Jon Stone jerked the emergency brake to lock the back wheels, and spun the Jeep broadside between the two houses, blocking the way with Pike’s door toward the darkness.
Stone said, “Get him. I got this covered. Go! ”
Jon Stone did not look back. He popped the driver’s side door and stepped out with his hands high to face the oncoming police, shouting for them not to shoot, giving himself to them to cover Pike’s escape.
Pike slipped out the door and ran into the darkness between the houses.
39
Pike hurdled rattling chain-link fences between inky backyards and vaulted cinder-block walls in the deep black shadows between houses. Twice he cleared fences with dogs at his heels, and once a free-roaming pit bull chased him across an empty street. Pike turned into its charge, and slapped the pit hard on its snout with his. 357. The dog broke off its chase, and Pike ran on, pumping fast toward the lake and away from the highway.
He stopped twice to listen, but heard no pursuit. The police sounds were lost. No shots had been fired, so Jon was okay.
Pike turned south at the lake, and ran another half mile before looping back to the highway. A truck driver wired on Ritalin gave him a lift north, and thirty-eight minutes after the police raid exploded around him, Pike reached the Palm Springs airport, used the valet key he carried, and climbed into Stone’s Rover.
Breathe.
Pike closed his eyes, and filled his lungs, then pushed with his diaphragm. He breathed deep again. Pranayamic breathing from the hatha yoga. Pike lost himself in a cool forest glade, dappled by sunlight filtered through lime green leaves. When he breathed, he smelled moss and sumac. His pulse slowed. He grew calm. He centered.
Pike started the Rover, then realized he didn’t know what to do, so he shut down the engine. His instincts told him to push forward, but Haddad, Washington, and Pinetta were gone. Jon was now gone. Cole and the two kids were still missing, the police were involved, and when Ghazi al-Diri learned Pinetta was arrested he would be off balance and fearful.
This was good. The Syrian would be flooded with incoming information, but never enough to answer his questions. He would freeze in place, scramble for answers, and work himself into a panic. Panic was good when the other guy panicked.
Pike focused on what he knew. The ATF visited his gun shop looking for Elvis Cole, and now a major tactical event involving the ATF had taken out Pinetta and Washington. Pike had no idea how the two events were connected, but the ATF was a small, elite agency. They didn’t have the manpower to flood an area with agents, so Pike believed this was not a coincidence. He took out his phone, and called Ronnie back.
“When did the ATF come in?”
“This morning. A little before eleven.”
“What did they say?”
“Just the stuff about asking Elvis about an old client. Was that bullshit?”
“Yes.”
“They told me he wasn’t in trouble. They told me to pass it on in case that’s why he hasn’t returned their calls.”
Pike found this interesting, and wondered how many times they had called, and how long they had been trying to reach Cole.
“And me?”
“They were hoping you could tell them where he was. That’s all they said about you.”
“One agent or two?”
“Two.”
“They left a card.”
“I got it right here. Special Agent Jason Kaufman, L.A. Field Division over in Glendale.”
“Number.”
Pike copied the name and number, then phoned his own home in Culver City. Pike had an unlisted number, but found a message from an ATF agent who identified himself as Special Agent Kim Stanley Robinson. Robinson floated a story similar to Kaufman’s, but not identical. Robinson wanted to speak with Cole regarding allegations made by a former client who was now in federal custody, and hoped Pike could help them reach Cole. Robinson left a number, too, but his number was in Washington. The time marker on the recording showed the message had been left sixteen minutes before Kaufman visited Pike’s shop.
Pike phoned Elvis Cole’s office next. He had no way to check Cole’s home voice mail, but he knew the replay code for their office, and found two more ATF messages. The most recent was left yesterday morning by Agent Kaufman. The older message was left the day before by a woman who identified herself as Nancie Stendahl, with the ATF, and asked Mr. Cole to phone her as soon as possible. She left a D.C. number, but no other information.
Pike copied her contact info as he had the others, then put away his phone. The ATF wanted Cole badly enough to work from both Washington and L.A., and Pike was convinced it had to do with the Syrian, but he didn’t see how knowing this helped him find Cole.
Pike focused on the three drop houses, including the house where the Indians were murdered. The number of houses the Syrian had access to bothered him, and so did the plywood. Pike understood sending men to remove DNA and forensic evidence, but taking the time to remove the plywood seemed needlessly risky. The longer a criminal stayed at a crime scene, the greater the odds he or she would be caught. The Syrian obviously felt the risk was necessary. Pike wondered if this had to do with the source of his houses.
Pike started the Rover and drove south to the Indio house.
The neighborhood was quiet with the lateness of the hour, and the house was dark. Its garage was a gaping black cavern with the door pushed down, but if anyone had come to gawk at the damage, they were no longer present.
Pike cruised past to see if someone was watching, then parked one street over and approached the house on foot from the rear. He checked the neighboring houses, yards, roofs, and vehicles. When he was confident no one was watching the house, he returned to the Rover, rounded the block again, and parked in front of the dog lady’s home.
Her windows were lit, so Pike went to the door. This late, he knew she would be reluctant to open the door, so he took off his sunglasses to make himself less threatening, and brushed the dust from his jeans and sweatshirt.
The big German shepherd barked when Pike was halfway up the drive, and kept barking when the woman shouted at it to shut up. A pattern, like the tug-of-war when they walked.
Pike rang the bell, and the barking grew frenzied.
“Shut up! Would you please shut up! Jesus! What am I going to do with you?”
The location of her voice told him she was looking through the peephole.
“It’s late. What do you want?”
“My name is Pike. I’d like to ask about the house next door.”
“What? Jesus, would you shut the fuck up, I can’t hear the man! I’m sorry, what about the house?”
Pike stepped away from the door, and waited. A few seconds later, the door cracked open, and the dog barked even louder.
The woman peered through the crack, hunched over because she held the dog’s collar. The woman’s eye was dark brown. The dog’s eye was golden.
“I couldn’t hear you. I’m sorry. She’s very protective.”
Pike studied the golden eye.
“She’s scared. She’ll quiet if you open the door.”
“I’m not kidding. She bites.”
“She’s fine.”
