the First Rule (2010) (10 page)

Elvis Cole Detective Agency. We find more for less. Check our prices.

Pike said, I need your help.

Elvis Cole ELVIS COLE PUT DOWN the phone, feeling even more concerned than he was before Pike called. Cole couldn't count the times Pike had saved his life, or the endless moments of silence they had shared when just being with someone who has seen the same horrible things you have seen was the last best way to survive. But he could count on one hand the times Joe Pike had asked for help.

Cole hadn't felt right since Detective-Sergeant Jack Terrio hit him with questions he couldn't answer about a multiple homicide he knew nothing about, and now Cole was irritated he had to wait to find out what was going on. As usual, Pike hadn't explained anything over the phone. Just said he was on his way, and hung up. Ever the mannered conversationalist.

The Elvis Cole Detective Agency maintained a two-office suite four flights above Santa Monica Boulevard. The selling point had been the balcony. Cole could step outside on a clear day and see all the way down Santa Monica to the sea. Sometimes, the seagulls flew inland, floating in the air like white porcelain kites, blinking at him with beady eyes. Sometimes, the woman in the next suite stepped onto her balcony to sun herself. Her selection of bikinis was impressive.

Cole's name was on the door, but Joe Pike was his partner, as well as his friend. They bought the agency the same year Pike left the LAPD and Cole was licensed by the state of California as a private investigator.

That morning, the sky was milky, but bright, cool, but not chilly, and the French doors were open so Cole could enjoy the air. Cole was wearing a killer Jams World aloha shirt (colors for the day: sunburst and lime), khaki cargo pants, and an Italian suede shoulder holster of impeccable design, said holster currently gunless. Cole was wearing the holster in hopes the woman next door would emerge in her latest bikini, see it, and swoon, but so far, Cole was zero for two: no woman, no swooning.

Twenty minutes later, Cole was balancing his checkbook when Pike arrived. Cole didn't hear the door open or close. This was just how Pike moved. As if he was so used to moving quietly he no longer touched the earth.

Cole pushed the checkbook aside, letting Pike see his irritation.

So I'm sitting here, the door opens, and these cops walk in, badge, badge, badge. Three of them, so I know it's important. They say, what do I know about Frank Meyer? I say, who? They say, Meyer was a merc with your boy Pike. I say, okay, and? They say, Meyer and his family were shot to death. I don't know what to say to that, but that's when the alpha cop, a guy named Terrio, asked what I knew about your personal relationship with Meyer, and whether you had a business relationship. I said, brother, I have never heard that name before.

Cole watched as Pike settled into a spot against the wall. Pike rarely sat when he was at their office. He leaned against the wall.

Pike said, No reason you would. Frank was one of my guys. From before.

Terrio told me they had reason to believe this crew hit Meyer because he had cash or drugs at his home.

Terrio's wrong. He believes the other six victims were crooked, so he's gunning for Frank.

Cole frowned, feeling even less in the know.

Other six?

Frank's home was the seventh hit in a string. Same crew, working the Westside and Encino. They've been ripping off criminals.

Terrio left out that part. So did the paper.

After Terrio left, Cole had searched the L. A. Times website and local news stations for their coverage of the murders. The Times had provided the most information, describing Frank Meyer as a successful, self-made businessman. No mention was made of his past as a professional military contractor, but maybe that hadn't been known at the time the article was written. A detective named Stan Watts was quoted, saying he believed a professional home invasion crew numbering between three and four men entered the home between eight and ten P. M., with robbery as the likely motive. Watts provided no details about what might have been stolen.

Cole had printed out the article, and now pushed it toward Pike, but Pike didn't look at it.

Cole said, If Terrio's wrong, then what did these people go there to steal?

Pike took a sheet of notepaper and a cell phone from his pocket, and placed them on Cole's desk.

I found a connection Terrio doesn't know about.

Cole listened as Pike told him about a recently released criminal named Jamal Johnson and his cousin, Rahmi. Pike told him about a new Malibu, and that Jamal told Rahmi his crew bought scores from someone in the Serbian mob. Pike was in the middle of telling it when Cole raised a hand, stopping him.

Waitaminute. SIS is watching this guy, and you broke into his place?

Yes.

That's insane.

Pike tossed the phone to Cole.

Rahmi's phone. Jamal's number is in the memory. Maybe you could ID the service provider, and back-trace Jamal's call list. We might be able to find him through his friends.

Cole put the phone aside, and picked up the note.

I'll see what I can do. How are these people connected?

Ana Markovic was the Meyers' nanny. She died this morning. Rina was her sister. She has a friend called Yanni. I'm not sure how he spells it. Rina was at the hospital before her sister died. She was standing guard because she believed the people who shot her sister might come around to finish the job.

You think she knows something?

They're Serbian. Rahmi says his cousin hooked up with a Serbian gangster. What are the odds?

Cole thought about it. Los Angeles has always had a small Serbian population, but, just as the Russian and Armenian populations increased after the Soviet Union collapsed, the Serbian and expatriate Yugoslavian populations shot up after the conflicts in the nineties. Criminals and organized gangsters arrived along with everyone else, and L. A. now had significant numbers of criminal gang sets from all over Eastern Europe. But even with the increasing populations, the numbers of East Europeans remained statistically small. A Latin, African-American, or Anglo connection would have meant nothing. A Balkan connection in Westwood was worth checking out.

Cole placed the note with the phone.

Your pal Rina, you think she'd talk to me?

No.

Cole stared at the information Pike had cribbed onto the sheet. It wasn't much.

Where did Ana live?

With Frank.

Maybe she had another place for the weekends.

I don't know.

I guess you and I aren't up to speed on the nanny lifestyle.

No.

The classic Pike conversation.

What I'm getting at here is that talking to people who knew this girl might be a good place to start. I'll need the names of her friends, maybe some phone numbers, things like that. If the sister won't talk to us, can we get into the crime scene?

I'll take care of it. Also, John Chen is on the SID team. He's running the physical evidence.

Cole nodded. Chen was good, and Chen had worked with them before. Cole would call him after Pike left.

Two seagulls appeared in the empty blue nothing outside the glass. Cole watched them float on their invisible sea, tiny heads turning. One of them suddenly dropped out of sight. His partner watched the other fall, then folded his wings and followed.

Cole said, And Terrio doesn't know about Jamal and the Serbian connection?

No.

You going to tell him?

No. I want to find them before the police.

Pike was staring at him, but his face was as empty of expression as always, the dark glasses like two black holes cut into space. The stillness in Pike was amazing.

Cole looked for the gulls again, but they were still gone. The winter sky was a milky blue, just edging into gray from the haze. Cole got up, went around his desk to the little fridge under the Pinocchio clock, and took out a bottle of water. He offered it to Pike. Pike shook his head once. Cole brought it back to his desk.

Cole glanced at the news story again, the one Pike had not touched. The second paragraph, where the names of the murdered victims were given. Frank, Cindy, Frank, Jr., Joe. The youngest was Joey. Executed. The word chosen by the journalist to describe what had happened. Executed. Cole had not stopped thinking about that word since he read the story. He knew better, but the writer was good. She had burned a few words onto a blank page, forcing Cole and her other readers to imagine the scene, and there it was. A black steel muzzle to the head. Clenched eyes, tears squeezing through stitched lids, maybe the sobbing and screaming, and the short, sharp BAM that ends all of it. The sobbing stops, the face grows serene as its lines relax in death, and all that remains is the mother's screams. Cindy would have been last. Cole folded the article and pushed it aside, wondering the thing he had been wondering since reading the article yesterday, whether or not the youngest boy, Joey, had been named after Pike.

Who was Frank Meyer?

One of my guys.

Cole had learned enough over the years to know what was meant. Pike had been able to hand-pick his guys, which meant he chose people he respected. Then, because they were Pike's guys, he would have arranged for their gear, and meals, and equipment, made sure they were paid on time, that their contracts were honored, and that they were properly equipped for the job at hand. He would have taken care of them, and they would have taken care of him, and he would not have let them sell their lives cheaply.

Who was Frank Meyer?

One of my guys.

Cole said, I don't need to hide from what you're going to do. You haven't done it yet. Maybe things will change. Maybe the police will find them first.

Pike said, Mm.

Cole studied Pike, and thought that Pike was studying him back, but maybe Pike was just looking. Cole never knew what Pike was thinking. Maybe Pike was just waiting for Cole to say something. Pike was very patient.

Cole said, I want you to hear this, and think about it. I don't think Terrio is necessarily wrong. If I were him, I would be looking at Meyer, too. What if it turns out Frank isn't the man you knew. What if Terrio's right?

The flat black lenses seemed to bore into Cole as if they were portholes into another dimension.

He's still one of my guys.

The seagulls reappeared, drawing Cole's eye. They hung in the air, tiny heads flicking left and right as they glanced at each other. Then, as one, the two birds looked at Cole. They stared with their merciless eyes, then banked away. Gone.

Cole said, You see that?

But when Cole looked over, Pike was gone, too.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN in dark blue business suits were walking up Frank's drive when Pike cruised past. A senior uniformed officer with the stars on her collar that marked her as a deputy chief was gesturing as the three civilians followed. Downtown brass giving a few big-shots the tour.

A single black-and-white command car was parked at the curb, indicating the officer had driven the civilians herself. No other official vehicles were present. Three days after the murders, the lab rats had found everything there was to find. Pike knew the house would remain sealed until the science people were certain they wouldn't need additional samples. When they gave the okay, the detectives would release the house to Frank and Cindy's estate, and someone would notify Ana Markovic's family that they could claim her possessions. Pike wondered if Ana's parents lived in Serbia, and if they had been notified. He wondered if they were flying in to claim their daughter's body, and whether they could afford it.

Pike circled a nearby park, slowly winding his way back to Frank's. He approached from the opposite direction this time, and parked two blocks up the street with an easy, eyes-forward view of the command car.

The senior officer and her guests stayed inside for forty-two minutes. This was much longer than Pike would have expected, but then they came back down the drive, climbed into the command car, and drove away.

Pike waited five minutes, then pulled forward to park across from Frank's. An older woman with white hair was walking a little white dog. The dog was short, and old, with a heavy body and eyes that had been playful before they were tired. Pike let them pass, then walked up Frank's drive, and entered through the side gate as he had two nights before.

Someone had taped a piece of cardboard over the broken pane in the French door. Pike pushed the cardboard aside and let himself in. After four days, the blood pooled on the floors had soured and mildewed. Pike ignored the smell, and went to Ana Markovic's room.

The handmade Valentine poster made by Frank's boys, the posters of European soccer players, the tiny desk with its clutter of magazines and laptop computer all remained as Pike remembered. The screen saver was still playing, a young Hawaiian surf stud riding a wave that swallowed him, only to be resurrected and swallowed again in an endless loop. Pike closed the screen, unplugged the power cord, and placed the computer by the door. He searched through the drawers and clutter, hoping for some kind of address book or cell phone, but found neither. Instead, he found a high school yearbook and some birthday and holiday cards. He put the cards in the yearbook, and the yearbook with the computer.