The Watchman (12 page)

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.

PIKE was driving hard toward Glendale and the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division when his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the number and saw it was Ronnie.

“Go.”

“They hit your store fourteen minutes ago. Those boys are willing to work in broad daylight. They want you, m’man.”

Larkin, beside him, said, “Who is it?”

Pike held up his finger, telling her to wait.

“Did the security guys roll?”

“Code three, lights and sirens, and they called in LAPD. Denny and I are rolling over right now. You wanted a full-on response, you got a full-on response.”

“File a report with the police. If we have any physical damage, have an insurance adjuster come out. If anything needs to be repaired, call out the repairmen today.”

“I get it. You want noise.”

“Loud.”

Pike put down the phone, and Larkin punched him in the arm.

“I hate how you just ignore me. I asked you a question, you just show me your finger.”

She showed Pike a finger, but it wasn’t her index finger.

Pike said, “We’re going to see someone in Glendale, then we’re going to meet Elvis where you had your accident—”

“Why can’t we just go back to the house?”

“Someone is trying to kill you.”

“Why can’t we just hide?”

“Someone might find you.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“Yes.”

She punched him in the arm again, but this time Pike ignored her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she slumped back in the seat, sullen.

Pike was glad for the silence. They climbed up through the Sepulveda Pass, then down into the San Fernando Valley. The valley was always much hotter, and Pike could feel the increasing heat even with the air-conditioning. He watched the outside air temperature rise on the dashboard thermometer. From Cheviot Hills to Van Nuys, they gained fifteen degrees.

Larkin was quiet for exactly nine minutes.

Then she said, “Would you like to watch me masturbate?”

Pike didn’t look at her or respond, though he wondered why she would ask such a thing. She had probably wanted to shock him. Shocking statements probably worked with some people, but Pike wasn’t one of them. Shock was relative.

“I could do it right here in the car. While you’re driving. Would you like that?”

She slid her hands down over her belly to where her legs met. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“I’ll ask your friend. I bet he’d like to watch.”

Pike glanced at her, then continued driving.

“Day I got to Central Africa, I watched a woman. Her family had been murdered that morning, just two hours before we rolled in. She cut the fingers off her left hand, one by one, one each for her husband and her four children. She started with the thumb.”

Pike glanced over again.

“That was how she mourned.”

Larkin folded her hands in her lap. She stared at him, then turned to the window. The silence was good.

They drove through the valley heat.

John Chen’s Secret Mission

DESPERATION bred innovation, and John Chen was a desperate man. That same desperation also bred lies, deception, and masterful acting, all of which John had employed with convincing brilliance because—well, face it—he was the smartest senior criminalist employed by LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division. In the past few years, John had broken more cases (necessary for career advancement [read that: money]), amassed more face time on the local news (mandatory for hitting on chicks [read that: At six-two, one twenty-seven, and with an Adam’s apple the size of a goiter, he needed all the help he could get]), and garnered more merit pay raises (essential for leasing a Porsche [read that: This isn’t a gearshift, baby, I’m just happy to see you]) than any other rat in the lab. And how had he been rewarded for putting SID on the map and ascending to criminalist stardom?

More work.

A larger caseload.

Less time to enjoy the fruits of his labors.

Namely, poontang.

John Chen was all about the ’tang. He was the first to admit it, and did, often, to anyone who would listen, including the young women of his acquaintance, which probably explained why he couldn’t get a date. He was a man obsessed when it came to the ’tang; hungry to make up the poontang shortfall which had been his lifelong burden; convinced, as he was, that every single straight male in California had enjoyed a veritable all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of the stuff since puberty. Except him.

But now was the payoff.

John Chen had scored a girlfriend. Well, okay, she wasn’t
really
his girlfriend. He knew that; he wasn’t kidding himself. Ronda Milbank was a married secretary with two kids from Highland Park who liked to drink. Every couple of weeks she told her husband she was going to a movie with the girls, but what she really did was hit a few bars hoping somebody would buy her a drink. John Chen had delivered the goods.
Hey, princess, what are you drinking?
Gimlets. She liked the sugar.

Well, he hadn’t really said that; he had been too scared. But he sat next to her, and after a while Ronda spoke to him. A couple of weeks later, he saw her again at the same bar. That was last night. He bought her a drink, and then another, and then—after having three or four drinks himself—he asked if maybe he could, you know, kinda see her sometime. And Ronda said, sure, tomorrow between eleven and noon—my husband will be at work and my kids will be at school.

SCORE!!!!

But then came the problem. As Jack Webb said: This is the city—Los Angeles. Four hundred sixty-five square miles; millions of civilians; untold criminals, all of whom were out doing crime; nine thousand of the world’s finest police officers, all of whom were out busting said miscreants;
hundreds
of crime scenes, more every day, more every
hour
of every day; an unending tsunami of crime scenes and evidence; each and every item of which had to be preserved, documented, recorded, tested, and analyzed by LAPD’s understaffed, underfunded, overworked, but world-class—

Scientific Investigation Division.

So John knew the answer even without asking. I mean,
what
? “Oh, sure, John, you need a ’tang break midway through the morning, be my guest.” Yeah, like
that
could outlast a snowball in hell.

Here’s how John Chen orchestrated his departure: That morning, he secured a small bit of dental enamel from a comparison kit, then waited for the height of the mid-morning coffee break when lab techs, scientists, or criminalists (who were all too overworked to leave their workstations) wolfed down muffins and Cheetos between sperm samples and bloodstains. At exactly fifteen minutes after ten, John made a point of walking past his supervisor just as he took a bite of his Ralphs Market raspberry-swirl muffin, and screamed—

“AHHHHHH!!!”

John jumped sideways, grabbing his jaw as he spun in a circle, not stopping until he saw that everyone in the crime lab was looking.

Then he opened his hand to show the enamel, and shouted—

“SONOFABITCH!!! I BROKE MY TOOTH! I GOTTA SEE MY DENTIST!”

Harriet eyeballed the enamel.

“It doesn’t look very big. Maybe you just chipped it.”

“JESUS CHRIST, HARRIET! IT’S KILLING ME. THE NERVE IS EXPOSED!”

Harriet said, “Here. Let me see.”

John covered his mouth, backing away.

“I NEED ICE! I NEED ASPIRIN! I GOTTA SEE MY DENTIST!”

John noted that Harriet had already frowned at the clock. She would let him die rather than fall further behind their caseload.

“John, please. I’ve broken teeth. The pain will fade. In a few minutes you won’t even feel it.”

You see how she was?

“It’s a broken tooth, Harriet—shattered, ruined! I gotta see a dentist.”

“Why don’t you call first? Maybe he can’t see you until later.”

“He’s my cousin! Look, the sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll be back. I’ll call him on the way. If I leave right now, I’ll probably be back by one-thirty or so.”

Having cleared out before the husband and kids showed up.

Harriet scowled at the clock again, but finally relented.

“All right, but don’t take your personal car. Take a van. I might send you straight to a crime scene from the dentist.”

Chen thinking, fat fucking chance.

He grabbed a cup of ice to make his story look better, then snatched his keys and evidence kit and ran for the exit. He stopped at the door long enough to make sure no one was following him, then tossed the ice. No way was he gonna tool up to Ronda’s house in a clunky SID van. He washed the Boxster before work so that Black Forest ’tang-magnet
gleamed
! He intended to roll up to Ronda’s in style!

Chen had just reached the first line of parked cars when he saw Harriet watching from the door. Sonofa
BITCH
—

The vans were parked together on that same row, so John veered toward them. He stopped at the first van, grabbed his jaw as if the pain was excruciating, then waved at Harriet. She didn’t wave back. He made his way down the line of vans, watching her from the corner of his eye. That bitch was anchored in place. He found the van he normally used, ran behind it to hide, then counted to one hundred. When he peered out, Harriet was finally gone, and John Chen punched the air. All his hard work, sacrifice, and local news face time was about to pay off. The burden of his geekiness was about to be lifted. John Chen—Master Criminalist—was going to get laid.