The sentry jp-3 Page 17

  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."

  Bree was a Dodgers fan, but her life partner, Estelle, was a Giants fan from San Francisco. Theirs was a mixed marriage.

  "You're my hero, Elvis. Estelle will love it."

  "Tell her she's the luckiest woman alive."

  "I do. Every night."

  "Go Blue."

  "Go Blue."

  Cole laughed as they hung up.

  When Bree's email appeared, Cole opened it and found three attached documents, one for each of the three phone numbers. The two cell histories were short, just as Bree warned. Cole didn't know which was Dru's and which was Wilson's until he skimmed them and found Pike's cell number on the 3502 log. 3502 would be Dru's phone. Her last call was made to Pike's number almost three days earlier at 11:32 P.M. Cole decided this was the missed call Pike had told him about. She had made no calls on the phone since that time. Cole checked 3563, and found no entries since earlier that same day, which meant Wilson had made no calls in the past three days, either. This coincided with the abduction, but Cole knew Wilson phoned Detective Button after seeing the carnage at his shop. No such call was listed on the call list. Cole checked to see if the call had been made from Wilson's shop phone, but found that no calls had been made from the shop that morning, either. This left Cole puzzled and suspicious. If the call to Button did not show on any of the three records, how many phones did Wilson Smith have?

  Cole printed all three documents, then found himself staring at the two pictures again. It was as if the pictures were trying to tell him something that he couldn't quite hear.

  Frustrated, he put them aside, poured himself another cup of coffee, then went through the call histories looking for recurring numbers. He was making a list of the most frequently called numbers when his phone rang.

  John Chen said, "Can you talk?"

  "Yeah. Where are you?"

  "On my way to Los Feliz. Some idiot lost a game of Russian roulette. This is the only time I get any privacy, man, driving to a crime scene. I've been waiting all morning to call."

  "You get some prints?"

  "Am I not the Chen? Eleven distinct samples, and I'm pretty sure some belong to a female. That's based on size, so I'm only guessing, but whoever it is isn't in the system. You don't have to worry about her. The other guy is a different story."

  "You got a hit on the man?"

  "Kinda."

  "What's kinda, John? C'mon. What's his name?"

  "I don't know. That's why I said kinda. I got a sealed file. All you get is a file number and a directive telling you who to contact."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Could mean anything. The guy could be a cop, a federal agent, maybe in witness protection, something like that. We see these with military personnel, too, like when it's a Delta guy or a SEAL or one of those top-secret things."

  "Are you telling me this guy is a spook?"

  "I was just giving examples. I'm guessing the guy is a criminal or a cop."

  "Why?"

  "The directive. It says to contact the FBI or the Louisiana Department of Justice for information. That kinda rules out him being a spook."

  "Did you?"

  "Hell, no! They'd know I'm involved. It's bad enough they're gonna ping our computer for submitting the print. They might come snooping around to see why we had his prints."

  Cole felt a stab of concern.

  "Are you going to get jammed up because of this?"

  "Nah. I used Harriet's password when I logged on. It can't get back to me."

  Harriet was John's boss.

  Chen said, "Sorry I couldn't get the information, bro, but this is as far as I can take it. I really wanted to help. Tell Joe, okay?"

  "You helped, John. You really did. What's that file number?"

  Cole copied the file number, then immediately phoned Lucy Chenier. She was in a meeting, but had left instructions to be interrupted. When she came on the line, Cole explained what he needed.

  "Does Terry have a contact in the Louisiana Department of Justice?"

  "Probably more than one. Why?"

  Cole told her about the sealed file with its directive to contact the Louisiana DOJ.

  "The DOJ and the FBI. I don't like these things we're learning."

  "Me, neither. Can I give you the file number?"

  Cole read it off, waited as she copied, then listened as she read it back to make sure she had the correct number.

  "Okay. I'll see how Terry wants to handle it."

  "Thanks, Luce."

  "One thing-"

  He waited.

  "These sealed files can mean anything, but one thing they always mean is that it's important to someone that this individual's identity is protected. Once Terry makes the inquiry-even through one of his sources-we can't put the genie back in the bottle. The people who are hiding this man might turn out to be a very pissed-off genie."

  "I understand."

  "Are you sure you want to go forward?"

  "Yes."

  "We'll get ba
ck to you when we can."

  Cole put down the phone with an uneasy sense that his legs had been swept from beneath him by a furious river of unknown events and unknowable people, and the river was carrying him with it. He stretched until his shoulders cracked, then remembered the pictures, and realized what had been bothering him.

  He placed the pictures of Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne on his keyboard, and studied their faces again. Their eyes didn't show the anxious tension of people with a gun at their backs. They didn't look scared. Cole wondered why.

  32

  Pike rolled hard down the canyon from Elvis Cole's house until he was free of the high ridges. He called Arturo Alvarez as he entered the flats. The phone rang so many times Pike thought no one would answer, but finally a young woman picked up, her voice so subdued Pike wasn't sure if she was the same young woman he'd met at the Angel Eyes house.

  "Hello."

  "Marisol?"

  "Yes. May I help you?"

  "This is Joe Pike. Can I speak with Artie?"

  The line was so quiet Pike wondered if she put him on hold.

  Pike said, "Hello?"

  "Go to hell."

  She hung up without saying more, and Pike knew by her anger, something ugly had happened to Art.

  The freshly painted stucco house was as subdued as Marisol's voice when Pike arrived. The crowd of kids Pike had seen on his last visit was gone, and the yard was deserted except for a shirtless male counselor on the roof, replacing a tile shingle in the late-morning sun.

  The front door was open for air, so Pike did not knock. He stepped inside, and found the living room empty.

  "Anyone here?"

  Pike heard a voice in the rear, then Marisol appeared in the hall, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her eyes angry black gunsights.

  "Get out of here."

  "Where's Art?"

  "You brought them here. Go."

  Pike called into the house.

  "Art?"

  A low mumble he recognized as Art's voice came from the back rooms, but Marisol spoke over him.

  "We don't want you here. Go away."

  Pike pushed past her and found Father Art in a small bedroom across from his office, one of the tiny rooms a kid used when they had no place else to go. Already hot, but the windows were up and a small electric fan stirred the air. Art was propped on a single bed with couch cushions for support. His left eye was swollen to a slit, and both were purpled and black. Contusions like the Verdugo Mountains crossed his forehead. His nose was twice its normal size and bent to the right, pointing at his split upper lip and a discolored mouse on his cheek. A loose white T-shirt made him look thin.

  Pike said, "Azzara."

  Not a question. A statement.

  Marisol came up behind him, and punched him in the back.

  "He don't want to see you. Get out of here."

  She punched him again.

  "You listenin' to me, motherfucker?"

  Art lifted his hand and spoke through the split.

  "Marisol. Not like that."

  Pike ignored her, staring at Art's good eye.

  "Let's get you to a hospital."

  "Won't happen, brother. No hospital."

  Pike moved closer, Art's good eye following him.

  "Because of me?"

  Behind him, Marisol answered again.

  "What you think? They blamed him for whatever shit you did at that body shop. They brought it back on Art. He never should've helped you."

  Pike lifted Art's shirt. His chest and abdomen were blotchy with purple and green bruises from haymakers and kicks. They had beaten Art so hard the kicks and punches flowed out of Art into Pike until Art pulled his shirt back to cover the marks.

  "This is what I teach these kids. You see how violence spreads? You let me down, man."

  "Are your ribs broken?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Let me take you to a doctor."

  "It's over. Forget it."

  Pike glanced at Marisol.

  "You should have called me."

  "I was, but he wouldn't let me, not you, the police, nobody."

  Art's hand came up again.

  "It was done. Now I have to rebuild the trust that was lost."

  Marisol said something in Spanish Pike did not understand, but it was harsh and angry, and Pike knew it was directed at Art.

  "Where can I find him, Artie? Tell me where he lives."

  "So you will kill him? No."

  Pike took out the picture of Azzara and Mendoza in the car behind Wilson and Dru.

  "So I can save these people or find their bodies. Azzara lied to me. He told me he would stop Mendoza. He told me he didn't know what happened to them, but here he is with them and Mendoza. Miguel is going to tell me where they are, Art. He knows."

  "No, no more. If I can't make it here, who is going to help these kids? Who will reach out? Go away, Joe-get out."

  Pike studied Arturo Alvarez, and knew there was no more to say. Artie was old-school hard despite the college degrees. In his world, toughness wasn't judged by how well you could give a beating, but by how well you took a beating.

  "Let me get you to the hospital."

  Art turned toward the window.

  Pike glanced at Marisol, then walked away. She followed behind him like an angry guard dog, but Pike stopped in the living room and lowered his voice.

  "Does he have a fever?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "Check. If he has a fever or starts running hot, call me."

  "You're a doctor now?"

  "See if there's blood in his urine."

  "He's been pissing blood for two days. I see it when I help him to the bathroom."

  "Bright red or pink?"

  She glanced toward Art's room, worried.

  "Pink, I think. It was red, but now not so much. Is that good?"

  "Better than red, but not good. Whatever they broke is healing, but he's still in the weeds."

  She crossed her arms again, and her eyes hardened.

  "I wish I had been here. I found him the next morning, when it was too late."

  "They would have hurt you, too."

  The black eyes met his.

  "You think? Maybe I would have shot them to death."

  The eyes moved back to the hall, but lost none of their heat.

  "I would have called the police, but he wouldn't let me. Not even the ambulance. Stupid fool, worried about their trust."

  "Talk to him, Marisol."

  "About what?"

  "I want Miguel."

  "What do you think, they send Christmas cards? Art doesn't know where he lives. Maybe where he grew up, but Miguel left us years ago. He is an executive now. He's better than us."

  Pike sensed something beyond the disdain in her voice, and noticed a discoloration at the corner of her eye. He looked more closely, and saw the skin on her neck mottled from a trip to the laser, not unlike the fading he had seen on Miguel Azzara.

  Pike heard the counselor on the roof. Chipping the tile.

  "Were you Malevos?"

  She stood taller, a neighborhood girl who grew up in the gangs.

  "A different set, but Trece. Myself and my brother. He was killed."

  Maybe I would have taken a gun and shot them to death.

  "Do you know Miguel?"

  She glanced away, back down the hall toward Artie.

  "Once. Not anymore."

  "Do you know where he lives?"

  "Once."

  "I need to find him. For my friends, and for Art."

  She nodded, but it took her a while to speak.

  "Maybe. I know girls who know him. They've been to his fancy new house."

  She glanced away, and Pike wondered if one of those girls was her.

  Marisol made a call, and a few minutes later Pike had an address. He stopped at the door as he was leaving.

  "Watch his temperature. If his temperature climbs, I'll bring a doctor whether he wants one or not."

/>   "He doesn't want to pay. He won't say that, but I know. His money pays for Angel Eyes, and there is never enough. He's always behind."

  "Don't worry about the money. I'll pay."

  "He won't let you."

  "He doesn't have to know."

  She crossed her arms again, but it was not as angry as before. Pike listened to the counselor on the roof, chipping the tile, trying to make the roof stronger.

  33

  Pike decided Miguel Azzara enjoyed looking at himself. He probably struck poses in front of a mirror, thinking he was way hotter than the male models in GQ or all the young actors playing vampires and werewolves. Had to be, because Mikie Azzara had sunk his teeth so deep into Hollywood glam he moved to the Sunset Strip, about as far from his Ghost Town roots as a homeboy could get. Pike wondered what the veteranos thought when they found out, battle-scarred old men who ran La Eme from prison, living and dying the old way in the same neighborhoods for generations. They probably didn't like it much at first, but decided to go along, figuring college-educated young studs like Miguel were the future.

  Problem was, when Mikie left Ghost Town, he left the homegirls who had given themselves to his charisma and movie-star looks, and replaced them with UCLA coeds, aspiring actresses, and the razor-thin girls who cruised the Strip's clubs. This left more than a few resentful homegirls behind, including Marisol's cousin and best friend, Annabel Reynoso, who had visited the house several times before Miguel cut her off.

  Azzara rented a small single-story contemporary home on a cross street south of Sunset behind a stretch of clubs, bars, restaurants, and apartment buildings. Azzara's house was the first house south of an alley that paralleled Sunset Boulevard, on the south side of a cinder-block wall that separated the alley from the home owners who lived beside it. The wall was matted with trumpet vines, and overhung by a spare row of dying ficus trees that lined Azzara's property behind it.

  Azzara's street-like all the other residential streets within walking distance of Sunset-was thick with parked cars and sluggish with drivers who blocked traffic as they maneuvered in and out of parking spots. Pike did not want to risk being jammed up and spotted in front of Azzara's house, so he parked on Sunset two blocks away and approached Azzara's street on foot.