The Watchman (13 page)

Chen turned to run for his car when—

—someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago blocked his path.

Chen startled so bad he screamed again, but this time he meant it—

“AHHH!”

—and lurched backwards, falling, until hands as hard as vise grips caught him and held.

Joe Pike quietly said, “Take it easy, John. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Chen hated it when Pike did that—appearing from nowhere as if the freaky psycho had stepped through a hole in the smog. Only an asshole did stuff like that, sneaking up and scaring people, and Chen had been afraid of Pike since they first met. Chen had taken one look at the guy and known Pike was one of those vicious, double-Y chromosome, beer-commercial slope-brows who loved showing up other people. True, Pike had also given him the tips that led to Chen’s first breakthrough case and the acquisition of the ’tangmobile, but Pike still made him nervous.

Chen said, “You scared the shit out of me. Where’d you come from?”

Pike tipped his head toward a green Lexus parked in the next row.

Chen immediately stood taller. A smokin’ hot babe with spiky black hair and the nastiest lips Chen ever saw was in the front seat. She gave him a little wave, and Chen damn near popped in his pants. That bitch totally vibed SEX FREAK.

Chen said, “Man, that chick is hot. Does she put out?”

“I need a favor, John.”

Chen remembered Ronda and his one-hour window of opportunity. He started to edge away.

“Sure, yeah, but I gotta get going. I have an appointment—”

“It can’t wait.”

Chen froze in his tracks, certain that Pike would beat him to death if he took another step. The best Chen could muster was a meek little squeak.

“But—”

Pike said, “Big case, John. You could make the papers again.”

Ronda vanished like a popping bubble, and suddenly Chen didn’t feel so tiny. Pike and his partner, Cole, had come through before, and John had the car to show for it. Another headline case, and he might even be able to quit working for the city. Spear a gig with a private lab and earn some lifestyle cash. Might even bag the Holy Grail of anyone involved in L.A. law enforcement: He might land a job as the technical advisor for a TV series! Move up to a Carrera.

He studied the girl again.

“I know I’ve seen that girl. She do porno?”

Pike fingered John’s chin away from the girl so they were eye-to-eye. Prick.

Pike said, “You know about the two men who were shot in Malibu?”

“That’s the Sheriff’s. Their lab handles all that.”

“The three men who were killed in Eagle Rock?”

Chen wondered where Pike was going with this.

“Yeah, sure. We got that one, but it isn’t mine. What do you want?”

“The identities of the dead men.”

Chen was relieved, and almost at once thought about Ronda again. He thought Pike might want something difficult.

“No worries. I’ll call the coroner investigator this afternoon. He’ll know.”

“No, John, he won’t. Live Scan came back empty. None of the five were in the system.”

“So the detectives probably recovered—”

“No identifying information was found on the bodies.”

Chen saw his miraculous breakthrough evaporating.

“Then what can I do?”

“Run their guns, John. Run the casings.”

Chen knew what Pike was asking and didn’t like it. The police and the criminalists covering both crime scenes would have recovered any weapons and spent shell casings found with the bodies. Those weapons would have serial numbers and identifying characteristics that might or might not lead back to their owners, but running the guns was almost impossible. SID employed only two firearms analysis specialists, and the backlog of guns waiting to be analyzed numbered in the thousands. The workload was so horrendous that trials often began before the results were in. Judges actually issued court orders demanding that wait-listed guns be jumped ahead in the line.

The elation Chen felt dimmed.

“I dunno, dude, that backlog is brutal.”

“You came through before.”

“Yeah, but running a gun doesn’t mean you’ll come up with a name. Most guns like this were stolen or bought off the street.”

“One more thing—”

Pike gave him a date.

“An automobile accident occurred that night. LAPD towed the vehicle the next day, a silver Mercedes owned by a man named George King. They kept it for twenty-four hours, during which they examined the vehicle. I want to know what they found.”

Chen thought back but couldn’t remember the night or the car or anyone mentioning the car.

“Was a crime committed in the vehicle?”

“It was involved in a traffic accident.”

“They had some of our guys examine a traffic collision?”

“I want to know what they found. Call Elvis when you know. I won’t be around.”

Chen eyed the girl again and figured he knew exactly where Pike would be.

Chen said, “What’s in this for me?”

“The bullets from the Malibu bodies will match the bullets from Eagle Rock. Same shooter, John. L.A. and the Sheriff’s have not yet made the connection. Neither has the press.”

John Chen stared.

“Are you sure?”

Pike’s mouth twitched.

Chen’s heart began pounding. John had not worked the Eagle Rock killings, but he had been in the lab when the evidence arrived. The criminalist who worked Eagle Rock had not mentioned a connection between the two shootings. With the bullets in two different labs, unless the police had some other connecting evidence, it might take months or even years to connect the two shootings. They might
never
be connected—until and unless a superstar criminalist made a miraculous breakthrough.

Chen said, “What about the gun? Is the weapon one of the guns we have?”

“You might dig around about that, too. Compare the number of weapons logged into evidence with the weapons you have. See if the numbers add up.”

John Chen’s heart was pounding so hard his ears hurt. Pike was implying some sort of conspiracy and possibly a cover-up. Forget the local news losers—if Chen played his cards right, he might end up on the national news. Maybe even
60 Minutes
! All thoughts of Ronda were gone.

Pike drifted away toward the Lexus.

“Check it out, John. Call Elvis.”

Pike slipped into the car like he was made of hot butter, then drove away. Chen stared after them, watching the girl, certain she would go down on the lucky bastard before they reached the exit.

Chen turned back to the lab, scowling. After the way he carried on about seeing a dentist, Harriet would wonder why he never left the parking lot. But then Chen realized she had already given him an out—she had told him the pain would pass, and he would tell her it had. Everyone liked being told they were right, and he would also earn points by selflessly returning to work so they wouldn’t fall further behind!

John Chen was not the world’s smartest criminalist for nothing.

John ran back to the lab, and immediately went to work.

Ronda would get over it.

LOSING TIME was like losing blood, and Pike felt the seconds draining away. Pike knew the girl was uneasy about returning to her neighborhood. This was where her nightmare began. The accident. The Kings. Alexander Meesh. But this was exactly why she had to return. Animals left trails where they passed, and so did men. Since Meesh and the Kings had been at this place, they might have left a trail. Pike intended to drop off the girl with Cole, then head for home. The man or men who entered his home had left a trail, too, and Pike already knew where to find it.

The drive south from Glendale was tedious with the heavy afternoon traffic, and ugly with the power cables and train yards that bordered the river. It was a dirty, grey part of Los Angeles that never seemed clean, even after the rains, and when they finally crossed back to the west side, the area in which Larkin lived wasn’t much better. The streets were lined with warehouses waiting to be brought up to earthquake standards or razed, and other buildings housing storage units or sweatshops where minimum-wage immigrants built cabinetry and decorative metalwork. Everything about the area was industrial.

Cole was waiting on the block where the accident occurred, only three blocks from the girl’s building. His yellow Corvette was parked on the opposite side of the street, but Cole was standing in a nearby doorway, out of the sun.

When Larkin saw him, she said, “What’s he doing here?”

“Working. He came down earlier to establish the scene at the time of the accident.”

“I don’t think it’s safe. What if they’re waiting for me?”

“Elvis would wave us away.”

“How does
he
know?”

Pike didn’t bother answering. He was already missing the silence.

The curbs were lined with cars, but Pike found a spot to park half a block past the alley. Cole waited for an eighteen-wheel van to pass, then crossed the street to join them. Cole was wearing olive green cargo shorts, a floral short-sleeved shirt, and a faded Dodgers cap. Pike thought he was moving a little more easily today.

Cole grinned at the girl.

“Nice neighborhood. Reminds me of Fallujah.”

“Nice clothes. Reminds me of a twelve-year-old.”

Cole turned the grin toward Pike.

“I love it when she talks that way.”

They were at the exact spot where the girl plowed into the Mercedes. A thin alley opened onto the street. It was a dirty fissure between two dingy warehouses. Dozens of shirtless men and chunky women wearing straw hats milled around outside the alley, ordering up orange sodas and bottles of water from a catering van at the curb. Pike scanned the rooflines and windows, then turned back to Cole. He wanted to roll on, but he also wanted Cole’s report.

Pike said, “Okay.”

“Nada. I talked to every business for two blocks in each direction. Everything closes at six o’clock, and none of these people carry a night watchman except for a shipping company down there—”

Cole tipped his head toward the block behind them.

“See the fence with the concertina wire? They use a night guy, but he didn’t see anything. Says he didn’t even know an accident happened until the feds came around.”

Pike raised his eyebrows at that, and Cole nodded.

“Yeah. Your feds have been grinding this thing. I asked about security cams, too, thinking we might luck into a street angle off one of these parking lots, but that was another goose egg. Couple of inside cameras, but nobody runs a camera showing the street.”

The girl said, “You just knocked on their doors and asked?”

“Sure. That’s what investigators do.”

“Dressed like
that
?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Pike said, “Did you get the accident report?”

“Yeah—”

Cole pulled folded papers from his cargo shorts and used them to point at the street.

“The accident occurred here at the mouth of the alley. Ms. Barkley was proceeding up the street toward us—”

Cole pointed in the opposite direction.

“—heading for home, which is three blocks farther down.”

Cole glanced at Larkin—

“Nice building, by the way. Nicely done.”

—then opened the papers to show a sketch drawn by the accident investigator on the night of the accident. A rectangle showed the position of Larkin’s car, along with lines illustrating the relevant skid marks, and measurements. Pike had drawn several such sketches during his boot year as a patrol officer. One set of skids was labeled
ASTON MARTIN
. A shorter set was labeled
UNKNOWN
.

Larkin moved closer to see.

“What is this?”

“I had a friend sneak me a copy of the accident report. I wanted to see what happened.”

“I told you what happened.”

“I know, but I wanted to see the report. Accident like this, the officers list witnesses.”

Pike said, “They find someone?”

“That would be way too easy. No one was found at the scene except Ms. Barkley.”

Cole turned back toward the alley and went on with his report.

“The alley continues through to the next street. The building here on the right is abandoned. Doors on the front, back, and sides are chained, and you can tell from the dust and rust they haven’t been opened in years. The other building here is set up as a factory. They make ceramic knickknacks and souvenirs. Considering that one building is empty and the other is filled with replicas of the Hollywood Bowl, it’s a pretty good bet the Kings weren’t down here for a sex party.”

Larkin said, “I told you. They were backing out.”

Cole raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah, but why here and why then? We know why you were here. You were going home. Why were they here?”

The girl said, “I don’t know.”

“That was rhetorical.”

Pike studied the position of the cars in the sketch, and pictured the girl’s Aston Martin sideways in the street. She had slammed into the Mercedes on the driver’s side behind the rear wheel as it backed into the street. The force of the impact kicked the Mercedes a quarter turn counterclockwise, and her car had spun to a rest, pointing toward the Mercedes, one headlight smashed but the other illuminating the scene. The police sketch matched everything the girl had described. She had gotten out of her car to help, then returned to her car for her phone. The Kings drove away. Meesh left the scene on foot.

Pike said, “Which way did Meesh go?”

The girl stepped between them as if something was waiting for her and pointed up the street.

“That way. He ran up the middle of the street. The Mercedes went the other way.”

Cole stepped into the street for a better look.

“Did you see him turn off?”

“I wasn’t looking.”

“That time of night, all these cars would be gone, and it’s pretty well lit. Maybe he ducked into a building.”

“I don’t know. I had 911 on the phone. The Mercedes was gone. I was writing their license number on my arm and talking to the 911.”

Cole shrugged at Pike.