“Why is Vahnich trying to kill her?”

“I don’t know. I thought I knew. I believed it was about the Kings.”

“The Kings are dead.”

“I didn’t know Vahnich would try to kill her. How could I know that?”

“You should have told them the truth. The terrorists haven’t taken over Los Angeles yet, Pitman-we’re still the land of the free. You should have told those people who they were dealing with.”

Pitman seemed as if he didn’t understand, then shook his head.

“I told them.”

“Told them what?”

“They knew it was Vahnich. The girl didn’t, but her father did. He advised us not to tell her.”

Pike must have looked confused because Pitman tried to explain.

“We had meetings about it, Pike-her father, his attorneys, our people. You don’t want to alienate a cooperative witness, but we needed discretion. Barkley said she couldn’t deliver. They advised us not to identify Vahnich until just before the testimony.”

“They advised you? Her father lied to her?”

“She isn’t the most stable person. She would have used it to draw attention to herself.”

Pike felt cool even in the morning’s warmth. He flashed on the girl from the night before, desperate to warn her father. Demanding it.

Pitman said, “She’s a freak, man. You gotta know that by now.”

Pike looked at Pitman’s badge again. He thought of his own badge. He had given it up to help Wozniak’s family. He had loved that badge and everything it represented, but he had loved Wozniak’s family more. Families needed to be protected. Families needed someone to be the protector. This was just how Pike felt.

Pike said, “She just wanted to do the right thing.”

Pike put away his gun.

“We’re finished here.”

Pitman tugged at his restraints.

“Cut these things off. Bring her back, Pike. We can protect her.”

Pike opened the door.

“You’re tied to a steering wheel. You can’t even protect yourself.”

Pike got out with the keys and the badge.

Pitman realized Pike was leaving, and jerked harder at the wheel.

“What the fuck? What’re you doing?”

Pike threw Pitman’s badge into the river.

“Not my badge! Pike-”

Pike threw the keys after it.

“Pike!”

Pike left without looking back.

37

Elvis Cole

COLE STOPPED by his office that morning to pick up the calling logs before heading on to stay with the girl. His friend at the phone company had faxed twenty-six pages of outgoing and incoming phone numbers, some of which were identified, but many of which were not. Cole would have to go through the numbers one by one, but the girl would probably help. Cole liked the girl. She was funny and smart and laughed at his jokes. All the major food groups.

When he let himself in, she was stretched out on the couch, watching TV with the iPod plugged in her ears.

Cole said, “How can you watch TV and listen to that at the same time?”

She wiggled his iPod.

“Did they stop making music in 1990?”

You see? Funny.

“I have to make a couple of calls, then I want you to help me with something.”

She sat up, interested.

“What?”

“Phone numbers. We have to build a phone tree tracing the calls to and from the phones Pike found. We’ll trace the calls from phone to phone until we identify someone who can help us find Vahnich. Sound like fun?”

“No.”

“It’s like connect the dots. Even you can do it.”

She gave him the finger.

Cole thought she was great.

He set her up at the table with the list of numbers, and identified which numbers belonged to Jorge, Luis, and the man they believed was Khali Vahnich, aka Alexander Meesh. He showed her what to do, then went to the couch with his phone. That morning at his office he had found a message from Marla Hendricks, informing him that 18185 was owned by the Tanner Family Trust, which also owned several other large commercial properties in downtown L.A., all of which were for sale. In typical fashion, Marla had been thorough. 18185 had been purchased by Dr. William Tanner in 1968, and placed in trust in 1975. No fines, violations, judgments, or liens had been placed on the property during that time. The executor of the trust was Tanner’s oldest daughter, Ms. Lizabeth Little, a former attorney, who was overseeing the sale of the properties. Marla had included Lizabeth Little’s Brentwood home address and three phone numbers.

Cole said, “You doin’ okay over there?”

Larkin was busy with the numbers.

“It isn’t calculus.”

“I’m going to make my call. Don’t interrupt.”

She gave him the finger again.

Cole phoned Lizabeth Little and scored on the first try. Lizabeth sounded as if she was in a rush.

“Yes, this is Lizabeth Little.”

“My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator who-”

“How did you get this number?”

“It’s that private-eye thing. Ma’am, I’m calling about a property you have for sale. I represent an interested buyer.”

The ol’ greed ploy. Gets’m every time.

“Which property?”

“A warehouse space downtown. 18185.”

“Oh, sure. That’s my dad’s. We’re dissolving the trust. I’ll try to answer your questions, but you should speak with our broker about the terms.”

She sounded normal. Not like someone who would bag away a couple of bodies, or know a person who would.

Cole said, “I just want a little background on the property.”

“You’re working with a buyer?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you should know this up front. We’ll consider offers, but any offer we accept will be in a backup position. Is your buyer okay with that?”

“A backup. Has the building been sold?”

“We have an option arrangement with a buyer for all seven of our properties. I don’t think your buyer needs to worry about it, though. The option is about to expire.”

“Someone is buying all seven properties?”

“The upside potential here is enormous with the way downtown real estate is booming. Would your buyer be interested in all seven?”

“What are we talking about, pricewise?”

“The low twos.”

“Two million dollars?”

She laughed.

“Two hundred million.”

“That was me being funny. I knew what you meant.”

“I got it. Options are common in deals of this size. People need time to raise the money. Sometimes the deals happen, sometimes they don’t. This one looks like it might not. If that’s the case, we’ll sell the properties individually. If your buyer is interested, we should still talk.”

“I’ll pass that along. How long was the option period?”

“In this case, four months.”

“Uh-huh, and how much does a four-month option cost for two hundred million dollars’ worth of warehouses?”

“In this case, six million.”

“Which you keep when the option lapses?”

“Oh, yes. I think it lapses in, oh, let me think, I don’t have my calendar-another four days. Three days, maybe. You can call the broker for the exact date.”

“I’ll pass that along. One more question: You mind naming the buyer?”

“Not at all. Stentorum Real Holdings. I don’t have the number, but my broker will give it to you. Since they haven’t been able to raise the money, maybe your buyer could help and leverage a partial position. We’d love to have this deal go through.”

Cole copied the name onto his pad. Stentorum Real Holdings. He hung up as Joe Pike walked in.

Pike stopped inside the door and stood like a statue.

The girl chirped up.

“Hey, man!”

Cole said, “Yo.”

Pike didn’t move or speak. Pike always looked strange, but now he looked even stranger. Cole wondered what was wrong.

“You talk to the brother?”

Pike walked out of the living room and into the bathroom. Strange.

Cole picked up his phone again and dialed the information operator.