body.
“He’s gone. Dead.”
Braun asked again.
“What did he say?”
Pike put on his sunglasses.
“He said good-bye.”
Pike sat with Isabel until Braun let them leave.
56.
Elvis Cole
Four days after the events in Malibu, Cole watched Pryor Gregg enter his office. The hat came first, and kept coming, and finally the marshal followed. Cole marveled at the size of the brim. Gregg’s Stetson went on forever.
Gregg stood there, a thousand feet tall, and took off his hat.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Come for your bug?”
“Nope. Taking off. Wanted to see you before I left.”
Cole nodded at the director’s chairs.
“Have a seat.”
Gregg eyed the Pinocchio clock as he sat.
“The eyes just go back and forth?”
“Sometimes they blink.”
Gregg said, “Ha. I bet they do.”
“Find out who Riley worked for?”
“Not yet, but we will. Boy had no record. The others, mostly petty stuff. Bar fights and such.”
“They worked for somebody.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“Anyway, I came by to thank you.”
Gregg leaned forward and offered his hand.
“The Marshals Service thanks you.”
Cole took his hand. The hand swallowed his.
Cole said, “You don’t have to thank me. Nothing to thank me for.”
“A marshal was murdered. You helped bring his killers to justice. We take these things seriously.”
Cole smiled. Modest.
“You’re thanking the wrong person. I was just along for the ride.”
“I tried to reach Mr. Pike. He isn’t easy to catch.”
“Not Pike.”
Gregg looked surprised.
“No?”
“A friend of Joe’s. He put it together and connected the dots. Joe will tell you.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“A criminalist. John Chen. He ID’d Hicks and pointed us in the right direction. Matched the guns to the shooters and the shooters to the murder. Without Chen, we’d still be riding in circles.”
Gregg mulled over this new information.
“Where can I find Mr. Chen?”
“FSD. The Forensic Science Division. Call them. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
Gregg stood. He unfolded himself from the seat, and there he was, up on the ceiling.
“Think I’ll do that. And if you talk to Mr. Pike, please tell him I’d like to thank him in person.”
“You bet, Inspector. Will do.”
They shook hands again, and Cole walked Gregg to the door. After Gregg left, Cole returned to his desk. He picked up his phone, and called Joe Pike.
Cole said, “I told him.”
57.
John Chen
John Chen was flat on his back on the floor of his apartment when his phone rang. This was the sixth time the phone had rung in the past forty minutes. John covered his head with his pillow and tried to ignore it.
Chen—defeated, deflated, and mired in lethargy—barely moved. He had so little energy, opening his eyes was an insurmountable effort. Crawling to the bathroom was beyond him. His shame was so great, his humiliation so complete, he’d pulled the shades, locked the door, and turned off the lights. Darkness was too good for him.
Ring.
Chen groaned.
Ring.
What the FUCK? SIX TIMES? SIX TIMES THIS PHONE?
Ring.
John slowly lifted the phone and checked the caller ID.
Harriet.
Chen covered his face.
Ring.
He knew she’d call. He had to sign the termination papers.
Ring.
Chen answered.
“Hullo.”
He hoped the sound of his miserable, heartbroken voice made her feel terrible.
“Johnnn! All is forgiven!”
John looked at the phone to make sure this was Harriet. She sounded bright, cheery, and bubbling with goodwill.
“That was just a nasty spat we had. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
John looked at the phone again. Could this really be Harriet?
John said, “What spat?”
“I’ve been under so much stress, well, I overreacted. I know you won’t hold it against me, but I just feel terrible.”
This wasn’t Harriet.
“You do?”
“I’d like you to come in tomorrow, John. Dress nicely. We’ll have guests.”
“You want me back at work?”
“Of course, silly!”
Maybe she was drunk. She sounded drunk.
Harriet said, “Wear a nice suit. Your court suit. I want you to look nice for the pictures. I’m going to have my hair done.”
Harriet giggled. Harriet. Actually. Giggled.
Chen sat up, totally suspicious. Harriet might be taping the call. She probably wanted to trick him into saying something she could use against him.
“Harriet, are you taping this call?”
“What? No, absolutely not! Why would I tape us?”
“I have an expectation of privacy. I do not agree to being taped. I do not grant permission.”
“I’m not taping us, John. I only want to make sure you’re here, and I want to make sure you look nice.”
“Why should I look nice?”
“The award.”
Chen’s eyes narrowed.
“What award?”
“The Marshals are giving you an award. For all the fine work you’ve done. The United States Marshals! It’s federal. We’ll have our picture in the trade journals.”
John said, “We?”
“Be here by ten. It’ll be