Robert Crais - The Watchman

Cole said, “We have a confirmed identification from the Department of Justice.”

“What are they basing that on? They got a fingerprint match? They got the DNA?”

Cole didn’t know what they had, but if Meesh was Meesh, then Meesh was Meesh.

“Yes on both counts.”

“Then those boys don’t know a lab test from a hemorrhoid. Alexander Meesh is dead.”

Willis had moved from bored to interested to angry, as if he was taking it personally.

Cole said, “Why do you say he’s dead?”

Willis hesitated, almost as if he was deciding whether to answer, so Cole pressed him.

“I have a multiple homicide here, Mr. Willis. I’ve been told to find Alex Meesh, and now you’re telling me the DOJ is wrong. How can you be sure?”

Willis made a grunt, then cleared his throat.

“The Colombians and the DEA were after Lehder in a big way. That’s how we knew Meesh went down. The Colombian National Police called the DEA, and the DEA called me. Meesh had been down there about eight months by then, setting up a drug deal between Lehder and some Venezuelans, only Lehder turned on him. Killed him.”

“If Meesh is dead, why haven’t you closed the warrant for his arrest?”

“The DEA. We knew Meesh was down there through under-cover agents in Lehder’s operation. If we tagged the file with a note about Meesh’s death, or named Lehder as a known associate, those agents would be compromised. Also, you can’t confirm a death without a death certificate, and we’re not likely to get one.”

“Why is that?”

“Lehder found out Meesh was lying to him about how much dope the Venezuelans were going to sell. Meesh was lying about it so he could steal the difference for himself. Lehder found out, he played like he didn’t know and sent Meesh up to Venezuela to pick up the dope along with three or four of his boys. Only Lehder’s boys shot Meesh to death in the jungle. It’s a big jungle. His remains were never recovered and aren’t likely to be.”

“Then how can you be sure he’s dead? Maybe he escaped or survived. Maybe he bought off Lehder’s men.”

“DEA and Colombian UC agents were present when Lehder’s boys got back. They brought Meesh’s head so Lehder could see. Left the body, but brought back the head. Both agents were standing there with Lehder when these boys pulled the head out of a bag. Lehder says, Good work, fellas, and that was that.”

Cole didn’t know what to say. But then Willis went on.

“At the time, we all believed Lehder really had sent Meesh up there to bring back the dope. We expected Meesh to come tooling back with a couple hundred kilos of raw cocaine, so the DEA and the Colombians planned to arrest them. They didn’t care about Meesh, but they wanted Lehder. I wanted Meesh for the murders up here, so they let me tag along. I was with’m in that room, Detective, I saw the head. Without the drugs present, the Colombians waved off the bust. They didn’t even wanna try busting the fucker for killin’ Meesh, so I hadda sit there and drink tea for another hour, makin’ like nothing was wrong. I still don’t know what Lehder’s boys did with the head, but I saw it. I recognized him. It was Meesh. So whoever you got there in L.A., he’s not Alexander Meesh.”

Cole felt hollow, with a faraway buzz in his head like he had gone too long without eating.

“Can I ask one more question, Mr. Willis?”

“Kinda takes your breath away, don’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your question?”

“Did Meesh have a speech impediment or maybe speak with an accent?”

Willis laughed.

“Why would he have a damned accent?”

“Thanks, Mr. Willis. I appreciate your time.”

Cole put his feet up, leaned back, and stared at the Pinocchio clock. The only sound in his office was the tocking of its eyes.

The call to Willis should have been simple. Cole went into it hoping to learn something about Meesh’s connection to Barone, and Barone’s connections to Los Angeles, and maybe even whether or not Meesh spoke with an accent-but not this.

Is this the man you saw, Ms. Barkley?

Yes. Who is he?

His name is Alexander Meesh.

Cole stared at the Pinocchio clock, then a small ceramic figurine of Jiminy Cricket a client had given him. Let your conscience be your guide. Everyone needed a Jiminy.

He flipped through the NCIC brief, which did not contain fingerprints or photographs or DNA markers. Why would you need those things if you believed what you were told?

Pike drove slowly when they left the warehouse. He rolled the windows down so the air would wash them, and took a long, meandering route through Chinatown, driving for more than an hour. They hadn’t eaten breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry. He stopped anyway and picked up Chinese for later. Pike hoped the drive and the air would help her leave the bodies, but the first thing she did when they got to the house was go to the table with his gun-cleaning things. She poured powder solvent onto the cotton cloth and pressed it to her nose like a huffer sniffing paint.

She said, “I can still smell them. They’re in my hair. They’re all over me.”

The Kings.

He took the cloth from her.

“Take a shower and brush your teeth. Put on fresh clothes. I’ll clean up after you.”

Pike phoned Bud while she was in the shower, but Bud didn’t answer. Pike considered leaving a message, but a message might be discovered by someone else, so he decided to call again later.

When the girl returned with new clothes and wet hair, Pike took care of himself. He scrubbed hard, massaging the soap in deep, then rinsed and washed again, running the hot water until none was left. When he finished, he wet his clothes, rubbed in the soap, then left them soaking in the tub. He would have washed the girl’s clothes, too, but they were fancy. He didn’t want to ruin them.

Pike dressed in his last set of clean clothes, then stepped out of the bathroom to find Cole and Larkin in the living room. Cole was holding a manila envelope.

“I missed you guys so much I had to come back.”

Larkin said, “He just walked in. He says he can still smell them, too.”

Pike knew something was wrong. The tension in Cole’s body was as obvious as a corpse hanging from the ceiling. Cole was pretending to be fine for the girl.

Pike said, “What’s up?”

“Got something here to show Larkin. Let’s take a look.”

Pike followed them to the table, where Cole opened the envelope. He put two grainy photographs that looked as if they had been run through a fax machine on the table. They were booking photos showing a dark-haired man with a round face, pocks on his nose, and small eyes. Cole stepped back so Larkin could get a good look, but Pike watched Cole.

“What do you think? Ever seen this guy?”

Conversational with a no-big-deal nonchalance. Would you like fries with that, ma’am?

“Uh-uh. Who is he?”

“Alexander Meesh.”

Larkin shook her head as if Cole had made an innocent mistake.

“No, this isn’t Meesh.”

“It’s Meesh. He was murdered in Colombia five years ago. These are his booking photos from the Denver Police Department.”

Pike put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the tension in her trapezius muscle. She didn’t want to believe it.

“Well, maybe he had plastic surgery. That’s possible, isn’t it? Don’t criminals do that?”

Cole shook his head.

“Larkin, I’m sorry. This is Meesh. The record Pitman gave you, it’s Meesh’s record, but the man you saw with the Kings wasn’t Meesh.”

“Then who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would they tell me he was this guy?”