The Watchman (28 page)

Pike and the girl watched as he approached.

John Chen gave Pike the files.

“Read it.”

The girl saw the picture on the cover page and said, “That’s him! That’s the man in the pictures.”

The girl scooted close to Pike, and they read it together. Chen didn’t think about how hot she was, or how her hand rested on Pike’s thigh as she read, or fantasize about the taste of her skin. He thought only about what they were reading.

The fingerprints belonged to a man named Khali Vahnich. Vahnich was a forty-two-year-old former investment banker from the Czech Republic who had been convicted of drug trafficking before leaving that country. His activities since that time included additional drug trafficking, illegal arms sales, and known associations with terrorist organizations in Europe and the Middle East. A large black alert warning appeared in the center of the page. John remembered it clearly and knew he would never forget it. The surface roiled. A monster appeared.

It read:

Pike looked up at John when he finished, and Chen would always remember his expression. Pike’s face showed nothing, absolutely nothing, but the gleaming black lenses smoldered with the fire in the sky. Chen felt so proud of Pike then, so terribly, awfully proud that this man had included him.

Pike said, “Thank you, John.”

“Whatever you need. Anything I can do, I’ll do it. I don’t care what. I’ll do it.”

“I know.”

Pike put out his hand, and Chen took it, and wanted never to let go, not ever, because John Chen felt he had something now, something that made him better than he had ever been or ever could have been; something Chen wanted to keep forever.

John Chen said, “Good luck, my brother.”

LATER that night they made hot jasmine tea and ate the Chinese food while Larkin watched television, a comedy about a middle-aged couple who said ugly things to each other. Pike didn’t find it funny, but the girl seemed to enjoy it. Pike phoned Cole, filled him in, and they made a plan for the next day.

When the show ended, Larkin went to her room, but returned a few minutes later wearing shorts and a different top. She curled up on her end of the couch and flipped through a magazine. The couch was small. Her bare feet were close to Pike. Pike wanted to rest his hand on her foot but didn’t. He moved to the chair.

Pike didn’t care about Pitman or Pitman’s investigation or why Pitman had lied except for how it affected the girl. He didn’t care if Pitman was a good cop or a bad cop, or in business with Vahnich and the Kings. He had been hunting a man named Meesh, but now he was hunting a man named Vahnich. If Pitman was trying to hurt the girl, Pike would hunt Pitman. Pike’s interest was the girl.

Pike watched her reading. She caught him watching and smiled, not the nasty crazy-curved smile, but something softer. With just a touch of the other.

She said, “You never smile.”

Pike touched his jaw.

“This is me, smiling.”

Larkin laughed and went back to the magazine.

Pike checked his watch. He decided they had waited long enough, so he picked up the phone.

“Here we go.”

Larkin closed her magazine on a finger and watched with serious eyes.

Pike still had Pitman’s number from when Pitman left the message, and now Pitman answered.

“This is Pike.”

“You’re something, man.”

“Heard from Kline?”

“Kline, Barkley, Flynn. What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“How about Khali Vahnich? You hear from him?”

Pitman hesitated.

“You have to stop this, Pike.”

“Vahnich changes everything. Larkin wants to come back.”

Pitman hesitated for the second time.

“Okay, that’s good. That’s the smart thing to do here. This is all about keeping her safe.”

Pike said, “Yes. I’m keeping her safe.”

The girl smiled again as Pike made the arrangements.

AT 6:57
A.M.
the next morning, Pike watched a metallic blue Ford sedan turn off Alameda Street into the Union Station parking lot. The sedan slowed for the hundreds of subway commuters emerging from the station, then crept to the far end of the lot.

Donald Pitman was driving, with Kevin Blanchette as a passenger. This was the first time Pike was seeing either man, but Cole had described them well, and Pitman had said they would be in the blue sedan. Both were clean-shaven, nice-looking men in their late thirties. Pitman had a narrow face with a sharp nose; Blanchette was larger, with chubby cheeks and a balding crown.

Neither they nor the seven other federal agents who were concealed in a perimeter around the station saw Pike. Pike assumed they were federal, but wasn’t sure and didn’t care. They had moved into position ninety minutes earlier. Pike had been in position since three
A.M.

Pike watched them through his Zeiss binoculars from the second-floor pantry of an Olvera Street Mexican restaurant owned by his friend Frank Garcia. The ground floor was being remodeled, so the kitchen was closed. Pitman was expecting Pike and Larkin to arrive at seven
A.M.,
but this did not happen. Larkin and Cole were having breakfast about now, and Pike was in the pantry.

At 7:22, Pitman and Blanchette got out of their car. They studied the passing traffic and the commuters coming from the station, but Pike knew they were worried.

At 7:30, they got back into the car. It wouldn’t be much longer until they accepted that they had been stood up.

Pike hurried downstairs to the employees’ bathroom off the kitchen. It had a single window that looked out at Union Station. Pike had opened it when he first arrived so its movement would draw no attention.

At 7:51, the seven agents surveilling the area emerged from their hiding places and gathered at the north corner of the parking lot. Pitman had flagged the play. Pike left the restaurant and trotted to Cole’s car, which was parked at the end of Olvera Street. Cole had swapped for the Lexus.

Pike followed the blue sedan south on Alameda toward the Roybal Building—the federal office building. The rush-hour stop-and-go was brutal, with only a few cars at a time spurting forward between grudging light changes, but Pike counted on this working for him.

The blue sedan was three cars ahead when the yellow went red, and Pitman was trapped. Pike maneuvered Cole’s car into a loading zone, got out, and watched the crossing lights ahead. When the crossing light signaled the lights were about to change, Pike trotted forward, picking up speed.

Pike closed on the sedan like a shark tracking a blood trail and attacked out of their blind spot. Neither man saw him, and neither was expecting his assault. Pike reached Blanchette’s side of the sedan just as the light turned green, and shattered Blanchette’s window with his pistol.

Pike jerked the door open and pushed his gun into Blanchette’s side, screaming to keep him confused.

“Your belt. Pop your belt—”

Pike stripped Blanchette’s gun, dragged him from the car, and proned him on the street, keeping his gun on Pitman.

“Hands on the wheel! On the wheel or I’ll kill you.”

The cars ahead of them were gone. The lane was clear. Horns behind them shrieked as Pike slid into the car.

Pitman said, “Pike?”

Pike stripped Pitman’s weapon and tossed it into the back. Outside, Blanchette was getting up.

“Drive!”

Pitman didn’t move, maybe slowed by confusion, but his eyes flickered with anger.

“I’m a federal agent. You can’t—”

Pike hit him hard in the forehead with his pistol, grabbed the wheel, and powered through the light.

THEY WERE under the First Street Bridge when Pitman woke, parked between towering concrete columns at the edge of the Los Angeles River. Abandoned vehicles impounded by the city were parked in even rows there in the dead space beneath the bridge, protected by a chain-link fence from everything but dust, birds, and taggers. Pike was parked at the end of the fence. Trucks passing overhead made the fence buzz like swarming bees. They were less than eight blocks from Cole’s car.

Pitman jerked upright, trying to get away, but Pike had tied his wrists to the wheel with plastic restraints. Pitman twisted as far from Pike as possible.

“What are you doing? What in hell do you think you’re doing, Pike? Let me go!”

Pitman looked younger now that Pike was close. His forehead was split where Pike hit him, leaking a crusty red mask over his face. Pike watched him, holding the pistol loosely in his lap.

Pitman said, “You assaulted a federal officer. You fucking
kidnapped
me! Let me go! Cut me loose, and we’ll forget about this. I can help you!”

Pike tapped the pistol.

“I’m not the one who needs help.”

Pitman’s face twitched and popped as if moving in every direction at once.

“You are in deep shit—
deep
shit! You are breaking major federal laws here! Walk away now, or you will be
under
the jail.”

Pike said, “Khali Vahnich. A terrorist.”

“I’m telling you, Pike—walk away!”

“A known terrorist.”

“I’m not discussing this!”

Pike lifted the Kimber just enough to point it.

“We’re talking about whether or not you die.”

“I’m a federal officer! You would be killing a federal officer!”

Pike nodded, quiet and calm.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Pike held up Pitman’s badge. He had gone through Pitman’s pockets for his credentials.

“This was never about the Kings, Pitman. This is about Vahnich. You put a target on her to bag the terrorist. Or protect him.”

“That’s insane. I’m not trying to protect him.”

“You told her Khali Vahnich was Alex Meesh.”

“We had to protect the case.”

“You told her he was trying to kill her to protect his investment with the Kings, but the Kings were dead. There was no one to protect.”

“We didn’t know they were dead until yesterday, Pike! We didn’t know! We thought he was helping them—”

“There’s no ‘we’ here, Pitman. It’s on you. The Kings are dead, so why would Vahnich want to kill her?”

“I don’t know!”

“I think you killed them and sold out the girl to help Vahnich.”

Pike raised his pistol again, and Pitman jerked hard against the plastic.

“
We didn’t know!
That’s the God’s honest truth! Listen to me—we knew they were in business, Vahnich and the Kings, but we didn’t know Vahnich was in L.A. until just before the accident. Look in the trunk—my briefcase is in the trunk.
Look at it, Pike!
I’m telling the truth—”

Pike studied Pitman, getting the read, then took the keys and found an oversize briefcase in the trunk. The briefcase was locked. He brought it back to the front seat.

Pitman said, “Key’s in my pocket—”

Pike didn’t bother with the key. He slit open the case with his knife. Letters, memos, and files bearing Department of Justice and Homeland Security letterheads were jammed together in no particular order.

Pike said, “You aren’t with Organized Crime.”

“Homeland Security. Look at my notes—”

“Shut up, Pitman.”

Many of the pages were marked
CONFIDENTIAL
. Pike saw memos about financial transactions and surveillances on the Kings, and other memos connecting Vahnich with Barone and numerous named and unnamed third parties in South America. Many of the memos described Khali Vahnich’s movements both here and abroad.

Pike read until he understood.

“Vahnich makes money for terrorists.”

Pitman nodded.

“That’s the short version. The single biggest source of funding for organized terror outside of state-sponsored contributions in the Middle East is dope. They buy it, sell it, invest in it—and take the profit. These fuckers are rich, Pike. Not the lunatics blowing themselves up, but the organizations. Like every other war machine on the planet, they eat money, and they want more. That’s what Vahnich does. He’s an investment banker for these fuckers. Invests their funds, turns a profit, then feeds it back to the machine.”

“With the Kings?”

“Economics works the same for everybody—Republicans and Democrats, drug lords and Al Qaeda. You limit your risk by diversification. The Kings are golden in real estate, and Vahnich wants to diversify. He put a hundred twenty million into play with the Kings—sixty from the cartels, but sixty was straight out of the war zone. My job is to isolate and capture that money.”

“Money.”

“Terrorist money. We don’t want it going back to train suicide bombers.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. The Kings accepted the transfer into a foreign account, but the money was moved that same day and we don’t know where it went. Maybe that’s why Vahnich killed them. Maybe he wanted the money back.”

“So all of this is about real estate.”

Pitman laughed, but it was cynical and dry.

“Everything happening in the world today is about real estate, Pike. Don’t you read the newspaper?”

Pike thought about Khali Vahnich and the Kings and all those boys come up from Ecuador. Outside, the bridge hissed with passing cars and the fence hummed. Pike thought about Larkin in the Echo Park house, cut off from her friends and her life, with a man like Khali Vahnich wanting her dead.

“Why is Vahnich trying to kill her?”

“I don’t know. I thought I knew. I believed it was about the Kings.”

“The Kings are dead.”

“I didn’t know Vahnich would try to kill her. How could I know that?”

“You should have told them the truth. The terrorists haven’t taken over Los Angeles yet, Pitman—we’re still the land of the free. You should have told those people who they were dealing with.”