Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

Frederick was scared, but he was angry at the same time. He wondered if the private detective had killed Payne. Private detectives didn't work for free; they were bought and paid to do someone's dirty work. Somehow Cole had identified Payne (probably through that rotten priest) and baited him into Los Angeles.

Frederick suddenly burned with a panic that Payne had talked before Cole killed him, maybe spouting prayers to Jesus as he begged Cole for mercy, Frederick seeing it as vividly in his head as if it were happening in front of him, Payne finally after all these years popping under their secret weight like a blood orange crushed under a boot- spurt! -squirting seeds and pulp as-

Frederick 's head filled with the strange buzz that left his brain tight and cloudy, like he had swallowed the air hose again. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes as hard as he could. He rolled his knuckles across his temples, then grabbed his ears. He pulled his ears so hard that the pain was blinding, then released; pulled, then released.

The buzzing faded.

Cole had obviously been hunting them for years. Somehow he had identified Payne, and made contact, but Payne probably hadn't ratted him out, else Cole would have gone straight to Canyon Camino instead of dicking around here at Payne's motel. Cole had been hired to find them and kill them, and he had killed Payne. Now he was trying to kill Frederick.

Frederick Conrad couldn't imagine it any other way: They were being executed. They were paying the price Payne always said they would pay. He felt the sudden sharp panic of wanting to blast south out of town, burning rubber off all four tires all the way into Mexico, but-

Elvis Cole had killed Payne.

Frederick wondered if Cole had mutilated Payne's body. He imagined Payne screaming in pain as he prayed for forgiveness. Cole probably got paid extra for this kind of stuff. Frederick started crying, and he suddenly saw it happening right there in the truck through the blurry prisms of his tears-Payne was sprawled naked across the seat, his loose, old man's flesh ugly and bleeding as a towering gray shadow ripped away long strips of skin with a pair of pliers. Payne screamed horribly as Cole tore his skin.

Frederick covered his ears.

"Stop it. Stop screaming like that."

Payne and Cole went away, but it took a while for Frederick to calm. He was scared and sickened by what Cole had done to Payne. Frederick wanted to run, but he couldn't leave with an assassin like Cole on his trail. Cole wouldn't stop unless you stopped him. Frederick had to stop Cole right now, and he had to make him PAY FOR PAYNE.

Frederick didn't give it another thought. He considered going back into the Home Away Suites to punish that smart-mouth kid, but instead he changed shirts again, then drove back across the street to the 24/7. He used their pay phone to call information.

"What city?"

"Los Angeles."

"Listing?"

"Elvis Cole."

"I don't show an individual by that name, but we have the Elvis Cole Detective Agency."

"That will do."

Frederick 's heart calmed as he copied the information. Having a clear purpose made him happy. So did the thought of avenging Payne's murder.

The late-afternoon traffic inched out of downtown L.A. Poorly marked one-way streets fed-with all the organization of a nest of snakes-into infrequent (and poorly marked) on-ramps. The feeder streets were stop-motion parking lots, advancing one frame at a time. Pedestrians moved faster; cyclists blew by at warp speed. So much for life in the fast lane.

I felt an edgy, just-on-the-other-side-of-the-door hope in knowing Faustina's true name, and in having an original address. I was anxious to follow up, even though I knew the odds were slight that they would lead anywhere. But still I thought about it, and maybe that's why I did not see the man approaching. "Dude, hey, what's going on?"

He was buffed out with muscles, a shaved head, and hot-chrome wraparound sunglasses. He had approached from the rear on my blind side while I simmered in the motionless traffic, just another pedestrian going with the flow before he stepped off the curb. He was smiling, so the people in the surrounding cars would think we were friends. First glance, he appeared to be carrying a paper bag. Then I realized his hand was inside the bag.

He made sure I clocked the bag, then opened the door with his free hand, and slipped in beside me. The bag pointed at me, down low in his lap so the surrounding motorists couldn't see. He was still smiling.

"Keep both hands on the wheel, motherfucker."

They say "motherfucker" when they're tough.

"It's a four-speed. I gotta shift."

He glanced at my shifter. His smile wavered, like his whole line about me keeping my hands on the wheel was ruined.

"So one hand on the shifter, one on the wheel, smart man. You know what's in this motherfucking bag?"

"Your hand?"

"A fuckin' atom bomb. You do anything but what I say, it'll pop in your guts."

"One on the wheel, one on the shifter. I hear you."

"Look in your mirror. See the white Toyo two back?"

A young woman in a green Lexus was directly behind us, but I could make out a white Toyota behind her. Two men were in the Toyo.

"Are they with us?"

"Brother, they are so with us they got beachfront up your ass. If you even think about fucking with me, they will cook off their caps. You understand the word?"

I glanced over at him, and wasn't impressed. He acted tough with his shaved head and gym-rat muscles, and maybe he was, but he came across like an actor who won fights without sweating because he lived in a make-believe world where every woman was last year's Miss June.

I said, "How could I not understand, them having beachfront up my ass? Now that I'm scared, who are you and what do you want?"

"Golden's computer."

I glanced in the mirror again. Neither of the men in the Toyo appeared to be Golden, but I couldn't be sure.

"Do you think I have it with me here in the car? I don't have it."

"Where is it?"

"With a friend in Culver City. I gave it to him for safekeeping."

"Fine. We'll pick it up from your friend."

"Did Golden send you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Is he in the Toyota?"

"Let's go see your friend."

He flicked the atom bomb to remind me it might go off, so I shrugged.

"Okay. If that's what you want."

We didn't bother with the freeway; we dropped south out of downtown, and used the surface streets. It was a lot faster. Only an hour and twenty minutes.

When we reached Culver City, I approached the back of the shop through a residential area and an alley with our escorts close behind. I didn't want them to see where we were going until it was too late.

"Where are we going?"

"He has a little business nearby. They're closed now, but he'll still be there with the computer."

"What's this asshole's name?"

"Joe."

"If he makes any trouble, we'll cook his ass."

"I understand. Hey, you're the man with the gun."

"Remember it."

I turned down the alley behind the row of stores where Joe Pike has his business and pulled into the delivery spot directly outside the back door. Joe's gleaming red Jeep was to my left and a highly polished Chevy truck was to the right. The white Toyota pulled up behind us, blocking me in. A small gray peephole stared out at us from the door.

"Okay," I said. "This is it."

He glanced at the door. A sign hung above it saying:

FIREARMS

ARMED RESPONSE UNNECESSARY

"What the fuck, a gun store?"

"Yeah, this is his. He has several businesses."

I tapped the horn twice, and the man with the bag lurched, jerking the bag up toward me.

"Fuckin' asshole! What the fuck?"