“No.”

“It has nothing to do with his death benefits. That if he committed suicide, they would get nothing, but if he died fighting with you, they still get the checks.”

Like everything Pike ever thought or felt was written on his face.

“Let it go, Bud. That’s what happened.”

Bud finally settled back, and Pike loved and respected him all the more. Bud seemed satisfied with what he had seen.

Bud said, “Tell you what. I know the sheriff out in San Bernardino. You could get on out there. Hell, I know some pretty good guys up in Ventura County. You could get on up there, too.”

“I’ve already got another job lined up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“ Africa.”

Bud frowned deeper, like why would any sane man give up being a cop to go over there?

“What’s over there, the Peace Corps?”

Pike hadn’t wanted to get into all this, but now he didn’t know how to avoid it.

“It’s contract work. Military stuff. They have work over there.”

Bud stiffened, clearly upset.

“What’s that mean, contract work?”

“They need people with combat experience. Like when I was a Marine.”

“You mean a fucking mercenary?”

Pike didn’t answer. He was already sorry he told Bud his plans.

“Jesus Christ. If you want to play soldier, re-up in the goddamn Marines. That’s a stupid idea. Why in hell do you want to go get yourself killed in a shithole like Africa?”

Pike had taken a contract job with a licensed professional military corporation in London. It was work he understood and at which he excelled, with the clarity of a clearly defined objective. And right now Pike wanted clarity. He would be away from Wozniak’s ghost. And far away from Wozniak’s wife.

Pike said, “I’ve got to get going. I wanted to tell you I’m glad you were my T.O. I wanted to thank you.”

Pike put out his hand, but Bud did not take it.

“Don’t do this.”

“It’s done.”

Pike left out his hand, but Bud still did not take it. Bud slid off the stool, then hooked his thumbs in his belt.

Bud said, “Day we met, you wanted to protect and to serve. You quoted the motto. I guess that’s over.”

Pike finally lowered his hand.

“I’m disappointed, son. I thought you were better than this.”

Son.

Bud Flynn walked out of the Shortstop, and they would not speak again until they met in the high desert.

Pike sat alone at the small table, feeling empty and numb.

I’m disappointed, son.

He listened to the men and women around him. They were like any other group of people with whom he had served-talking, complaining, laughing, lying; some he respected, others not; some he liked, others not; as different from each other as pebbles on the beach, but different from most other people in a way Pike admired-they were people who ran toward danger to protect and to serve. Pike loved being a cop. He couldn’t think of anything he would rather be, but you played the cards you were dealt, and now this life was gone.

Pike left the Shortstop. He went to his truck, thinking about his first night with Bud Flynn, the night they answered the domestic call. Pike hardly thought about that night, just as he rarely thought about his combat missions or the beatings his old man used to give him. Pike flashed on scrapbook photos of Kurt Fabrocini stabbing Bud in the chest. He saw the Beretta’s sights aligned at the top of Fabrocini’s ear at the instant he squeezed the trigger; he saw the red mist. Then, after, Bud still shaking, saying, “Our job isn’t to kill people-it’s to keep people alive.” Saying that about a man who had been stabbing him in the chest. What a man, Bud Flynn. What a police officer.

Pike said, “I’m going to miss you.”

The father he never had.

Pike started his truck. He drove away. He played the cards he was dealt even when they were bad cards, and he lived with the result.

But sometimes he wished for more.

29

THE STREET grumbled with outbound trucks moving cargo up along the river toward the freeway. The same roach coach sat at the mouth of the alley, only today, this time of morning, the thinning crowd of sweatshop workers lingered on the sidewalk with breakfast burritos and plastic containers of orange juice. Pike smelled the chorizo and chili as they pulled to the curb behind Cole.

Pike studied the warehouse until he found the address, faded and peeling but still readable, like a shadow on the pale wall. 18185. Cole was good.

Pike glanced at Larkin.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I want to be here. I’m okay.”

She started to open the door, but Pike stopped her.

“Wait for Elvis.”

Cole got out of his car first. He scanned the surrounding roofs and windows like a Secret Service agent clearing the way for the president, then meandered around his car to the passenger side. He hefted a long green duffel from behind the seat and slung it over his shoulder. Pike saw him wince. From the way the bag pulled, you could see it was heavy.

Cole came back to the girl’s side of the car.

“There’s a little parking lot at the far end of the alley should work for us. Padlocked gate and a couple of doors. Let’s go see what we see.”

Larkin said, “Are we going to break in?”

Cole laughed.

“It’s been known to happen.”

They walked past the rear of the catering truck, then down the alley with the abandoned warehouse on their right and the sweatshop on their left, first Cole, then the girl, then Pike. The huge loading doors were still chained, but Cole continued past them and along the alley to the next street. At the corner, a small parking lot with another loading dock was cut into the building. The parking lot was littered with yellowed newspapers and trash, and brown explosions erupted from cracks in the tarmac where weeds had sprouted, flourished, and died. A loading dock lipped from one wall as high as Pike’s chest, and a metal, human-size door was set at ground level on the adjoining wall. A realty sign covered with graffiti was wired to the gate, advertising the building for sale or lease.

Pike turned to watch the catering van as Cole peered through the fence, but Cole spoke almost at once.

“Yep. They were here.”

When Pike turned back, Cole pointed at the corner of the roof. A pale blue alarm panel was mounted near the end of the building, but the cover was missing. Old wires had been cut, and new wires had been clipped to bypass the old. Whoever jumped the alarms hadn’t bothered to replace the cover, as if they didn’t care whether or not their work was discovered.

Pike glanced back at Cole.

“You still game?”

“Sure. Insurance companies make the owners carry security even when the buildings aren’t used. Now we don’t have to worry about the rent-a-cops. Makes it easier.”

Cole pulled a three-foot bolt cutter from the duffel, snapped the padlock, and Pike pushed open the gate. Cole went directly to the door, and Pike followed with the girl, lagging behind to cover their rear.

The employee door was faced with metal and secured by three industrial-strength dead-bolt locks. Cole didn’t waste time trying to pick the locks. He hammered them out of the door with a steel chisel and a ten-pound maul. Pike was proud of the girl. She didn’t ask questions or run her mouth. She stood to the side with her arms crossed and watched Cole work.

When the door swung open, Cole returned his tools to the duffel, then passed a flashlight to Pike and kept one for himself. He also gave them disposable latex gloves.