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  The Watchman

  ( Joe Pike - 1 )

  Robert Crais

  Larkin Conner Barkley lives like the City of Angels is hers for the taking. Young and staggeringly rich, she speeds through the city during its loneliest hours, blowing through red after red in her Aston Martin as if running for her life. Until out of nowhere a car appears, and with it the metal-on-metal explosion of a terrible accident. Dazed, Larkin attempts to help the other victims. And finds herself the sole witness in a secret federal investigation.

  For maybe the first time in her life, Larkin wants to do the right thing. But by agreeing to cooperate with the authorities, she becomes the target for a relentless team of killers. And when the U.S. Marshals and the finest security money can buy can’t protect her, Larkin’s wealthy family turns to the one man money can’t buy – Joe Pike.

  Pike lives a world away from the palaces of Beverly Hills. He’s an ex-cop, ex-marine, ex-mercenary who owes a bad man a favor, and that favor is to keep Larkin alive. The one upside of the job is reuniting with Bud Flynn, Pike’s LAPD training officer, and a man Pike reveres as a father. The downside is Larkin Barkley, who is the uncontrollable cover girl for self-destruction – and as deeply alone as Pike.

  Pike commits himself to protecting the girl, but when they immediately come under fire, he realizes someone is selling them out. In defiance of Bud and the authorities, Pike drops off the grid with the girl and follows his own rules of survival: strike fast, hit hard, hunt down the hunters. With the help of private investigator Elvis Cole, Pike uncovers a web of lies and betrayals, and the stunning revelation that even the cops are not who they seem. As the body count rises, Pike’s biggest threat might come from the girl herself, a lost soul in the City of Angels, determined to destroy herself unless Joe Pike can teach her the value of life… and love.

  Robert Crais

  The Watchman

  Create in me a clean heart, O God;

  and renew a right spirit within me.

  - PSALMS 51: 10

  Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber.

  Holy angels guard thy bed!

  - ISAAC WATTS

  pike-n.; a long-bodied, predatory fish

  known for its speed and aggression.

  - OXFORD AMERICAN DICTIONARY

  Prologue. City of Angels

  City of Angels

  The city was hers for a single hour, just the one magic hour, only hers. The morning of the accident, between three and four A. M. when the streets were empty and the angels watched, she flew east on Wilshire Boulevard at eighty miles per hour, never once slowing for the red lights along that stretch called the Miracle Mile, red after red, blowing through lights without even slowing; glittering blue streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

  Accounting for her time before the accident, she would later tell police she was at a club on Yucca in Hollywood, one of those clubs du jour with paparazzi clotted by the door. She had spent an hour avoiding an aging action star while seeing her friends (trust-fund West-siders and A-list young Hollywood; actors, agents, and musicians she had no problem naming for the police), all taking cell-phone pictures of each other, blowing air-kisses and posing with rainbow drinks. The police sergeant who interviewed her would raise his eyebrows when she told him she had not been drinking, but the Breathalyzer confirmed her story. One Virgin Cosmo which she did not finish.

  Three was her witching hour. She dropped a hundred on the valet for her Aston Martin, and red-lined away. Five blocks later-alone-she stopped in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, shut the engine, and enjoyed a cashmere breeze. The scents of jasmine and rosemary came from the hills. The engine ticked, but she listened to find the silence. The stillness of the city at this hour was breathtaking.

  She gazed up at the buildings and imagined angels perched on the edge of the roofs; tall slender angels with drooping wings; standing in perfect silence, watching her without expectation as if in an eternal dream: We give you the city. No one is watching. Set yourself free.

  Her name was Larkin Conner Barkley. She was twenty-two years old. She lived in a hip loft downtown in an area catering to emerging painters and bicoastal musicians, not far from the Los Angeles River. Her family owned the building.

  Larkin pushed the accelerator and felt the wind lift her hair. She bore south on Vine, then east on Wilshire, laughing as her eyes grew wet. Light poles flicked past; red or green, it didn’t matter and she didn’t care. Honking horns were lost in the rush. Her long hair, the color of pennies, whipped and lashed. She closed her eyes, held them closed, kept them shut even longer, then popped them wide and laughed that she still flew straight and true-

  – 85-

  – 90-

  – 101-

  – a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Tuxedo Black convertible blur, smudged by alabaster skin and Medusa copper hair, running wild and free across the city. She flashed over the arch at MacArthur Park, then saw the freeway coming up fast, the Pasadena; a wall guarding downtown. She slowed, but only enough, just barely enough, as cars appeared and streets narrowed, flying over the freeway into the tangle of one-way downtown streets-Sixth, Seventh, Fourth, Ninth; Grand, Hill, and Main. She turned where she wanted, went the wrong way, ran hard for the river; slowing more, finally, inevitably, as everything rippled and blurred-

  She told herself it was the dry night wind and lashing hair, the way her eyes filled when her lonely race finished, but it was always the same whether the air was dry or not, whether her hair was down or up, so she knew. For those few minutes running across the city, she could be and was herself, purely and truly herself, finding herself in those moments only to lose herself once more when she slowed, falling behind as her true self ran free somewhere ahead in the empty night-

  She lurched across Alameda, her speed draining like a wound.

  – 65-

  – 60-

  – 55-

  Larkin turned north on an industrial street parallel to the river. Her building was only blocks away when the air bag exploded. The Aston Martin spun sideways to a stop. White powder hung in the air like haze; sprayed over her shoulders and arms. The other car had been a flashing shape, no more real than a shadow in the sea, a flick of gleaming movement broken by the prisms of her tears, then the impact.

  Larkin released her belt and stumbled from the car. A silver Mercedes sedan was on the sidewalk, its rear fender broken and bent. A man and a woman were in the front seat, the man behind the wheel. A second man was in the rear, closest to the impact. The driver was helping the woman, whose face was bleeding; the man in back was on his side, trying to pull himself up but unable to rise.

  Larkin slapped the driver’s-side window.

  “Are you all right? Can I help?”

  The driver stared at her blankly before truly seeing her, then opened his door. He was cut above his left eye.

  Larkin said, “Ohmigod, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll call 911. I’ll get an ambulance.”

  The driver was in his fifties, well dressed and tan, with a large gold ring on his right hand and a beautiful watch on his left. The woman stared dumbly at blood on her hands. The backseat passenger spilled out the rear door, fell to his knees, then used the side of the car to climb to his feet.

  He said, “We’re okay. It’s nothing.”

  Larkin realized her cell phone was still in her car. She had to get help for these people.

  “Please sit down. I’ll call-”

  “No. Let me see about you.”

  The man from the backseat took a step but sank to a knee. Larkin saw him clearly, lit by the headlights of her car. His eyes were large, and so dark they looked black in the fractured light.

  Larkin hurried to her car. She found her cell phone on the floor, and was dialing
911 when the Mercedes backed off the sidewalk, its rear fender dragging the street.

  Larkin said, “Hey, wait-!”

  Larkin called after them again, but they didn’t slow. She was memorizing their license plate when she heard the man from the backseat running away hard up the middle of the street.

  A tinny voice cut through her confusion.

  “Emergency operator, hello?”

  “I had a wreck, an auto accident-”

  “Was anyone injured?”

  “They drove away. This man, I don’t know-”

  Larkin closed her eyes and recited the license number. She was scared she would forget it, so she pulled out her lip gloss-Cherry Pink Ice-and wrote the number on her arm.

  “Ma’am, do you need help?”

  Larkin felt wobbly.

  “Ma’am-?”

  The earth tilted and Larkin sat in the street.

  “Ma’am, tell me where you are.”

  Larkin tried to answer.

  “Ma’am, where are you?”

  Larkin lay back on the cool, hard street. Dark buildings huddled over her like priests in black frocks, bent over in prayer. She searched their roofs for angels.

  The first patrol car arrived in seven minutes; the paramedics three minutes later. Larkin thought it would end that night when the police finished their questions, but her nightmare had only begun.

  In forty-eight hours, she would meet with agents from the Department of Justice and the U.S. Attorney’s. In six days, the first attempt would be made on her life. In eleven days, she would meet a man named Joe Pike.

  Everything in her world was about to change. And it began that night.

  Day One. Stay Groovy

  1

  The girl was moody getting out of the car, making a sour face to let him know she hated the shabby house and sun-scorched street smelling of chili and episote. To him, this anonymous house would serve. He searched the surrounding houses for threats as he waited for her, clearing the area the way another man might clear his throat. He felt obvious wearing the long-sleeved shirt. The Los Angeles sun was too hot for the sleeves, but he had little choice. He moved carefully to hide what was under the shirt.

  She said, “People who live in houses like this have deformed children. I can’t stay here.”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “I haven’t eaten all day. I didn’t eat yesterday and now this smell is making me feel strange.”

  “We’ll eat when we’re safe.”

  The house opened as the girl joined him, and the woman Bud told him to expect appeared: a squat woman with large white teeth and friendly eyes named Imelda Arcano. Mrs. Arcano managed several apartment houses and single-family rentals in Eagle Rock, and Bud’s office had dealt with her before. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the four neat holes that had been punched into their fender the night before.

  He turned his back to the house to speak with the girl.

  “The attitude makes you memorable. Lose it. You want to be invisible.”

  “Why don’t I wait in the car?”

  Leaving her was unthinkable.

  “Let me handle her.”

  The girl laughed.

  “That would be you all over it. I want to see that, you handling her. I want to see you charm her.”

  He took the girl’s arm and headed toward the house. To her credit, the girl fell in beside him without making a scene, slouching to change her posture the way he had shown her. Even with her wearing the oversize sunglasses and Dodgers cap, he wanted her inside and out of sight as quickly as possible.

  Mrs. Arcano smiled wider as they reached the front door, welcoming them.

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s so hot today, isn’t it? It’s cool inside. The air conditioner works very well. I’m Imelda Arcano.”

  After the nightmare in Malibu, Bud’s office had arranged the new house on the fly-dropped the cash and told Mrs. Arcano whatever she needed to hear, which probably wasn’t much. This would be easy money, no questions part of the deal, low-profile tenants who would be gone in a week. Mrs. Arcano probably wouldn’t even report the rental to the absentee owner; just pocket Bud’s cash and call it a day. They were to meet Mrs. Arcano only so she could give them the keys.

  Imelda Arcano beckoned them inside. The man hesitated long enough to glance back at the street. It was narrow and treeless, which was good. He could see well in both directions, though the small homes were set close together, which was bad. The narrow alleys would fill with shadows at dusk.

  He wanted Mrs. Arcano out of the way as quickly as possible, but Mrs. Arcano latched onto the girl-one of those female-to-female things-and gave them the tour, leading them through the two tiny bedrooms and bath, the microscopic living room and kitchen, the grassless backyard. He glanced at the neighboring houses from each window, and out the back door at the rusty chain-link fence that separated this house from the one behind it. A beige and white pit bull was chained to an iron post in the neighboring yard. It lay with its chin on its paws, but it was not sleeping. He was pleased when he saw the pit bull.

  The girl said, “Does the TV work?”

  “Oh, yes, you have cable. You have lights, water, and gas-everything you need, but there is no telephone. You understand that? There really is no point in having the phone company create a line for such a short stay.”

  He had told the girl not to say anything, but now they were having a conversation. He cut it off.

  “We have cell phones. You can hand over the keys and be on your way.”

  Mrs. Arcano stiffened, indicating she was offended.

  “When will you be moving in?”

  “Now. We’ll take the keys.”

  Mrs. Arcano peeled two keys from her key ring, then left. For the first and only time that day he left the girl alone. He walked Mrs. Arcano to her car because he wanted to bring their gear into the house as quickly as possible. He wanted to call Bud. He wanted to find out what in hell happened the night before, but mostly he wanted to make sure the girl was safe.

  He lingered at his car until Mrs. Arcano drove away, then looked up and down the street again-both ways, the houses, between the houses-and everything seemed fine. He brought his and the girl’s duffels into the house, along with the bag they had grabbed at the Rite Aid.

  The television was on, the girl hopping through the local stations for news. When he walked in, she laughed, then mimicked him, lowering and flattening her voice.

  “‘Hand over the keys and be on your way.’ Oh, that charmed her. That certainly made you forgettable.”

  He turned off the television and held out the Rite Aid bag. She didn’t take it, pissed about him turning off the set, so he let it drop to the floor.

  “Do your hair. We’ll get something to eat when you’re finished.”

  “I wanted to see if we’re on the news.”

  “Can’t hear with the TV. We want to hear. Maybe later.”

  “I can turn off the sound.”

  “Do the hair.”

  He peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the front door. If he went out again or someone came to the door he would pull it on. He was wearing a Kimber.45 semiautomatic pushed into the waist of his pants. He opened his duffel and took out a clip holster for the Kimber and a second gun, this one already holstered, a Colt Python.357 Magnum with the four-inch barrel. He clipped the Kimber onto the front of his pants in the cross-draw position and the Python on his right side. He hadn’t chanced the holsters with Mrs. Arcano, but he hadn’t wanted to take the chance of being without a gun, either.

  He took a roll of duct tape from his bag and went to the kitchen.

  Behind him, the girl said, “Asshole.”

  He made sure the back door was locked, then moved to the tiny back bedroom, locked the windows, and pulled the shades. This done, he tore off strips of duct tape and sealed the shades over the windows. He taped the bottoms and sides to the sills and jambs, all th
e way around each shade. If anyone managed to raise a window they would make noise tearing the shade from the wall and he would hear. When the shades were taped, he took out his Randall knife and made a three-inch vertical slit in each shade, just enough for him to finger open so he could cover the approaches to the house. He was cutting the shades when he heard her go into the bathroom. Finally cooperating. He knew she was scared, both of him and of what was happening, so he was surprised she had been trying as hard as she had. And pleased, thinking maybe they would stay alive a little while longer.

  On his way to the front bedroom he passed the bath. She was in front of the mirror, cutting away her rich copper hair. She held the hair between her fingers, pulling it straight from her head to hack it away with the cheap Rite Aid scissors, leaving two inches of jagged spikes. Boxes of Clairol hair color, also fresh from the Rite Aid, lined the sink. She saw him in the mirror and glared.

  “I hate this. I’m going to look so Melrose.”

  She had peeled down to her bra but left the door open. He guessed she wanted him to see. The five-hundred-dollar jeans rode low on her hips below a smiling dolphin jumping between the dimples on the small of her back. Her bra was light blue and sheer, and the perfect color against her olive skin. Looking at him, she played with her hair, which now stuck out in uneven spikes. She fluffed the spikes, shaped them, then considered them. The sink and floor were covered with the hair she had cut away.

  She said, “What about white? I could go white. Would that make you happy?”

  “Brown. Nondescript.”

  “I could go blue. Blue might be fun.”

  She turned to pose her body.

  “Would you love it? Retropunk? So totally Melrose? Tell me you love it.”

  He continued on to the front bedroom without answering. She hadn’t bought blue. She probably thought he hadn’t been paying attention, but he paid attention to everything. She had bought blond, brown, and black. He locked and taped the front bedroom windows as he had done in the rest of the house, then returned to the bathroom. Now the water was running and she was leaning over the sink, wearing clear plastic gloves, massaging color into her hair. Black. He wondered how long it would take for the red to be hidden. He took out his cell phone, calling Bud Flynn as he watched.