Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

"I saw your door open, but got no answer. I thought you might be dead or injured, you being a party to a homicide investigation, so I came in to render assistance."

I went back to my front door and examined the jamb. Neither it nor the lock showed signs of having been jimmied. I left the door open and went back to the living room. Two cabinets beneath my television were ajar and the stack of phone books on the pass-through between my dining room and the kitchen wasn't in its usual place. Pardy had searched my house.

"I can't believe you came into my house like this."

"I can't believe you went back to my crime scene this morning. I find it suspicious."

"Diaz knows I'm working the case. She gave me her blessing."

"Did she?"

"Ask her."

"O'Loughlin gave me the lead, and I don't need any help. Consider this a courtesy call."

Pardy suddenly stood. He was taller than me, with angular shoulders and large bony hands, and he stood close to intimidate me.

"Don't come around my case anymore. I don't want you talking to my witnesses, I don't want you at my crime scene, and I don't want you contaminating my evidence."

"I'll bet you don't want me finding evidence you missed, either."

He was here because of the key card. When I arrived at the alley that morning, Pardy had been shining a flashlight under the Dumpsters. It had been his evidence to find, only he hadn't found it. When Chen notified Central Homicide about the card, O'Loughlin must have asked about it, and now Pardy felt shown up.

"I'm sorry you got burned, but what was I supposed to do, pretend I didn't find it?"

"Funny how you found a card that wasn't there. I'm thinking maybe you planted it, looking to show us up."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're a publicity slut, Cole. You might have murdered that bum just for the ink-the dumb cops can't close the deal, so the superstar asshole rides to the rescue, page one above the fold?"

I was pissed off and tired, and the wonderful spicy soft tacos had grown sour and old.

I said, "Have you been to the Home Away Suites yet?"

Pardy's face tightened and his red skin looked like parchment pulled over a skull. I shook my head because I knew he hadn't.

"No, Pardy, you haven't. While you were dicking around up here, I went to the motel. The vic was listed on their register as Herbert Faustina. When the reporters interview you, you can tell them the superstar asshole had to give you his name because you were up here going through my house without a search warrant while I was working the case. They'll probably make me out to be Sherlock Holmes after that."

Pardy's face pinched even tighter.

"What did you do at the motel?"

"I talked to a clerk named Kramer. He's probably gone off duty by now, but you can catch him tomorrow. Tell O'Loughlin I covered that one for you, too."

I didn't tell him I had entered the room, and I wasn't going to give him Faustina's bill. I decided I would still call Diaz, but Pardy could swing it himself.

He said, "You think you know, but you don't, Cole. You don't have any idea. Stay out of my case. You're nowhere around this or I'll have your ass."

I should have let it go. I should have just nodded, and he would have walked out, but I didn't like that he had come into my house, and I liked it still less that he thought he knew me when he didn't know me at all.

"Wrong, Pardy, which is something you'd know if you had paid attention at the Academy. I can pursue any matter I choose so long as I don't interfere with or obstruct you in doing your job. You might not like it, but if you arrest me on those grounds, you'll have to make a case not only to the district attorney but also to Internal Affairs. You'll get to tell them how you entered my home without paper, and how you missed the key card and showed up late at the motel. You'll even get to tell them how you tried to front me off even though everything I've done today has been done with the full knowledge and permission of LAPD. You'll look sweet with all that, Pardy. O'Loughlin might even help you pack."

Pardy watched me with the hard eyes as if his body had gone rigid, and he didn't know what to do because nothing was playing out like he imagined. Then he made it worse.

"I don't think you understand, Cole. Where's your gun? Let me see the gun you killed all those people with."

Pardy raised his right hand and rested it on the Sig's grip. A film of sweat made his forehead shine.

"I want to make sure you understand."

The hammer cocking on the Colt.357 Python at my front door sounded like cracking knuckles. Pardy turned to the sound, and shouted his warning like when he was in uniform.

"LAPD!"

Joe Pike said, "So?"

Pike stood framed in the shadows of the open front door with his.357 down along his right thigh. Pike was six feet one, with short brown hair and ropy muscles that left him looking slender even though he weighed two hundred pounds. He was wearing a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, jeans, and the Marine Corps sunglasses he pretty much wore 24/7, inside and out, daytime or night. Light from the setting sun caught the glasses, and made his eyes glow.

Pardy kept shouting, but had the sense not to pull out his gun.

I said, "This is my partner, Joe Pike. You read about him in the newspaper, too."

"I'm a police officer, goddamnit. Police officer! Put down that weapon! Tell him to put down the goddamn gun."

I looked at Pike.

"He wants you to put down your gun."

"No."

"What do you want to do, Pardy? You want to have a shootout? You were finished. If you want to arrest me, I'll go with you and we can sort this out with O'Loughlin down at the station. Did you want to place me under arrest?"

Pardy glanced back at me, and the moment was done. He could press it, but his shit was weak and he knew it. He was so tight his voice squeaked like a bad hinge.

"Sit this one out."

Pardy lurched around like a sailing ship tacking into the wind. Pike stepped down out of the entry to let him pass. When Pardy reached the door, he looked back at me. He didn't seem scared; he seemed certain.

"Sit this one out."

"Good night, Pardy."

Pardy left, and after a minute his car pulled away. When it was gone, Pike holstered his.357.

"Was this about your father?"

Just like that.

"He isn't my father, for Christ's sake. How do you know about this?"

"Starkey."

"Are you two phone buddies now?"

"She was concerned."

Pike knew much of it from Starkey, but I filled in the rest. Joe Pike had been my closest friend and only partner for almost twenty years, but we had never much shared the facts of our childhoods to any great degree. I'm not sure why, only that it had never seemed necessary and maybe even felt beside the point. Maybe it was enough that we were who we were, and were good with that; or maybe we each felt our baggage was lighter without the weight of someone else's concern. When I reached the part about the Home Away Suites, I showed Pike the bill with Faustina's name and address. Pike glanced at it.

"This isn't the right area code for Scottsdale. His address and phone number don't go together."

The motel record showed 416 as the area code for Faustina's home number.

"What's Scottsdale?"

"Four-eighty."

I brought the invoice to the phone, and punched in the number. A computer chimed immediately to inform me that no such listing existed. Next, I booted up my iMac, signed on to Yahoo's map program, and entered Faustina's address. No such street existed in Scottsdale. I leaned back in my chair and glanced up at Pike; everything I thought I knew about Herbert Faustina was wrong.

"His phone number and address don't exist. He made them up."

Pike studied the invoice again, then handed it back.