“Leverage for what?”

Cole glanced at the door again, then stepped even closer.

“He hasn’t been straight with the girl or her family. Remember what they told her? They didn’t know Meesh was the missing man until she identified him?”

Pike nodded. That was the way both Bud and the girl had told it.

Cole said, “The day they first saw her-that morning before they talked to her-they had already worked her street, and they weren’t only asking about the Kings. They were asking about Meesh. They didn’t use his name, but they already knew or suspected Meesh was in the car.”

Pike glanced at the men under the street lamp. He listened to their serious voices, and realized Cole had come outside so they could talk about this without the girl hearing.

“How do you know that?”

“I heard it from half a dozen people today. Agents from the Department of Justice, they said. One black, one white, showing pictures of two men. I had them describe the pictures, and I’m pretty sure one was King, and the other was Meesh.”

“Pitman and Blanchette did this before they met her?”

“Before. I wasn’t sure about the timeline until I sat down with my notes this evening. Now I’m sure. They knew Meesh was with King, and they knew his identity before she identified him.”

Pike wondered why Pitman and Blanchette had misled the girl. She was clearly important to them, but if Pitman and Blanchette already knew Meesh was with King, maybe she hadn’t been their only witness. Maybe their other witness had been killed. Pike didn’t like it, but none of this affected his mission. Find Meesh. Eliminate the threat. Protect the girl. He could deal with Pitman and Blanchette later.

Pike tipped his head toward the door.

“Does she know?”

“I figure she’s scared enough without being scared of the cops. Not until we know why Pitman lied.”

“Good. Let’s go back to her neighborhood tomorrow. I was hoping we’d pick up Meesh’s trail, but maybe Pitman’s trail is more important.”

“She’s not going to like it. She wasn’t happy when you left.”

Pike turned toward the house, wondering if the girl was still in the kitchen. He wondered what she was listening to on Cole’s iPod.

Cole said, “You told her about Africa.”

Pike glanced back at Cole, and now Cole was smiling.

“You tell someone about Africa, talk about zebras and lions. Don’t tell them about women cutting off their fingers.”

Pike didn’t want to mention the girl’s offer to masturbate. Not because mentioning it would embarrass him, but because he was embarrassed for the girl.

Pike said, “That food smells pretty good. That curry?”

Cole smiled wider, and they went into the house. The girl was stretched out on the couch with the headset fixed to her ears. Her eyes were closed, but she looked up when they entered.

Pike said, “How’s it going?”

She didn’t sit up, and she didn’t speak to him. She raised a hand in a kind of a wave, then closed her eyes again and went back to the music. Her foot bounced with the beat. Pike figured she was still pissed off.

Cole left a few minutes later, and Pike went into the kitchen. Cole had made vegetable curry rice. Pike stood in the kitchen, eating from the pot. He ate it cold. When he finished eating, he filled a paper cup with the plum wine, drank it, then drank a bottle of water. He was drinking the water when the girl came to the door.

She said, “I’m going to bed.”

Pike nodded. He wanted to say something, but he was still wondering why Pitman had put the girl in this position. Meesh was a murderer, but his prosecution would be handled at the state level by the courts in Colorado. For Pitman, Meesh was nothing more than a way to bag the Kings. The Kings were his target, but his case against them was for money laundering. Paper. He had put this girl’s life in jeopardy for paper, and he had somehow gotten LAPD to go along. Pitman had a lot of juice for a mid-level fed running a money case. Pike wondered if Bud knew.

The girl turned away without another word, went into her bedroom, and closed the door.

Pike finished the water, then went to the bathroom. He shaved, brushed his teeth, then flossed with great care. After the flossing, he showered. He brought the clothes he wore that day into the shower with him, and washed them with hand soap in the running water. He wrung them out as best he could, hung them, then dressed in fresh clothes. He washed his sunglasses, put them on, then looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was getting long. Almost an inch on top, and now touching his ears. Pike liked it short. He would have to cut it soon.

The house was quiet in a way that made the emptiness seem larger. Pike checked the windows and doors, then shut the lights and took his place in the chair. He sat there for a while, in the dark, then went to the couch.

Pike put his pistol on the floor in easy reach, then stretched out and closed his eyes. The couch was still warm from her, and the impression left by her body was soft.

Larkin Barkley

Jethro Tull woke her. She emerged from her dream as the lion disappeared into the dry grass, and pulled the headset from her ears, thinking no wonder everyone in the sixties was stoned all the time, their bands singing about disease. But then, still more asleep than awake, she glimpsed the lion again, its scarred head pushing through the grass, its muzzle stained with blood, the heavy muscles in its shoulders bunching in the last foggy moments of her dream before it dissolved.

Larkin lay in the darkness, waking, then awake as she realized she had to pee.

The house was dark, so she figured he was sleeping or just standing somewhere in that creepy way, so she went directly into the bathroom. She closed the door before she turned on the light. His clothes were hanging from the shower rod, but she didn’t think anything of it. She peed, then drank water from the tap, using her hand as a cup. When she finished, she turned out the light, opened the door, and that’s when she heard him.

Soft, frantic grunts and a jerky, cloth-on-cloth swoosh came from the living room. She hesitated, listening as her eyes adjusted, then crept into the living room.

He was asleep on the couch. His body was clenched; his arms rigid at his sides as he jerked and trembled. Even in the poor light, she saw the sweat on his face as his head snapped from side to side and the grunts hissed past his teeth.

He was dreaming, she thought. Ohmigod. He was having a nightmare.

She wondered if she should wake him. She couldn’t remember if you were supposed to wake people who were having a nightmare or not. Maybe waking him would be bad.

Larkin moved closer, trying to decide what to do. His legs lurched as if he was running, but in that paralyzed way when you’re trapped in a dream. His hands flexed like claws, then shook and fluttered, and his eyes rolled wildly beneath the lids. Larkin thought, Man, this must be one monster of a nightmare. He looked like he was fighting for his life.

Then he spoke. She couldn’t make it out, but between the grunts and moans, she was sure he had spoken.

Dah…

It sounded like dah. Dah or duh.

She strained closer to try to make out what he was saying, but all she heard were mumbles and slurs.

Then, little by little, he calmed. The lurching slowed. His hands relaxed. His head stopped jerking.

Larkin was very close then, over him, when he mumbled again.

Duh…dah…

It sounded like daddy.

Larkin waited to hear it again, but he fell quiet, and she thought she was probably wrong. People mumbled nonsense when they dreamed. A man like him might have nightmares, but not about his daddy. It was difficult to imagine a man like him ever having been a child.