Robert Crais - The Watchman

“A known terrorist.”

“I’m not discussing this!”

Pike lifted the Kimber just enough to point it.

“We’re talking about whether or not you die.”

“I’m a federal officer! You would be killing a federal officer!”

Pike nodded, quiet and calm.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Pike held up Pitman’s badge. He had gone through Pitman’s pockets for his credentials.

“This was never about the Kings, Pitman. This is about Vahnich. You put a target on her to bag the terrorist. Or protect him.”

“That’s insane. I’m not trying to protect him.”

“You told her Khali Vahnich was Alex Meesh.”

“We had to protect the case.”

“You told her he was trying to kill her to protect his investment with the Kings, but the Kings were dead. There was no one to protect.”

“We didn’t know they were dead until yesterday, Pike! We didn’t know! We thought he was helping them-”

“There’s no ‘we’ here, Pitman. It’s on you. The Kings are dead, so why would Vahnich want to kill her?”

“I don’t know!”

“I think you killed them and sold out the girl to help Vahnich.”

Pike raised his pistol again, and Pitman jerked hard against the plastic.

“ We didn’t know! That’s the God’s honest truth! Listen to me-we knew they were in business, Vahnich and the Kings, but we didn’t know Vahnich was in L.A. until just before the accident. Look in the trunk-my briefcase is in the trunk. Look at it, Pike! I’m telling the truth-”

Pike studied Pitman, getting the read, then took the keys and found an oversize briefcase in the trunk. The briefcase was locked. He brought it back to the front seat.

Pitman said, “Key’s in my pocket-”

Pike didn’t bother with the key. He slit open the case with his knife. Letters, memos, and files bearing Department of Justice and Homeland Security letterheads were jammed together in no particular order.

Pike said, “You aren’t with Organized Crime.”

“Homeland Security. Look at my notes-”

“Shut up, Pitman.”

Many of the pages were marked CONFIDENTIAL. Pike saw memos about financial transactions and surveillances on the Kings, and other memos connecting Vahnich with Barone and numerous named and unnamed third parties in South America. Many of the memos described Khali Vahnich’s movements both here and abroad.

Pike read until he understood.

“Vahnich makes money for terrorists.”

Pitman nodded.

“That’s the short version. The single biggest source of funding for organized terror outside of state-sponsored contributions in the Middle East is dope. They buy it, sell it, invest in it-and take the profit. These fuckers are rich, Pike. Not the lunatics blowing themselves up, but the organizations. Like every other war machine on the planet, they eat money, and they want more. That’s what Vahnich does. He’s an investment banker for these fuckers. Invests their funds, turns a profit, then feeds it back to the machine.”

“With the Kings?”

“Economics works the same for everybody-Republicans and Democrats, drug lords and Al Qaeda. You limit your risk by diversification. The Kings are golden in real estate, and Vahnich wants to diversify. He put a hundred twenty million into play with the Kings-sixty from the cartels, but sixty was straight out of the war zone. My job is to isolate and capture that money.”

“Money.”

“Terrorist money. We don’t want it going back to train suicide bombers.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. The Kings accepted the transfer into a foreign account, but the money was moved that same day and we don’t know where it went. Maybe that’s why Vahnich killed them. Maybe he wanted the money back.”

“So all of this is about real estate.”

Pitman laughed, but it was cynical and dry.

“Everything happening in the world today is about real estate, Pike. Don’t you read the newspaper?”

Pike thought about Khali Vahnich and the Kings and all those boys come up from Ecuador. Outside, the bridge hissed with passing cars and the fence hummed. Pike thought about Larkin in the Echo Park house, cut off from her friends and her life, with a man like Khali Vahnich wanting her dead.

“Why is Vahnich trying to kill her?”

“I don’t know. I thought I knew. I believed it was about the Kings.”

“The Kings are dead.”

“I didn’t know Vahnich would try to kill her. How could I know that?”

“You should have told them the truth. The terrorists haven’t taken over Los Angeles yet, Pitman-we’re still the land of the free. You should have told those people who they were dealing with.”

Pitman seemed as if he didn’t understand, then shook his head.

“I told them.”

“Told them what?”

“They knew it was Vahnich. The girl didn’t, but her father did. He advised us not to tell her.”

Pike must have looked confused because Pitman tried to explain.

“We had meetings about it, Pike-her father, his attorneys, our people. You don’t want to alienate a cooperative witness, but we needed discretion. Barkley said she couldn’t deliver. They advised us not to identify Vahnich until just before the testimony.”

“They advised you? Her father lied to her?”

“She isn’t the most stable person. She would have used it to draw attention to herself.”

Pike felt cool even in the morning’s warmth. He flashed on the girl from the night before, desperate to warn her father. Demanding it.

Pitman said, “She’s a freak, man. You gotta know that by now.”

Pike looked at Pitman’s badge again. He thought of his own badge. He had given it up to help Wozniak’s family. He had loved that badge and everything it represented, but he had loved Wozniak’s family more. Families needed to be protected. Families needed someone to be the protector. This was just how Pike felt.

Pike said, “She just wanted to do the right thing.”

Pike put away his gun.

“We’re finished here.”

Pitman tugged at his restraints.

“Cut these things off. Bring her back, Pike. We can protect her.”

Pike opened the door.

“You’re tied to a steering wheel. You can’t even protect yourself.”

Pike got out with the keys and the badge.

Pitman realized Pike was leaving, and jerked harder at the wheel.

“What the fuck? What’re you doing?”

Pike threw Pitman’s badge into the river.

“Not my badge! Pike-”

Pike threw the keys after it.

“Pike!”

Pike left without looking back.

Elvis Cole

Cole stopped by his office that morning to pick up the calling logs before heading on to stay with the girl. His friend at the phone company had faxed twenty-six pages of outgoing and incoming phone numbers, some of which were identified, but many of which were not. Cole would have to go through the numbers one by one, but the girl would probably help. Cole liked the girl. She was funny and smart and laughed at his jokes. All the major food groups.

When he let himself in, she was stretched out on the couch, watching TV with the iPod plugged in her ears.

Cole said, “How can you watch TV and listen to that at the same time?”

She wiggled his iPod.

“Did they stop making music in 1990?”

You see? Funny.

“I have to make a couple of calls, then I want you to help me with something.”

She sat up, interested.

“What?”

“Phone numbers. We have to build a phone tree tracing the calls to and from the phones Pike found. We’ll trace the calls from phone to phone until we identify someone who can help us find Vahnich. Sound like fun?”