The First Rule - Robert Crais Page 0,10

believe Frank went wrong, but I’ll ask.”

“Another thing. You have juice with Fugitive Section or Special Investigations?”

Now Stone grew wary.

“Why?”

“You know why, Jon. If Terrio’s task force has any suspects, Fugitive Section or SIS will be trying to find them. I want to know what they have.”

Fugitive Section detectives specialized in tracking down and apprehending wanted felons in high-risk situations. Special Investigation Section were elite operators who ran long-term, covert surveillance on criminals suspected of committing violent serial crime. With their expertise, skill, and experience, retired Fugitive Section and SIS operators commanded top dollar at private security firms, and Jon Stone had placed more than a few into fat corporate jobs.

Stone hesitated, and Pike listened to the N.W.A tracks behind him, back in the day before Ice Cube went legit.

“C’mon, Jon. You have ins with those guys.”

Stone cleared his throat, sounding uncomfortable.

“I might have a friend who has a friend. I’m just saying, is all.”

“I need this information before they make an arrest.”

Stone lapsed into another silence, and now seemed thoughtful when he spoke.

“I guess you would, then, Joseph.”

“Frank was one of my guys.”

“Listen, that business about Frank, I have an idea. Ask Lonny. Lonny might know.”

Lonny Tang. The man who had taken the picture in El Salvador. Thirteen days later, on a job in Kuwait, Frank Meyer would save Lonny Tang’s life on what would turn out to be Lonny’s last job.

Pike said, “Why would Lonny know?”

“Frank kept in touch with him. You didn’t know? He sent Lonny Christmas cards, stuff like that. I’ll bet you ten bucks his wife never knew.”

Pike didn’t respond because Pike hadn’t known, either. He hadn’t spoken with Lonny in years, and Frank even longer. Stone went on, finishing his idea.

“If Frank was mixed up in something, he’d tell Lonny if he was gonna tell anyone.”

“That’s a good idea, asking Lonny. I will.”

“You gotta set it up through his lawyer. You want the number?”

“I have it.”

“I’ll let you know about the other thing after I talk to my guys.”

“Thanks, Jon. How much do I owe you?”

Stone cranked up the N.W.A. Something about guns in Compton. Something about making a muthuhfucka pay.

“Forget it. Frank was one of my guys, too.”

Pike lowered the phone, thought over what he needed to do, then raised the phone again. Pike owned a small gun shop not far from his condo. He had five employees who were expecting him that afternoon.

“Gun shop. This is Sheila. May I help you?”

Sheila Lambert was a retired FBI agent who worked part-time at the store.

“Me. Everything good?”

“Yeah, we’re groovy. What’s up?”

“I won’t be in this afternoon. That okay?”

“Not a problem. You wanna speak with Ronnie?”

Ronnie managed Pike’s store.

“Just pass the word. If he needs me, I’m on the cell.”

“Roger that.”

Pike hung up, cleared two other appointments he had that afternoon, then called Lonny Tang’s attorney, a man named Carson Epp.

Pike said, “I need to speak with him. Can you set it up?”

“How soon?”

“Soon. It’s a family emergency.”

“May I tell him what this is about?”

Pike decided Lonny should hear about Frank from him, and not Epp or someone else. Lonny had been one of Pike’s guys, too.

“Frank the Tank.”

“Frank the Tank?”

“He’ll know. Let me give you my cell.”

Pike gave him his number, then lowered the phone, thinking he couldn’t wait for Stone to come up with something Terrio might or might not have developed. He wondered if Ana Markovic was still alive, and if she had managed to speak. Chen said she hadn’t, but Chen was only repeating what he had heard from the cops, and the cops would have left as soon as a doctor told them she was not going to wake up. Pike wanted to talk to the nurses. Even unconscious, she might have mumbled something after the cops were gone. A word or a name could give him an edge. Pike wanted the edge.

Pike changed into a pale blue dress shirt to make himself presentable, then bought a bouquet of daisies and drove to the hospital.

5

THE INTENSIVE CARE UNIT was on the sixth floor of the UCLA Medical Center. Pike stepped out of the elevator and followed signs to an octagonal command post at the end of a hall lined by glass-walled rooms. Curtains could be pulled for privacy, but most of the rooms were open so the staff could see the patients from the hall.

Pike walked the length of the hall checking for officers, but any officers who had been present were gone. He returned to the nurses’ station, and