The Pain Scale (35 page)

I whispered, “Stashing a gun?”

She nodded.

We heard him behind the door and saw a shadow move across the glass bricks to the right of the door, then the knob turning and a very soft squeak in the bottom hinge as he opened the door, keeping most of his body behind it. His manner was friendly, but he was being cautious, ready to slam the door and head back to wherever he’d hidden the gun.

“Hello,” I said, amiably. “I’m Detective Danny Beckett, and this is Detective Jennifer Tanaka.”

Baker nodded. “What can I help you with?” He stepped back, giving us as wide a berth as he could without it seeming obvious, and gestured toward a black leather sofa in the living room. The walls were eggshell, the floors hardwood, and the view was even better than it had been from outside. Sternow & Byrne was paying him well.

We settled onto the couch, and he took a seat in a matching chair. “You’re a member of a motorcycle club,” Jen said. “Is that correct?”

He looked puzzled.

“The Kawa-Kazes?” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “I suppose you could call it that. It’s really just a bunch of guys with motorcycles and a Facebook page. Haven’t even ridden with anybody for a while.”

“Do you know Larry Yamagata?” Jen asked.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was shot a few days ago, and his bike, a Kawasaki Ninja”—I made a show of checking my notes for the model designation I’d copied off the motorcycle company’s website—“Ten-R was stolen.”

“That’s a good bike. I can see somebody killing for one.”

Of course you can
, I thought.
You’re a fucking mercenary
. “Would you mind looking at few pictures?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. The more he realized we weren’t asking about anything he was connected to, the more relaxed he became.

I flipped open a file folder and showed him a photo of a man’s chest with a tattoo that read
KAWA-KAZE
, in a font that had been modeled on Japanese kanji. It was easy to find with a Google search. We had dozens to choose from. Apparently, helmet-head Kawasaki fans lack imagination.

“Guy was serious, I guess,” Baker said.

“Look familiar at all?” Jen asked.

“Nope. Turned out there were other guys calling themselves that, too. We weren’t as clever as we thought we were. Never seen that tattoo.”

I lifted the top photo to reveal another. The green footprints tat on the arm of the SUV driver. This was what we’d been leading up to. Jen was as focused on Baker as I was.

“Dude was a poser.” He recognized the tattoo and knew it shouldn’t have been on the driver’s arm, but that was it. No
twitches, no pauses, no uncertainty, no discernable micro-expressions, no red flags of any kind.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know about the green footprints?”

“What about them?” I said. “We saw the color and thought it looked like Kawasaki green. Figured there was some kind of motorcycle connection.”

“No. That’s an air force Pararescue thing.”

“Pararescue?”

“That’s the air force version of the Green Berets or the SEALs.”

“Really,” Jen said. “This guy was special forces?”

“No,” Baker said. He leaned forward, enthusiastic, pleased with himself. Maybe even showing off a little. “He wasn’t. If you’re Pararescue, you get the footprints on your ass. This guy was a tool. A wannabe.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “That really helps.”

“No sweat,” Baker said. He looked directly at Jen. “Can I do anything else for you guys?”

She just smiled at him, tilted her head, and said, “I can’t think of anything.”

He smirked, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the only real tool anywhere in the vicinity.

The price we paid for the beauty of the sunset was rush hour traffic on the 405 back to Long Beach. Jen was driving, though, so I didn’t mind.

“How do you want to go at the Ranger?” I asked.

“The Kawa-Kaze thing just jumped right out at us. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

“True,” I said. “We can just go with a body in the neighborhood.”

“He’s in Pasadena?”

“Yeah.”

“In a nice part of town?”

“Isn’t Pasadena all nice parts?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If we go in talking about a body, he might think twice about it when none of the neighbors bring it up.”

“True.” In Long Beach, murder is common enough and the population dense enough that we could make up a murder and no one would really think twice about it. Pasadena, as far as we knew, was in a different category. You can’t always get away with stories like that in areas with low crime rates. “We’re not going to fight the traffic tonight anyway. Let’s sleep on it and see if we can come up with an angle tomorrow.”

We drove in silence for a few miles, and just when we were passing LAX, my throwaway cell rang.

“Patrick,” I said.

There was no reply.

“Patrick?” I repeated. “Hello?” I looked at the display. His name and number were there, and the line was still open. I tried again. “Hello?”

I hung up and redialed his number. The generic voice mail greeting answered.

“That was weird,” I said.

“Try mine,” Jen said, fishing the phone from her jacket pocket with her left hand.

I tried on her cell.

“No,” I said. “Straight to voice mail again.”

“Want to stop by his place?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably just the crappy phone. We can try back in a while. How about we get something to eat and wait for the traffic to lighten up?”

“What are you thinking?”

“There’s a CPK in Manhattan Beach.”

“Really? CPK?”

“Yeah. It’s right by the Apple Store.”

“The truth comes out.”

“I’m thinking about an iPad.” It was one of the few tech toys that I’d wanted but hadn’t actually gotten for myself during my leave.

“Didn’t you just get a new MacBook?”

“That was months ago.”

We went to the China Grill instead; then she indulged my techno lust. After oohing and aahing over all the merchandise and playing Angry Birds on the relatively large screen of an iPad for the better part of an hour, it was a challenge to talk myself out of spending a thousand dollars on shiny things I didn’t need. Only the surety of Jen giving me shit about it all the way back to Long Beach gave me the strength to hold off.

“I think I’m jealous of Patrick,” I said as we were getting back on the 405.

“How do you mean?”

“I want to be a hacker when I grow up.”

“You were practically a Luddite before your leave,” she said. “When did you send your first text message? A year ago?”

“I had a lot of time on my hands.”

“Learning how to make an iTunes playlist doesn’t make you Steve Jobs.”

“I know that. I was thinking more of the Woz, anyway.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her decide not to indulge me any further.

After Patrick’s throwaway went straight to voice mail again, I said, “Screw this. I’m just going to try his real phone.”

“You think you should? He might not like it. He was pretty adamant about not using official hardware.”

“Well, I won’t say anything I shouldn’t.”

It didn’t matter what I said, though, because I got another message prompt. This time I had to wait for six rings, though. “You ever see Patrick without his phone?”

“No.”

“Still want to stop by his place?” I asked.

Later that night, at the hospital, even though Jen tried to convince me otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from laying blame on my own seemingly infinite childishness and self-indulgence.

H
OW MANY THINGS
in life are dividing lines that separate the before from the after? I keep thinking I’ve encountered what surely must be the last of these, the final split, the ultimate separation. The first, of course, was the death of my father. Then the graduations—high school, college, the academy, becoming a cop, getting married, making detective, Megan’s death, the onset of my chronic pain. Befores and afters. How many more would there be? How many more times could something happen that would make me think, This is it, things will never be the same again?

Driving south, we started to worry. I added two more voice mails and three text messages to Patrick’s various inboxes.

“That’s not like him,” I said.

“I know,” Jen said. “He’s even texted me once from court.”

“How’d he manage that?”

“He does it without looking at his phone. You’ve never seen him?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t even need to take it out of his jacket pocket.”

“Really?”

The headlights of the cars behind us reflected in the rearview mirror cast a bar of light across her eyes, and I could see the concern in them as she nodded. She’d partnered with him for almost
a year. That was the first time I’d really thought about it. It had never occurred to me how close they must have become.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” I said.

She didn’t say anything.

I speed dialed Lieutenant Ruiz and waited for him to answer. When he did, I asked, “Have you heard from Patrick in the last few hours?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

We knew it was wrong even before we stopped the car.

“Drive past,” I said to Jen as we approached Patrick’s loft. “Check the side.” When we saw that the big roll-up door facing the street was closed, she made a U-turn and parked on the other side of the street, just far enough away that no one would be able to see the cruiser from the front windows or the door.

Patrick’s Mini was parked out front, but there were no lights on inside. Jen drew her Glock and started across the street.

“Wait,” I said quietly. “Pop the trunk.”

I took the Remington 870 out of the war bag inside and racked the slide to chamber a round. “Let’s go.”

We approached the door in a wide curve and stacked on the left side. I nudged the door with the muzzle of my pistol.

“Unlocked,” I whispered.

“Wait for backup?” she asked.

Part of me was hoping we’d go inside and find Patrick in the dark, staring at one of his screens, headphones on, engrossed in a game of
Gears of War
. The other part couldn’t stop worrying about what else might be inside.

I shook my head, crouched down, pushed the door open, and went inside. There was a light switch over my left shoulder, but I left it as it was. If I turned it on, it would give anyone in the expanse of the warehouse a perfect target.

When my eyes began to adjust to the darkness in the front room, I pulled the door open for Jen and she followed me inside. We took flanking positions on either side of the doorway leading into the short hallway.

I made eye contact with her, and when I saw that she was ready, I began down the hallway. Hugging the wall, I leaned into the stock of the Remington. The kitchen and bathroom looked clear, although, in the darkness, I couldn’t be positive. I knew Jen had my back, so I kept moving.

A few short steps in front of me, the hall opened into the large expanse of the warehouse. All I could see was darkness.

Behind me, I heard Jen move into the kitchen, then the bathroom, to be sure we wouldn’t be surprised from behind.