The Watchman by Robert Crais Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Crais
glasses.”
Pike tipped his head toward the growing pile of bags.
“That your stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“One bag, one purse, that’s it. No cell phone. No electronics. No iPod.”
Larkin stiffened.
“But I need those things. Daddy, tell him I need those things.”
The little dog’s eyes bulged spastically and it snarled.
Pike said, “No dog.”
Conner Barkley raked at his hair, and Gordon Kline frowned even more deeply, but no one looked at the growing pile of bags or the dog.
A bad hour later, Pike and the girl were on their way.
Four and a half hours later, the fourth attempt on Larkin Barkley’s life was made in Malibu. Then they were running.
6
Elvis Cole
“JOE—?”
Cole realized Pike had hung up. That was the kind of call you got from Joe Pike. You’d answer the phone, he’d grunt something like
I’m coming up
, and that was it. Polite communication had never been one of Pike’s strong points.
Cole put down his portable phone and went back to waxing his car—a yellow 1966 Sting Ray convertible. He was wearing gym shorts and a Harrington’s Café T-shirt from a great little café in Baton Rouge. The grey shirt was black with sweat and he wanted to take it off, but he wore it to cover his scars. Cole lived in a small A-frame house perched on the edge of a canyon off Woodrow Wilson Drive in the Hollywood Hills. It was woodsy and quiet, and his neighbors often walked their dogs past his house. Cole figured they didn’t need to see the liver-colored stitching that made him look like a lab accident. He figured he didn’t need them to see it, either.
Cole hated waxing his car, but the night before he had watched one of his favorite movies,
The Karate Kid
, that scene where Pat Morita trains Ralph Macchio in kung fu blocking techniques by having Macchio wax his car—wax on, wax off. Cole, watching the movie, thought maybe waxing the car would be good therapy.
Thirteen weeks earlier, a man named David Reinnike shot Cole in the back with a 12-gauge shotgun. The pellets had shattered five ribs, broke his left humerus, collapsed his left lung, and, as he later told people in a way that grated on everyone’s nerves, ruined a fine day. Fourteen weeks earlier—a week before he was shot—Cole could bend at the waist, rest his chest on his thighs, and wrap his arms around his calves; now, he moved like a robot with rusty joints. But twice a day every day he pushed past the pain, working himself back into shape. Hence, wax on, wax off.
Cole was still working on the car when a dark green Lexus stopped across his drive. Cole straightened, and was surprised to see Pike and a young woman with ragged hair and big sunglasses get out. The girl looked wary, and Pike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down. Pike never wore long-sleeved shirts.
Cole limped out to meet them.
“Joseph. You should have told me we had guests. I would have cleaned up.”
Cole smiled at the girl, spreading his hands to show off his gym shorts, bare feet, and wax on, wax off T-shirt. Mr. Personable, making a joke of his sweat-soaked appearance.
“I’m Elvis. This is me, doing my Ralph Macchio impersonation.”
The girl painted him with a smile that was smart and sharp, and jerked a thumb at Pike.
“Thank God you have a personality. Riding around with him is like riding with a corpse.”
“Only until you get to know him. Then you can’t shut him up.”
Cole noticed how Pike touched her back without familiarity, moving her into the carport.
Pike said, “Let’s go in.”
Cole glanced at the Lexus, already sensing this wasn’t a social visit.
“The four-door sedan is bad for your image, m’man. What happened to the Jeep?”
“Let’s go in.”
Cole led them into his house through the carport, and then into the living room, where glass doors opened onto his deck and filled his house with a view of the canyon. The girl looked out at the view.
She said, “This isn’t so
Pike tipped his head toward the growing pile of bags.
“That your stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“One bag, one purse, that’s it. No cell phone. No electronics. No iPod.”
Larkin stiffened.
“But I need those things. Daddy, tell him I need those things.”
The little dog’s eyes bulged spastically and it snarled.
Pike said, “No dog.”
Conner Barkley raked at his hair, and Gordon Kline frowned even more deeply, but no one looked at the growing pile of bags or the dog.
A bad hour later, Pike and the girl were on their way.
Four and a half hours later, the fourth attempt on Larkin Barkley’s life was made in Malibu. Then they were running.
6
Elvis Cole
“JOE—?”
Cole realized Pike had hung up. That was the kind of call you got from Joe Pike. You’d answer the phone, he’d grunt something like
I’m coming up
, and that was it. Polite communication had never been one of Pike’s strong points.
Cole put down his portable phone and went back to waxing his car—a yellow 1966 Sting Ray convertible. He was wearing gym shorts and a Harrington’s Café T-shirt from a great little café in Baton Rouge. The grey shirt was black with sweat and he wanted to take it off, but he wore it to cover his scars. Cole lived in a small A-frame house perched on the edge of a canyon off Woodrow Wilson Drive in the Hollywood Hills. It was woodsy and quiet, and his neighbors often walked their dogs past his house. Cole figured they didn’t need to see the liver-colored stitching that made him look like a lab accident. He figured he didn’t need them to see it, either.
Cole hated waxing his car, but the night before he had watched one of his favorite movies,
The Karate Kid
, that scene where Pat Morita trains Ralph Macchio in kung fu blocking techniques by having Macchio wax his car—wax on, wax off. Cole, watching the movie, thought maybe waxing the car would be good therapy.
Thirteen weeks earlier, a man named David Reinnike shot Cole in the back with a 12-gauge shotgun. The pellets had shattered five ribs, broke his left humerus, collapsed his left lung, and, as he later told people in a way that grated on everyone’s nerves, ruined a fine day. Fourteen weeks earlier—a week before he was shot—Cole could bend at the waist, rest his chest on his thighs, and wrap his arms around his calves; now, he moved like a robot with rusty joints. But twice a day every day he pushed past the pain, working himself back into shape. Hence, wax on, wax off.
Cole was still working on the car when a dark green Lexus stopped across his drive. Cole straightened, and was surprised to see Pike and a young woman with ragged hair and big sunglasses get out. The girl looked wary, and Pike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down. Pike never wore long-sleeved shirts.
Cole limped out to meet them.
“Joseph. You should have told me we had guests. I would have cleaned up.”
Cole smiled at the girl, spreading his hands to show off his gym shorts, bare feet, and wax on, wax off T-shirt. Mr. Personable, making a joke of his sweat-soaked appearance.
“I’m Elvis. This is me, doing my Ralph Macchio impersonation.”
The girl painted him with a smile that was smart and sharp, and jerked a thumb at Pike.
“Thank God you have a personality. Riding around with him is like riding with a corpse.”
“Only until you get to know him. Then you can’t shut him up.”
Cole noticed how Pike touched her back without familiarity, moving her into the carport.
Pike said, “Let’s go in.”
Cole glanced at the Lexus, already sensing this wasn’t a social visit.
“The four-door sedan is bad for your image, m’man. What happened to the Jeep?”
“Let’s go in.”
Cole led them into his house through the carport, and then into the living room, where glass doors opened onto his deck and filled his house with a view of the canyon. The girl looked out at the view.
She said, “This isn’t so