The Watchman (5 page)

Pike came back from the canyons.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, Flynn’s the guy. He has some kinda bodyguard thing with people who have so much dough they shit green. I want some of that green, Pike. You owe me. Are you going to do this thing or not?”

Pike said, “Yes.”

“That’s my boy. I’ll call back later with the meet.”

Pike closed his phone. Brake lights flared a quarter mile away where San Vicente joined with Ocean. Pike watched the red lights until they disappeared, then hitched his ruck again. Eight or ten coyotes now waited at the edge of light. Three more appeared in an alley between two restaurants. Another now stood in the street a block away and Pike had not even seen it approach. Pike breathed deep and smelled the sage and earth in their fur.

The older coyote did not turn for the canyon. It circled wide of Pike, then crossed Ocean Avenue and continued up Santa Monica Boulevard. The other coyotes followed. The city was theirs until sunrise. They would hold it as long as they could.

Pike unslung the ruck and let it drop. He took a deep breath, then lifted his hands high overhead, stretching. His muscles were warm and his weak shoulder—the shoulder that had almost been destroyed when he was shot—felt strong. The scars that laced his deltoid stretched, but held. Pike bent forward from the hips until he easily placed his palms on the street. He let his hands take his weight, then lifted his feet until he was standing on his hands in the middle of Ocean Avenue.

Pike felt peaceful, and held his balance with a perfect center.

He lowered himself straight down until his forehead touched the street, then pushed upright again, doing a vertical pushup, not for the effort but to feel his body working. His shoulder tingled where the nerves were damaged and would always be damaged, but Pike lifted himself without strain.

He lowered his feet and stood, and saw that the coyotes were back, watching, street dogs at home in the city.

Pike shouldered the ruck and continued with his run. In fourteen hours, he would be driving north to pick up the girl and see Bud Flynn for the first time in twenty years, a man he had deeply and truly loved.

Fifteen hours later, Pike arrived at the remains of a church in the high desert.

The church had no doors or windows and now was broken stucco walls with empty eyes and a gaping mouth a mile off the Pearblossom Highway thirty miles north of Los Angeles. Years of brittle winds, sun, and the absence of human care had left it the color of dust. Graffiti marked its walls, but even that was old; as much a faded part of the place as the brush and sage sprouting from the walls. It was a lonely place, all the more desolate with the lowering sun at the end of the day.

A black limousine with dark windows and an equally black Hummer were parked nearby, as out of place as gleaming black jewels. They had been unseeable when Pike turned off the highway, here at the edge of the desert.

Pike braked his Jeep facing the two vehicles. Blacker shapes moved behind the tinted Hummer glass, but Pike saw nothing within the limo. Pike was settling in to wait when Bud Flynn and another man appeared in the church door. This man was overweight, with a face like a block and lank hair he pushed from his eyes. He appeared nervous, and went back inside the church as Bud, smiling, came out, stepping into the dwindling sun across twenty years and two lifetimes.

Pike had not seen Bud since the day in the Shortstop Lounge when Pike resigned from the LAPD and wanted Bud to hear it manto-man, them being as close as they were. Bud had asked if Pike had another job lined up, and Pike told him, but Bud had not approved. He reacted like a disappointed father angered by his son’s choice, and that had been that. Pike had signed on with a professional military corporation out of London. He was going to work as a professional civilian soldier, he said—a security specialist. Bullshit, Bud said—no better than a goddamned criminal: a mercenary.

Now, seeing Bud, Pike felt the warm touch of earlier, better memories, and climbed out of the Jeep. Bud was older now, but still looked good to go.

Bud put out his hand.

“Good to see you, Officer Pike. Been too long.”

Pike pulled Bud close and hugged him, and Bud clapped Pike on the back.

“I’m in corporate investigations now, Joe. Fourteen years; fifteen this March. Business is good.”

“You use mercenaries as investigators?”

Bud looked uncomfortable and maybe embarrassed, both of them thinking about that day in the Shortstop, but he plowed on.

“Sometimes the investigation part leads to security work. A friend gave me Stone’s name. Stone has former Mossad and Secret Service agents on tap—people experienced with high-risk clients. I was looking for someone like that when he floated your name.”

Pike glanced at the Hummer. The low carriage showed the weight penalty that came with armor and bullet-resistant glass.

“The girl in there?”

Jon Stone had explained the bare bones of it when he called back with the directions: A young woman from a well-to-do family had survived three murder attempts and Bud Flynn had been hired to protect her. Period. Stone knew nothing else because—correctly, Pike thought—Bud Flynn felt Stone did not need to know more. It was enough for Stone to know the girl was rich. A person with Pike’s resumé could command top dollar, and Stone would bleed these people for every cent he could get.

Flynn ignored Pike’s question about the girl and turned toward the church.

“Let’s go inside. You can meet her father and I’ll explain what’s going on. If you decide you want to do this, we’ll meet the girl.”

Pike followed him, thinking, it’s already been decided.

The church smelled of sage and urine. Beer cans and magazines dotted the concrete floor, filthy from the sand blown through the broken walls, and faded by time. Pike guessed the urine smell was left by animals. The man with the lank hair was standing beside a lean man with the intelligent eyes of a businessman and a mouth cut into a permanent frown. A cordovan briefcase sat on the ground by the door. Pike wondered which owned the briefcase and which was the girl’s father. He positioned himself away from the windows.

Bud nodded toward the man with the lank hair.

“Joe, this is Conner Barkley. Mr. Barkley, Joe Pike.”

Barkley squeezed out an uncomfortable smile.

“Hello.”

Barkley was wearing a silk short-sleeved shirt that showed his belt bulge. The frowning man was tieless in an expensive charcoal sport coat. Pike was wearing a sleeveless grey sweatshirt, jeans, and New Balance running shoes.

The frowning man took folded papers and a pen from his coat.

“Mr. Pike, I’m Gordon Kline, Mr. Barkley’s attorney and an officer in his corporation. This is a confidentiality agreement, specifying that you may not repeat, relate, or in any way disclose anything about the Barkleys said today or while you are in the Barkleys’ employ. You’ll have to sign this.”

Kline held out the papers and pen, but Pike made no move to take them.

Bud said, “Gordon, why don’t we push on without that, considering.”

“He has to sign. Everyone has to sign.”

Pike watched Conner Barkley staring at the blocky red arrows inked across his deltoids. Pike was used to people staring. The arrows had been scribed into his arms before his first combat tour. They pointed forward. People stared at the tats and Pike’s faded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and saw what they wanted to see. Pike was good with that.

When Barkley looked up from the tats, his eyes were worried.

“This is the man you want to hire?”

“He’s the best in the business, Mr. Barkley. He’ll keep Larkin alive.”

Kline pushed out the papers.

“If you’ll just sign here, please.”

Pike said, “No.”

Barkley’s eyebrows bunched like nervous caterpillars.

“I think we’re all right here, Gordon. I think we can press on. Don’t you, Bud?”

Kline’s frown deepened, but he put away the papers, and Bud continued.

“Okay, here’s what we have: Mr. Barkley’s daughter is a federal witness. She’s set to offer testimony before the federal grand jury in two weeks. There have been three attempts on her life in the past ten days. That’s three deals for the black ace in a week and a half, and all three were close. I have no choice but to think outside the box.”

“Me.”

Pike shifted just enough to see the limo. The desert had filled with red light from the settling sun. He felt the temperature dropping. At night up here, the air would be sharp and clean.

“Why isn’t she in a protection program?”

Barkley spoke up, pushing the hair from his eyes.

“She was. They almost got her killed.”

Gordon Kline crossed his arms as if the entire United States government was a waste of taxpayer money.

“Incompetents.”

Bud said, “Larkin was in a traffic accident eleven days ago—three
A. M.
, she T-boned a Mercedes—”

Barkley interrupted again.

“You don’t expect to run into these kinds of people driving your car—”

Gordon Kline said, “Conner—”

“Look where we are—up here in these ruins running for our lives. A traffic accident—”

Barkley pushed his hair from his face again, and this time Pike saw his hand tremble. Bud went on about the Mercedes.

“There were three people onboard. A married couple, George and Elaine King, it was their car; with a male passenger in the rear. You know the name, George King?”

Pike shook his head, so Bud explained.

“A real estate developer, squeaky clean, no wants, warrants, or priors. George was bleeding, so Larkin got out to help. The second man was hurt, too, but he left the scene on foot. Then George pulled himself together enough to drive away, but Larkin got their plate. Next day, the Kings told the police a different story—they say they were alone. A couple of days later, agents from the Justice Department contacted Larkin with a sketch artist. A couple of hundred pictures later, Larkin ID’d the missing man as one Alexander Liman Meesh, an indicted murderer the feds believed to be living in Bogotá, Colombia. I have an NCIC file on him I can give you.”

Pike glanced at the limo again.

“How did a traffic accident become a federal investigation?”

Kline moved between Pike and the limo, but no longer seemed upset that Pike hadn’t signed the papers.

“The red flag was King. The DOJ told us they’ve been investigating him for laundering cash through his real estate company. They believe Meesh returned to the States with cartel money to invest with King.”

Bud nodded, arching his eyebrows.

“Upwards of a hundred mil.”

Kline darkened even more, then glanced at the girl’s father.

“The government needs Larkin to link King with a known criminal. With her testimony, they believe they can get an indictment and force him to open his books. Her father and I were against it. We’ve been against her involvement since the beginning, and look at this mess.”

“So King wants her dead?”

Bud said, “King is a money man. He has no criminal background, no history of violence, no connection with anyone in the business short of Meesh. The Justice people think Meesh is trying to protect the cash he’s invested in King’s projects. If King is indicted, his projects will be frozen along with his assets, so Meesh doesn’t want King indicted. King might not even know that Meesh is after the girl. King might not even know where the money actually comes from.”

“Anyone asked the Kings?”

“They’ve fled. Their office says they’re away on a scheduled vacation, but no one at Justice believes it.”

Conner Barkley raked at his hair again.

“It’s a nightmare. This entire mess is a nightmare, and now we’re—”

Bud interrupted him.

“Conner—would you give me a minute with Joe? We’ll meet you at the car. Gordon, please—”

Barkley frowned like he didn’t understand he was being asked to leave, but Kline touched his arm and they left. Bud waited until they were gone, then sighed.

“These people are going through hell.”

Pike said, “I’m not a bodyguard.”

“Joe, listen, the first time they came for her, the kid was at home. That place they have, the Barkleys, it’s a fortress—four acres in Beverly Hills north of Sunset, full-on security, a staff. These people are rich.”

“I get that.”

Bud opened the cordovan briefcase and took out several grainy pictures. The pictures showed three hazy figures in dark clothes moving past a swimming pool at night, then in a courtyard, then outside a set of French doors.

“These were taken by their security cams. You can make out the faces in this one and this one, but we haven’t been able to identify them yet. They grabbed a housekeeper, trying to find Larkin. They beat her bad—choked her out and broke three of her teeth and her nose.”

The housekeeper was in one of the pictures. Her eyes looked like eggplants. Her lip was split so badly you could see her gums. Pike figured whoever beat her had enjoyed it. Had probably kept hitting her even after she was unconscious.

“How close did they get?”

“They made a clean break when the police showed. That first time, the attempt on her life came as a surprise, but then she went into federal protection. The marshals brought her to a safe house outside San Francisco that evening—that was six days ago. The next night, they came for her again.”

“At the safe house.”

“One U.S. Marshal was killed and another wounded. Those boys hit hard.”

Pike heard a car door slam and once more shifted to the window. Larkin Conner Barkley had gotten out of the limo to meet her father and Kline. She had a heart-shaped face with a narrow nose that bent to the left. Copper-colored hair swirled around her head like coiling snakes. She was wearing tight shorts that started low and finished high, a green T-shirt, and had a small dog slung in a pink designer bag under her arm. It was one of those micro-dogs with swollen eyes that shivered when it was nervous. Pike knew it would bark at the wrong time and get her killed.

He turned away from the window.