“Who was the third male?”

“Samuel ‘Lil Tai’ Renfro. He goes back to the D-Block with Williams and Johnson. How was it you came to believe this is the crew who hit Meyer’s home?”

Terrio was staring at Pike so intently that he looked as if he might tip out of the chair. That’s when Pike realized that Jamal Johnson had still been only a suspect, and Williams hadn’t even been on their radar. They had not asked how Williams was involved, but why Pike thought he was involved. They hadn’t brought Pike in to find out what he knew-they wanted to know how he knew it.

Pike said, “I came to believe Williams was running the crew. We’ll know for sure after you run their guns.”

Deets shook his head.

“There is no we here. No we.”

The hand again.

Terrio said, “We have no physical evidence tying these people with what happened to Meyer or the earlier six robberies.”

“You do now. Run their guns.”

“How did you come to identify Williams as a person of interest?”

“Sources.”

Deets glared at the camera.

‘This is bullshit.”

Terrio slipped a spiral notepad from his pocket, and read an address.

“One of these sources live in Studio City?”

Pike didn’t respond. He was at Yanni’s apartment building in Studio City when he first saw the Sentra.

“How about on La Brea just south of Melrose? Maybe we’ll find one of your sources there, too.”

Terrio slipped the pad back into his pocket, then leaned forward again.

“Who killed these people?”

“ Don’t know.”

“Do you care?”

“No.”

Deets made a “ha,” then pushed from the corner.

“You would have popped them yourself, Pike. If you’d found those dudes alive, you would have fed them to the dogs just like the sonofabitch who left them there.”

Pike shifted his gaze to Deets.

“Not the lady.”

Terrio leaned back in his chair, studying Pike as he tapped the table.

“These three idiots-Williams, Johnson, and Renfro-they weren’t in this alone. Someone was pointing them in the right direction. You and I on the same page with that?”

“Yes.”

“Your sources tell you who they were working for?”

Pike studied Terrio for a moment, then glanced at the camera. Something about Terrio’s inflection suggested he already knew, and wanted to find out if Pike knew as well.

“Williams was working for a Serbian OC gangster named Michael Darko. Darko or someone working for Darko probably killed Williams and his crew.”

Terrio and Deets stared at him, and for a few seconds the interview room was quiet. Then a large, balding deputy chief opened the door. Darko was the magic word.

“Jack, let’s clear the room, please.”

Terrio and Deets left without a word. The chief followed them, and the woman Pike had seen in the backseat of Terrio’s car on the day they told him about Frank entered and closed the door. Blue blazer over a white shirt. Dark gray slacks. An angry slash for a mouth.

She studied Pike as if he were a lab specimen, then glanced up at the camera, hanging patiently from the ceiling. She went to the camera, unplugged it, then turned back to Pike.

She held up a federal badge.

“Kelly Walsh. I’m with the ATF. Do you remember me?”

Pike nodded.

“Good. Now that we’ve met, you’re going to do exactly what I say.”

As if she had no doubt it was so.

Part Three. It’s Personal

22

KELLY WALSH STOOD twelve inches from the table, close enough so he was forced to look up, but not so close as to touch the table. Pike recognized this as a controlling technique. By assuming a superior position she hoped to create a sense of authority. Like unplugging the camera. She was demonstrating she had the power to do as she wished, even at Parker Center.

Pike thought it was all a bit obvious.

Then she said, “Was Frank Meyer smuggling guns?”

This was the first time one of them asked a question that surprised him.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Sure sure? Or you just want to believe he wasn’t?”

Pike didn’t like this business about guns. He studied her face, trying to read her. Her eyes were light brown, almost hazel, but not. A vertical line cut the skin between her eyebrows, matched by a scar on her upper lip. No laugh lines, but no frown lines, either. Pike didn’t like her certainty.

“How did you find me?”

She made an offhand shrug, her face as flat as a Texas highway, ignoring his question.

“Okay, you’re sure. Personally, I don’t know, but I need a reason Darko killed him, and that one makes sense.”

“Guns.”

She pointed at herself.

“ATF. The F is for firearms.”

She studied him a moment longer, then cocked her head.

“You don’t know about the guns. You’re just in this to get some payback. Okay, I get it. That’s who you are.”

Pike knew she was trying to decide what to tell him, and how to play him. Same things he was thinking about her.

“Terrio lied about our not having anything that ties Williams to the earlier six invasions. We found a woman’s bracelet in his grandmother’s trailer that puts him with the Escalante invasion, and an antique Japanese sword that puts him with the Gelber invasion. We’ll probably find something in Renfro’s crib, too. The gun comps will be the icing, but these boys are our killers.”

Pike knew that Escalante was the second of the six previous home invasion/homicides. Gelber was the fifth.

“If you found these things only now, then you didn’t know Williams was involved.”

“No. Turns out Johnson was living with Renfro. That’s why no one could find him. Except for you. You did a good job there, Pike, finding these guys so fast. We hadn’t even come up with names for these guys, but you found them. I like that a lot.”

She reached into her inside jacket pocket, and fingered out a four-by-six-inch photograph. Pike saw a clean-cut African-American man, early thirties, high and tight hair, and a tasteful gold stud in his left ear.

“Special Agent Jordan Brant. Jordie was one of my undercovers. He was murdered twenty-three days ago trying to identify a takeover crew employed by one Michael Darko. This is Darko.”

She produced a second picture, this one showing a big man in his late thirties with wide-set eyes in a round face. He had black hair pulled into a short ponytail, a thick mustache, and long, thin sideburns. The man who would not let himself be photographed had been captured on a security camera at the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank.

Pike stared at the picture, and Walsh read the stare. Walsh smiled for the first time, but it was nasty and mean.

“Yeah, baby, that’s him. Killed your boy, Frank. Killed those little kids. The young one, Joey? Was he named after you?”

Pike sat back, and said nothing.

“You know where he is?”

“Not yet.”

“Jordie was found behind an abandoned Chevron station in Willowbrook. They used a box cutter on him. Wife and a child. You can relate to that, right? Me losing my guy. You losing your guy.”

“You believe Williams killed him?”

“Considering that Williams and his crew were Willowbrook homies, I’d say yes, but all we knew at the time is that a Crip set was involved. Jordie was trying to identify them.”

She returned the pictures to her pocket.

“What does this have to do with guns?”

“Darko works for a man named Milos Jakovich. Also known as Mickey Jack and Jack Mills.”

She arched her eyebrows, the arch asking if he recognized the names. Pike shook his head, so she explained.

“Jakovich heads up the original Serb set here in L.A.-the first of the old bosses to come over in the nineties. Think Don Corleone in his later years, but meaner. Jakovich is bringing in three thousand Chinese-made AK-47 assault rifles.”