The Watchman (29 page)

Pitman seemed as if he didn’t understand, then shook his head.

“I told them.”

“Told them what?”

“They knew it was Vahnich. The girl didn’t, but her father did. He advised us not to tell her.”

Pike must have looked confused because Pitman tried to explain.

“We had meetings about it, Pike—her father, his attorneys, our people. You don’t want to alienate a cooperative witness, but we needed discretion. Barkley said she couldn’t deliver. They advised us not to identify Vahnich until just before the testimony.”

“They advised you? Her father lied to her?”

“She isn’t the most stable person. She would have used it to draw attention to herself.”

Pike felt cool even in the morning’s warmth. He flashed on the girl from the night before, desperate to warn her father. Demanding it.

Pitman said, “She’s a freak, man. You gotta know that by now.”

Pike looked at Pitman’s badge again. He thought of his own badge. He had given it up to help Wozniak’s family. He had loved that badge and everything it represented, but he had loved Wozniak’s family more. Families needed to be protected. Families needed someone to be the protector. This was just how Pike felt.

Pike said, “She just wanted to do the right thing.”

Pike put away his gun.

“We’re finished here.”

Pitman tugged at his restraints.

“Cut these things off. Bring her back, Pike. We can protect her.”

Pike opened the door.

“You’re tied to a steering wheel. You can’t even protect yourself.”

Pike got out with the keys and the badge.

Pitman realized Pike was leaving, and jerked harder at the wheel.

“What the fuck? What’re you doing?”

Pike threw Pitman’s badge into the river.

“Not my badge! Pike—”

Pike threw the keys after it.

“Pike!”

Pike left without looking back.

Elvis Cole

COLE STOPPED by his office that morning to pick up the calling logs before heading on to stay with the girl. His friend at the phone company had faxed twenty-six pages of outgoing and incoming phone numbers, some of which were identified, but many of which were not. Cole would have to go through the numbers one by one, but the girl would probably help. Cole liked the girl. She was funny and smart and laughed at his jokes. All the major food groups.

When he let himself in, she was stretched out on the couch, watching TV with the iPod plugged in her ears.

Cole said, “How can you watch TV and listen to that at the same time?”

She wiggled his iPod.

“Did they stop making music in 1990?”

You see? Funny.

“I have to make a couple of calls, then I want you to help me with something.”

She sat up, interested.

“What?”

“Phone numbers. We have to build a phone tree tracing the calls to and from the phones Pike found. We’ll trace the calls from phone to phone until we identify someone who can help us find Vahnich. Sound like fun?”

“No.”

“It’s like connect the dots. Even you can do it.”

She gave him the finger.

Cole thought she was great.

He set her up at the table with the list of numbers, and identified which numbers belonged to Jorge, Luis, and the man they believed was Khali Vahnich, aka Alexander Meesh. He showed her what to do, then went to the couch with his phone. That morning at his office he had found a message from Marla Hendricks, informing him that 18185 was owned by the Tanner Family Trust, which also owned several other large commercial properties in downtown L.A., all of which were for sale. In typical fashion, Marla had been thorough. 18185 had been purchased by Dr. William Tanner in 1968, and placed in trust in 1975. No fines, violations, judgments, or liens had been placed on the property during that time. The executor of the trust was Tanner’s oldest daughter, Ms. Lizabeth Little, a former attorney, who was overseeing the sale of the properties. Marla had included Lizabeth Little’s Brentwood home address and three phone numbers.

Cole said, “You doin’ okay over there?”

Larkin was busy with the numbers.

“It isn’t calculus.”

“I’m going to make my call. Don’t interrupt.”

She gave him the finger again.

Cole phoned Lizabeth Little and scored on the first try. Lizabeth sounded as if she was in a rush.

“Yes, this is Lizabeth Little.”

“My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator who—”

“How did you get this number?”

“It’s that private-eye thing. Ma’am, I’m calling about a property you have for sale. I represent an interested buyer.”

The ol’ greed ploy. Gets’m every time.

“Which property?”

“A warehouse space downtown. 18185.”

“Oh, sure. That’s my dad’s. We’re dissolving the trust. I’ll try to answer your questions, but you should speak with our broker about the terms.”

She sounded normal. Not like someone who would bag away a couple of bodies, or know a person who would.

Cole said, “I just want a little background on the property.”

“You’re working with a buyer?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you should know this up front. We’ll consider offers, but any offer we accept will be in a backup position. Is your buyer okay with that?”

“A backup. Has the building been sold?”

“We have an option arrangement with a buyer for all seven of our properties. I don’t think your buyer needs to worry about it, though. The option is about to expire.”

“Someone is buying all seven properties?”

“The upside potential here is enormous with the way downtown real estate is booming. Would your buyer be interested in all seven?”

“What are we talking about, pricewise?”

“The low twos.”

“Two million dollars?”

She laughed.

“Two hundred million.”

“That was me being funny. I knew what you meant.”

“I got it. Options are common in deals of this size. People need time to raise the money. Sometimes the deals happen, sometimes they don’t. This one looks like it might not. If that’s the case, we’ll sell the properties individually. If your buyer is interested, we should still talk.”

“I’ll pass that along. How long was the option period?”

“In this case, four months.”

“Uh-huh, and how much does a four-month option cost for two hundred million dollars’ worth of warehouses?”

“In this case, six million.”

“Which you keep when the option lapses?”

“Oh, yes. I think it lapses in, oh, let me think, I don’t have my calendar—another four days. Three days, maybe. You can call the broker for the exact date.”

“I’ll pass that along. One more question: You mind naming the buyer?”

“Not at all. Stentorum Real Holdings. I don’t have the number, but my broker will give it to you. Since they haven’t been able to raise the money, maybe your buyer could help and leverage a partial position. We’d love to have this deal go through.”

Cole copied the name onto his pad. Stentorum Real Holdings. He hung up as Joe Pike walked in.

Pike stopped inside the door and stood like a statue.

The girl chirped up.

“Hey, man!”

Cole said, “Yo.”

Pike didn’t move or speak. Pike always looked strange, but now he looked even stranger. Cole wondered what was wrong.

“You talk to the brother?”

Pike walked out of the living room and into the bathroom. Strange.

Cole picked up his phone again and dialed the information operator.

He said, “I need a listing for Stentorum Real Holdings, please. That’s in Los Angeles.”

Larkin looked up.

“What did you say?”

“Stentorum Real Holdings.”

“That’s one of my father’s companies.”

The information computer came on with the number. Cole copied it, but never looked away from the girl. When he finished, he went to the table. He put his pad on the table, then turned it so she could read it. Stentorum Real Holdings.

“Your father owns this?”

“I own it, too, technically. It’s one of our family’s companies.”

The water stopped and Pike stepped from the bathroom. He was shirtless and scrubbed, as if he had come home needing to wash away wherever he had been or whoever he was with. A spiderweb of old scars draped his chest where he had been shot. He pulled on his sweatshirt.

Cole said, “We need you.”

Cole waited until Pike joined them.

Pike said, “What?”

“Larkin’s father owns something called Stentorum Real Holdings. Stentorum is trying to buy 18185, along with six other buildings from the same owner. They optioned the right to buy four months ago, but their option is about to lapse.”

Cole stared at Pike, with Pike staring back, his face unknowable and empty. Larkin sensed it was bad, but didn’t understand why because she didn’t yet know what they knew. Cole was letting Pike make the call, what to tell her, what not.

Larkin shook her head.

“What does that mean? Are you sure? My father is buying the building where we found the bodies?”

Pike reached across the table and offered his hand. Larkin placed her fingers on his. Pike squeezed. Cole had seen Pike do push-ups on his thumbs; push-ups using only the two index fingers. Pike popped walnuts like soap bubbles, but not now.

Pike said, “Stay with me, okay? Harden up, because it’s about to get worse.”

Five minutes ago, Cole thought Larkin looked twelve. Now she looked one hundred years old. She glanced at Cole, then looked back at Pike and nodded.

“Bring it. Both barrels.”

“Your father and Gordon Kline both knew Meesh was Khali Vahnich. They worked out a deal with Pitman to keep you in the dark. Pitman said it wasn’t his idea. Said it was your dad’s.”

Cole watched her hand in Pike’s. Her fingers tightened until the tendons stood out, but nothing showed on her face.

“Why would they do that?”

“Don’t know.”

“Were they in business together, these disgusting people and my father?”

“That’s what it looks like, yes.”

Larkin leaned back and laughed, but still she held on to him.

Cole said, “We’re just guessing about these things. We’ll ask.”

“I grew up with this! I know a business dispute when I see it! They couldn’t close the deal, so somebody has to eat the deposit. Vahnich killed the Kings. Now he wants me and my—”

She stared at the endless sheets of phone numbers before looking up.

“Was it my father?”

Cole didn’t understand what she was asking, but Pike seemed to know and answered her.

“I’ll find out.”

Her face paled, her eyes showing the kind of pain you’d feel if you were being crushed, as if the last bit of love were being wrung from your heart.

She said, “I don’t want to find out. Please don’t find out. Please do not tell me.”

Then Cole realized what she had asked of Pike—was her father the person telling Vahnich where to find her?

Cole said, “We’re guessing too much. Let’s go be detectives.”

Cole got up and went to the door. Pike lingered behind for a moment, then followed him out.

Larkin Conner Barkley

LARKIN WATCHED Pike leaving, and in the moment he stepped outside, he was framed in the open door of their Echo Park house like a picture in a magazine, frozen in time and space. A big man, but not a giant. More average in size than not. With the sleeves covering his arms, and his face turned away, he seemed heartbreakingly normal, which made her love him even more. A superman risked nothing, but an average man risked everything.

When he glanced back before he pulled the door, she saw the emptiness in his face, the gleaming dark glasses; then the door closed and she was alone.

“Make it right. Please make it right.”

Said it to the empty house, then felt stupid and ashamed of herself for saying it.

She was more frightened now than even those times when the men from Ecuador were shooting. If her father had abandoned her, then she was truly alone, more alone than she had ever felt or known or believed could be possible. Larkin felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She felt outside her own body, yet the air seemed alive on her skin, and the house was so quiet the silence was noise. Like being in the same place twice at the same time, each overlaid on the other and not quite connected. Except for the fear, she felt nothing. She tried to make herself feel something else. She thought she should be angry or resentful, but a switch had been thrown and now she was empty.

Larkin went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to see if the emptiness showed on her face the way she saw it on Pike’s. She couldn’t tell. Looking at herself, she saw her father. She had his eyes and ears and the line of his jaw. She had her mother’s nose and mouth.

She said, “I don’t care.”

She didn’t care what he had done. He was her father. If Pike could carry his father, she could carry hers.

Larkin went back to the table and studied the lists of phone numbers and the phone trees she had been tracing. She found Khali Vahnich’s number, then searched for it through each of the twenty-six single-spaced pages. Each time she found it, she marked it. When she finished with the twenty-six pages, she went back to the beginning and picked out the numbers Vahnich had called.

She found it near the bottom of the second page. She saw the number and recognized it because it was so familiar.

Vahnich had called her company’s corporate headquarters. The Barkley Company.

Larkin saw the number and thought, Wow, this is bizarre, because all she felt was the strange out-of-body sensation with the air humming on her skin. Her vision blurred, so she knew she was crying, but she didn’t gasp or sob and her nose didn’t clog; it was as if someone else was crying, and she was watching it from the inside.

She wiped her eyes so she could see better, and kept searching through the list. She found the number twice more, then stopped because, really, what was the point?