The woman opened the door enough for the shepherd’s head to push through, but she didn’t stop barking. She was a good-looking dog, with a black mask that lightened to gold between dark golden eyes. The woman now blocked the door with her hip so the dog couldn’t escape, and shouted at her to shut up.
Pike said, “Good dog.”
The dog lowered her ears and stopped barking.
Pike held his knuckles to her nose. She sniffed, then whined at him through the crack.
The woman said, “OhmiGod, I’ve never seen her like this.”
“She’s a good dog.”
The woman opened the door, and came out holding the dog by its collar. The dog strained to get closer to Pike, and thumped its tail on the porch. The woman introduced herself.
“Joanie Fryman. Are you the police?”
“No, ma’am. I want to ask about this house.”
“That’s why I thought you were the cops. I called about that place.”
“Today?”
“Four or five days ago. There’s something going on over there. These cars come and go, but you never see anyone, and I thought I heard someone moaning.”
She frowned at the house as if it was the most disgusting place on earth, then noticed the garage.
“Jesus, what happened to their garage?”
Pike said, “It looked deserted, so I knocked. You know the people who live there?”
“Just cars going in and out. It’s a rental. Jesus, I hope they’re gone.”
“How long have they had it?”
“Only a couple of weeks. A family named Simmons lived there before. They were nice.”
Joanie Fryman suddenly looked at him.
“Are you interested in renting it?”
“Maybe.”
She flashed a bright smile.
“Maybe renters aren’t so bad.”
“Know the owner?”
“That’s Mr. Castro, but he lives in Idaho. He uses a rental agent. I met her. I have her card in here-”
Joanie turned to go for the card, but the German shepherd dug in to stay with Pike.
“Jesus, dog, would you come?”
“Leave her with me.”
Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes, and released the dog’s collar. The dog scrambled to Pike, ears back, tail wagging as she licked and nuzzled his hands.
“OhmiGod, this is insane.”
Joanie Fryman rolled her eyes even wider, and hurried into her home.
Pike squatted in front of the dog. He ran his fingers through the thick fur on her shoulders and neck, and scratched the sides of her head. She was a strong, powerful dog with all the right instincts, but no rules to guide her. A good dog needed rules, same as a man.
Pike studied the golden eyes. He had known K-9 handlers, when he was a Marine and an LAPD officer, who had killed men to protect their dogs, and he had seen those same tough men resign when they lost a dog, as if they had failed their partners and could not live with their grief.
Pike said, “Take care of her. Do your job.”
Pike scratched the dog’s ears until Joanie Fryman returned with a beige business card.
“This is her.”
Pike looked at the card. Desert Gold Realty. Residential and Commercial Rentals. The realtor was Megan Orlato.
The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched when he saw the name. Orlato. She would be Dennis Orlato’s sister or wife or maybe his mother. Orlato supplied the Syrian’s houses.
“I hope it’s available. You’d make a nice addition to the neighborhood.”
Pike thanked her, but wasn’t sure what else to say. He let the dog lick his hand, then patted her head.
“They’re war dogs. She would die for you.”
Pike left Joanie Fryman with her dog and returned to the Rover. Desert Gold’s office was in Palm Desert, not far away. Pike entered the address into the Rover’s GPS, put on his sunglasses, and arrived ten minutes later.
40
Jon Stone
Jon Stone sat quietly in a clean, bright interview room at the Riverside County Sheriff’s Station in Indio. He was handcuffed to the table, but the detectives who hooked him up left without explanation, and also without asking questions. Stone found this interesting, and wondered if they had been directed to do so, and by whom.
Jon sat there alone for almost an hour before a businesslike woman with short brown hair came in. He smiled when he saw her. She wore a wrinkled black suit, and Jon thought she looked tired.
“How’re you doing in here, Mr. Stone?”
“Fine, ma’am. How about you?”
Jon stood as best he could with the handcuffs, and she waved him down.
“Please sit. I’ve had better days, but I suspect you can say the same.”
“Some better, some worse. It goes with the job.”
She took the seat opposite him.
“And what would that job be?”
Jon gave her one of his brightest smiles.
“I’m a military consultant under contract to the United States government and certain multinational corporations approved by the United States to employ someone such as myself.”
She smiled back, and arched her eyebrows as if he was a moron.
“For real?”
“Doesn’t get realer.”
She laced her fingers, and introduced herself. Nancie Stendahl. ATF. Assistant Deputy Director, out of Washington. Jon was impressed. She was obviously behind the Pinetta arrest, and now here she was in the interview room. Alone. This was interesting.
She cleared her throat, and made it even more interesting.
“Do you know of and are you associated with a man named Elvis Cole?”
That one caught him out of left field, but he answered without hesitation.
“Rings a bell. He sing?”
“I’m trying to find him.”
“Wish I could help.”
“Mr. Haddad says you’re trying to find him, too.”
“I don’t know a Mr. Haddad.”
“Do you know a man named Joe Pike?”
Jon gave her the smile that made him look like a cruising tiger shark.
“I’d like my attorney if we’re going to talk. I asked the detectives to call him, but they said something rude.”
Her face tightened with irritation for the first time.
“You gave them a Washington phone number and told them to call the Deputy Director of the National Security Agency.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’ll take your call if you use my name. Boy has me on speed-dial.”
She completely ignored him, which impressed Jon even more. All that “right to an attorney” business went straight out the window.
