full-time and three who were former police officers. A man named Ronnie ran the shop, and had been with Pike a long time.
Pike said, “You okay without me this morning?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Something came up. I’m going to be busy for a while.”
“Take your time. Do it right.”
“Can Liz find out something for me?”
“If she can. Whatcha need?”
Ronnie’s youngest daughter was a Hardcore Gang prosecutor for the D.A.’s Office in Compton. Pike explained about Reuben Mendoza waiting at Pacific Station for his court appearance.
“They’ll probably arraign him today, but they might hold him until tomorrow. Can she find out?”
“Where are you?”
“Cell.”
“Call you right back.”
Ronnie got back to him eight minutes later.
“It’s today. They took him over this morning. That’s gonna be the Airport Courthouse down in Hawthorne. You need some help with this?”
“I’m good.”
Pike closed his phone and went hunting for Reuben Mendoza.
5
The Airport Courthouse was one of forty-eight superior courts spread among the four thousand square miles of Los Angeles County. It sat in the southwest corner of the Century Freeway/San Diego Freeway interchange, less than a pistol shot from LAX, and looked like a giant green moth with glass wings, struggling to get into the air.
Pike left the 405, dropped down La Cienega to the courthouse, and found a place to park with an easy, eyes-forward view of the back entrance. The public could enter the building through either a front or a back entrance, but Pike knew from experience that defendants who made bail were released through the back. Pike also knew the arraignment court had no hard-and-fast calendar for seeing defendants. Right now, Mendoza would be in a holding cell with a number of other defendants. Their order of appearance before the judge would change with the changing schedules of public and private defense attorneys, attorney-client meetings, motions, and arguments. Pike was okay with waiting and would wait all day if necessary, but he suspected the court staff would take pity on Mendoza’s broken arm.
Pike made himself comfortable. He took a deep breath, exhaled from the bottom of his lungs, then did it again. He felt his body relax and his heart rate slow. He watched the door, and breathed, and thought about nothing. Pike could sit like this for days, and had, in places far less comfortable than a dry, clean vehicle in the shade of a giant moth. He found much peace in waiting, and the waiting was made easier by thinking of nothing.
At seven minutes after eleven that morning, the maroon Monte Carlo drifted into the parking lot. The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched. The Monte Carlo suggested Mendoza had made bail, called his friends for a ride, and was now being processed out.
Pike studied the lone occupant. Pike had been hoping for Gomer, but this wasn’t Gomer. The driver was a young, thin Latin dude with a bandanna around his head and a pencil mustache. He didn’t park in a designated parking place, but eased to the curb near the door. Another good sign.
Ninety seconds later, Reuben Mendoza emerged from the moth with a smile on his face and a cast that extended up his forearm from his right hand to just below his elbow. He wasn’t using a sling. Mendoza pointed at his friend with both hands, broke into an exaggerated, shoulder-rolling shuffle to show off his cast, then flipped off the court with both hands and climbed into the car.
Pike followed them back onto the 405, letting the Monte Carlo float five or six cars ahead in the light, late-morning traffic. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so neither was Pike. The Monte Carlo slipped onto the Marina Freeway, then cruised up Lincoln Boulevard into a low-end commercial area off Venice Boulevard. Several blocks later, they pulled into a place called Our Way Body Mods. A six-foot wrought-iron fence guarded the lot, with double-wide gates on the main and side street entrances. The gates were open. A service building with two open bays sat behind a small parking lot where damaged vehicles waited for work, and freshly repaired or customized cars waited to be picked up. Most of the vehicles were hobby cars—Japanese imports sporting elaborate spoilers and nitrous-blown engines, or American classics like Bel Airs and Impalas that had been chopped to ride low and painted as bright as M&M’s.
When the Monte Carlo pulled in, several men emerged from the bays to greet Mendoza. Pike counted nine heads, excluding Mendoza and his driver. Businesses like Our Way Body Mods