28

PIKE and Larkin followed Cole down from the hills, cruising silently along streets that were unnaturally clear. The girl wasn’t sitting with her legs twisted beneath her and her shoes on the seat the way she had yesterday. She faced forward with her feet on the floor. Pike made no comment. If she wanted to speak, she would speak. Or not.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, and twice she seemed about to speak, but both times she turned away. They were crossing Sunset Boulevard when John Chen called.

“I couldn’t call before now.”

Chen was whispering so softly Pike had trouble hearing him. Other people were probably around.

“Can you call from a better location?”

“I’m at a homicide in Monterey Park. Some douche bag poured Drano down his mother’s throat. Pinned her until she stopped kicking, then turned himself in. I been out here since six fuckin’ o’clock, man. I’m in the bathroom.”

“What do you have?”

“You were spot-on about those prints.”

“Get an ID?”

“Two out of two through the South American database at Interpol. Shit, hang on-”

Chen’s voice grew muffled, then louder, Chen saying, “I can’t help how long-it was bad carnitas-”

Chen whispered, “Pricks.”

“Tell me what you found.”

“Jorge Manuel Petrada and Luis Alva Mendoza, Petrada having been born in Colombia and showing arrests all over Colombia, Venezuela, and Ecuador. Mendoza was born in Ecuador, but he managed to spread around his career, too. Both subjects have pulled prison time and are currently wanted on multiple counts of murder, with Mendoza showing wants on three counts of rape. Where’d you get those glasses, man?”

Pike ignored him.

“Who do they work for?”

“Says they’re known associates of someone named Esteban Barone, part of the Quito Cartel out of Ecuador, ID’d by DEA as one of the groups who took up the slack after the Medellín and Cali cartels in Colombia were broken.”

“Do they have associates or family here in L.A.?”

“Not listed here.”

“Anywhere in the U.S.?”

“Nothing.”

“What about gang affiliations?”

Latin gangs from L.A. like Mara 18 and MS-13 had spread to Central and South America.

“No, man. They were soldiers for this guy, Barone. Nothing suggests they’ve been here before.”

Chen had confirmed what Pike learned from Jorge, but Pike wasn’t hearing anything that would bring him closer to Meesh.

“Did you run the guns?”

“Can’t until I get outta here, but listen-the feds confiscated the Malibu guns, too. Rolled into the Sheriff’s lab like they did with us and cleaned them out-the guns, the casings, everything.”

“Pitman?”

“The same kind of deal-no questions asked. Those stiffs from Malibu and Eagle Rock, are they part of this Quito group, too?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I think-I think the feds already know who they are. I think they just want us out of the picture.”

“You’re probably right, John.”

“I don’t get it. So they’re drug dealers. Why would the feds care if we ID some assholes from Ecuador? Our people work with international agencies all the time. I know some narcotics guys, they spend so much time in Mexico they damn near live there.”

Pike was wondering the same. Money laundering was money laundering whether the money came from Jersey mobsters or drug lords in Ecuador. The energy the feds were burning to cover their case against the Kings made less sense by the hour, and didn’t require freezing out the police. Pike trusted none of it. He believed Pitman was covering something else, but he didn’t know what.

Chen said, “You think if I ran the Eagle Rock and Malibu prints through Interpol, I’d get a hit? That would be a major coup, bro. That would be excellent.”

“Better to let it rest, John.”

“Better?”

“Let it rest, we might find it’s larger than we think.”

“You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

“I don’t know everything yet. I know some, but not all. I’ll tell you more when I know.”

Chen grunted, the grunt saying he was okay with gambling on an even bigger payoff down the line.

“Let me ask you something-these guys from Ecuador, what are they doing up here?”

Pike gave the best answer he could.

“Dying.”

Pike closed his phone, then glanced at the girl. She was watching him again.

“The full name is Esteban Barone.”

“It still doesn’t ring a bell.”

“The men trying to kill you work for Barone.”

“I thought they worked for Meesh.”

“He’s in business with Meesh. That’s what Pitman claimed-that Meesh was up here investing South American money.”

When she didn’t respond, Pike looked at her. She was staring at him in the same thoughtful way she had all morning, but now she didn’t look away.

She said, “I need to ask you something-what you said last night, that I want to be seen. Why did you say that?”

Pike thought it was obvious.

“You feel invisible. If no one sees you, you don’t exist, so you find ways to be seen.”

A soft line appeared between her eyebrows, but she didn’t seem angry or insulted. Pike thought she looked sad.

“I’ve been in therapy since I was eleven. You’ve known me three days. Jesus, am I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“How? Because I was dancing on the bar? Go see what they do at Mardi Gras.”

Pike thought about it to give her an example.

“In the desert. How you looked at your father. Not looking to see him, but to see if he was paying attention. He was focused on Bud and his lawyer and me, so you would say something outrageous to get his attention. You needed to have him see you.”

She glanced out the window.

“I don’t care if he sees me or not.”

“Not now maybe, but once. You wouldn’t need it so badly if you didn’t care.”

She looked back at him, and now the line between her brows had softened.

“And you can see all that by watching me?”

“By seeing you. There’s a difference.”

“And how is it you see so clearly?”

Pike thought about whether or not he wanted to answer. Pike was a private man. He never talked about himself, and didn’t care much for people who did, but he figured the girl had a right to ask.

“My folks and I would be watching TV, my mom and dad and me, or we’d be eating, and something would set him off. My old man would knock the hell out of me. Or her. I learned to watch for the signs. How his shoulders bunched, the way his lips pressed together, how much booze he poured. Half an inch more in the glass, he was ready to go. Little things tell you. You see them, you’re okay. You miss them, you go to the hospital. You learn to watch.”

She was silent, and when Pike glanced over, her face was sad.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

“Point is, I saw the play between you and your father. You needed something from him you weren’t getting, and probably never had.”

Pike glanced at the girl. She was still watching him.

She said, “Thanks for seeing me.”

Pike nodded.

“Bud told Gordon and my father you would protect me. My father, he just looked at Gordon. Gordon, he just wanted to know how much. But Bud told him you were the one. I guess you are.”

Pike continued driving.

“Bud say anything else?”

“Just that he had worked with you. That we could trust you. He said you would get the job done. He guaranteed it.”

Pike took that in without comment or expression, hiding his sadness from the girl as he hid most everything else.

THE SHORTSTOP LOUNGE

0720 HOURS

The Shortstop was an LAPD tradition. Located on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park, midway between Alvarado and Dodger Stadium, the Shortstop Lounge was convenient to Rampart Station and the police academy. Birthday parties were celebrated between dark wood walls lined with badges and department patches, as were divorces, retirements, promotions, memorials, and the supercharged hyper-life moments whenever an officer survived a shoot-out. Careers began at the Shortstop. Careers also ended.