The Watchman

11

PIKE didn’t bring her to Universal and didn’t wait until noon. Cole had Bud’s home address before they were out the door.

Cheviot Hills was an upscale neighborhood set on the rolling land south of the Hillcrest Country Club in midtown Los Angeles. Gracious homes with immaculate yards and manicured sidewalks were scattered throughout the area, though the larger homes were closer to the park. The homes farther south and closer to the I-10 freeway were smaller, but still beyond a police officer’s salary. Back in the day when Pike rode with Bud, the Flynns had shared a duplex in Atwater Village.

Bud’s current home was a small split-level not far from the freeway. A tan Explorer was parked in the drive as if it had been there all night. The house sat at the top of a rise, with a gently sloping drive and a front lawn that struggled against the brutal summer heat. Many of the homes had not been changed since they were built in the thirties, which gave the street a sleepy, small-town feel. A brace of jacaranda trees colored the car and the driveway with purple snow.

Larkin swiveled her head as they drove past the house, alert and excited.

“What are we going to do?”

“You’re going to stay in the car. I’m going to talk to him.”

“But what if he’s not here? What if he left?”

“See the jacaranda flowers on the driveway? They haven’t been disturbed.”

“What if he wasn’t here? What if he lied?”

“Please be quiet.”

Pike parked across the mouth of Bud’s drive so Larkin would be clearly visible in the car, then got out and went to the front door. Pike stood to one side of the door, positioning himself so he could not be seen from the windows. He called Bud’s cell.

Bud said, “Gotta be you, Joe. The incoming call says restricted.”

“Look in your driveway.”

“Joe?”

“Look outside.”

Pike heard movement over the phone, then inside the house. The front door opened. Bud stepped out. He stared at the girl, but didn’t yet see Pike. Bud had already dressed for the day, but Pike thought the years had caught up with him in the past thirty-six hours. He looked tired.

Pike said, “Bud.”

Bud showed no surprise. He scowled the way he had scowled when Pike was a boot, like he was wondering what he had done to be cursed with this person who was ruining his life.

He said, “What did you think I would do, have Universal surrounded? Have spotter planes up in the sky?”

Pike made a rolling gesture so Larkin would roll down her window.

Pike called out to her.

“Say hi to Bud.”

Larkin waved and called back from the car.

“Hi, Bud!”

Pike called out again.

“You want to stay here with him?”

Larkin made a two-thumbs-down gesture and shook her head. Pike turned back to Bud, but Bud was still scowling.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“This is a nice house. You’ve done all right.”

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you know how much shit I’m in?”

“I’m showing you she’s alive and well. You can tell her father and Special Agent Pitman she’s fine. You can say she doesn’t want to come back because she likes staying alive.”

Bud grew irritated.

“Now waitaminute, goddamnit-this isn’t only about the girl. You dropped five bodies in two days. You think, what, Pitman can tell LAPD, hey, it’s all right, our civilian killed those dudes to protect our witness, and Northeast Homicide will let it go? You have to help straighten this out.”

Pike didn’t care if they let it go or not. He wondered why Bud hadn’t mentioned that Pitman had returned his gun. Then he wondered whether or not Bud knew, and, if not, why Pitman hadn’t told him.

“What does Pitman want?”

“You, the feds, a couple of assistant chiefs from Parker and the Sheriff’s, that’s what we’re talking about. You and Larkin answer their questions, Pitman says the locals will go away.”

“Won’t happen.”

“Pitman says if you don’t come in he’ll issue a warrant for kidnapping.”

The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched, and Bud reddened.

“I know it’s bullshit, but you’re out here running around and nobody knows what’s happening. The feds believe they can protect her. They think the problem is me, and that’s what they’re telling her father. He’s this close to firing me.”

“So tell me, Bud-is she safer with you now or me?”

“I turned over my personal records to the DOJ. I gave them my guys-their cell records, hotels and expenses, everything. Her father, he gave Pitman an open door on his lawyer, his staff, their e-mails and phones-all of it. We’ll plug the leak.”

“Who’s checking Pitman?”

Bud blinked as if he was facing a dry wind, and finally shook his head.

“I can’t keep her safe. I can’t even cover for you. I know that was part of the deal, but now I don’t know.”

“My way, the leak doesn’t matter.”

Bud finally looked at him. His eyes were hard stones hidden by flesh weakened with age.

“Joe. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for Meesh.”

“You aren’t just looking. I don’t want to be involved with anything like this. You want my help, but I don’t even want to know.”

“I only have two leads back to Meesh-the men in the morgue and the Kings. If the Kings were in business with him, then they probably knew where he was staying and how to reach him. Maybe I can find him through them.”

“They’re still missing.”

“The feds must have something. Can you help with that?”

“Pitman has their home and office under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He has their phones tapped. He even has someone watching their yacht. If those people fart, the feds will be on them. If you try to get close to anything they own, the feds will be on you, too.”

“Then the men I killed are my last door back to him. What do you know?”

Bud darkened, but glanced at the girl and wet his lips.

“I gotta get my keys. Inside in the entry. That okay?”

Pike nodded.

Bud stepped into his house, but only long enough to fish his keys from a blue bowl inside the door. Pike followed him out to his car. Bud opened the Explorer and Pike saw the same cordovan briefcase he had seen in the desert. Bud took out three pictures. They were the security stills taken when the Barkleys’ home was invaded. Pike had seen them up in the desert, too.

Bud handed them to Pike, and tapped the top picture.

“This man was one of the original home invaders. You shot him in Malibu. He’s the only one of the five you shot who was also one of the home invaders.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. But this man-”

Bud shuffled the pictures to point out a man with prominent cheekbones and a scarred lip.

“-he’s the freak who beat the housekeeper. You recognize either of these other guys from Malibu or Eagle Rock?”

“Who are they?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify any of the five people you put in the morgue. The Live Scan kicked back zero. No IDs were found on the bodies, and they weren’t in the system. You can keep these pictures, you want.”

Pike stared at the pictures, thinking it didn’t make sense that none of the five had been identified. The type of man you could hire to do murder almost always had a criminal record. The Live Scan system digitized fingerprints, then instantly compared them with computerized records stored by the California Department of Justice and the NCIC files, and those files were exhaustive. If a person had ever been arrested anywhere in the country or served in the military, their fingerprints were in the file.

Pike said, “That doesn’t sound right.”

“No, it does not, but all five of these guys were clean.”

“No IDs or wallets?”

“Not one damn thing of a personal nature. You arrested a lot of people, Joe. You remember many shitbirds smart enough to clean up before they did crime?”

Pike shook his head.

“Me neither. So here we are.”

Bud slammed his trunk, then stared at the girl.

“I guess I should apologize, getting you involved in this mess, but I won’t. You could just give her back to Pitman. It’s your choice, playing it this way.”

Bud studied Larkin for a moment longer, and Pike wondered what he was thinking. Then Bud turned, and with the new angle of light, Pike thought he looked as hard as ever.

Bud said, “I’m trusting you won’t let this little girl down.”

Pike watched Bud walk away, then returned to the Lexus and immediately drove away.

Larkin said, “He seems like a nice man.”

“He was a good officer.”

“That’s what he told my dad about you, that you were a good policeman. What he said was, you were the best young officer he ever worked with.”

Pike didn’t answer. He was thinking about the five nameless killers, cleaned up for crime with no criminal records. Pike thought he might still use them to find Meesh, and he believed he knew how.

DEPLOYMENT PERIOD ONE

RAMPART DIVISION ROLL CALL

EVENING WATCH, 1448 HOURS

His dark blue uniform was crisp and fresh, with creases as straight as ruled lines. His stainless steel and copper badge caught light like a mirror, and the black leather of his holster and shoes gleamed as they had in the Marine Corps. Military-issue sunglasses hung from his pocket in the approved position. Pike’s kit, gear, and appearance were in order and by-the- book perfect, which was the way Pike liked it.

Pike, Charlie Grissom, and Paul “P-bag” Hernandez were seated in the front row in the roll call room of the Rampart Division Police Station. This being their first official day on the job after having graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy, they wore badges and carried loaded weapons for the first time. Today, they would begin their careers as probationary police officers, known within the Los Angeles Police Department as boots.

Pike and the other boots sat erect with their eyes on Sergeant Kelly Levendorf, who was the evening watch commander. Slouching, slumping, or leaning on the table was not permitted. Being boots, they were required to sit in the first row, face forward, and were not allowed to look at the veteran officers who filled the room behind them. They were not allowed to join in the banter during roll call, or react or respond to the veterans, no matter how many spitballs came their way. They had not yet earned that right. Though they had graduated from the academy, they would spend the next year becoming “street certified” by experienced senior officers known as P-IIIs – Pee Threes – who would be their teachers, their protectors, and their Gods.

Two things would happen at this first roll call. They would meet their P-IIIs, which Pike was looking forward to, and they would introduce themselves to the veterans, which Pike dreaded. Pike wasn’t much for talking, and talked about himself least of all.

Levendorf made car assignments, then rolled through everything from suspected criminal activity and suspects known or believed to be in the area, to officer birthdays and upcoming retirement parties. He read most of his announcements from a thick, three-ring binder. When he finished he closed the book and looked up at the shift.

“Okay, we have some new officers aboard, so we’ll let’m introduce themselves. Officer Grissom, you have one minute, one second.”

Pike thought, Here it comes.

At the academy, each recruit was given one minute plus one second to introduce himself. The recruit was expected to be brief and on point-just as he or she was expected to be when dealing with superiors, radio dispatchers, and the public.

Grissom surged to his feet, all gung ho enthusiasm, and turned to face the crowd. He was a short, chunky kid with delicate blond hair, who always seemed anxious to please.

“My name is Charlie Grissom. I graduated from San Diego State with a degree in history. My dad was an officer in San Diego, which is where I was born. I like to surf, fish, and scuba dive. I’m always looking for dive buddies, so look me up if you’re interested. I’m not married, but I’ve been dating the same girl for about a year. Being a police officer is all I’ve ever wanted. My dad wanted me to go on the San Diego PD, but I wanted to be with the best-so I’m here.”

This brought a roar of approval from the shift, but as it died a ragged voice behind Pike cut through the din.

“He kisses ass real good.”

Pike saw Grissom flush from the corner of his eye as Grissom took his seat.

Levendorf said, “Officer Hernandez-one minute, one second.”

Hernandez glanced over at Pike as he stood, and Pike made an imperceptible nod of encouragement. Pike and Hernandez had been roomies at the academy.

Hernandez turned to face them.

“My name is Paul Hernandez. My grandfather, my dad, and two uncles were all LAPD – I’m third generation-”

The shift cheered and clapped until Levendorf told them to knock it off, then ordered Hernandez to continue.

“I had two years at Cal State Northridge playing baseball before I got hurt. I love baseball, and I bleed Dodger blue. I’m married. We’re expecting our first this June. I became an officer because I look up to officers, what with my family and all. That’s the way I was raised. It runs in the blood.”

The shift cheered again as Hernandez returned to his seat.

Levendorf quieted the crowd, then looked at Pike.

“Officer Pike-one minute, one second.”

Everyone said pretty much the same things-they talked about their education and their families, but Pike hadn’t gone to college and wouldn’t talk about his family. He couldn’t see that it mattered or why it was anyone else’s business, anyway. Pike figured all that mattered was what a man did in the moment at hand, and whether or not he did right.

Pike stood and turned. This was the first time he had seen the officers assembled behind him. They were all colors and ages. Many were smiling and loose; others looked stern; and a lot of them looked bored. Pike noted those officers with two stripes on their sleeves. Civilians always confused these for corporal stripes, but these were the P-IIIs. One of them would be his training officer.

“My name is Joe Pike. I’m not married. I pulled two combat tours in the Marines-”

The shift broke into wild applause and cheers, with many of the officers shouting “Semper fi.” LAPD had a high percentage of Marine Corps veterans.

Levendorf waved them quiet and nodded at Pike to continue.

“I want to be a police officer because the motto says to protect and to serve. That’s what I want to do.”

Pike took his seat to scattered applause, but someone in the back laughed.

“Got us a regular Clint Eastwood. A man of few words.”

Pike saw Levendorf frowning.

Levendorf said, “We call this part of the program ‘one minute, one second,’ Officer Pike-so I figure you got about forty seconds to go. Perhaps you’d offer a bit more, self-illumination-wise; say, about your family and hobbies?”

Pike stood again, and once more faced the crowd.

“I qualified as a scout/sniper and served in Force Recon, mostly on long-range reconnaissance teams, hunter/killer teams, and priority target missions. I’m black belt qualified in tae kwon do, kung fu, wing chun, judo, and ubawazi. I like to run and work out. I like to read.”

Pike stopped. The shift stared at him, but Pike didn’t know whether or not to sit down so he stared back. No one applauded.

Finally, an older black P-III with salt-and-pepper hair said, “Thank God he likes to read-I thought we had us a sissy.”

The shift broke into laughter.

Levendorf ended the roll call, and everyone herded toward the exits except for Pike and the other new guys. They stayed behind to meet their P-IIIs.

Three senior officers bucked the departing crowd to make their way forward. The burly black officer who made the crack about Pike being a reader went to Grissom. The second P-III was an Asian officer with a face as edged as a diamond. He offered his hand to Hernandez. Pike watched the third P-III. He was shorter than Pike, with close brown hair, a rusty tan, and a thin, no-nonsense mouth. Pike guessed he was in his late thirties, but he might have been older. He had three hash marks on the lower part of his sleeve, signifying at least fifteen years on the job.

He came directly to Pike and put out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Officer Pike. I’m Bud Flynn.”

“Sir.”

“I’ll be your training officer for your first two deployment periods. After that, if you’re still around, you’ll swap T.O.’s with the other boots, but you’re mine for the first two months.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Officer Flynn or sir until I say otherwise, and I will call you Officer Pike, Pike, or boot. We clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got your gear?”

“Yes, sir. Right here.”

“Grab it and let’s go.”

Pike hooked the gear bag over his shoulder and followed Flynn out to the parking lot. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and the air was hazy from the smog bank that heated the city. Flynn led Pike to a dinged and battered Caprice that had probably racked up over two hundred thousand hard miles. When they reached the car, Flynn pointed at it.

“This is our shop. Its name is two-adam-forty-four, which will also be your name after I teach you to use the radio. What do you think of our shop, Officer Pike?”

“It’s fine.”

“It is a piece of shit. It has so much wrong with it that it would be down-checked on any other police force in America. But this is Los Angeles, where our cheap-ass city council won’t give us the money to hire enough men, or buy and maintain the proper equipment. But do you know what the good news is, Officer Pike?”

“No, sir.”

“The good news is that we are Los Angeles police officers. Which means we will use this piece of shit anyway, and still provide the finest police service available in any major American city.”

Pike was liking Flynn. He liked Flynn’s manner, and Flynn’s pride in the department, and Flynn’s obvious pride in his profession.

Flynn put his gear on the ground at the back of the car, then faced Pike with his hands on his hips.

“First we’re going to inspect the vehicle, then load our gear, but before we get going I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Flynn seemed to want a response, so Pike nodded.

“I respect your service, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about it. Half this police force was in the Marines and the other half is tired of hearing about it. This is a city in the United States of America. It isn’t a war zone.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“That piss you off, me saying that?”

“No, sir.”

Flynn studied Pike as if he suspected Pike was lying.

“Well, if you are, you hide it well, which is good. Because out here, you will not show your true feelings to anyone. Whatever you feel about the lowlifes, degenerates, and citizens we deal with-be they victim or criminal-you will keep your personal opinions to yourself. From this point on, you are Officer Pike, and Officer Pike works for the people of this city no matter who and what they are. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Flynn popped the trunk. It was tattered and empty. He pointed inside.

“This is the trunk. I’m driving, so my gear will go on the driver’s side. You’re the passenger, so your gear goes on the passenger’s side. This is the way we do it on the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stow your gear, but don’t stop listening.”

Pike stowed his gear as Flynn went on.

“The academy taught you statutes and procedure, but I am going to teach you the two most important lessons you receive. The first is this: You will see people at their creative, industrious worst-and I am going to teach you how to read them. You are going to learn how to tell a lie from the truth even when everyone is lying, and how to figure out what’s right even when everyone is wrong. From this, you will learn how to dispense justice in a fair and evenhanded way, which is what the people of our city deserve. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“What’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“The first lesson is how to read people. What’s the second?”

Flynn’s eyebrows arched as if he was about to dispense the wisdom of the ages.

“You will learn how not to hate them. You’ll see some sorry bastards out here, Officer Pike, but people aren’t so bad. I’m going to teach you how not to lose sight of that, because if you do you’ll end up hating them and that’s the first step toward hating yourself. We can’t have that, can we?”

“No, sir.”

Flynn inspected the trunk to make sure Pike had stowed his gear correctly, grunted an approval, then closed it. He turned back to Pike again, seemed to be thinking, and Pike wondered if Flynn was trying to read him.

Flynn said, “Now I have a question. When you said why you became an officer, you quoted the LAPD motto, to protect and to serve. Which is it?”

“Some people can’t protect themselves. They need help.”

“And that would be you, Officer Pike, with all that karate and stuff?”

Pike nodded.

“You like to fight?”

“I don’t like it or not like it. If I have to, I can.”

Flynn nodded, but the way he sucked at his lips told Pike he was still being read.

Flynn said, “Our job isn’t to get in fights, Officer Pike. We don’t always have a choice, but you get in enough fights, you’ll get your ass kicked for sure. You ever had your ass kicked?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pike would not mention his father.

Flynn still sucked at his lips, reading him.

“We get in a fight, we’ve failed. We pull the trigger, it means we’ve failed. Do you believe that, Officer Pike?”

“No, sir.”

“I do. What do you think it means?”

“We had no other way.”

Flynn grunted, but this time Pike couldn’t tell if his grunt was approving or not.

“So why is it you want to protect people, Officer Pike? You get your ass kicked so much you’re overcompensating?”

Pike knew Flynn was testing him. Flynn was probing and reading Pike’s reactions, so Pike met Flynn’s gaze with empty blue eyes.

“I don’t like bullies.”

“Making you the guy who kicks the bully’s ass.”

“Yes.”

“Just so long as we stay within the rule of law.”

Flynn considered him for another moment, then his calm eyes crinkled gently at the corners.

“Me being your training officer, I read your file, son. I think you have what it takes to make a fine police officer.”

Pike nodded.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll do enough talking for both of us. Now get in the car. Let’s go protect people.”

Their first hour together was light on protecting people. Each basic radio car normally patrolled a specific area within the division, but Flynn started off by giving Pike a tour of the entire division. During this time, Flynn reviewed radio procedures, let Pike practice exchanges with the dispatchers, and pointed out well-known dirtbag gathering points.

Easing into their second hour, Flynn let Pike write two traffic citations.

After the second citation, which was to an elderly woman who was angry and resentful at having been tagged for running a red light, Flynn painted Pike with a large smile.

“Well, how do you like the job so far?”

“A little slow.”

“You did fine with that lady. Didn’t punch her out or anything.”

“Maybe next time.”

Flynn laughed, then told the dispatchers to begin pitching them calls. Over the next two hours, Pike took a stolen car report from a sobbing teenage girl (the car belonged to her brother, who was going to kill her for getting his car stolen), interviewed a pet shop owner who had made a public drunkenness complaint (a drunk had entered her store, let the dogs and cats out of their cages, then left), took a shoplifting report from the manager of a convenience store (the shoplifter was long gone), took a report from a man who had returned home from work to find his house burglarized (the burglar was long gone), took a stolen bicycle report (no suspects), took a stolen motorcycle report (also no suspects), and checked out a report from a woman who believed her elderly neighbor was dead in an upstairs apartment (the elderly neighbor had gone to her daughter’s cabin at Big Bear Lake).

At every criminal call they answered, the suspect or perpetrator was long gone or never present, though Pike dutifully and under Flynn’s direction logged the complainant’s statement, filled out the necessary form, and performed all communications.

They were proceeding east on Beverly Boulevard when the dispatcher said, “Two-adam-forty-four, domestic disturbance at 2721 Harell, woman reported crying for help. You up for that?”

Pike wanted it, but said nothing. It was up to Flynn. Flynn glanced over and seemed to read the need. He picked up the mike.

“Two-adam-forty-four inbound.”

“Roger, stand by.”

Domestic calls were the worst. Pike had heard it again and again at the academy, and Flynn had already mentioned it in the few hours they had been together. When you rolled on a domestic call, you were rolling into the jagged eye of an emotional hurricane. In those moments, the police were often seen as saviors or avengers, and were always the last resort.

Flynn said, “Evening watch is prime time for domestics. We’ll probably get three or four tonight, and more on a Friday. By Friday, they’ve been working up to it all week.”

Pike didn’t say anything. He knew about domestic violence first-hand. His father had never waited until Friday. Any night would do.

Flynn said, “When we get there, I’ll do the talking. You watch how I handle them, and learn. But keep your eyes open. You never know what’s what when you answer one of these things. You might be watching the man, and the woman will shoot you in the back. The woman might be some scared-looking dishrag, but once we get her old man cooled out, she might turn into a monster. I saw that once. We got the cuffs on this guy, and that’s when his old lady felt safe. She chopped off his foot with a meat cleaver.”

Pike said, “Okay.”

Pike wasn’t worried. He figured clearing a domestic disturbance call couldn’t be much different than clearing houses in a combat zone-you watched everything, you kept your back to a wall, and you assumed everyone wanted to kill you. Then you would be fine.

They rolled to a small apartment building south of Temple near the center of Rampart. Motionless palms towered overhead, catching the shimmer of dying light to make the building more colorful than it was. The dispatcher had filled them in: Call was placed by one Mrs. Esther Villalobos, complaining that male and female neighbors had been arguing all afternoon and had escalated into what Mrs. Villalobos described as loud crashing, whereupon the female neighbor, identified by Mrs. Villalobos as a young Caucasian female named Candace Stanik, shouted “Stop it!” several times, then screamed for help. Mrs. Villalobos had stated that an unemployed Caucasian male she knew only as Dave sometimes lived at the residence. The dispatcher reported no history of officers being dispatched to this address.

Pike and Flynn would learn more later, but these were their only available facts when they arrived at the scene.

They double-parked their patrol car, then stepped into the street. Pike scanned his surroundings automatically as he exited the car-vehicles, the deepening shadows between the buildings, the surrounding roofs-a gulp of space and color he sensed as much as saw. Clear. Good.

Flynn said, “You ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go see what’s what.”

Pike followed Flynn toward Candace Stanik’s apartment.

Mrs. Villalobos lived in the rear unit on the ground floor. Candace Stanik lived in the ground unit next door. Pike and Flynn would only contact Mrs. Villalobos in the event they could not gain access to Stanik’s unit or if no one was home.

Flynn stopped outside Stanik’s door, motioning Pike to remain silent. The windows were lit. Pike heard no voices, but hacking sobs were distinct. Flynn looked at Pike and raised his eyebrows, the look asking if Pike heard it. Pike nodded. He thought Flynn looked green in the strange evening light.

Flynn pointed to the side of the door and whispered.

“Stand here out of the way. When I go in, you come in right behind me, but take your cue from me. Maybe the guy’s already gone. Maybe they’ve made up and are in there all lovey-dovey. Understand?”

Pike nodded.

“Don’t draw your gun unless you see me draw mine. We don’t want to escalate the situation. We want to cool it. Understand?”

Pike nodded again.

Flynn rapped at the door three times and announced them.

“Police officer.”

He rapped again.

“Please open the door.”

The crying stopped and Pike heard movement. Then a young woman spoke from the other side of the door.

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”

Flynn rapped again.

“Open the door, miss. We can’t leave until we see you.”

Flynn raised his hand to knock as the door opened, and Candace Stanik peered through a thin crack. Even with the narrow view, Pike saw that her nose was broken and her right eye was purple with the mottled skin tight over a swelling lump. The eye would be closed in another few minutes. Pike had had plenty of eyes like that. Mostly as a kid. Mostly from his father.

Flynn placed his hand on the door.

“Step away, hon. Let me open the door and take a look.”

“He’s gone. He went to his girlfriend.”

Flynn’s voice was gentle but firm. Pike admired the way Flynn could direct so much emotion by his voice.

“Miss Stanik? That your name, Candace Stanik?”

Her voice was soft, but thin and strained. Pike wasn’t listening to her; he listened past her, searching for other occupants. A crisp medicinal smell of ether came from her apartment, telling him that someone had been freebasing.

“Yes. He went-”

“Let us in now, hon. We can’t leave until we come in, so just let us in.”

Flynn pushed gently on the door until she backed away. Pike shadowed inside, then quickly stepped to the side so they weren’t bunched together. Together, they would make a single large target; apart, two targets more difficult to kill. Pike kept his back to the wall.

Stepping into the apartment was like entering a furnace. Pike began sweating. They were in a cramped living room. As Flynn approached the girl, Pike noted an entry closet to the left and, across the living room, a tiny kitchen and dining area. A short hall branched off the dining area. The apartment appeared neat and squared away except the coffee table was turned on its side and the floor was spattered with blood. Candace Stanik was pregnant. Pike guessed seven or eight months, though he knew little about women or pregnancy. Her T-shirt was streaked with blood over the mound of her belly, and more blood spattered her legs and bare feet. Pike noted a thin kitchen towel bundled with ice that she had probably been using on her eye. Her lips were split in two places and her nose was broken, and she held her belly as if she was cramping.

Flynn spoke softly over his shoulder to Pike.

“Paramedics and additional units.”

Pike keyed his rover, sending a request for paramedics and additional units to the dispatcher. Pike saw Flynn reach to touch the girl and the girl jerk her arm away as her voice rose-

“I want you to get him! You have to go get him. He went to his fucking slut girlfriend-”

The girl was growing more agitated and Flynn was working to calm her, lowering his voice, sharing his calm.

“Let’s take care of that baby first, all right, hon? Nothing’s more important than your baby.”

Flynn had her arm again, and this time she let him, but her face contorted.

“He’s going to get away-”

“Shh. He won’t get away.”

Flynn was everything he had to be-a strong, comforting father figure. You would be safe if you trusted him. He would take care of you if you let him. Flynn slipped his arm around her shoulders, an arm that would protect her and make all the pain go away, murmuring-

“You have to sit down first, hon. Let’s get some ice on that nose. I’m going to take care of you.”

Flynn motioned at Pike. They had been inside less than one minute.

“I’m okay here. You good with getting the back?”

Pike nodded.

“Be careful.”

Pike moved past with no great feeling of apprehension. He glanced in the kitchen, then stepped into the hall. The bathroom door was open, showing a sink mottled with built-up soap film, a tiny tub, and a toilet. Pike turned to the bedroom. The door was half open and the light was on. Pike remembered Flynn’s caution about drawing his weapon, but he drew it anyway, then pushed the door wider. The bedroom was a minefield of shopping bags, dirty clothes, and boxes. The double bed was dingy with rumpled grey sheets. A closet door hung open on the far side of the bed. Two windows were framed in the wall, but they were closed like all the others.

Pike listened, but the girl was at it again, telling Flynn to go get the bastard, saying he and his bitch were going to Vegas.

Pike wanted to get back to the living room, but kept his eyes on the closet. He moved quickly and silently the way he had in the woods as a boy, hiding from his father. Silence was everything. Speed was life. He dropped to a knee, then jerked the tumbled sheets up and glanced under the bed. Nothing. He looked back to the closet.

Pike didn’t believe anyone would be in the closet, but he had to check. The girl was louder and even more insistent, and Pike wanted to give Flynn a hand.

The closet door was open about six inches. The bedroom was lit but inside the closet was dark and impenetrable. Pike stood as far to the side as possible, then jerked open the door, letting light flood the dark space behind. Nothing.

They had been in the apartment for less than two minutes.

In the moment Pike saw the closet was empty, a loud crash came from the living room, riding on top of the thuds of men moving hard as a voice grunted-

“Kill’m.”

Pike moved fast across the bed, into the hall, then into the doorway. The closet door off the entry had been thrown open. Candace Stanik’s boyfriend, who would later be identified as one David Lee Elish, had one arm hooked around Flynn’s neck and was holding Flynn’s gun arm to prevent Flynn from drawing his weapon. A second man, who would later be identified as Kurt Fabrocini, a parolee who had been released from custody earlier that day, was stabbing Flynn repeatedly in the chest with a Buck hunting knife. Candace Stanik was curled on the floor. Later, it would be learned that both Elish and Fabrocini had enough alcohol and crack cocaine in their systems to numb an elephant.

Over and over, Elish was grunting, “Kill’m.”

Pike brought his 9mm up without hesitation and shot Fabrocini in the head. Pike would have shot Elish, too, but the angle was bad. Pike was moving before Fabrocini’s body hit the floor.

Pike drove hard directly into Flynn, knocking both men to the floor. Pike knew exactly what he had to do and how. He kept driving, digging hard with his legs. He shoved past Flynn and hit Elish hard in the face with his pistol. Elish, trying to rise, had eyes that were wild and frenzied. Pike hit him a second time, and then Elish grew still. Pike turned him over, pinned him to the floor with a knee, and twisted Elish’s arms behind his back for the handcuffs.

Only after Elish and the knife were secure did Pike turn back to Flynn, scared the man was bleeding to death.

Pike said, “Officer Flynn-”

Flynn looked up, fingers laced through the tears in his shirt, his eyes wide and glistening, and his face white.

“Fucking vest. Fucking vest stopped the knife.”

Pike thought Flynn was laughing, but then he saw the tears.

Three hours later, they were released to leave. A shooting team had come out, along with the evening shift commander, two Rampart captains, and two use-of-force detectives from Parker Center. Pike and Flynn had been separated for questioning, but now they were back in their car.

Flynn was behind the wheel. He had started the engine, but hadn’t taken it out of park. Pike knew Flynn was shaken, but he figured it was up to Flynn whether or not he wanted to talk about it. After all, Pike was only a boot.

Flynn finally looked over, moving his head as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

“You okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Flynn fell silent again, but now he seemed to be considering Pike in a way that left Pike feeling uncomfortable.

“Listen, I want to go over what happened in there-you saved me. Thank you for that.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know, but there it is. I want you to know I appreciate what you did. You saw those two guys on me, you saw the knife, you made a fast call. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just want you to think about what you did. Sometimes we have to kill people, but our job out here isn’t to kill people.”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

“What happened in there was my fault, not clearing that closet. I saw that damned door.”

“We were clearing the apartment when it happened. No one’s fault.”

“You’re a boot. Your first day on the job, and you sure as hell saved my butt.”

Flynn was still watching him, but his eyes had narrowed as if he was trying to make out something vague and far away, and Pike wondered what.

Flynn suddenly reached out and covered Pike’s hand.

“You’re calm as a stone. Me, I’m shaking like a leaf-”

Pike felt it in Bud Flynn’s hand-a faint humming like bees trying to escape a hive.

Bud suddenly pulled back his hand as if he had read Pike’s thoughts and was embarrassed. Officer-involved shootings were rare, but gunfights had been part of Pike’s life since he left home, and home, in those rare moments when he thought about it, had been worse-his father’s rage; fists and belts and steel-toed work boots falling like rain in a strangely painless way; his mother, screaming; Pike, screaming. Combat was nothing. Pike remembered a kind of intellectual acceptance that he had to kill other men so they couldn’t kill him. Like when he finally grew big enough to choke out his father. Once his father feared him, his father stopped beating him and his mother. Simple. Pike’s only concerns now were in following the rules of the Los Angeles Police Department. He had. He had made a clean shoot. Bud was alive. Pike was alive. Simple.

Pike touched Bud’s hand. He wanted to help.

Pike said, “We’re okay.”

Bud wiped at his face, but his eyes still fluttered, and returned to Pike again and again.

“I’m looking at you, and it’s like nothing happened. You just killed a man, and there’s nothing in your eyes.”

Pike felt embarrassed and drew back.

Flynn suddenly seemed embarrassed, too, and ashamed of himself, as if he realized he was talking nonsense. He forced out a laugh.

“You ready to go? We got a hellacious amount of paperwork. That’s the worst part about shooting someone, you have all these damned forms.”

Pike took out his sunglasses and put them on, covering his eyes.

Flynn laughed again, louder, showing even more strain.

“It’s pitch-black. You going to wear those things at night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, whatever. That business with you calling me Officer Flynn and me calling you Officer Pike? We’re past that. My name is Bud.”

Pike nodded, but Bud was still trembling and the phony smile made him look pained.

Pike wished none of it had happened. He wished they had not taken the call, and their day hadn’t ended this way. He felt sick, thinking he had disappointed his training officer. He vowed to try harder. He wanted to be a good and right man, and he wanted to serve and protect.