The Watchman (24 page)

Bud said, “Tell you what. I know the sheriff out in San Bernardino. You could get on out there. Hell, I know some pretty good guys up in Ventura County. You could get on up there, too.”

“I’ve already got another job lined up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Africa.”

Bud frowned deeper, like why would any sane man give up being a cop to go over there?

“What’s over there, the Peace Corps?”

Pike hadn’t wanted to get into all this, but now he didn’t know how to avoid it.

“It’s contract work. Military stuff. They have work over there.”

Bud stiffened, clearly upset.

“What’s that mean, contract work?”

“They need people with combat experience. Like when I was a Marine.”

“You mean a fucking mercenary?”

Pike didn’t answer. He was already sorry he told Bud his plans.

“Jesus Christ. If you want to play soldier, re-up in the goddamn Marines. That’s a stupid idea. Why in hell do you want to go get yourself killed in a shithole like Africa?”

Pike had taken a contract job with a licensed professional military corporation in London. It was work he understood and at which he excelled, with the clarity of a clearly defined objective. And right now Pike wanted clarity. He would be away from Wozniak’s ghost. And far away from Wozniak’s wife.

Pike said, “I’ve got to get going. I wanted to tell you I’m glad you were my T.O. I wanted to thank you.”

Pike put out his hand, but Bud did not take it.

“Don’t do this.”

“It’s done.”

Pike left out his hand, but Bud still did not take it. Bud slid off the stool, then hooked his thumbs in his belt.

Bud said, “Day we met, you wanted to protect and to serve. You quoted the motto. I guess that’s over.”

Pike finally lowered his hand.

“I’m disappointed, son. I thought you were better than this.”

Son.

Bud Flynn walked out of the Shortstop, and they would not speak again until they met in the high desert.

Pike sat alone at the small table, feeling empty and numb.

I’m disappointed, son.

He listened to the men and women around him. They were like any other group of people with whom he had served—talking, complaining, laughing, lying; some he respected, others not; some he liked, others not; as different from each other as pebbles on the beach, but different from most other people in a way Pike admired—they were people who ran toward danger to protect and to serve. Pike loved being a cop. He couldn’t think of anything he would rather be, but you played the cards you were dealt, and now this life was gone.

Pike left the Shortstop. He went to his truck, thinking about his first night with Bud Flynn, the night they answered the domestic call. Pike hardly thought about that night, just as he rarely thought about his combat missions or the beatings his old man used to give him. Pike flashed on scrapbook photos of Kurt Fabrocini stabbing Bud in the chest. He saw the Beretta’s sights aligned at the top of Fabrocini’s ear at the instant he squeezed the trigger; he saw the red mist. Then, after, Bud still shaking, saying, “Our job isn’t to kill people—it’s to keep people alive.” Saying that about a man who had been stabbing him in the chest. What a man, Bud Flynn. What a police officer.

Pike said, “I’m going to miss you.”

The father he never had.

Pike started his truck. He drove away. He played the cards he was dealt even when they were bad cards, and he lived with the result.

But sometimes he wished for more.

THE STREET grumbled with outbound trucks moving cargo up along the river toward the freeway. The same roach coach sat at the mouth of the alley, only today, this time of morning, the thinning crowd of sweatshop workers lingered on the sidewalk with breakfast burritos and plastic containers of orange juice. Pike smelled the chorizo and chili as they pulled to the curb behind Cole.

Pike studied the warehouse until he found the address, faded and peeling but still readable, like a shadow on the pale wall. 18185. Cole was good.

Pike glanced at Larkin.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I want to be here. I’m okay.”

She started to open the door, but Pike stopped her.

“Wait for Elvis.”

Cole got out of his car first. He scanned the surrounding roofs and windows like a Secret Service agent clearing the way for the president, then meandered around his car to the passenger side. He hefted a long green duffel from behind the seat and slung it over his shoulder. Pike saw him wince. From the way the bag pulled, you could see it was heavy.

Cole came back to the girl’s side of the car.

“There’s a little parking lot at the far end of the alley should work for us. Padlocked gate and a couple of doors. Let’s go see what we see.”

Larkin said, “Are we going to break in?”

Cole laughed.

“It’s been known to happen.”

They walked past the rear of the catering truck, then down the alley with the abandoned warehouse on their right and the sweatshop on their left, first Cole, then the girl, then Pike. The huge loading doors were still chained, but Cole continued past them and along the alley to the next street. At the corner, a small parking lot with another loading dock was cut into the building. The parking lot was littered with yellowed newspapers and trash, and brown explosions erupted from cracks in the tarmac where weeds had sprouted, flourished, and died. A loading dock lipped from one wall as high as Pike’s chest, and a metal, human-size door was set at ground level on the adjoining wall. A realty sign covered with graffiti was wired to the gate, advertising the building for sale or lease.

Pike turned to watch the catering van as Cole peered through the fence, but Cole spoke almost at once.

“Yep. They were here.”

When Pike turned back, Cole pointed at the corner of the roof. A pale blue alarm panel was mounted near the end of the building, but the cover was missing. Old wires had been cut, and new wires had been clipped to bypass the old. Whoever jumped the alarms hadn’t bothered to replace the cover, as if they didn’t care whether or not their work was discovered.

Pike glanced back at Cole.

“You still game?”

“Sure. Insurance companies make the owners carry security even when the buildings aren’t used. Now we don’t have to worry about the rent-a-cops. Makes it easier.”

Cole pulled a three-foot bolt cutter from the duffel, snapped the padlock, and Pike pushed open the gate. Cole went directly to the door, and Pike followed with the girl, lagging behind to cover their rear.

The employee door was faced with metal and secured by three industrial-strength dead-bolt locks. Cole didn’t waste time trying to pick the locks. He hammered them out of the door with a steel chisel and a ten-pound maul. Pike was proud of the girl. She didn’t ask questions or run her mouth. She stood to the side with her arms crossed and watched Cole work.

When the door swung open, Cole returned his tools to the duffel, then passed a flashlight to Pike and kept one for himself. He also gave them disposable latex gloves.

Pike went in first, stepping into a gloomy office suite that had long since been stripped of furniture, equipment, and everything else of value. A heavy layer of dust and rat droppings covered the floor, and the air was sharp with the smell of urine. Pike snapped on his flashlight and saw a confusion of fresh footprints pressed into the dust.

Pike moved deeper into the room so Elvis and Larkin could follow, then squatted to examine the footprints.

Larkin said, “Ugh. It stinks in here.”

Cole snapped on his light and walked it over the prints.

“What do you think?”

Pike stood.

“Three people. A week or so ago. Maybe ten days.”

Pike traced his light along a trail of footprints to the corner of the room where a large stain mottled the floor.

Larkin said, “What’s that?”

“One of our friends took a leak.”

“Oh, that is
so
gross.”

The footprints came from a second room beyond the first.

Pike said, “Back here.”

Like the first room, this second room was empty, but a door and a window were set into the wall so the manager could keep an eye on things in the warehouse. An enormous empty space lay beyond the glass, murky with a dim glow from skylights cut into the roof. Pike shined his flashlight through the glass, but the empty darkness swallowed the beam. His view of the room was limited, but he saw more footprints beyond the glass.

Cole and the girl came up on either side of him.

Pike said, “They came here the one time. They looked around and haven’t been back.”

The girl cupped her eyes to the glass.

“What were they looking for? Why would this place have anything to do with me?”

Cole went to the door.

“That’s what we want to find out. Tell me if you find a clue, okay?”

When Cole opened the door, a fresh spike of ammonia burned at Pike’s nose, but a stronger smell was behind it; something earthy and organic.

Larkin covered her mouth.

“Ugh.”

Pike followed Cole into the warehouse, with the girl coming out behind him. Their footsteps echoed loudly, and their lights swung through the murk like sabers.

The girl saw it first.

She said, “Ohmigod! That’s the car!”

Pike and Cole saw it together after that. A silver Mercedes sedan was parked near the loading dock off the little parking lot, alone and obvious in the empty warehouse. The fender behind the left rear wheel was crumpled and bent.

Larkin said, “This is the car I hit. This is the Mercedes.”

The girl walked over as if none of this were strange or frightening or not a part of her everyday life.

Pike said, “Larkin.”

“This is the car!”

She walked directly to the car, looked inside, then clutched her belly and heaved.

Cole caught up to her and turned her away as Pike shined his light through the glass. A dead man in the front passenger seat was slumped across the center console. A dead woman was curled on her side in the backseat. Both were naked, with their ankles and knees and wrists bound by cord. Their bodies were discolored and swollen so badly their bindings had split the flesh. Each had been shot in the back of the head. Pike figured they were the Kings, but he had never seen the Kings. He turned back to the girl.

Pike said, “I think it’s the Kings, but I don’t know. Can you see?”

Larkin was breathing through her mouth. Her face had gone grey, but she came closer.

“It just surprised me, that’s all.”

Pike stood between her and the car.

“Don’t look in the back. Just look at the man in the front seat.”

Pike shined his light. The girl leaned past him enough to peer into the car, then turned away.

“That’s him. That’s George King. Ohmigod.”

Pike glanced at Cole, and Cole nodded.

Pike said, “Go with Elvis. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“No. I can stay.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Her face hardened, and Pike liked how she was pulling herself together.

“I can stay. I’m all right.”

Pike turned back to the Mercedes and shined the light in again. The keys were still in the ignition, which meant the car wouldn’t be locked. Pike looked back at the girl.

“Cover your mouth and nose. With a handkerchief. If you don’t have a handkerchief, use your shirt.”

She looked confused.

“What?”

“The smell. Cover your mouth and nose.”

She pulled up her shirt and pressed it hard with both hands over her mouth and nose, but now she backed away. Cole backed away, too.

Pike opened the driver’s-side door. The gases from the bodies had been building for more than a week. The smell rolled over him with the rotten-egg stink of a body dissolving itself. Pike had smelled these things before, in Africa and Southeast Asia and other places; corpses left for days in buildings or along the sides of roads or in shallow open graves. Nothing smelled worse than the death of another human being. Not horses or cattle or rotten whales washed onto a beach. Human death was the smell of what hid in the future, waiting for you.

Behind him, the girl said, “Holy
Christ
!”

Pike took the keys from the ignition, then checked the man’s body. George King had been shot behind the right ear. The bullet exited his left temple, taking a piece of his head the size of a lime with it. If he had been wearing a watch or rings or any other jewelry, those items had been taken. Pike found no other wounds. The lack of blood spatter and tissue fragments in the car suggested he had been shot outside the vehicle, then placed within it.

Pike checked the floorboard under the steering wheel, the area beneath the seat, and the sun visor. A California Vehicle Registration slip and a card offering proof of insurance were clipped to the visor, issued in the name of George King. Pike moved to the backseat.

The woman was in worse shape than the man. She had also been shot in the back of the head, but she had been shot twice, as if the first bullet hadn’t killed her. Most of her right eye and cheek were missing, as was her jewelry. She was curled on her right side, but her left arm and hip were mottled deep purple where her blood had settled. This also suggested they had been killed at a location other than the warehouse, then transported here, giving time for the lividity to form.

Pike checked the floorboards and the seat beneath her body, but found nothing. He backed out of the car, opened the trunk, and found a layer of blood-soaked newspapers. This confirmed the story. They had been executed elsewhere, loaded into the trunk, then driven to the warehouse in their own car.

Pike put the keys back into the ignition, closed the car, then joined Cole and the girl. They were standing by the loading dock door, as far from the car as they could get. Pike was halfway to them before he took a deep breath. The smell was so bad his eyes were burning.

Cole pointed his light at the ceiling, then along the tire tracks on the dusty floor.