The Watchman (6 page)

“The same men?”

“No way to know. Larkin called her father and was back in Beverly Hills by sunrise. They were done with federal protection. Mr. Barkley hired me later that day. I moved her out of their house and into a hotel, but they hit us again in a matter of hours.”

“So they knew her location all three times.”

“Yes.”

Pike looked back at the limo. The dimming light in the church had taken on the color of smoke.

“Your feds have a leak.”

Bud clenched his jaw, like that’s what he was thinking though he didn’t want to say it.

“I have a house in Malibu. I want you to take her there tonight—just you. I don’t want to bring her back to the city.”

“How do the feds feel about that?”

“I cut them out. Pitman, he’s the boss over there, he thinks I’m making a mistake, but this is the way the Barkleys want it.”

Pike looked back at Bud Flynn.

“Did Stone tell you our setup?”

Bud stared at him, not understanding.

“What setup?”

“I don’t do contract work anymore. I owe the man a job. The one job. This is his payoff.”

“You’re costing a fortune.”

“I’m not taking it. That’s not the way I want it or why I’m doing it.”

“He didn’t say anything about that. If your heart isn’t in it, I don’t want you to—”

Pike said, “Officer Flynn—”

Bud stopped.

“Let’s meet the girl.”

Her father and Gordon Kline were talking when Pike and Flynn stepped from the church. Bud gestured to the Hummer, where two men in Savile Row suits began off-loading suitcases and travel bags. The girl put her hands on her hips to study Pike as if she had buyer’s remorse. The little dog, hanging beneath her arm in its pouch, watched him approaching with vindictive eyes.

When they reached the car, Flynn nodded at Gordon Kline—

“We’re good to go.”

—then turned to the girl.

“Larkin, this is Joe Pike. You’ll be going with him.”

“What if he rapes me?”

Barkley didn’t look at his daughter; he glanced at Gordon Kline.

Kline said, “Stop it, Larkin. This is what’s best.”

Barkley nodded, and Pike wondered if Kline’s job was telling Barkley’s daughter what to do.

Larkin took off her sunglasses, making a drama of measuring Pike before she looked at her father.

“He’s kinda cute, I guess. Are you buying him for me, Daddy?”

Barkley glanced at Kline again as if he wanted his lawyer to answer his daughter. Barkley seemed afraid of her.

She turned back to Pike.

“You think you can protect me?”

Pike studied her. She was pretty and used to it, and the clothes and the hair indicated she liked being the center of attention, which would be a problem. The Savile Row suits were still piling up bags.

Larkin frowned at Flynn.

“How come he isn’t saying anything? Is he stoned?”

Pike made up his mind.

“Yes.”

Larkin laughed.

“You’re stoned?”

“Yes, I can protect you.”

Larkin’s grin fell away, and now she considered him with uncertainty shadowed in her eyes. As if all of it was suddenly real.

She said, “I want to see your eyes. Take off your glasses.”

Pike tipped his head toward the growing pile of bags.

“That your stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“One bag, one purse, that’s it. No cell phone. No electronics. No iPod.”

Larkin stiffened.

“But I need those things. Daddy, tell him I need those things.”

The little dog’s eyes bulged spastically and it snarled.

Pike said, “No dog.”

Conner Barkley raked at his hair, and Gordon Kline frowned even more deeply, but no one looked at the growing pile of bags or the dog.

A bad hour later, Pike and the girl were on their way.

Four and a half hours later, the fourth attempt on Larkin Barkley’s life was made in Malibu. Then they were running.

Elvis Cole

“JOE—?”

Cole realized Pike had hung up. That was the kind of call you got from Joe Pike. You’d answer the phone, he’d grunt something like
I’m coming up
, and that was it. Polite communication had never been one of Pike’s strong points.

Cole put down his portable phone and went back to waxing his car—a yellow 1966 Sting Ray convertible. He was wearing gym shorts and a Harrington’s Café T-shirt from a great little café in Baton Rouge. The grey shirt was black with sweat and he wanted to take it off, but he wore it to cover his scars. Cole lived in a small A-frame house perched on the edge of a canyon off Woodrow Wilson Drive in the Hollywood Hills. It was woodsy and quiet, and his neighbors often walked their dogs past his house. Cole figured they didn’t need to see the liver-colored stitching that made him look like a lab accident. He figured he didn’t need them to see it, either.

Cole hated waxing his car, but the night before he had watched one of his favorite movies,
The Karate Kid
, that scene where Pat Morita trains Ralph Macchio in kung fu blocking techniques by having Macchio wax his car—wax on, wax off. Cole, watching the movie, thought maybe waxing the car would be good therapy.

Thirteen weeks earlier, a man named David Reinnike shot Cole in the back with a 12-gauge shotgun. The pellets had shattered five ribs, broke his left humerus, collapsed his left lung, and, as he later told people in a way that grated on everyone’s nerves, ruined a fine day. Fourteen weeks earlier—a week before he was shot—Cole could bend at the waist, rest his chest on his thighs, and wrap his arms around his calves; now, he moved like a robot with rusty joints. But twice a day every day he pushed past the pain, working himself back into shape. Hence, wax on, wax off.

Cole was still working on the car when a dark green Lexus stopped across his drive. Cole straightened, and was surprised to see Pike and a young woman with ragged hair and big sunglasses get out. The girl looked wary, and Pike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down. Pike never wore long-sleeved shirts.

Cole limped out to meet them.

“Joseph. You should have told me we had guests. I would have cleaned up.”

Cole smiled at the girl, spreading his hands to show off his gym shorts, bare feet, and wax on, wax off T-shirt. Mr. Personable, making a joke of his sweat-soaked appearance.

“I’m Elvis. This is me, doing my Ralph Macchio impersonation.”

The girl painted him with a smile that was smart and sharp, and jerked a thumb at Pike.

“Thank God you have a personality. Riding around with him is like riding with a corpse.”

“Only until you get to know him. Then you can’t shut him up.”

Cole noticed how Pike touched her back without familiarity, moving her into the carport.

Pike said, “Let’s go in.”

Cole glanced at the Lexus, already sensing this wasn’t a social visit.

“The four-door sedan is bad for your image, m’man. What happened to the Jeep?”

“Let’s go in.”

Cole led them into his house through the carport, and then into the living room, where glass doors opened onto his deck and filled his house with a view of the canyon. The girl looked out at the view.

She said, “This isn’t so bad.”

“Thanks. I think.”

The money vibe came off her like heat—the Rock & Republic jeans, the Kitson top, the Oliver Peoples shades. Cole was good at reading people, and had learned—over time—that he was almost always right. The trouble vibe came off her, too. She looked familiar, but Cole couldn’t place her.

Cole said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

The girl glanced at Pike.

“Can I tell him?”

Pike said, “This is Larkin Barkley. She’s a witness in a federal investigation. She was in a program, but that didn’t work out.”

Larkin said, “Ha.”

“We could use something to eat, maybe a shower, and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Cole sensed Pike didn’t want to talk in front of the girl, so he gave her the smile again.

“Why don’t you use the shower while I make something to eat?”

Larkin glanced back at him, and Cole read a new vibe. She gave him the same crooked smile she had made in the drive, only now she was telling him he could say and do nothing that would surprise her, affect her, or impress her, here in his little house that wasn’t so bad. Like a challenge, Cole thought; or maybe a test.

She said, “Why don’t I eat first? The Pikester won’t feed me. He only wants sex.”

Cole said, “He’s like that with me, too, but we’ve learned to adjust.”

Larkin blinked once, then burst out laughing.

Cole said, “One point, me; zero, you. Take the shower or wait on the deck. Either way, we don’t want you around while we talk.”

She chose the shower.

Pike brought in her bag and showed her to the guest bathroom while Cole went to work in the kitchen. He sliced zucchini, summer squash, and Japanese eggplant the long way, then drizzled them with olive oil and salt, and put on a grill pan to heat. After a few minutes Pike joined him, but neither of them spoke until they heard the water running. Then Cole settled back against the counter.

“The Pikester?”

Pike dealt out a driver’s license and two credit cards. The DL picture showed the girl with spectacular red hair. The credit cards showed her name. The AmEx card was black. Money.

Pike said, “I met her for the first time yesterday, but I don’t know anything about her. I need you to help me with that.”

Pike followed the credit cards with what appeared to be a text-only criminal-history file from the FBI’s National Crime Information Center.

“This is the man who’s trying to kill her. His name is Alex Meesh, from Colorado by way of Bogotá, Colombia.”

Cole glanced over the cover page. Alexander Meesh. Wanted for murder.

“South America?”

“Went down to flee the murder warrants. The feds gave Bud his record, but I didn’t see much that would help. Maybe you’ll see something different.”

Cole listened as Pike described Larkin Barkley’s situation in the flat, declarative sentences of a patrol officer making a report. Pike described how the girl had found herself in a Justice Department investigation involving a suspected money launderer named George King and how her agreement to testify had led to the attempts on her life. Cole listened without comment until Pike described the shootings in Malibu and Eagle Rock. Then the skin on his back prickled and he stepped away from the counter.

“Wait. You shot someone?”

“Five. Two last night, three this morning.”

Pike, standing there in his kitchen without expression, saying it like anyone else would say their car needed gas.

“Joe. Jesus,
Joe
—are the police after you?”

“I don’t know. Malibu was last night and Eagle Rock was only a couple of hours ago. But if not now, then soon—I lost a gun in Eagle Rock.”

Cole felt a momentary lightness, like when the earth drops in a temblor. Ten minutes ago, he had been waxing his car. Three days ago, he and Pike had spent the evening planning a backpacking trip.

“This was self-defense, right? You were defending your life and the life of a federal witness. The feds are with you on that.”

“I don’t know.”

“You fled the scene in fear for your life and reported what happened to the Justice Department. All of this happened with the full knowledge of the Justice Department. These people are good with that?”

“I never met them.”

Cole stared at his friend. Pike stood on the opposite side of the kitchen with his back to the wall, so effortlessly he might have been floating. His dark glasses were black holes, as if part of him had been cut away.

Pike said, “Either way, we have a bigger problem than the police. The shooters knew our location at both safe houses. They had her when she was with the marshals and again when Bud took her to a hotel. You see how it is?”

Even with the water, Cole lowered his voice. Now he understood why Pike wouldn’t talk in front of the girl.

“Someone on her side is giving her up.”

“I took her. I cut Bud and the feds out of the loop. I figure as long as no one knows where she is, I can protect her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find Meesh.”

Cole glanced at the printout again.
Currently believed to be residing in Bogotá, Colombia.

“Meesh might not even be in Los Angeles. He might be back in Colombia.”

“He’s tried to kill this girl five times. You don’t want someone dead that badly, then go away and hope it gets done—you make sure it happens.”

Pike went to the pad and pen Cole kept by his phone and scribbled something.

“I dropped the Jeep and got a new phone. This is the number.”

Cole’s insides felt queasy, but he felt that way often since he was shot. The doctors said it would take time. They said it might never be better.

“You have any idea who’s giving her up?”

“Bud is working on it, but who can I trust? Might be one of his people. Might even be one of the feds.”

Cole put the number aside. He turned back to the pan and laid in the vegetables. The pan was too hot, but he loved the smell when they hit the hot steel.

Cole and Pike had been through a lot. They had been friends a long time. When Cole woke from his coma, Joe Pike had been holding his hand.

Cole put down the fork and turned.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like you getting involved in something and not knowing who you’re involved with. This guy Meesh. These feds you haven’t met. Your friend Flynn you haven’t seen in twenty years. It is not up to our standards.”

Pike was as still as a statue, as if parts of the story were hidden by shadows.

“Well?”

“I didn’t come just for your help. If these people know who I am, they might try to find me through you.”

An unexpected sadness emanated from behind the black glasses.

Pike said, “I’m sorry.”

Cole felt a sudden flush of embarrassment and turned back to the food.

“Those clowns show up here, I’ll kick their bitch asses.”

Pike nodded.