Read Online The Watchman by Robert Crais - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Crais
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, California, Los Angeles (Calif.), Los Angeles
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framed in the door, then let himself out. He had left his bags so he could return alone to check his messages. If he needed to call someone, he wanted to speak freely. He climbed into the Lexus, then used his new phone to check the messages left on his old phone. Seven messages were waiting for him. Bud had left three in a row, all pretty much the same—
“Call me, damnit! You can’t just disappear with this girl! She’s a federal witness, for Chrissakes! They’ll have the FBI looking for you!”
Bud had left a fourth message about an hour after the first three. Pike noted Bud was calmer in the fourth message. He wasn’t shouting—
“Joe, listen, you have to check in. For all I know those bastards tagged you, and you’re both dead. Please don’t leave me hanging like this.”
Jon Stone had left the fifth message in a quiet and wary voice.
“This is Stone. You got heavy people worried, bro. Don’t call me back. Do not call. Stay groovy.”
Pike hesitated before deleting Stone’s message. Staying groovy had nothing to do with being cool. It was an expression used by small recon units and sniper teams in hostile terrain. They would tell one another to stay groovy when the danger level was so insanely high they popped amphetamines to stay awake and ready to rock twenty-four/seven, because anything less would get them all killed. Stay groovy; take your pill. Stay groovy; safety off, finger on. Stay groovy; welcome to hell. Stone had left a warning within his message, and Pike wondered why.
Pike wanted to call Stone, but assumed Stone told him not to call for good reason. Bud and the feds had probably pushed Stone for information. He wondered if Meesh had done the same.
The sixth message was again from Bud, this time sounding drained.
“Here’s what I have so far—the stiffs from Malibu weren’t identified. I don’t know about Eagle Rock, but I’ll find out tomorrow. LAPD and the Sheriff’s haven’t connected you with the shootings. I spoke with Don Pitman—Pitman’s the DOJ agent. He’ll do what he can to take care of you with the locals, but he wants to talk to you—he absolutely must talk to you. You gotta call me, man. I don’t know what to tell her father. He wants to call the police. Joe, if you’re still alive—call.”
A dry male voice had left the last message.
“This is Special Agent Don Pitman with the Justice Department. 202-555-6241. I got your number from Bud Flynn. Call me, Mr. Pike.”
Mister.
Pike ended the call, then sat listening to the neighborhood. He wondered what Bud meant, saying the stiffs in Malibu weren’t identified. Pike had thought the shooters would be identified as soon as they reached the coroner, which would give him a lead to Meesh. Pike had been thinking about Meesh because something Larkin described was bothering him. Her accident had occurred downtown in the middle of nowhere, but Meesh had fled on foot. Larkin told him the Kings had driven away, but Meesh fled on foot. This didn’t make sense to Pike, but there was still much he didn’t know. He wanted to ask Larkin about it.
Pike unscrewed the interior light so it wouldn’t come on, then left the car. It was full-on dark now, and Pike enjoyed the darkness. Darkness, rain, snow, a storm—anything that hid you was good. He circled the house to check the windows, then slipped back onto the porch and let himself in.
Larkin was no longer in the living room, but her bags were gone and he heard her in the kitchen. He took off the long-sleeved shirt, then sat in one of the wing chairs to wait. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was getting a bottle of water. He heard the rattle of the refrigerator as she wrestled a bottle from its plastic wrapping. He heard the door close with a plastic kiss and a zippery crack as she twisted off the cap. Her shadow played on the bright kitchen wall, so he knew she was moving, and he heard the dry slap of bare feet. She came out of the kitchen and was halfway into
“Call me, damnit! You can’t just disappear with this girl! She’s a federal witness, for Chrissakes! They’ll have the FBI looking for you!”
Bud had left a fourth message about an hour after the first three. Pike noted Bud was calmer in the fourth message. He wasn’t shouting—
“Joe, listen, you have to check in. For all I know those bastards tagged you, and you’re both dead. Please don’t leave me hanging like this.”
Jon Stone had left the fifth message in a quiet and wary voice.
“This is Stone. You got heavy people worried, bro. Don’t call me back. Do not call. Stay groovy.”
Pike hesitated before deleting Stone’s message. Staying groovy had nothing to do with being cool. It was an expression used by small recon units and sniper teams in hostile terrain. They would tell one another to stay groovy when the danger level was so insanely high they popped amphetamines to stay awake and ready to rock twenty-four/seven, because anything less would get them all killed. Stay groovy; take your pill. Stay groovy; safety off, finger on. Stay groovy; welcome to hell. Stone had left a warning within his message, and Pike wondered why.
Pike wanted to call Stone, but assumed Stone told him not to call for good reason. Bud and the feds had probably pushed Stone for information. He wondered if Meesh had done the same.
The sixth message was again from Bud, this time sounding drained.
“Here’s what I have so far—the stiffs from Malibu weren’t identified. I don’t know about Eagle Rock, but I’ll find out tomorrow. LAPD and the Sheriff’s haven’t connected you with the shootings. I spoke with Don Pitman—Pitman’s the DOJ agent. He’ll do what he can to take care of you with the locals, but he wants to talk to you—he absolutely must talk to you. You gotta call me, man. I don’t know what to tell her father. He wants to call the police. Joe, if you’re still alive—call.”
A dry male voice had left the last message.
“This is Special Agent Don Pitman with the Justice Department. 202-555-6241. I got your number from Bud Flynn. Call me, Mr. Pike.”
Mister.
Pike ended the call, then sat listening to the neighborhood. He wondered what Bud meant, saying the stiffs in Malibu weren’t identified. Pike had thought the shooters would be identified as soon as they reached the coroner, which would give him a lead to Meesh. Pike had been thinking about Meesh because something Larkin described was bothering him. Her accident had occurred downtown in the middle of nowhere, but Meesh had fled on foot. Larkin told him the Kings had driven away, but Meesh fled on foot. This didn’t make sense to Pike, but there was still much he didn’t know. He wanted to ask Larkin about it.
Pike unscrewed the interior light so it wouldn’t come on, then left the car. It was full-on dark now, and Pike enjoyed the darkness. Darkness, rain, snow, a storm—anything that hid you was good. He circled the house to check the windows, then slipped back onto the porch and let himself in.
Larkin was no longer in the living room, but her bags were gone and he heard her in the kitchen. He took off the long-sleeved shirt, then sat in one of the wing chairs to wait. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was getting a bottle of water. He heard the rattle of the refrigerator as she wrestled a bottle from its plastic wrapping. He heard the door close with a plastic kiss and a zippery crack as she twisted off the cap. Her shadow played on the bright kitchen wall, so he knew she was moving, and he heard the dry slap of bare feet. She came out of the kitchen and was halfway into
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