Taken

39

Pike hurdled rattling chain-link fences between inky backyards and vaulted cinder-block walls in the deep black shadows between houses. Twice he cleared fences with dogs at his heels, and once a free-roaming pit bull chased him across an empty street. Pike turned into its charge, and slapped the pit hard on its snout with his. 357. The dog broke off its chase, and Pike ran on, pumping fast toward the lake and away from the highway.

He stopped twice to listen, but heard no pursuit. The police sounds were lost. No shots had been fired, so Jon was okay.

Pike turned south at the lake, and ran another half mile before looping back to the highway. A truck driver wired on Ritalin gave him a lift north, and thirty-eight minutes after the police raid exploded around him, Pike reached the Palm Springs airport, used the valet key he carried, and climbed into Stone’s Rover.

Breathe.

Pike closed his eyes, and filled his lungs, then pushed with his diaphragm. He breathed deep again. Pranayamic breathing from the hatha yoga. Pike lost himself in a cool forest glade, dappled by sunlight filtered through lime green leaves. When he breathed, he smelled moss and sumac. His pulse slowed. He grew calm. He centered.

Pike started the Rover, then realized he didn’t know what to do, so he shut down the engine. His instincts told him to push forward, but Haddad, Washington, and Pinetta were gone. Jon was now gone. Cole and the two kids were still missing, the police were involved, and when Ghazi al-Diri learned Pinetta was arrested he would be off balance and fearful.

This was good. The Syrian would be flooded with incoming information, but never enough to answer his questions. He would freeze in place, scramble for answers, and work himself into a panic. Panic was good when the other guy panicked.

Pike focused on what he knew. The ATF visited his gun shop looking for Elvis Cole, and now a major tactical event involving the ATF had taken out Pinetta and Washington. Pike had no idea how the two events were connected, but the ATF was a small, elite agency. They didn’t have the manpower to flood an area with agents, so Pike believed this was not a coincidence. He took out his phone, and called Ronnie back.

“When did the ATF come in?”

“This morning. A little before eleven.”

“What did they say?”

“Just the stuff about asking Elvis about an old client. Was that bullshit?”

“Yes.”

“They told me he wasn’t in trouble. They told me to pass it on in case that’s why he hasn’t returned their calls.”

Pike found this interesting, and wondered how many times they had called, and how long they had been trying to reach Cole.

“And me?”

“They were hoping you could tell them where he was. That’s all they said about you.”

“One agent or two?”

“Two.”

“They left a card.”

“I got it right here. Special Agent Jason Kaufman, L.A. Field Division over in Glendale.”

“Number.”

Pike copied the name and number, then phoned his own home in Culver City. Pike had an unlisted number, but found a message from an ATF agent who identified himself as Special Agent Kim Stanley Robinson. Robinson floated a story similar to Kaufman’s, but not identical. Robinson wanted to speak with Cole regarding allegations made by a former client who was now in federal custody, and hoped Pike could help them reach Cole. Robinson left a number, too, but his number was in Washington. The time marker on the recording showed the message had been left sixteen minutes before Kaufman visited Pike’s shop.

Pike phoned Elvis Cole’s office next. He had no way to check Cole’s home voice mail, but he knew the replay code for their office, and found two more ATF messages. The most recent was left yesterday morning by Agent Kaufman. The older message was left the day before by a woman who identified herself as Nancie Stendahl, with the ATF, and asked Mr. Cole to phone her as soon as possible. She left a D.C. number, but no other information.

Pike copied her contact info as he had the others, then put away his phone. The ATF wanted Cole badly enough to work from both Washington and L.A., and Pike was convinced it had to do with the Syrian, but he didn’t see how knowing this helped him find Cole.

Pike focused on the three drop houses, including the house where the Indians were murdered. The number of houses the Syrian had access to bothered him, and so did the plywood. Pike understood sending men to remove DNA and forensic evidence, but taking the time to remove the plywood seemed needlessly risky. The longer a criminal stayed at a crime scene, the greater the odds he or she would be caught. The Syrian obviously felt the risk was necessary. Pike wondered if this had to do with the source of his houses.

Pike started the Rover and drove south to the Indio house.

The neighborhood was quiet with the lateness of the hour, and the house was dark. Its garage was a gaping black cavern with the door pushed down, but if anyone had come to gawk at the damage, they were no longer present.

Pike cruised past to see if someone was watching, then parked one street over and approached the house on foot from the rear. He checked the neighboring houses, yards, roofs, and vehicles. When he was confident no one was watching the house, he returned to the Rover, rounded the block again, and parked in front of the dog lady’s home.

Her windows were lit, so Pike went to the door. This late, he knew she would be reluctant to open the door, so he took off his sunglasses to make himself less threatening, and brushed the dust from his jeans and sweatshirt.

The big German shepherd barked when Pike was halfway up the drive, and kept barking when the woman shouted at it to shut up. A pattern, like the tug-of-war when they walked.

Pike rang the bell, and the barking grew frenzied.

“Shut up! Would you please shut up! Jesus! What am I going to do with you?”

The location of her voice told him she was looking through the peephole.

“It’s late. What do you want?”

“My name is Pike. I’d like to ask about the house next door.”

“What? Jesus, would you shut the fuck up, I can’t hear the man! I’m sorry, what about the house?”

Pike stepped away from the door, and waited. A few seconds later, the door cracked open, and the dog barked even louder.

The woman peered through the crack, hunched over because she held the dog’s collar. The woman’s eye was dark brown. The dog’s eye was golden.

“I couldn’t hear you. I’m sorry. She’s very protective.”

Pike studied the golden eye.

“She’s scared. She’ll quiet if you open the door.”

“I’m not kidding. She bites.”

“She’s fine.”

The woman opened the door enough for the shepherd’s head to push through, but she didn’t stop barking. She was a good-looking dog, with a black mask that lightened to gold between dark golden eyes. The woman now blocked the door with her hip so the dog couldn’t escape, and shouted at her to shut up.

Pike said, “Good dog.”

The dog lowered her ears and stopped barking.

Pike held his knuckles to her nose. She sniffed, then whined at him through the crack.

The woman said, “OhmiGod, I’ve never seen her like this.”

“She’s a good dog.”

The woman opened the door, and came out holding the dog by its collar. The dog strained to get closer to Pike, and thumped its tail on the porch. The woman introduced herself.

“Joanie Fryman. Are you the police?”

“No, ma’am. I want to ask about this house.”

“That’s why I thought you were the cops. I called about that place.”

“Today?”

“Four or five days ago. There’s something going on over there. These cars come and go, but you never see anyone, and I thought I heard someone moaning.”

She frowned at the house as if it was the most disgusting place on earth, then noticed the garage.

“Jesus, what happened to their garage?”

Pike said, “It looked deserted, so I knocked. You know the people who live there?”

“Just cars going in and out. It’s a rental. Jesus, I hope they’re gone.”

“How long have they had it?”

“Only a couple of weeks. A family named Simmons lived there before. They were nice.”

Joanie Fryman suddenly looked at him.

“Are you interested in renting it?”

“Maybe.”

She flashed a bright smile.

“Maybe renters aren’t so bad.”

“Know the owner?”

“That’s Mr. Castro, but he lives in Idaho. He uses a rental agent. I met her. I have her card in here-”

Joanie turned to go for the card, but the German shepherd dug in to stay with Pike.

“Jesus, dog, would you come?”

“Leave her with me.”

Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes, and released the dog’s collar. The dog scrambled to Pike, ears back, tail wagging as she licked and nuzzled his hands.

“OhmiGod, this is insane.”

Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes even wider, and hurried into her home.

Pike squatted in front of the dog. He ran his fingers through the thick fur on her shoulders and neck, and scratched the sides of her head. She was a strong, powerful dog with all the right instincts, but no rules to guide her. A good dog needed rules, same as a man.

Pike studied the golden eyes. He had known K-9 handlers, when he was a Marine and an LAPD officer, who had killed men to protect their dogs, and he had seen those same tough men resign when they lost a dog, as if they had failed their partners and could not live with their grief.

Pike said, “Take care of her. Do your job.”

Pike scratched the dog’s ears until Joanie Fryman returned with a beige business card.

“This is her.”

Pike looked at the card. Desert Gold Realty. Residential and Commercial Rentals. The realtor was Megan Orlato.

The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched when he saw the name. Orlato. She would be Dennis Orlato’s sister or wife or maybe his mother. Orlato supplied the Syrian’s houses.

“I hope it’s available. You’d make a nice addition to the neighborhood.”

Pike thanked her, but wasn’t sure what else to say. He let the dog lick his hand, then patted her head.

“They’re war dogs. She would die for you.”

Pike left Joanie Fryman with her dog and returned to the Rover. Desert Gold’s office was in Palm Desert, not far away. Pike entered the address into the Rover’s GPS, put on his sunglasses, and arrived ten minutes later.