Robert Crais - The Watchman

When Pike let go, the man gulped air as if he had been under water. He worked his jaw, giving Pike the eyes you gave someone when you were telling him you would kill him.

Pike’s expression never changed.

Pike said, “I’m going to do that again.”

Pike tucked the Browning into his pocket, then went to the window. The room was small and dingy, with two double beds facing a built-in dresser and desk, and a ragged club chair by the window. Pike had pulled the drapes, but they were the sheer kind through which you could see. A man with a bulging belly was outside the office, smoking, and the office door was open, probably so he could listen for the phone. Pike had already searched the Corolla, and now he searched the room.

The dresser and desk drawers were empty, but Pike found four travel bags heaped in the closet: two canvas duffels, a blue nylon gym bag sporting the Nike swoosh, and a black backpack. Each of the four bags contained men’s clothing, cigarettes, and toiletry items. Pike found an envelope in the backpack containing twenty-six hundred dollars. Tucked in beside the envelope, he found a page from a spiral notebook with handwritten notes and numbers, and a photograph of Larkin Conner Barkley. It hadn’t been clipped from a magazine, but was an actual print, tight on her face, showing her smile.

Hidden among the clothes in each bag were U.S. passports and round-trip airline tickets between Quito, Ecuador, and Los Angeles. The passports showed four men, one of whom was in the chair. The name on the passport was Rulon Martinez, but Pike doubted it was real.

Pike recognized two of the men in the other passports, but not the third. Two were among the crew that invaded the Barkleys’ home. One was the man with the scarred lip who had beaten the Barkleys’ housekeeper. The passport showed his name as Jesus Leone. The other was Walter Bloch. Pike found that odd. A German name. The remaining man, who Pike had never seen, was Ramon Alteiri. The passports claimed all four men were residents of Los Angeles and United States citizens. Pike studied the passports. If they were fakes, they were good fakes. The black backpack with the picture of Larkin belonged to the man with the scar.

Pike shook the clothes and toiletries out of the backpack and put in the passports, the tickets, the Browning, and the other things he wanted to keep, but not the picture of Larkin.

Pike returned to the bed with the picture and held it so the man could see. Pike didn’t say anything; he just made the man look. Then he put it away.

“I can speak Spanish, but English would be better. That good with you?”

The man made a nasty grin like he didn’t give a shit one way or the other.

“You better run, muddafokka. You don’ know what you messin’ with.”

Pike dug his index finger into the soft tissue beneath the man’s collarbone where twenty-six individual nerves joined into the brachial plexus. The supraclavicular nerve, which carried information into the spinal cord, ran close to the skin at that point, following a groove in the bone. When Pike crushed the nerve bundle hard into the bone, the entire brachial plexus fired a pain signal not unlike that from a root canal without novocaine.

The man made a high-pitched buzzing moan. He tried to tear free of the tape and throw over the chair, but Pike pinned his foot with a toe. Veins jumped in the man’s neck like writhing snakes, and tears streamed over his face, streaking the blood on his cheek. He begged Pike to stop, going back to the Spanish, but Pike didn’t stop.

When Pike finally released the pressure, he knew the pain would burn on with the ferocity of ant poison, so he touched another spot, this one in the man’s neck, which reduced the pain. The man sagged, and his face paled to the color of meat left in water.

Pike said, “This is dim mak. That’s Chinese. It means death touch.”

Dim mak was the dark side of acupuncture; in one, pressure points used to heal; in the other, to damage.

Pike said, “I want Alex Meesh.”

“I don’ know.”

Pike raised his finger. The man jerked back so violently the chair rocked, but Pike kept him in place with the toe.

“I don’ know what you want! I don’ know!”

“Alex Meesh.”

“I don’ know!”

“You don’t know Alex Meesh?”

The man shook his head so violently blood flew from his cheek.

“No no no! I don’ know!”

The man seemed too scared to be lying, but Pike wanted to see. He held up the man’s passport.

“What’s your real name?”

The man answered without hesitation.

“Jorge Petrada.”

“Why were you watching my house?”

“For de girl.”

He didn’t even blink, saying it. Pike decided he was telling the truth. Jorge didn’t know Alex Meesh.

“Did Meesh tell you to find her?”

“I don’ know dis Meesh, I dunno.”

“Who told you to find her?”

“Luis. Luis say.”

“Who’s Luis?”

Jorge glanced at the passports, so Pike held up the man with the scarred lip. The one with the picture.

“Si. Luis.”

“Luis is your boss?”

“Si.”

Luis didn’t look like a boss. Bosses didn’t attempt kidnappings in Beverly Hills or get into gunfights. Bosses told other people to take all the chances.

Pike checked his watch, then went back to the window-time was passing, and one or more of the other men would likely return soon. The manager was still smoking, but now he was on a cell, laughing about something. Pike went back to the bed.

“How did you know where to find the girl?”

“Luis. He say your address.”

“How did you know our location in Eagle Rock and Malibu?”

“I dunno thees Eagle Rock. I dunno.”

“You tried to kill her in Eagle Rock and Malibu. You tried up north in the Bay. Who told you where to find her?”

“No no no. I just got here, man. I been here only two days. I don’ know nutheen’ about dat.”

Pike took the airline tickets from the bag and checked the flight dates. Jorge was telling the truth again. He had flown in with Alteiri only two days ago. Bloch arrived twelve days ago. Luis had been here for sixteen days. Luis would be the man with information.

Pike was returning the tickets to the bag when his cell phone vibrated. It was Cole. Pike stared at Jorge as he answered the call.

“Yes?”

Cole said, “Just left her. She’s doing fine.”

“Good.”

“I dropped off some food and magazines, stuff like that. I brought a coffeemaker so she doesn’t have to drink that stuff you make.”

“She wanted strawberries. Strawberries and bananas.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“What’s wrong? Everything good on your end?”

“Good.”

“Okay. You need anything, call.”

Pike closed his phone. He was staring at Jorge, and Jorge was scared.

Pike said, “Who is Donald Pitman?”

“I dunno.”

“Have you heard that name?”

“No. I dunno know who dat is.”

“Bud Flynn?”

“No.”

“Who does Luis work for?”

The man looked surprised that Pike didn’t know, and straightened against the tape. He seemed to grow stronger for the first time since he wet his pants.

“Esteban Barone. We all of us work for Barone. This is why you have made a mistake, my friend. You will know fear if you know Barone.”

“What is he? A gangster? A businessman? You understand what I’m asking?”

“You know dis word, cartel?”

“Si.”

A coarse smile split the man’s face, as if he took pride in being part of this thing.

“Barone, he have many soldiers. How many you have?”

Pike took the pictures of the five dead men from his pocket. He held them up one by one, watching the man’s face darken.