He flexed it back and forth.

“He’s all over the world in shitholes like this, hanging out with the wrong kind of people. Maybe he started importing more than clothes.”

“Not Frank.”

“No? None of his friends or neighbors knew what he used to do. Not one of the people we interviewed. This little picture is the only thing from those days we found in his house. Why do you think that is?”

“Cindy didn’t approve.”

“Whether she approved or not, the man kept secrets. Maybe he wasn’t the man you thought.”

“I can’t help you.”

Terrio slipped the picture into his pocket.

“This home invasion crew doesn’t pick homes at random. They don’t drive around, and say, hey, that one looks good. Sooner or later, we’re going to learn Meyer had something they wanted-dope, cash, maybe the ayatol lah’s secret jewels.”

“Frank sold clothes.”

Terrio glanced at Deets, then returned to the tan sedan without another word. Deets didn’t follow.

Deets said, “So you haven’t seen this guy in ten years?”

“No.”

“Why is that? You have a falling-out?”

Pike thought how best to answer, but most of it wasn’t their business.

“Like I said, his wife.”

“But it was your picture he kept. And your tattoos. What’s up with that, Pike? Some kind of unit thing?”

Pike didn’t understand.

“The arrows?”

“Yeah, here and here, like you.”

On the day Frank’s contract expired and he left the contract service for good, Frank Meyer had no tattoos.

Pike said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Deets made a stiff smile, then lowered his voice.

“I never met someone who’s killed as many people as you, still walking free.”

Pike watched Deets walk away. Terrio was already in the car. Deets walked around to the far side, and got in behind the wheel. The woman in the backseat was talking to Terrio. They drove away. The plainclothes officers followed. The neighborhood returned to normal.

Everything was normal except Frank Meyer was dead.

The tattooed woman trotted up, excited and anxious.

“Dude, that was crazy. What did they want?”

“A friend of mine was murdered.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. That’s awful. They think you did it?”

“Nothing like that.”

She made a ragged laugh, nervous at the edges.

“Dude, listen, they do . I’m tellin’ you, man, those cats were scared of you.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m not.”

The tattooed woman punched him in the arm. It was the first time she had touched him. Pike studied her for a moment, then shouldered his ruck.

“You don’t know me.”

Pike settled the pack, and continued his run.

When Pike reached his jeep, he drove directly to Frank Meyer’s home. Pike had lied to Terrio. He had seen Frank three years ago, though they had not spoken. A mutual friend told Pike about Frank’s new house in Westwood, so Pike cruised by. Pike also cruised by the little ranch home Frank and Cindy owned in Studio City a few years before that. Frank Meyer had been on Pike’s team, so Pike liked to make sure he was doing okay even though the two hadn’t spoken in years.

The Westwood house was taped off as an active crime scene, though the crush of lookie-loos and newspeople that would have been present the day before were gone. A black-and-white radio car was out front, along with two SID wagons, an unmarked sedan, and a single TV news van. Two female officers posted to protect the scene were slumped in the radio car, bored out of their minds with nothing to do except listen to their iPods.

Pike parked a block behind their car, then studied Frank Meyer’s house. He wanted to know how Frank died, and was thinking he would break in later that night when a tall, thin criminalist named John Chen came down the drive to an SID wagon. Chen was a friend. Pike would have called Chen anyway, but Chen being here was a stroke of good fortune that would save time.

Chen’s vehicle was directly in front of the radio car. If Chen left, Pike would follow. If Chen returned to the house, Pike would wait.

Pike was waiting to see what Chen would do when his phone rang. The caller ID read John Chen.

Pike said, “Hello, John.”

Chen was a paranoid. Even though he was alone in his vehicle his voice was guarded, as if he was worried about being overheard.

“Joe, it’s me, John Chen. I’m at a murder scene in Westwood. The police are coming to-”