The First Rule - Robert Crais Page 0,9

room.

“Show me his family.”

“You want to see what they did to his wife and his kids?”

Pike wanted to see. He wanted to fix them in his mind, and have them close when he found the men who killed them.

4

PIKE LIVED ALONE IN a two-bedroom condo in Culver City. He drove home, then stripped and showered away the sweat. He let hot water beat into him, then turned on the cold. Pike didn’t flinch when the icy water fired his skin. He rubbed the cold over his face and scalp, and stayed in the cold much longer than the hot, then toweled himself off.

Before he dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror. Pike was six foot one. He weighed two hundred five pounds. He had been shot seven times, hit by shrapnel on fourteen separate occasions, and stabbed or cut eleven times. Scars from the wounds and resulting surgeries mapped his body like roads that always came back to the same place. Pike knew exactly which scars had been earned when he worked with Frank Meyer.

Pike leaned close to the mirror, examining each eye. Left eye, right eye. The scleras were clear and bright, the irises a deep, liquid blue. The skin surrounding the eyes was lined from squinting into too many suns. Pike’s eyes were sensitive to light, but his visual acuity was amazing. 20/11 in his left eye, 20/12 in his right. They had loved that in sniper school.

Pike dressed, then put on his sunglasses.

“Yoda.”

Lunch was leftover Thai food nuked in the microwave. Tofu, cabbage, broccoli, and rice. He drank a liter of water, then washed the one plate and fork while thinking about what he had learned from Chen and Terrio, and how he could use it.

Jumping Pike in broad daylight on a residential street to ask a few questions was a panic move. This confirmed that after three months, seven invasions, and eleven homicides, Terrio had not developed enough evidence to initiate an arrest. But a lack of proof did not necessarily mean a lack of suspects or usable information, what Chen had called “shoe leather” information. Professional home invasion crews almost always comprised career criminals who did violent crime for a living. If caught, they would be off the streets for the period of their incarceration, but would almost always commit more crimes when released. Experienced investigators like Terrio knew this, and would compare the date of the original robbery to release dates of criminals with a similar history, trying to identify high-probability suspects. Pike wanted to know what they had.

Pike went upstairs to his bedroom closet, opened his safe, and took out a list of telephone numbers. The numbers were not written as numbers, but as an alphanumeric code. Pike found the number he wanted, then brought it downstairs, sat on the floor with his back to the wall, and made the call.

Jon Stone answered on the second ring, the sound of old-school N.W.A pounding loud behind him. Stone must have recognized Pike’s number on the caller ID.

“Well. Look who it is.”

“Got a couple of questions.”

“How much will you pay for a couple of answers?”

Jon Stone was a talent agent for professional military contractors. Stone used to be a PMC himself, but now placed talent with the large private military corporations and security firms favored by Washington and corporate America. Safer that way, and much more profitable.

Pike didn’t respond, and after a while the N.W.A was turned down.

Stone said, “Tell you what, let’s table that for now. You go ahead, ask, we’ll see what develops.”

“Remember Frank Meyer?”

“Fearless Frank, my man on the tanks? Sure.”

“Has Frank been working?”

“Frank was one of your guys. You tell me.”

“Has he been on the market?”

“He retired ten years ago, at least.”

“So you haven’t heard any rumors?”

“Like what?”

“Like Frank getting involved with people you wouldn’t expect.”

Jon snorted.

“Fearless Frank? Get control of yourself.”

“He didn’t like being called Fearless Frank. It made him uncomfortable.”

Stone lapsed into silence, probably embarrassed, and Pike went on.

“Less than two hours ago, a police detective named Terrio told me Frank was dirty. He believes Frank was using his import business for something illegal.”

“Why was a cop talking about Frank?”

“Frank and his family were murdered.”

Stone was silent for a time, and when he spoke again, his voice was low.

“For real?”

“A robbery crew broke into their home two nights ago. Frank, his wife, their kids. They zero in on targets with a cash payoff-dope dealers, money launderers, like that. Frank wasn’t their first.”

“I’ll ask around, I guess. I can’t