Chen was pleased. He had twelve separate and singular prints, each showing defined typica. Typica were the characteristic points by which fingerprints could be identified-the loops and swirls and bifurcations that make up a fingerprint.
Chen lifted each print off the picture with a piece of clear tape, then pressed the tape onto a clear plastic backing. One by one, he set them onto a high-resolution digital scanner and photographed them. He fed the pictures into his computer, then used a special program to identify and chart the characteristic points. The FBI’s National Crime Information System didn’t compare pictures of fingerprints; it compared a numerical list of identifying characteristic points. It looked at numbers. After you had the numbers, everything else was easy.
Chen made the special request for an international database search.
John checked his watch again. Pike and the girl were sweating out in the parking lot, and he didn’t want them to sweat too long. He didn’t want Pike to lose faith in him. He wanted to come through.
Chen need not have worried.
The NCIC/Interpol logo flashed on his screen when the incoming files opened, and John Chen read the results.
John had positive matches on all twelve prints, identifying seven separate male individuals, two of whom Chen had earlier identified-Jorge Petrada and Luis Mendoza. Like Petrada and Mendoza, four of the remaining men were thugs from South America associated with Esteban Barone, but the seventh man was not.
Chen realized his mouth was dry when he had trouble swallowing.
He knew why the Department of Justice was involved.
He knew why Parker rolled.
John printed the seven files, carefully stapled them together, then cleared his computer so no one would see the downloads. He collected the fingerprint slides and the picture of the girl and sealed them in an envelope. He took the envelope and the files and walked out of the lab.
The sun was low in the western sky, searing the sky with fire. The Verdugo Mountains were purple turning to black. Chen went directly to Pike’s car, and he didn’t give a damn if Harriet saw him because he knew this was bigger than that; this was bigger than anything he had ever worked on, and maybe ever would.
Pike and the girl watched as he approached.
John Chen gave Pike the files.
“Read it.”
The girl saw the picture on the cover page and said, “That’s him! That’s the man in the pictures.”
The girl scooted close to Pike, and they read it together. Chen didn’t think about how hot she was, or how her hand rested on Pike’s thigh as she read, or fantasize about the taste of her skin. He thought only about what they were reading.
The fingerprints belonged to a man named Khali Vahnich. Vahnich was a forty-two-year-old former investment banker from the Czech Republic who had been convicted of drug trafficking before leaving that country. His activities since that time included additional drug trafficking, illegal arms sales, and known associations with terrorist organizations in Europe and the Middle East. A large black alert warning appeared in the center of the page. John remembered it clearly and knew he would never forget it. The surface roiled. A monster appeared.
It read:
ALERT: THIS MAN IS ON THE TERRORIST WATCH LIST. NOTIFY THE FBI IF YOU BELIEVE HIM TO BE IN YOUR AREA. APPREHEND BY ANY MEANS.
Pike looked up at John when he finished, and Chen would always remember his expression. Pike’s face showed nothing, absolutely nothing, but the gleaming black lenses smoldered with the fire in the sky. Chen felt so proud of Pike then, so terribly, awfully proud that this man had included him.
Pike said, “Thank you, John.”
“Whatever you need. Anything I can do, I’ll do it. I don’t care what. I’ll do it.”
“I know.”
Pike put out his hand, and Chen took it, and wanted never to let go, not ever, because John Chen felt he had something now, something that made him better than he had ever been or ever could have been; something Chen wanted to keep forever.
John Chen said, “Good luck, my brother.”
34
LATER that night they made hot jasmine tea and ate the Chinese food while Larkin watched television, a comedy about a middle-aged couple who said ugly things to each other. Pike didn’t find it funny, but the girl seemed to enjoy it. Pike phoned Cole, filled him in, and they made a plan for the next day.
When the show ended, Larkin went to her room, but returned a few minutes later wearing shorts and a different top. She curled up on her end of the couch and flipped through a magazine. The couch was small. Her bare feet were close to Pike. Pike wanted to rest his hand on her foot but didn’t. He moved to the chair.
Pike didn’t care about Pitman or Pitman’s investigation or why Pitman had lied except for how it affected the girl. He didn’t care if Pitman was a good cop or a bad cop, or in business with Vahnich and the Kings. He had been hunting a man named Meesh, but now he was hunting a man named Vahnich. If Pitman was trying to hurt the girl, Pike would hunt Pitman. Pike’s interest was the girl.
Pike watched her reading. She caught him watching and smiled, not the nasty crazy-curved smile, but something softer. With just a touch of the other.
She said, “You never smile.”
Pike touched his jaw.
“This is me, smiling.”
Larkin laughed and went back to the magazine.
Pike checked his watch. He decided they had waited long enough, so he picked up the phone.
“Here we go.”
Larkin closed her magazine on a finger and watched with serious eyes.
Pike still had Pitman’s number from when Pitman left the message, and now Pitman answered.
“This is Pike.”
“You’re something, man.”
“Heard from Kline?”
“Kline, Barkley, Flynn. What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“How about Khali Vahnich? You hear from him?”
Pitman hesitated.
“You have to stop this, Pike.”
“Vahnich changes everything. Larkin wants to come back.”
Pitman hesitated for the second time.
“Okay, that’s good. That’s the smart thing to do here. This is all about keeping her safe.”
Pike said, “Yes. I’m keeping her safe.”
The girl smiled again as Pike made the arrangements.
Day Five. Rule of Law
35
AT 6:57 A.M. the next morning, Pike watched a metallic blue Ford sedan turn off Alameda Street into the Union Station parking lot. The sedan slowed for the hundreds of subway commuters emerging from the station, then crept to the far end of the lot.
Donald Pitman was driving, with Kevin Blanchette as a passenger. This was the first time Pike was seeing either man, but Cole had described them well, and Pitman had said they would be in the blue sedan. Both were clean-shaven, nice-looking men in their late thirties. Pitman had a narrow face with a sharp nose; Blanchette was larger, with chubby cheeks and a balding crown.
Neither they nor the seven other federal agents who were concealed in a perimeter around the station saw Pike. Pike assumed they were federal, but wasn’t sure and didn’t care. They had moved into position ninety minutes earlier. Pike had been in position since three A.M.
Pike watched them through his Zeiss binoculars from the second-floor pantry of an Olvera Street Mexican restaurant owned by his friend Frank Garcia. The ground floor was being remodeled, so the kitchen was closed. Pitman was expecting Pike and Larkin to arrive at seven A.M., but this did not happen. Larkin and Cole were having breakfast about now, and Pike was in the pantry.
At 7:22, Pitman and Blanchette got out of their car. They studied the passing traffic and the commuters coming from the station, but Pike knew they were worried.