spells it. Rina was at the hospital before her sister died. She was standing guard because she believed the people who shot her sister might come around to finish the job.”
“You think she knows something?”
“They’re Serbian. Rahmi says his cousin hooked up with a Serbian gangster. What are the odds?”
Cole thought about it. Los Angeles has always had a small Serbian population, but, just as the Russian and Armenian populations increased after the Soviet Union collapsed, the Serbian and expatriate Yugoslavian populations shot up after the conflicts in the nineties. Criminals and organized gangsters arrived along with everyone else, and L.A. now had significant numbers of criminal gang sets from all over Eastern Europe. But even with the increasing populations, the numbers of East Europeans remained statistically small. A Latin, African-American, or Anglo connection would have meant nothing. A Balkan connection in Westwood was worth checking out.
Cole placed the note with the phone.
“Your pal Rina, you think she’d talk to me?”
“No.”
Cole stared at the information Pike had cribbed onto the sheet. It wasn’t much.
“Where did Ana live?”
“With Frank.”
“Maybe she had another place for the weekends.”
“I don’t know.”
“I guess you and I aren’t up to speed on the nanny lifestyle.”
“No.”
The classic Pike conversation.
“What I’m getting at here is that talking to people who knew this girl might be a good place to start. I’ll need the names of her friends, maybe some phone numbers, things like that. If the sister won’t talk to us, can we get into the crime scene?”
“I’ll take care of it. Also, John Chen is on the SID team. He’s running the physical evidence.”
Cole nodded. Chen was good, and Chen had worked with them before. Cole would call him after Pike left.
Two seagulls appeared in the empty blue nothing outside the glass. Cole watched them float on their invisible sea, tiny heads turning. One of them suddenly dropped out of sight. His partner watched the other fall, then folded his wings and followed.
Cole said, “And Terrio doesn’t know about Jamal and the Serbian connection?”
“No.”
“You going to tell him?”
“No. I want to find them before the police.”
Pike was staring at him, but his face was as empty of expression as always, the dark glasses like two black holes cut into space. The stillness in Pike was amazing.
Cole looked for the gulls again, but they were still gone. The winter sky was a milky blue, just edging into gray from the haze. Cole got up, went around his desk to the little fridge under the Pinocchio clock, and took out a bottle of water. He offered it to Pike. Pike shook his head once. Cole brought it back to his desk.
Cole glanced at the news story again, the one Pike had not touched. The second paragraph, where the names of the murdered victims were given. Frank, Cindy, Frank, Jr., Joe. The youngest was Joey. Executed. The word chosen by the journalist to describe what had happened. Executed. Cole had not stopped thinking about that word since he read the story. He knew better, but the writer was good. She had burned a few words onto a blank page, forcing Cole and her other readers to imagine the scene, and there it was. A black steel muzzle to the head. Clenched eyes, tears squeezing through stitched lids, maybe the sobbing and screaming, and the short, sharp BAM that ends all of it. The sobbing stops, the face grows serene as its lines relax in death, and all that remains is the mother’s screams. Cindy would have been last. Cole folded the article and pushed it aside, wondering the thing he had been wondering since reading the article yesterday-whether or not the youngest boy, Joey, had been named after Pike.
Who was Frank Meyer?
One of my guys.
Cole had learned enough over the years to know what was meant. Pike had been able to hand-pick his guys, which meant he chose people he respected. Then, because they were Pike’s guys, he would have arranged for their gear, and meals, and equipment, made sure they were paid on time, that their contracts were honored, and that they were properly equipped for the job at hand. He would have taken care of them, and they would have taken care of him, and he would not have let them sell their lives cheaply.
Who was Frank Meyer?
One of my guys.
Cole said, “I don’t need to hide from what you’re going to do. You haven’t done it yet. Maybe things will change. Maybe the police will find them