Pike said, “Can you print his picture?”
“Sure. Think it’s him?”
“We’ll see.”
Pike had no feeling about the man either way. He wanted pictures of all likely males who passed the house.
They saw no one else until 6:22 A.M. when the silver Tercel raced past at fast-forward speed.
Pike said, “That’s them.”
Cole reversed the recording, then brought it forward frame by frame until they had the best possible view of the driver. The frozen image was grainy, but Wilson Smith’s face and features were clear enough. He was alone in the car.
“Wilson. This is when he’s on his way to the shop.”
Cole printed the image, then resumed play at the faster speed.
The activity on the alley grew with the morning hour. They stopped the image every time a figure sped by, then rewound and advanced in real time. The silver Tercel reappeared at 6:55, emerging from the left edge of the screen as Wilson returned home. The angle made it impossible to see Wilson behind the wheel, but no one else appeared to be in the car.
Between 7:00 A.M. and 8:00 A.M., they stopped the recording eighteen times and printed seven photographs, but none of the twenty-two people they saw appeared to be more than ordinary people out for a walk or a jog. Two cars passed the field of view as residents left their homes between 7:20 and 7:45. Neither was the silver Tercel, but Pike and Cole were encouraged in both cases because the outbound drivers were clearly visible.
Pike watched with a dull hope Cole was right, and he would see them leave before Mendoza arrived, but Jared came past the wall at 8:07 A.M. He quickly grew larger until he disappeared past the camera.
Pike said, “Okay. Sometime between now and when Jared returns is when Mendoza and Gomer arrive.”
Cole nodded without looking away from the screen.
Two women with small dogs walked past, then another man jogged. At 8:42, another figure passed quickly from left to right, and Cole stopped the image.
“That’s Jared. He’s back.”
Jared was carrying a plastic grocery bag. The moo.
Cole glanced at Pike, then shook his head.
“Real time, Mendoza and Gomer are at their house right now. This is when Jared saw them.”
“They used the pedestrian bridge.”
“Yeah. And if your killer used the bridge and stayed at the end of the alley, we’re not going to see him, either.”
“Play it out.”
Cole let the image advance in real time, and, at 8:53, the Tercel crept into view. Pike leaned forward when it appeared even as Cole paused the image, rolled it back, and brought it forward one frame at a time.
As the image grew, Pike saw three people in the car. Wilson was driving. Dru was in the passenger seat, and another figure was in the back. This confirmed the bad guys had used the footbridge to enter, and forced the victims to drive them out. It was a good plan considering the narrow dead-end street with so many potential witnesses.
Pike said, “Mendoza is in back, but I only see three people.”
“Could have left by the bridge, the way he came. Is that Dru in front?”
“Yes.”
Cole printed her picture, then walked the frames forward.
Six frames later, the angle had changed enough to reveal a fourth person in the vehicle.
Cole said, “Here we go.”
The second man sat directly behind Wilson, though he was still difficult to see. Cole advanced the image two more frames, and the second man’s face emerged from behind Wilson’s head.
Pike studied the blurry face, then leaned closer to the screen.
“Bring it one more.”
Cole advanced the image.
“One more.”
Pike felt a spike of surprise, then the surprise melted into the calm he felt when he steadied the crosshairs on a target. Cole was watching when Pike looked up.
“What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t Gomer. It’s Miguel Azzara.”
“I thought he didn’t know anything about this.”
“He lied.”
Cole glanced at Azzara.
“Two people are dead, two more are missing, and here’s
El Jefe
in on the abduction. This is bigger than a couple of bangers being pissed off because they got arrested. You think these guys found out about Straw’s investigation?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe Azzara was worried Wilson could hurt him. Maybe Mendoza and Gomer were killed because he thought they were cooperating with the Feds.”
Pike didn’t know, but it was no longer important. Azzara gave him a target, and if Pike could see his target he could hit it.
Cole was printing Azzara’s picture when his phone rang, and he told Pike the caller was Lucy Chenier. Cole took the phone outside onto his deck for the call, and Pike resumed watching the recording.
Pike watched at high speed, but the image still moved in slow motion because he thought about Azzara, and how he could find him. More joggers came and went, but most were female and the few men didn’t appear to be likely candidates for experienced knife killers. Pike saw himself arrive, and leave, but no one else appeared on the street. Pike had skimmed through one hour and twenty minutes of the three-hour window when Cole returned from the deck, looking unhappy.
Pike paused the recording.
“What?”
“That was Lucy’s investigator. The guy I told you about, Terry Babinette.”
Pike waited, knowing from Cole’s expression the news wasn’t good.
“After the storm, the city put up websites so people could post the names of friends and family members who evacuated or were missing. All Terry had to work with were their names, so this isn’t definitive, okay?”
“Say it.”
“The names Drusilla Rayne and Wilson Smith are on a list of the dead. Drusilla Rayne was a forty-two-year-old Caucasian who died indigent at Charity Hospital three days before the storm. Wilson Smith was a seventy-six-year-old African-American male who died of a heart attack while being evacuated to Natchez, Mississippi. No known relatives for either. That’s it.”
Pike felt achy and numb. The man and the woman he knew as Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne had taken their names from the dead, and probably used the deceaseds’ social security numbers to assume their identities.
Pike didn’t know what to say, and now Cole looked uncomfortable.
“You want to look at more video?”
“No point.”
“What do you want to do?”
Pike glanced at the frozen screen, then stood.
“Azzara has them. I’m going to take a shower, then I’m going to find Azzara.”
Pike left Cole at the computer and walked back to the guest room.
30
Daniel
Daniel said, “If our intel on the Mexican is accurate, I’ll know their location before noon.”
The Bolivian sounded more excited than Daniel had ever heard the man, which meant
all
the Bolivians were excited. Daniel pictured them sitting around in their compounds, strokin’ their stiffies, thinkin’ they were finally gonna get their revenge. Nothing those nasty little fuckers liked better than vengeance, and now they would have it. Thanks to Daniel.
“Stand by, sir—”
Daniel waited for the thunder of a departing Hawker business jet to fade before he continued. Those Hawkers were nice.
“Sorry, sir, I’m at the airport. Were we able to confirm the flight departed this morning?”
Yammer yammer.
“All right, yes, that’s perfect. Do we have the aircraft registration number or its make and model?”
Yammer.
Cleo said, “Yammer.”
Tobey said, “Yammer.”
Daniel shushed them.
“Shh.”
Daniel listened carefully while the Bolivian rattled out the latest intel from Mexico. The crush of information from Mexico and New Orleans during the past two days had been invaluable, but there would have been no information without Daniel, and the Bolivians knew it. Daniel had finally found the fuckers, and the dumb fucks had tried to cut a deal instead of running, and now their deal was killing them.
“Yes, sir, I will keep you advised—absolutely.”
Daniel wanted to get off the phone, but the Bolivian kept going, saying how pleased they all were with Daniel, his loyalty, his determination, yadayadayada.
“Thank you, sir. No, really—I appreciate your faith in me. Thank you.”
Daniel killed the link.
“Asshole.”
Cleo snickered. “What an assfart.”
Tobey laughed. “Big gapin’ assclown, clown.”
Daniel squinted across the runway at the control tower, then up into a hazy white sky. He leaned back until he looked straight up, enjoying the morning sky, and this place, and this moment. Daniel had assassinated people at airports like this all over South and Central America. He had also kidnapped people, blown up airplanes, stolen cargo, and pretty much every other damn thing a person could do.
“Been a long hunt, boys.”
Tobey said, “Way too long.”
Cleo said, “Too damn long.”
Santa Monica Airport was a single runway lined by hangars and businesses, along with a very nice viewing area where Daniel now sat. He would be able to see the jet land, and still have plenty of time to get into position. Daniel already knew where the inbound jet would park. A stretch limo, a candy-gold SS396, and a chopped-down Monte Carlo were waiting directly across the tarmac. A moron’s idea of a welcoming committee, for sure, but the limo was a fat black roach that would lead him to the promised land.
Daniel checked his watch. If the Bolivian was right, the Mexican would touch down in less than an hour, then be on his way to their meeting.
“You guys ready to kill some people?”
Tobey said, “Fuck yeah.”
Cleo said, “Kill’m real good, good.”
Daniel chuckled.
“Me, too, boys.”
“Kill’m and eat’m?”
“Eat’m?”
“You boys are insane.”
“’Sane?”
“’Sane?”
Daniel enjoyed the sun on his face and the pleasant company of their echoing voices.
31
Elvis Cole
Cole watched Pike drive away, then returned to his desk for the pictures of Dru and Wilson, who weren’t really Dru Rayne or Wilson Smith. People change their names to hide, but hide from what, and who? Cole had been an investigator long enough to know people sometimes had good reasons to hide, but most of the time their reasons were bad. Cole had a bad feeling about these people, and the more he learned the worse his feeling grew.
The woman’s picture was best. She was turned to her left as if she was speaking with Mendoza or Azzara, so she was facing the camera. Wilson was peering over the steering wheel, which gave a three-quarter view with part of his face blocked by the side view mirror.
Something about their expressions bothered him, but Cole couldn’t decide why. After a few minutes, he put the pictures aside, and called Bree Sloan at the phone company to follow up on the cell numbers. Sometimes they called back right away. Sometimes he had to nag.
She said, “Are you a mind reader? I was just about to call.”
“Good news?”
“No, you’re going to hate it, but I still get the tickets, right?”
“Of course.”
Cole got premium Dodgers tickets from a former client, and shared them with people who helped him. Especially people like Bree, who was a regional manager at a midsized local telecommunications provider. Seats in the exclusive Dodgers Dugout Club worked better than search warrants.
“You at your computer?”
“Staring at it. It isn’t as sexy as you.”
Bree laughed. She had an excellent laugh.
“Man, you’re something.”
“Amazing, aren’t I?”
“Okay, now stop that and listen. These three numbers you gave me—8272, 3563, and 3502?”
Cole glanced at his notes. These were the last four digits on the numbers for Wilson’s shop, Wilson’s cell phone, and Dru’s cell.
“Uh-huh. I’m with you.”
“8272 is a landline with ATT billed to Wilson’s Takeout Foods. I’m going to send you the inbound and outbound records for the past forty-five days, okay? That’s all they have.”
“I understand.”
Phone service providers usually kept call histories for only forty-five days, though they kept billing information longer. Cole had expected this when he examined the bills he found in Smith’s file box.
“Now the bad news. 3563 and 3502 are prepaids out of a small provider based in Phoenix. You owe me big-time for these two—the guy I talked to over there was a monumental jackass.”
“These are the cell numbers?”
“Yeah. The provider is a company called Electrotelepathy. They rent antenna space from the larger companies like we do, but on a way smaller scale. They specialize in prepaid options. Keeps their infrastructure down.”
“Did you get the histories?”
“I’m sending them in the email, but this is the part you aren’t going to like. The numbers were activated only twelve days ago. There isn’t much in the way of history.”
Cole tipped back in the chair. Wilson and Dru used throwaways, which probably meant they changed numbers often. Fake names. Untraceable numbers. How much more perfect could it get?
“Was there a text history?”
“Electrotelepathy doesn’t keep texts or emails. That isn’t unusual. Some of the big companies don’t, either. And before you ask—because I’m a mind reader, too, and I know you’re going to ask me—these phones are not GPS-enabled. Electrotelepathy is a low-end company, so they sell a low-end product.”
“How recent are the histories?”
“Through this morning. That’s when I spoke with him. For the
third
time.”
“Okay, pal, thanks. I appreciate it.”
“A Giants game, right?”
“The Giants.”