SID was the science side. The other side was shoe leather-whatever detectives turned from informants and witnesses.
“How many people have they killed?”
“Four. If the nanny dies, five.”
“Not here, John. All together.”
“Eleven. Hey, that’s why they set up a task force. They’re using divisional dicks from all over the city.”
Chen suddenly glanced at his watch, looking uncomfortable.
“Listen, I gotta get busy. Those dicks are coming back.”
Pike followed Chen back to the dining room, but he still wasn’t ready to leave.
Pike said, “Let me see the pictures.”
Criminalists, coroner investigators, and homicide detectives photo-documented everything. Chen would have photographed the scene before he made the sketches.
“Bro, these people were your friends. You sure?”
“Let me see.”
Chen went to his case and returned with a black digital camera. He scrolled through the images until he found what he wanted, then held it so Pike could see.
The image was tiny, but Pike saw Frank splayed on the floor. He was on his back, his left leg straight and right leg cocked to the side, floating in a pool of deep red that shined with the flash. Pike had wanted to see if the red arrows were inked on his arms like Deets said, but Frank was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, rolled to his forearms.
“I want to see his face. Can you zoom it?”
Chen adjusted the picture, then held out the camera again. Frank was cut beneath his right eye in two places, indicating he had been hit more than once. Pike wondered if Frank had been trying to disarm the man or men closest to him when the men across the room shot him.
Pike said, “Was a time, he would have beat them.”
Chen said, “What?”
Pike felt embarrassed for saying it, so he didn’t answer.
“You want to see the wife and kids?”
“No.”
Chen looked relieved.
“You knew him pretty well?”
“Yes.”
“What was he holding?”
“Frank wasn’t a criminal.”
“All the other vics in the string were dirty. That’s part of the pattern.”
“Not Frank.”
Chen read something in Pike’s voice.
“Sorry. They probably made a mistake. Assholes like this, they probably hit the wrong house.”
“Yes,” Pike said. “They made a mistake.”
“Listen, I gotta get back to work. I gotta get you outta here.”
Pike followed the hall back to the front door, but he did not immediately leave. On the way in, they had passed what appeared to be a home office.
Photographs of Frank and his family hung on the walls. Movie posters from The Magnificent Seven, Shane, and the original Star Wars, Frank’s three favorite films. Frank used to joke he was a Jedi. He called Pike Yoda.
Pike studied the pictures, comparing the Frank he had known with the Frank who had lived in this house. When Pike met Frank for the first time, Frank was fresh out of eight years in the Marine Corps, having seen service in Central America and the Middle East. Frank had been young and lean, but had the chunky build of a kid who would put on weight quickly if he stopped working out. The Frank in these pictures had gained weight, but looked happy and safe.
Pike found a picture of Frank and Cindy, then moved to a picture of Frank and Cindy with the two boys. Cindy was squat and sturdy, with short brown hair, happy eyes, and a crooked nose that made her pretty. Pike studied more pictures. The two boys, then the four of them together, father, mother, children, family.
Pike moved through the office until he came to a space on a shelf with an empty frame. The frame was the right size for the El Salvador picture.
Pike took a breath, let it out, then found Chen back in the dining room.
“Show me his family.”
“You want to see what they did to his wife and his kids?”
Pike wanted to see. He wanted to fix them in his mind, and have them close when he found the men who killed them.
4
PIKE LIVED ALONE IN a two-bedroom condo in Culver City. He drove home, then stripped and showered away the sweat. He let hot water beat into him, then turned on the cold. Pike didn’t flinch when the icy water fired his skin. He rubbed the cold over his face and scalp, and stayed in the cold much longer than the hot, then toweled himself off.
Before he dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror. Pike was six foot one. He weighed two hundred five pounds. He had been shot seven times, hit by shrapnel on fourteen separate occasions, and stabbed or cut eleven times. Scars from the wounds and resulting surgeries mapped his body like roads that always came back to the same place. Pike knew exactly which scars had been earned when he worked with Frank Meyer.
Pike leaned close to the mirror, examining each eye. Left eye, right eye. The scleras were clear and bright, the irises a deep, liquid blue. The skin surrounding the eyes was lined from squinting into too many suns. Pike’s eyes were sensitive to light, but his visual acuity was amazing. 20/11 in his left eye, 20/12 in his right. They had loved that in sniper school.
Pike dressed, then put on his sunglasses.
“Yoda.”
Lunch was leftover Thai food nuked in the microwave. Tofu, cabbage, broccoli, and rice. He drank a liter of water, then washed the one plate and fork while thinking about what he had learned from Chen and Terrio, and how he could use it.
Jumping Pike in broad daylight on a residential street to ask a few questions was a panic move. This confirmed that after three months, seven invasions, and eleven homicides, Terrio had not developed enough evidence to initiate an arrest. But a lack of proof did not necessarily mean a lack of suspects or usable information, what Chen had called “shoe leather” information. Professional home invasion crews almost always comprised career criminals who did violent crime for a living. If caught, they would be off the streets for the period of their incarceration, but would almost always commit more crimes when released. Experienced investigators like Terrio knew this, and would compare the date of the original robbery to release dates of criminals with a similar history, trying to identify high-probability suspects. Pike wanted to know what they had.
Pike went upstairs to his bedroom closet, opened his safe, and took out a list of telephone numbers. The numbers were not written as numbers, but as an alphanumeric code. Pike found the number he wanted, then brought it downstairs, sat on the floor with his back to the wall, and made the call.
Jon Stone answered on the second ring, the sound of old-school N.W.A pounding loud behind him. Stone must have recognized Pike’s number on the caller ID.
“Well. Look who it is.”
“Got a couple of questions.”
“How much will you pay for a couple of answers?”
Jon Stone was a talent agent for professional military contractors. Stone used to be a PMC himself, but now placed talent with the large private military corporations and security firms favored by Washington and corporate America. Safer that way, and much more profitable.
Pike didn’t respond, and after a while the N.W.A was turned down.
Stone said, “Tell you what, let’s table that for now. You go ahead, ask, we’ll see what develops.”
“Remember Frank Meyer?”
“Fearless Frank, my man on the tanks? Sure.”
“Has Frank been working?”
“Frank was one of your guys. You tell me.”
“Has he been on the market?”
“He retired ten years ago, at least.”
“So you haven’t heard any rumors?”
“Like what?”
“Like Frank getting involved with people you wouldn’t expect.”
Jon snorted.
“Fearless Frank? Get control of yourself.”
“He didn’t like being called Fearless Frank. It made him uncomfortable.”
Stone lapsed into silence, probably embarrassed, and Pike went on.