Robert Crais - The Watchman

“Why did she call you, Vahnich?”

Pike was sure he already knew.

“She wants to help him, but she helps me instead. These young girls are foolish, are they not?”

Pike was staring at Conner Barkley. Barkley was looking confused.

Vahnich said, “Tell her father. He will not want to lose such a daughter.”

Cole went to the table and also wrote something. MEET HIM.

Pike nodded.

“He loves her, Vahnich. He worships that girl. I think we can work this out-”

Bud’s cell phone chimed, but he turned away fast, cupping his mouth. Pike continued with Vahnich.

“Let’s get together so we can work out the transfer. Tell me where we can meet you.”

Vahnich laughed.

“Will you bring the money in cash? How many trucks will come? Please. He will transfer the money. When the money is safe, I will release her. You and I will never meet, my friend.”

“He’s not stupid, Vahnich. He won’t transfer the money until he has his daughter.”

“Then neither of us will have what we want, and we will both be sad.”

Pike wanted to buy as much time as possible. If Vahnich wouldn’t meet, they would have to find him.

“I’ll talk to him. I have to find him, but I’ll talk to him. He wants her back safe.”

Vahnich said, “Copy these numbers-”

Vahnich began rattling off a string of numbers, but Pike stopped him.

“I don’t know how long it will take to-”

“Copy them and read them back to me.”

Pike copied them, then read them back. They were transfer and account numbers.

Vahnich said, “Good. These numbers you have are correct. He will have the money in this account in two hours or I will cut off her hand-”

Pike said, “Vahnich-”

“No money thirty minutes after that, I cut off her head. We need not speak again.”

The line went dead.

Pike held the phone tight, listening to the silence. Cole and Conner Barkley were watching him. Bud was on his phone in the background, scribbling notes on a pad. Pike finally lowered his phone.

“She’s alive for now, but he won’t meet with us. He knows better than that.”

Barkley said, “What does he want?”

“The hundred twenty million. We have two hours.”

“But I didn’t take it. I didn’t know anything about it.”

Barkley dropped onto the couch and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. His face clenched into a frustrated knot.

“Did she actually call this man? She gave herself to him?”

“She did it for you. She probably thought she could work out some kind of deal or convince him not to kill you.”

Barkley shoved himself from the couch as if taking command of the situation.

“All right, I’ll pay him. I can’t move that amount of funds in two hours, but I’ll pay him. Get him back on the line.”

“Money isn’t the answer.”

Cole said, “Paying him isn’t smart, Mr. Barkley. As soon as he has the money he’ll kill her.”

“He wants money, I have money-what else can we do?”

“Find him.”

Bud finished his call and rejoined them.

“Got something here-the MS-13 connection might have paid off. The book shows two veteranos named Carlos-one is incarcerated, but the other runs with a clique that’s been bringing in South American dope for years-”

Cole said, “Sounds like our guy.”

“That’s also the bad news. One Carlos Maroto-he’s OG with Mara and lives dead-center in a Mara-controlled neighborhood. Finding him won’t be easy. Getting him to cooperate will be even worse.”

Pike knew Bud was right. With enough time, they could find him, but time was short, and finding a gangbanger in his own barrio would be difficult. Gang membership ran in families and could span entire neighborhoods. No one would cooperate, and word would spread quickly. In a world where pride and family were everything, Latin gangbangers went down hard and would not roll on their friends. Especially not for three Anglo outsiders.

Speed was life.

Pike said, “We need his cooperation.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

“It might if the right person asked.”

Cole’s eyebrows went up when he realized what Pike was thinking.

“Frank Garcia. Frank could make this happen.”

Bud said, “ The Frank Garcia?”

Pike checked the time.

“Let’s do it. I’ll call him from the car.”

Cole and Bud headed for the door. Pike started after them, but stopped to look at Barkley.

“I’ll call you when we know.”

Barkley said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Mr. Barkley, this is-”

Barkley turned a deep red.

“She’s my daughter, and I want to be there. This is what fathers do.”

Pike thought Barkley was getting ready to hit him. Pike’s mouth twitched.

He said, “After you, sir.”

Pike followed him out the door.

The directions led them to a narrow street on the border between Boyle Heights and City Terrace, not far from the Pomona Freeway in East L.A. Stucco houses with flat roofs lined the street like matching shoe boxes, separated by driveways one car wide; most with yards the size of postage stamps. American cars lined the curbs, bikes and toys had been abandoned in the drives, and more than one yard sported a deflating swimming pool, wilted and lifeless in the nuclear heat.

Bud let the big Hummer idle down the street; Pike rode shotgun, Cole and Barkley had the back.

Conner Barkley leaned forward to see.

“Where are we?”

Bud said, “ Boyle Heights. You should buy it. Build a big fuckin’ mall.”

Pike knew Barkley was nervous, but Bud was nervous, too.

Bud said, “You see him? I don’t see him.”

“He’ll come. He said wait in the car until he gets here.”

“I’m not getting out whether he’s here or not, these friggin’ punks.”

Bud eased on the brakes as they reached the address, stopping outside a small home identical to all the others except for a boat in the drive and an American flag hanging from the eaves. A yellow ribbon was pinned to the flag, and both the flag and the ribbon had been there so long they were bleached by the sun. More than one of the homes they passed were hung with similar ribbons.

Hard-looking young guys were sitting in the parked cars or standing in small groups as if they were impervious to the heat. Most wore white T-shirts and jeans baggy enough to hide a microwave oven, and most were heavily tattooed. They eyed the Hummer with studied indifference.

Bud read their gang affiliations by their ink.

“Look at these guys-Florencia 13, Latin Kings, Surenos, 18th Street-Jesus, 18th Street and Mara kill each other on sight. They friggin’ hate each other.”

Barkley said, “Are they gangbangers?”

Cole said, “Pretend you’re watching TV. You’ll be fine.”

Pike said, “Frank.”

A black Lincoln limousine appeared at the far end of the street and rolled toward them. Its appearance rippled through the young gangbangers, who got out of their cars, craning to see. Barkley saw their reactions and leaned forward again.

“Is he the head gangbanger?”

Cole laughed.

Pike thought that was funny, too. He thought if he lived through this, he would tell Frank, and Frank would also laugh.

Pike said, “He’s a cook.”

Bud smiled at Pike. When he realized Pike wasn’t going to say more, he twisted toward Barkley to explain.

“You eat Mexican food? At home? I know you have cooks, but maybe it’s late and you want something fast, you keep tortillas in the house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The Monsterito?”

“Oh, sure, that’s my favorite.”

Pike thought this was a helluva thing to be talking about.