Robert Crais - The Watchman

Pike called Ronnie, cupping his hand over the phone.

“Got him. Thank Dennis for me. You, too.”

“We going to take him?”

Ronnie lived for this stuff, but Pike didn’t want him around for the rest of it. If Pike needed him, Pike would have asked him, but better for Ronnie if Ronnie was gone.

“Good-bye, Ron.”

Pike put away his phone. He didn’t see Ronnie leave, but didn’t expect to. Pike sat on the hard soil without moving and watched the play of light and color in the changing face of the oleanders that was not one face, but many-the outer leaves a pale grey-green patchwork bleached by the sun; the seams in the patches showing darker leaves beneath, while still smaller cuts and dimples revealed the linear shape of branches; light over dark over darker, the inner darkness finally dappled by pinpoints of light; until finally, as Pike watched, a shadow moved within the shadows, revealing a glimpse of green that did not fit with the surrounding greens; first one bit of shadow, and then another shade of green, until Pike saw a pattern within the pattern and the man within the leaves. A branch swayed, telling Pike the man was antsy and bored. Moments later, a different branch shivered. The man probably resented having to sit in the bush, and was unwilling to sacrifice his comfort to remain motionless. Pike read his lack of discipline as weakness. Pike could kill him now, or take him, but innocent people lived in these homes, so Pike waited.

Forty minutes before the man left his hide, Pike knew it was coming. The man shifted and fidgeted with increasing frequency, and made the bush tremble. His lack of discipline was appalling.

Three hours and twelve minutes after Pike took his position, the man rose to a crouch, peered out from between the branches to make sure no one was looking, then duck-walked out from behind the dumpsters. He brushed himself off, crossed the parking lot, then turned toward the main gate. He took a cell phone from his pocket as he walked, but Pike couldn’t tell if he was making a call or receiving one. Maybe he hadn’t quit; maybe someone had told him to leave.

Pike slipped from his cover and hurried back to his car. He drove fast through the rear gate, then circled the complex, pushing hard toward the front entrance. He pulled to the curb two blocks from the main gate just as the man in the green shirt stepped through a pedestrian gate built into the wall. You needed a passkey to enter, but you didn’t need anything to leave.

The man was now wearing sunglasses, but Pike could see he wasn’t one of the men he had seen before. He was dark, with hard shoulders and a lean face, and almost certainly Latino. When he moved, his shirt pulled in a way that showed a gun in the waist of his pants. He stopped at a dusty brown Toyota Corolla. A moment later, the Corolla pulled away.

Pike made the Corolla for an early ’90s model. It was dark brown in color with mismatched wheels and rusty acne on the trunk. Pike copied the plate number. He stayed between three and four cars behind, only tightening up when the Corolla beat him through an intersection and traffic began to slow.

They climbed onto the I-10 at Centinela and dropped off the freeway at Fairfax. The Corolla stopped for gas, then continued north up through the city at the same unhurried pace. When they reached Santa Monica Boulevard, the Corolla turned west, skirting the bottom of West Hollywood, then Hollywood, then into a dingy area of Triple-X video stores, strip malls, and free clinics. The Corolla turned into the parking lot of a two-story motel called the Tropical Shores Motor Hotel. A sign shaped like a palm tree grew from its roof, with arrows pointing down the trunk to a vacancy sign. The palm tree and the arrows were outlined in neon, but the tubes were broken and faded, and probably had been for years. A small sign in the office window read HOURLY RATES AVAILABLE.

Pike jerked into a red zone, then trotted back to the drive. The motel was shaped like an L, with an open staircase where the legs of the L joined. The motor court was empty except for the Corolla, two other cars, and a green Schwinn bicycle chained to a metal post. Individual air conditioners jutted from the rooms like tumors, but most of the air conditioners were silent.

Pike reached the office as the man in the green shirt got out of the Corolla. Pike tried to see if anyone was in the office, but the window was opaque with grime. The office door faced the parking lot, but the door was closed and an air conditioner hummed loudly.

The man in the green shirt didn’t bother locking his car. He went to a soft-drink machine against the wall, bought a soda, then walked to a ground-floor room. He stood at the door with his back to the parking lot as he searched for his key.

Pike approached the man from behind. He shifted left or right just enough to stay in the man’s blind spot, moving so quickly that he was outside the office one moment and across the lot in the next, watching the key go in the lock, seeing the door open-

Pike hooked his left arm under the man’s chin, and lifted. He closed his arm on the man’s throat and squeezed as hard as he could, shoving the man into the room as he brought out the Kimber, using the man as a shield.

Pike expected more men, but the room was empty. A single room and a bath.

Pike toed the door closed, still holding the man. The drapes were open, so Pike could see no one was in the parking lot and no one had stirred from the office.

The man kicked and thrashed, but Pike held him up and off balance with a knee. The man punched backwards, clawed at Pike’s arm, and made a gurgling sound. He was a strong man in very good shape. His nails cut into Pike’s skin.

Pike slipped his free arm across the back of the man’s neck and pushed the man’s throat into the crook of his elbow. Pike squeezed and pushed and held it.

The thrashing slowed.

The man stopped kicking.

His body went limp.

The choke hold cut off blood to a man’s brain, putting him to sleep like a laptop when its battery is low. It was an effective way to subdue a person, though sometimes that person did not wake up. Pike sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the man to wake.

The man did not sleep for long. His eyelids fluttered and his head came up. He had the vague expression of a boxer with a mild concussion, but he stiffened when he realized he could not move. Pike had duct-taped the man to a chair. His ankles, thighs, trunk, and arms were bound.

Pike was directly in front of the man, only inches away. He was holding an old Browning 9mm pistol. The man had been carrying the Browning, a cell phone, keys to the car and the room, twelve dollars and sixty cents, a pack of Marlboros, a butane lighter, and a Seiko watch. The man had not been carrying a wallet, credit cards, or any form of identification.

Pike watched the man’s eyes, which were worried but confident. He had a wide, angular face, with small scars laced into his eyebrows and across the bridge of his nose.

Pike said, “You know who I am?”

The man glanced at the door, maybe thinking someone would be there to save him.

Pike repeated himself.

“Do you know who I am?”

The man answered in Spanish.

“Fuck you.”

The Browning flicked out and rocked his head. Pike moved so quickly the man did not know what was happening until his cheek split and blood dripped to his shirt. Pike had not wanted to knock him out.

When the man’s eyes regained focus, Pike reached out with his left hand. This time he moved slowly, as if he were going to caress the man’s cheek. He dug his thumb into the nerve where the jaw hinged with the zygomatic arch. The man tried to twist away, but he was taped to the chair. Pike held the pressure for a long time.