The Watchman (10 page)

Bud handed them to Pike, and tapped the top picture.

“This man was one of the original home invaders. You shot him in Malibu. He’s the only one of the five you shot who was also one of the home invaders.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. But this man—”

Bud shuffled the pictures to point out a man with prominent cheekbones and a scarred lip.

“—he’s the freak who beat the housekeeper. You recognize either of these other guys from Malibu or Eagle Rock?”

“Who are they?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify any of the five people you put in the morgue. The Live Scan kicked back zero. No IDs were found on the bodies, and they weren’t in the system. You can keep these pictures, you want.”

Pike stared at the pictures, thinking it didn’t make sense that none of the five had been identified. The type of man you could hire to do murder almost always had a criminal record. The Live Scan system digitized fingerprints, then instantly compared them with computerized records stored by the California Department of Justice and the NCIC files, and those files were exhaustive. If a person had ever been arrested anywhere in the country or served in the military, their fingerprints were in the file.

Pike said, “That doesn’t sound right.”

“No, it does not, but all five of these guys were clean.”

“No IDs or wallets?”

“Not one damn thing of a personal nature. You arrested a lot of people, Joe. You remember many shitbirds smart enough to clean up before they did crime?”

Pike shook his head.

“Me neither. So here we are.”

Bud slammed his trunk, then stared at the girl.

“I guess I should apologize, getting you involved in this mess, but I won’t. You could just give her back to Pitman. It’s your choice, playing it this way.”

Bud studied Larkin for a moment longer, and Pike wondered what he was thinking. Then Bud turned, and with the new angle of light, Pike thought he looked as hard as ever.

Bud said, “I’m trusting you won’t let this little girl down.”

Pike watched Bud walk away, then returned to the Lexus and immediately drove away.

Larkin said, “He seems like a nice man.”

“He was a good officer.”

“That’s what he told my dad about you, that you were a good policeman. What he said was, you were the best young officer he ever worked with.”

Pike didn’t answer. He was thinking about the five nameless killers, cleaned up for crime with no criminal records. Pike thought he might still use them to find Meesh, and he believed he knew how.

D
EPLOYMENT
P
ERIOD
O
NE

R
AMPART
D
IVISION
R
OLL
C
ALL

E
VENING
W
ATCH
, 1448
HOURS

His dark blue uniform was crisp and fresh, with creases as straight as ruled lines. His stainless steel and copper badge caught light like a mirror, and the black leather of his holster and shoes gleamed as they had in the Marine Corps. Military-issue sunglasses hung from his pocket in the approved position. Pike’s kit, gear, and appearance were in order and by-the-
book perfect, which was the way Pike liked it.

Pike, Charlie Grissom, and Paul “P-bag” Hernandez were seated in the front row in the roll call room of the Rampart Division Police Station. This being their first official day on the job after having graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy, they wore badges and carried loaded weapons for the first time. Today, they would begin their careers as probationary police officers, known within the Los Angeles Police Department as boots.

Pike and the other boots sat erect with their eyes on Sergeant Kelly Levendorf, who was the evening watch commander. Slouching, slumping, or leaning on the table was not permitted. Being boots, they were required to sit in the first row, face forward, and were not allowed to look at the veteran officers who filled the room behind them. They were not allowed to join in the banter during roll call, or react or respond to the veterans, no matter how many spitballs came their way. They had not yet earned that right. Though they had graduated from the academy, they would spend the next year becoming “street certified” by experienced senior officers known as P-IIIs—Pee Threes—who would be their teachers, their protectors, and their Gods.

Two things would happen at this first roll call. They would meet their P-IIIs, which Pike was looking forward to, and they would introduce themselves to the veterans, which Pike dreaded. Pike wasn’t much for talking, and talked about himself least of all.

Levendorf made car assignments, then rolled through everything from suspected criminal activity and suspects known or believed to be in the area, to officer birthdays and upcoming retirement parties. He read most of his announcements from a thick, three-ring binder. When he finished he closed the book and looked up at the shift.

“Okay, we have some new officers aboard, so we’ll let’m introduce themselves. Officer Grissom, you have one minute, one second.”

Pike thought, Here it comes.

At the academy, each recruit was given one minute plus one second to introduce himself. The recruit was expected to be brief and on point—just as he or she was expected to be when dealing with superiors, radio dispatchers, and the public.

Grissom surged to his feet, all gung ho enthusiasm, and turned to face the crowd. He was a short, chunky kid with delicate blond hair, who always seemed anxious to please.

“My name is Charlie Grissom. I graduated from San Diego State with a degree in history. My dad was an officer in San Diego, which is where I was born. I like to surf, fish, and scuba dive. I’m always looking for dive buddies, so look me up if you’re interested. I’m not married, but I’ve been dating the same girl for about a year. Being a police officer is all I’ve ever wanted. My dad wanted me to go on the San Diego PD, but I wanted to be with the best—so I’m here.”

This brought a roar of approval from the shift, but as it died a ragged voice behind Pike cut through the din.

“He kisses ass real good.”

Pike saw Grissom flush from the corner of his eye as Grissom took his seat.

Levendorf said, “Officer Hernandez—one minute, one second.”

Hernandez glanced over at Pike as he stood, and Pike made an imperceptible nod of encouragement. Pike and Hernandez had been roomies at the academy.

Hernandez turned to face them.

“My name is Paul Hernandez. My grandfather, my dad, and two uncles were all LAPD—I’m third generation—”

The shift cheered and clapped until Levendorf told them to knock it off, then ordered Hernandez to continue.

“I had two years at Cal State Northridge playing baseball before I got hurt. I love baseball, and I bleed Dodger blue. I’m married. We’re expecting our first this June. I became an officer because I look up to officers, what with my family and all. That’s the way I was raised. It runs in the blood.”

The shift cheered again as Hernandez returned to his seat.

Levendorf quieted the crowd, then looked at Pike.

“Officer Pike—one minute, one second.”

Everyone said pretty much the same things—they talked about their education and their families, but Pike hadn’t gone to college and wouldn’t talk about his family. He couldn’t see that it mattered or why it was anyone else’s business, anyway. Pike figured all that mattered was what a man did in the moment at hand, and whether or not he did right.

Pike stood and turned. This was the first time he had seen the officers assembled behind him. They were all colors and ages. Many were smiling and loose; others looked stern; and a lot of them looked bored. Pike noted those officers with two stripes on their sleeves. Civilians always confused these for corporal stripes, but these were the P-IIIs. One of them would be his training officer.

“My name is Joe Pike. I’m not married. I pulled two combat tours in the Marines—”

The shift broke into wild applause and cheers, with many of the officers shouting “Semper fi.” LAPD had a high percentage of Marine Corps veterans.

Levendorf waved them quiet and nodded at Pike to continue.

“I want to be a police officer because the motto says to protect and to serve. That’s what I want to do.”

Pike took his seat to scattered applause, but someone in the back laughed.

“Got us a regular Clint Eastwood. A man of few words.”

Pike saw Levendorf frowning.

Levendorf said, “We call this part of the program ‘one minute, one second,’ Officer Pike—so I figure you got about forty seconds to go. Perhaps you’d offer a bit more, self-illumination-wise; say, about your family and hobbies?”

Pike stood again, and once more faced the crowd.

“I qualified as a scout/sniper and served in Force Recon, mostly on long-range reconnaissance teams, hunter/killer teams, and priority target missions. I’m black belt qualified in tae kwon do, kung fu, wing chun, judo, and ubawazi. I like to run and work out. I like to read.”

Pike stopped. The shift stared at him, but Pike didn’t know whether or not to sit down so he stared back. No one applauded.

Finally, an older black P-III with salt-and-pepper hair said, “Thank God he likes to read—I thought we had us a sissy.”

The shift broke into laughter.

Levendorf ended the roll call, and everyone herded toward the exits except for Pike and the other new guys. They stayed behind to meet their P-IIIs.

Three senior officers bucked the departing crowd to make their way forward. The burly black officer who made the crack about Pike being a reader went to Grissom. The second P-III was an Asian officer with a face as edged as a diamond. He offered his hand to Hernandez. Pike watched the third P-III. He was shorter than Pike, with close brown hair, a rusty tan, and a thin, no-nonsense mouth. Pike guessed he was in his late thirties, but he might have been older. He had three hash marks on the lower part of his sleeve, signifying at least fifteen years on the job.

He came directly to Pike and put out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Officer Pike. I’m Bud Flynn.”

“Sir.”

“I’ll be your training officer for your first two deployment periods. After that, if you’re still around, you’ll swap T.O.’s with the other boots, but you’re mine for the first two months.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Officer Flynn or sir until I say otherwise, and I will call you Officer Pike, Pike, or boot. We clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got your gear?”

“Yes, sir. Right here.”

“Grab it and let’s go.”

Pike hooked the gear bag over his shoulder and followed Flynn out to the parking lot. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and the air was hazy from the smog bank that heated the city. Flynn led Pike to a dinged and battered Caprice that had probably racked up over two hundred thousand hard miles. When they reached the car, Flynn pointed at it.

“This is our shop. Its name is two-adam-forty-four, which will also be your name after I teach you to use the radio. What do you think of our shop, Officer Pike?”

“It’s fine.”

“It is a piece of shit. It has so much wrong with it that it would be down-checked on any other police force in America. But this is Los Angeles, where our cheap-ass city council won’t give us the money to hire enough men, or buy and maintain the proper equipment. But do you know what the good news is, Officer Pike?”

“No, sir.”

“The good news is that we are Los Angeles police officers. Which means we will use this piece of shit anyway, and still provide the finest police service available in any major American city.”

Pike was liking Flynn. He liked Flynn’s manner, and Flynn’s pride in the department, and Flynn’s obvious pride in his profession.

Flynn put his gear on the ground at the back of the car, then faced Pike with his hands on his hips.

“First we’re going to inspect the vehicle, then load our gear, but before we get going I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Flynn seemed to want a response, so Pike nodded.

“I respect your service, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about it. Half this police force was in the Marines and the other half is tired of hearing about it. This is a city in the United States of America. It isn’t a war zone.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“That piss you off, me saying that?”

“No, sir.”

Flynn studied Pike as if he suspected Pike was lying.

“Well, if you are, you hide it well, which is good. Because out here, you will not show your true feelings to anyone. Whatever you feel about the lowlifes, degenerates, and citizens we deal with—be they victim or criminal—you will keep your personal opinions to yourself. From this point on, you are Officer Pike, and Officer Pike works for the people of this city no matter who and what they are. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Flynn popped the trunk. It was tattered and empty. He pointed inside.

“This is the trunk. I’m driving, so my gear will go on the driver’s side. You’re the passenger, so your gear goes on the passenger’s side. This is the way we do it on the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stow your gear, but don’t stop listening.”

Pike stowed his gear as Flynn went on.

“The academy taught you statutes and procedure, but I am going to teach you the two most important lessons you receive. The first is this: You will see people at their creative, industrious worst—and I am going to teach you how to read them. You are going to learn how to tell a lie from the truth even when everyone is lying, and how to figure out what’s right even when everyone is wrong. From this, you will learn how to dispense justice in a fair and evenhanded way, which is what the people of our city deserve. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“What’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“The first lesson is how to read people. What’s the second?”

Flynn’s eyebrows arched as if he was about to dispense the wisdom of the ages.

“You will learn how not to hate them. You’ll see some sorry bastards out here, Officer Pike, but people aren’t so bad. I’m going to teach you how not to lose sight of that, because if you do you’ll end up hating them and that’s the first step toward hating yourself. We can’t have that, can we?”