do with Isabel’s disappearance. They want the people who murdered Kemp. They’re thinking you know.”
“Hicks is running the crew, but he’s hired help.”
Cole raised his eyebrows.
“Does Isabel know who sent him?”
“No. But Hicks said her mother stole the money from someone she worked for, and he wants it back.”
“The person she stole from wants it back?”
“Yes.”
Cole shook his head.
“They’re dead. Two guys owned the company her mother worked for. Both were indicted, and both were convicted. And both of them died in prison. Murdered.”
Pike made a grunt.
“Looks like they had a silent partner.”
“I didn’t see anything about missing money in the coverage. No accusations, no complaints, nothing.”
Cole shot another glance at the stairs, and lowered his voice even more.
“Think her mother really stole nineteen million dollars?”
Pike shrugged, and a flash of pain spiked his ribs. He adjusted the ice.
“Doesn’t matter, did or didn’t.”
“The dudes in Los Feliz believe she took it.”
“Not anymore. Dead men have no beliefs.”
“True. But Hicks isn’t dead. What do you think he’ll do?”
“Only two options. Cut and run, or take a Hail Mary shot at finding her.”
Pike checked the time. Seventy-four minutes had passed since they left Los Feliz.
“The police will be all over his house. The streets will be blocked. Hicks will know he’s lost her again, but he won’t know what happened, or where she is, or even if she’s alive or dead.”
“Or whether she’s picking his face from an LAPD six-pack. Personally, I’d cut and run.”
Pike had pondered how Hicks would react.
“Not this guy. He answers to someone. He takes risks, and he’ll go for the long shot. He’ll try to find her.”
Cole said, “Her home.”
“Yeah.”
The only possible place Hicks could hope to find Isabel was at her home.
Cole glanced at the stairs again, and turned to leave.
“I’ll go watch her house.”
“I’ll make sure she’s okay, and I’ll be along.”
A fist bump, and Cole left.
Pike took a fresh Victoria from the fridge, and added ice to the Ziploc bag. The Thai food smelled good. Red curry vegetables with crispy tofu. Pineapple fried rice. Pike ate standing at the sink, holding the ice to his chest.
When he finished, he put the leftovers in the fridge, and took the beer out onto the deck. The heavy glass doors opened easily.
Outside, the rolling crash of the surf was loud. The low overcast, a deep charcoal gray, gravid with moisture, hid the stars and moon, and their light. The beach and the ocean were invisible. Pike took off his shades, but the dark gave no ground.
The owner had installed spotlights to illuminate the beach, but Pike did not turn them on. He held the ice to his chest, sipped the beer, and stared at an ocean he could not see.
39.
Pike left the deck and heard water running upstairs. He decided Izzy was taking a shower, so he went out to his Jeep for the vest. He brought the vest inside to the big table, and dug out the slugs. Prying the bullets from the polylaminate was a beast. The 10-millimeter jacketed hollow point bullets had mushroomed into disks the size of a quarter. Pike guessed their weight at about two hundred grains. Most 10-mil hollow points weighed in between one fifty and one eighty, so these were heavy. Pike rolled the disks in his fingers, and called John Chen.
Chen’s phone rang. By the fourth ring Pike expected his voice mail, but the ringing continued. Chen finally answered on the tenth ring. He sounded lethargic.
“Hullo.”
“John, Joe Pike.”
“Did you find her?”
“Yes. She’s safe. She’s here with me now.”
Chen hissed a soft sigh, like a deflating balloon.
“That’s really good news. So good. I’m glad.”
“Can you talk?”
“No reason I can’t.”
“Three men were shot tonight in the Los Feliz hills. A ten-millimeter pistol will be found with the bodies.”
Chen made the sigh again, but said nothing.
“Two weeks ago, a U.S. Marshal named Kemp was killed with a ten up in Palmdale. The ten in Los Feliz is the murder weapon.”
“Okay.”
Pike barely heard his response.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“The Los Feliz gun will give you Kemp’s killer. He works for Hicks. You can tie Kemp’s murder with the people who kidnapped Isabel. They’re the same.”
Chen said, “Hicks. That’s something.”
“The same ten killed Karbo, so this gives you the button on Karbo’s murder. Run the prints from Los Feliz, you’ll name the shooter. The marshals want his name. You can give it to them, and Hicks, and all of it.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. I can’t.”
Chen’s voice was so sad he seemed to be melting away.
“What’s wrong?”
Chen did not respond.
“John?