The Watchman (31 page)

“You get a clear look at these people and their car? What about your friend?”

“Thas my cousin, Garo. Yeah, we both saw. Coupla Latin cats and a white dude. Real sugar ride. Not my style, but sweet—one of those big-ass American cars all chopped down with the low seats.”

“A lowrider?”

“Yeah, like that. I don’t know the make, but it was sweet. Midnight black, chrome dubs—”

Pike said, “You get the tag?”

“Sorry, bro.”

Bud headed for Garo as Pike unfolded the Interpol photo of Khali Vahnich. Adam nodded.

“Thas him, yo. That the stalker dude?”

Cole made a soft hiss.

“Jesus Christ. How did he find her? How could he find her here?”

Pike felt as if he had failed. He thought back to the dance club. Maybe it happened then. Maybe she had been recognized, and he had missed the tail.

Barkley called from the porch.

“Does he know where she is or not? Can someone tell me, please?”

Pike looked at the little house he had shared with Larkin Barkley, then went to the center of the street. He did it without thinking and wasn’t sure why. The black lowrider wasn’t going to be at the end of the block, and visible tire trails weren’t going to be scribed in the street, but maybe that’s why he went. Something deep in the DNA pushing him forward. Something primitive making him hunt.

Pike closed his eyes. He had kept her safe for five days, but now he had lost her. Larkin Conner Barkley was gone.

Something touched his back.

Pike opened his eyes and saw Cole.

“We’ll find her.”

Pike stared into Cole’s eyes and saw shadows behind the comfort. Two small reflections, Joe Pikes staring back.

Pike’s cell phone buzzed. Pike checked the number, but didn’t recognize it. He answered anyway. The timing was too damnably perfect for it to be anyone else.

“Pike.”

“I want the money.”

Pike had heard the soft accent before. It was Khali Vahnich.

PIKE KEPT his voice even. His heart rate gave a bump, but he did not want Khali Vahnich to know he was scared.

“My friend is alive and unharmed?”

“For a while. Then we will see. To whom am I speaking?”

Pike motioned to Cole it was Vahnich, then hurried back to the house. He wanted silence so he could hear Vahnich clearly, and a pen to make notes. Confusion and mistakes would kill her as quickly as panic.

Pike said, “Put her on.”

Inside, Pike went directly to the papers and pens spread over the dining table. He copied the incoming call number.

Vahnich sounded offended.

“She is fine. I will only kill her if I do not get the money.”

“This conversation ends unless I know she’s alive.”

Cole and Barkley had followed him inside, Barkley hearing enough to realize what was happening. He stomped forward as if he wanted the phone.

“Is this about Larkin? Is she dead?”

Pike motioned for silence. Cole clamped a hand over Barkley’s mouth. Barkley struggled, but Cole whispered into his ear and he calmed.

“Put her on, Vahnich. Put her on or go away.”

Pike focused on the call. He covered his free ear and listened for background noises that might identify Vahnich’s location. He heard voices, but nothing that suggested the location. Then Larkin came on the line. She sounded fine.

“Joe?”

“I’m coming.”

“I’m okay—”

Pike heard a thump as if the phone had been dropped. Larkin shouted something Pike didn’t understand, then shrieked, but the shriek cut off. Vahnich came back on the line.

“Are you pleased to hear her living? Is this what you wanted?”

Pike hesitated. Keeping his voice level was more difficult this time. He nodded to let Cole and Barkley know she was alive.

“Yes. We only talk if she’s alive.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Her bodyguard.”

“Let me speak with her father.”

“You’ll speak only to me. Everything goes through me.”

“No more of this, then. Her father will transfer the money and we can be done. I will give you the account number and access codes.”

“Wait—listen—Kline took your money. He transferred the money out of the country. We don’t know where he is.”

“This is not my problem.”

The front door opened, and Bud burst in. Cole immediately motioned him silent. Bud nodded, but went to the table and began to scratch a note.

Pike watched it all, but stayed with Vahnich.

“The Kings must have told you what happened before you killed them. This was Kline’s deal. Barkley had nothing to do with this.”

“I will tell you something. This money, it is not mine. Dangerous people entrusted it to me, and they look to me for its return. They do not care where it comes from.”

Vahnich had made a mistake. That was the problem with talking, and Vahnich had been talking a lot. He had been trying to persuade, which meant he did not feel he could command. Pitman had been wrong about everything, but Pike had been wrong, too—Vahnich and his hit teams had never been trying to kill the girl; they had been trying to kidnap her so she could be used as leverage. The people who fronted the money wanted it back, and Vahnich was trying to save his own life. His fear could be used to buy Larkin time or manipulate Vahnich into another mistake.

Pike said, “How about if we help you find Kline? We’ll work together.”

Vahnich laughed.

“Of course we would. No, I think that would leave me in a weak position. I think now I am strong.”

Bud turned with his note and held it for Pike to see.
SHE CALLED HIM. USED NEIGHBOR PHONE.

The list of call numbers was still on the table. Larkin had found the calls between Vahnich and Kline, and had called him. Pike pointed at her father for Bud to show him the note.

“Why did she call you, Vahnich?”

Pike was sure he already knew.

“She wants to help him, but she helps me instead. These young girls are foolish, are they not?”

Pike was staring at Conner Barkley. Barkley was looking confused.

Vahnich said, “Tell her father. He will not want to lose such a daughter.”

Cole went to the table and also wrote something.
MEET HIM.

Pike nodded.

“He loves her, Vahnich. He worships that girl. I think we can work this out—”

Bud’s cell phone chimed, but he turned away fast, cupping his mouth. Pike continued with Vahnich.

“Let’s get together so we can work out the transfer. Tell me where we can meet you.”

Vahnich laughed.

“Will you bring the money in cash? How many trucks will come? Please. He will transfer the money. When the money is safe, I will release her. You and I will never meet, my friend.”

“He’s not stupid, Vahnich. He won’t transfer the money until he has his daughter.”

“Then neither of us will have what we want, and we will both be sad.”

Pike wanted to buy as much time as possible. If Vahnich wouldn’t meet, they would have to find him.

“I’ll talk to him. I have to find him, but I’ll talk to him. He wants her back safe.”

Vahnich said, “Copy these numbers—”

Vahnich began rattling off a string of numbers, but Pike stopped him.

“I don’t know how long it will take to—”

“Copy them and read them back to me.”

Pike copied them, then read them back. They were transfer and account numbers.

Vahnich said, “Good. These numbers you have are correct. He will have the money in this account in two hours or I will cut off her hand—”

Pike said, “Vahnich—”

“No money thirty minutes after that, I cut off her head. We need not speak again.”

The line went dead.

Pike held the phone tight, listening to the silence. Cole and Conner Barkley were watching him. Bud was on his phone in the background, scribbling notes on a pad. Pike finally lowered his phone.

“She’s alive for now, but he won’t meet with us. He knows better than that.”

Barkley said, “What does he want?”

“The hundred twenty million. We have two hours.”

“But I didn’t take it. I didn’t know anything about it.”

Barkley dropped onto the couch and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. His face clenched into a frustrated knot.

“Did she actually call this man? She
gave
herself to him?”

“She did it for you. She probably thought she could work out some kind of deal or convince him not to kill you.”

Barkley shoved himself from the couch as if taking command of the situation.

“All right, I’ll pay him. I can’t move that amount of funds in two hours, but I’ll pay him. Get him back on the line.”

“Money isn’t the answer.”

Cole said, “Paying him isn’t smart, Mr. Barkley. As soon as he has the money he’ll kill her.”

“He wants money, I have money—what else can we do?”

“Find him.”

Bud finished his call and rejoined them.

“Got something here—the MS-13 connection might have paid off. The book shows two
veteranos
named Carlos—one is incarcerated, but the other runs with a clique that’s been bringing in South American dope for years—”

Cole said, “Sounds like our guy.”

“That’s also the bad news. One Carlos Maroto—he’s OG with Mara and lives dead-center in a Mara-controlled neighborhood. Finding him won’t be easy. Getting him to cooperate will be even worse.”

Pike knew Bud was right. With enough time, they could find him, but time was short, and finding a gangbanger in his own barrio would be difficult. Gang membership ran in families and could span entire neighborhoods. No one would cooperate, and word would spread quickly. In a world where pride and family were everything, Latin gangbangers went down hard and would not roll on their friends. Especially not for three Anglo outsiders.

Speed was life.

Pike said, “We need his cooperation.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

“It might if the right person asked.”

Cole’s eyebrows went up when he realized what Pike was thinking.

“Frank Garcia. Frank could make this happen.”

Bud said, “
The
Frank Garcia?”

Pike checked the time.

“Let’s do it. I’ll call him from the car.”

Cole and Bud headed for the door. Pike started after them, but stopped to look at Barkley.

“I’ll call you when we know.”

Barkley said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Mr. Barkley, this is—”

Barkley turned a deep red.

“She’s my daughter, and I want to be there. This is what fathers do.”

Pike thought Barkley was getting ready to hit him. Pike’s mouth twitched.

He said, “After you, sir.”

Pike followed him out the door.

THE DIRECTIONS led them to a narrow street on the border between Boyle Heights and City Terrace, not far from the Pomona Freeway in East L.A. Stucco houses with flat roofs lined the street like matching shoe boxes, separated by driveways one car wide; most with yards the size of postage stamps. American cars lined the curbs, bikes and toys had been abandoned in the drives, and more than one yard sported a deflating swimming pool, wilted and lifeless in the nuclear heat.

Bud let the big Hummer idle down the street; Pike rode shotgun, Cole and Barkley had the back.

Conner Barkley leaned forward to see.

“Where are we?”

Bud said, “Boyle Heights. You should buy it. Build a big fuckin’ mall.”

Pike knew Barkley was nervous, but Bud was nervous, too.

Bud said, “You see him? I don’t see him.”

“He’ll come. He said wait in the car until he gets here.”

“I’m not getting out whether he’s here or not, these friggin’ punks.”

Bud eased on the brakes as they reached the address, stopping outside a small home identical to all the others except for a boat in the drive and an American flag hanging from the eaves. A yellow ribbon was pinned to the flag, and both the flag and the ribbon had been there so long they were bleached by the sun. More than one of the homes they passed were hung with similar ribbons.

Hard-looking young guys were sitting in the parked cars or standing in small groups as if they were impervious to the heat. Most wore white T-shirts and jeans baggy enough to hide a microwave oven, and most were heavily tattooed. They eyed the Hummer with studied indifference.

Bud read their gang affiliations by their ink.

“Look at these guys—Florencia 13, Latin Kings, Sureños, 18th Street—Jesus, 18th Street and Mara kill each other on sight. They friggin’
hate
each other.”

Barkley said, “Are they gangbangers?”

Cole said, “Pretend you’re watching TV. You’ll be fine.”

Pike said, “Frank.”

A black Lincoln limousine appeared at the far end of the street and rolled toward them. Its appearance rippled through the young gangbangers, who got out of their cars, craning to see. Barkley saw their reactions and leaned forward again.

“Is he the head gangbanger?”

Cole laughed.

Pike thought that was funny, too. He thought if he lived through this, he would tell Frank, and Frank would also laugh.

Pike said, “He’s a cook.”

Bud smiled at Pike. When he realized Pike wasn’t going to say more, he twisted toward Barkley to explain.

“You eat Mexican food? At home? I know you have cooks, but maybe it’s late and you want something fast, you keep tortillas in the house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The Monsterito?”

“Oh, sure, that’s my favorite.”

Pike thought this was a helluva thing to be talking about.

Bud turned forward again to keep an eye on Frank’s limo.

“You and everybody else. Me, too. The little drawing they have on the package, the Latin guy with the bushy mustache? That’s Mr. Garcia forty years ago. These kids out here—Frank used to be one of them. That was before he went to work making tortillas for his aunt. Used to make’m in her kitchen, that whole family recipe thing. Turned those tortillas into a food empire worth, what—?”

Bud glanced at Pike, but Pike ignored him.