“When I lost my daughter-when she was murdered-this man found the animal who took her. And now, now he is my heart. This man is a son to me. To help him is to help me. I wish you all to know this. Now, may we speak with Mr. Maroto?”

Saenz pointed at one of the men in the dining room. Maroto was a younger man, maybe in his early thirties, and now he tensed as if he was about to be executed. Powerful people had ordered him to be here; people who might end his life without hesitation. Every man in the room was watching.

Frank said, “Carlos Maroto of Mara Salvatrucha?”

Maroto’s eyes flicked around the room. He was afraid, but Pike could see he was thinking. He had been told to be here, so he was here, but now he was preparing himself to fight if he had to fight.

Maroto said, “I am.”

Frank once more clutched Pike’s arm.

“This man, the son of my heart, he is going to ask something of you. Here, in front of the other members of our home. Before he does, let me say I understand these are sensitive issues, that business arrangements of long standing between individuals and groups might be involved. What we ask, we do not ask lightly.”

The old man released Pike’s arm and made a little wave.

“Ask.”

Pike looked at Maroto.

“Where can I find Khali Vahnich?”

Maroto narrowed his eyes to show he was hard, and slowly shook his head.

“No fuckin’ idea. Who’s that?”

It occurred to Pike that Maroto might not know Vahnich by his real name. He took out the page with Vahnich’s picture and held it out. Maroto did not take it, which told Pike Maroto knew him.

“Your crew is in business with Esteban Barone. Barone asked you to take care of him and some boys from Ecuador. You’re helping a friend. I get that.”

Saenz said, “Answer him, homes. No one is on trial here.”

Maroto was angry and feeling on the spot.

“What the fuck? Yeah, that’s right, why is this anyone’s business?”

Pike said, “I want you to give him to me.”

Maroto shifted again, and now he wasn’t looking at Pike. He was looking at the others.

“What is this? We don’t know this fuck. For all we know, he’s a cop.”

Aldo Saenz crossed the big arms, and Pike could see he was trying to control himself. When Saenz spoke, his voice was a low rumble.

“You are here as my guest. I treat you with respect, but do not insult Mr. Garcia in my home.”

“I meant no disrespect to Mr. Garcia, but my clique has business with Esteban Barone. A long-standing and profitable business. He asked a favor, we do it. What do you want me to say?”

Pike said, “Khali Vahnich is Barone’s friend, but that isn’t all he is.”

Pike passed the Interpol sheet to Saenz.

“Read to the bottom of the page.”

Pike watched Saenz reach the bottom of the page, then saw him frown.

“What does this mean? Terrorist watch list? What is this?”

Frank clutched Pike’s arm again and pulled himself to his feet.

“It means he is my enemy. He feeds the people who want to kill us, and arms their lunatics, and now-right now while we are standing here in this house-he is in Los Angeles-our barrio! And I want that motherfucker!”

Saenz was motionless except for the rise and fall of his massive chest. His face creased like layers of slate, with a fierce tic in his cheek. He passed the sheet to the nearest man, then stared at Maroto.

Maroto grew pale and shook his head.

“Barone said help the guy, we helped. You think we know something like this? You think he said, Here’s my friend, the terrorist? What the fuck?”

The man with the sheet passed it to the next man, and he to the next. Pike remembered the flag outside and the yellow ribbon. Saenz was staring at the picture of the young Marine, and Pike knew Frank Garcia had chosen this house well.

Saenz cleared his throat, then looked at Frank.

“If you could give us a moment, please. I mean no disrespect. Just a moment.”

The bodyguard and the driver helped Frank up, and Pike followed them out. They were only halfway to his car when Saenz caught up and told them where to find Vahnich.

43

VAHNICH WAS using a small house on a low rise in the elbow where the Glendale Freeway met the L.A. River. Orange orchards had once stretched as far as anyone could see, but the orchards fell to developers, and the low rises and rolling hills of Glassell Park were covered with houses. Withered orange trees still peeked between the older homes; original tenants with gnarled trunks as black as soot. Pike and Bud both knew the area well; it was directly across the river from the police academy.

Pike was still bitching.

“This fucking Hummer stands out like a tank. We might as well be coming up here with a big sign, Here we come.”

Pike said, “Right at the next street, then up the hill. It should be on the left.”

Maroto told them the house sat at the end of a long drive, hidden from the street by scrub oak and olive trees and neighboring homes. Vahnich didn’t live in the house, but had wanted a place to meet with the men from Ecuador. Vahnich had liked the privacy.

Larkin’s father leaned forward, trying to see.

“What if she isn’t here? What if he took her somewhere else?”

Cole said, “Then Maroto is gonna have a bad night. That’s why Saenz and those guys kept him-so he couldn’t warn this guy and to make sure he didn’t lie.”

Bud slowed.

“Coming up. Look to the left.”

The drive curved down and away from the street, following the roll of the hill. Pike saw the near corner of the house and the tail of a blue car, and then they were past.

Cole said, “Saw a blue car, but that’s it. He could have an army in there.”

Pike didn’t mind. If you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you.

Bud kept rolling.

“Let’s call the police. We gotta bring in LAPD.”

Pike turned to watch the drive to see if anyone came out to look.

“Let’s make sure she’s here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go see. Wait up the street. I’ll call.”

Conner Barkley said, “I want to come.”

“I’m just going to look.”

Pike stepped out at a fast walk, then trotted up the neighboring drive. The homes on this part of the street stepped up the gentle rise, each house a few feet above the one below. Pike followed a low retaining wall alongside the house past plastic garbage cans and old rain gutters and unused bags of fertilizer so old they had erupted. He stopped long enough to make sure the backyard was empty, then crossed the yard between three ancient orange trees and stepped over the edge.

Pike side-hilled the slope through ivy and ice plants and more orange trees until he was below Vahnich’s house, then worked his way up. From his present position, he saw a ranch-style house in need of paint, set on a dead yard littered with rotten oranges. The neighboring house was above it. The drive curved up to a carport at the front of the house. The blue car he glimpsed from the street was blocking the lowrider described by the cousins, and a new Chrysler LeBaron in the carport.

Two men stood at the front of the lowrider, a liquid black 1962 Bel Air that shone like burning coal. The hood was up, and both men were lost in the joys of the engine.

The way the house was cut into the slope, Pike knew a retaining wall and walkway would run along the opposite side of the house along its entire length. He was pretty sure he would find windows, and then he might find Larkin.

Pike started through the skeletal fruit trees toward the near end of the house, but as soon as his sight line changed, he saw her through the sliding glass doors cut into the back of the house. Larkin was sitting on the floor against the far wall in an empty room, facing the sliding doors. A man walked past her moving from left to right, heading for the front of the house. He wasn’t Vahnich. Pike thought it through. At least six men were present-the five remaining Ecuadoreans, plus Vahnich.