Robert Crais - The Watchman

Cole reread that part, then studied the hawk. Hawks probably didn’t pour boiling grease on other hawks. Cole considered his cat. It was staring down through the slats into the canyon. He wondered if the cat and the hawk were searching for the same thing.

“Hey, buddy.”

The cat came over and head-bumped his hand. Petting the cat made it easier to forget about things like deep-fried flesh.

Cole returned to the file. Nothing explained how a homegrown criminal from Denver had become a financial player for a group of South American drug lords, but Cole didn’t care. He wanted to find Meesh, and Meesh wasn’t in South America. He was in L.A.

All criminal histories listed people with whom the subject was known to associate, including friends, family members, and gang affiliates. Cole had hoped to find a known associate in Los Angeles, but the names, like Meesh’s arrests, were all based in Denver. It was possible one of Meesh’s friends had moved to L.A. during the intervening six years, but Cole wouldn’t know until he checked. The odds were slim, but now he set about listing the names from Colorado. Later, he would see if any of those people had connections in Los Angeles, and work backward to find Meesh.

Cole was making the list when a flick of grey dropped from the sky. Cole glanced up, smiling. He wanted to see what the hawk had caught, but that’s when his doorbell rang. His first thought was that Alex Meesh had come to burn him with bacon grease, but Cole was given to wild imaginings. He limped to the front door with his pistol and peered through the peephole.

Two men stared back at him, their faces distorted by the fish-eye lens. They didn’t look like bacon-grease killers. The man in front had a golfer’s tan and short brown hair. He was wearing a brown sport coat that looked out of place in the L.A. summer, especially at seven A. M. The man behind him was taller and black, wearing a blue seersucker coat and sunglasses.

Cole parked the gun in his waistband behind his back, pulled his T-shirt over it, then opened the door.

The man in front said, “Elvis Cole?”

“He moved to Austria. Can I take a message?”

The man in front held up a black leather badge case showing a federal ID.

“Special Agent Donald Pitman. Department of Justice. We’d like a few words.”

They didn’t wait for Cole to invite them in.

Outside the walls of the Echo Park house, the neighborhood woke with the slowly rising sun. Finches and sparrows chirped. Sprinklers at the house next door came on, ran for twenty minutes, then automatically stopped. Cars started, then backed out of drives or pulled away from the curb. The brittle shades that covered the windows brightened until the house was filled with a dim golden light. On mornings like this with their silence and peace, Pike sometimes thought he felt the earth turn. He wondered if someone remained at his house.

The girl was still sleeping.

Pike poured ground coffee into a small pot, filled the pot with water, then set it on the range. Pike had been making coffee this way for years. He would bring it to a boil, then pour it through a paper towel or maybe he wouldn’t bother with the towel. The coffee would be fine either way. Simple was better.

After a while the coffee boiled. Pike watched it roil for a moment, then turned off the heat and let it settle. He didn’t bother with the towel. He poured some into a Styrofoam cup, then brought it out to the table. He had just taken a seat when his cell phone vibrated again.

Cole said, “Can you talk?”

Pike could see the girl’s door from the table. It was closed.

“Yes.”

“Two agents from the Department of Justice came by this morning, Donald Pitman and Kevin Blanchette. They brought your gun. It was still in an LAPD evidence bag.”

Pike said, “Okay.”

“They didn’t mention King or Meesh or the girl, or any of that. They didn’t ask if I knew what was going on or if I had seen you. They just gave me the gun and told me to tell you they were taking care of it.”

“You probably shouldn’t call me from your house anymore.”

“I walked next door.”

“Okay.”

“Pitman said if I heard from you I should tell you to call. You want the number?”

“I have it.”

“He said the gun was a sign of good faith, but if you didn’t call, the good faith would stop.”

“I understand.”

“You going to call?”

“No.”

“Couple more things. Nothing in the record connects Meesh to L.A. or gives us something to work with, so the bodies are our best shot. We get them ID’d we might be able to work backwards to Meesh.”

“I’ll talk to Bud.”

“It’s not like I have too much to do. I can call over there.”

Pike sipped the coffee, then glanced at Larkin’s door.

“Bud’s on it. Did you check out the girl?”

Cole hesitated, and Pike read a difference in his tone.

“She hasn’t told you about herself?”

“What would she tell me?”

“She’s the chick in the magazines.”

“She’s a model?”

“No, not like that. She’s rich. She’s famous for being rich. I didn’t place her with the short hair, the way people can look different in person. She’s always in the tabloids-going wild in clubs, making a big scene, that kind of thing. You’ve seen her.”

“Don’t read tabloids.”

“Her father inherited an empire. They own hotel chains in Europe, a couple of airlines, oil fields in Canada. She has to be worth five or six billion.”

“Huh.”

“If she’s cool, she’s cool, but keep an eye on her. She’s the classic L.A. wild child.”

Pike glanced at the door.

“She seems all right.”

“Just so you know.”

Pike had more of the coffee. It had gone cold, but Pike didn’t mind. He thought about Pitman and Blanchette showing up at Cole’s house with the gun. A show of goodwill. He wondered why two federal agents would do that, but mostly he didn’t care. He wanted to find Meesh.

Pike said, “Can you get Bud Flynn’s home address?”

“Am I not the World’s Greatest Detective?”

“Something I have to do later. I can’t take the girl and I don’t want to leave her alone. Could you stay with her?”

“Babysit a hot, young, rich chick? I think I can manage.”

Pike ended the call, then punched in Bud Flynn’s cell number. Flynn answered on the third ring, sounding hoarse and sleepy. Pike wondered if Bud was at a table somewhere, having coffee the way Pike was having coffee, but he decided Bud was in bed. It was only seven-forty. Bud had probably been up pretty late.

Pike said, “You sound sleepy. Did I wake you?”

As he said it, the girl’s door opened and Larkin stepped out. She was puffy with sleep, and still wore only the bra and the tiny green thong. She didn’t look so wild.

Pike touched his lips with a finger. Shh. Larkin blinked sleepily at him, then went into the bathroom.

Bud said, “You’re killing me, Joe. Jesus, where are you?”

“We’re good. Why is everyone so upset?”

Pike, having fun.

“You dropped off the world, is why! You’re supposed to take care of her, yes, but you can’t just disappear. The feds, they’re-”

Pike interrupted.

“How many people know I have her?”

“What are you asking? What are you saying, asking that?”

“You, your boys in their nice silk suits, the feds, her family? Someone hit my home this morning, Bud, so your leak is still leaking. Trust is in short supply.”

Larkin came out of the bathroom and into the living room, her bare feet slapping the floor. Pike held up his coffee to show her that coffee was available, then pointed the cup toward the kitchen. She didn’t seem self-conscious about her lack of clothes or even aware of it. She went past him into the kitchen.