The First Rule

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know the police. I used to be a policeman.”

  The remains of her smile grew nasty.

  “Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Policeman-used-to-be. When I find this man, you think the police will let me shoot him in the head? That is what I am going to do.”

  Pike thought, this woman means it.

  Rina seemed to read his thoughts, and the sharp smile grew edges.

  “This is how we do it, old-school, where I am from. Do you see?”

  “Are all Serbian women like you?”

  “Yes.”

  Pike glanced at Yanni, still with the bag of ice on his face. Yanni nodded.

  Pike looked back at the woman.

  “Maybe you should come with me. I can put you someplace safe.”

  “I don’t know nothing about you, and I got a lot of work to do. I will stay with my friend.”

  Pike holstered the Python. He took her Ruger from his pocket. It wasn’t a fancy gun, but it was serviceable and deadly. He took out the magazine, then worked the slide to unload the chamber just as he had at the hospital. He thumbed the loose cartridge into the magazine, then tossed the gun and magazine onto the couch. They bounced against her thigh.

  She said, “You aren’t going to call the police?”

  “No. I’m going to help you.”

  When he took out his cell phone, Rina jumped up.

  “You say no police!”

  “I’m not calling the police.”

  Pike called Elvis Cole.

  16

  MICHAEL DARKO. Pike now had a name, but he knew nothing about Michael Darko, and needed to know more. It was important to understand the enemy before you engaged him, and impossible to find him without knowing his patterns and needs.

  When Cole arrived, Yanni was seated on a dinette chair, holding a bloody towel to his head. Rina was dressed, but the Ruger was still by her on the couch. Pike introduced them by pointing at each and saying their names.

  Cole eyed Yanni, then the gun, then Rina. Rina eyed him back, cool and suspicious.

  “What is this one, another used-to-be policeman?”

  “He’s a private investigator. He’s good at finding people.”

  “Then let him get started. We have wasted much time.”

  Cole took a seat near the couch as Pike sketched out everything Rina had told him about Darko, how the baby came to be with Ana, the kidnapping, and Rina’s intention to take back her child. When Pike was recounting that part of it, Cole looked over at Rina. When Cole looked, she tapped the pistol nestled against her leg.

  Cole said, “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Petar. Peter.”

  “You have a picture?”

  Pike thought her face darkened, but she stared at Cole glumly until Yanni mumbled something in Serbian.

  Pike said, “English. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Rina pushed up from the couch.

  “Yes, I have picture.”

  She went into the bedroom, dug through her bag, then returned with a snapshot. It showed a smiling baby with wispy red hair. The baby was on a green carpet, reaching toward the camera. Pike didn’t know much about babies, but this one didn’t look ten months old.

  She said, “When I leave apartment, I leave fast. This is only picture I have. You cannot have it.”

  Pike said, “He doesn’t look almost a year old.”

  She scowled like he was an idiot.

  “You are stupid? He is ten months and three days now. In picture, he is six months, one week, and one day. Is only picture I have.”

  Cole arched his eyebrows at Pike.

  “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you tell how old a baby is?”

  Pike wasn’t sure if Cole was joking or not. Cole turned back to the woman.

  “I can scan a copy on my computer, and give this one back. Would that be okay?”

  She seemed to think about it, then nodded.

  “That would be okay.”

  Cole put the picture aside, and turned back to ask more questions.

  “Why did you have to leave so fast?”

  “Michael was coming.”

  “For Peter.”

  “Michael say he want the boy, I say no, he say ha. I know what Michael thinks. He kill me, he take the boy, he pretend the whore-mother never exist.”

  “So you stashed Peter with your sister while you went to find a place to live in Seattle.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did Michael find them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would Ana have called him, maybe trying to work things out for you?”

  Rina laughed, but it was bitter and wise.

  “She would never do that. She is scared of these people. I keep her away from all that.”

  Cole glanced at Pike, not understanding.

  “These people?”

  Yanni spoke again, and another brief, incomprehensible conversation ensued. Pike stood, and Yanni immediately raised both hands.

  “She means the thieves. Ana is little girl when they come. Rina keep Ana away from these men.”

  Rina was nodding, her eyes narrowed and hard, and then she picked up where Yanni left off.

  “She is not to be a whore. She is not to work for Michael. I make her go to school, and have normal friends in her life, and to be a good girl.”

  Pike said, “You protected her.”

  Rina glanced out the window.

  “Not so well.”

  Cole cleared his throat, pulling them back.

  “Who knew Ana had the baby?”

  “No one.”

  “Yanni knew.”

  Yanni raised his hands again and shook his head.

  “I not tell anyone. I am with Rina every minute.”

  Rina made an impatient wave.

  “Yanni is good. I don’t know how Michael find her there. I cannot understand.”

  Cole said, “Let’s get back to Michael. This guy is your husband, but you don’t know where he lives?”

  “Nobody knows. That is how he makes his life.”

  “No address, no picture, not even a phone?”

  “He get new phone every week. The numbers change. What do you want me to say?”

  Rina scowled at Pike.

  “When is he going to start all this finding he is so good at?”

  Pike said, “Michael hides. We get that. But you know more about him than anyone else here. We need information so we have something to work with.”

  She spread her hands.

  “I am anxious to get started.”

  Cole said, “Who are his friends?”

  “He has no friends.”

  “Where does his family live?”

  “Serbia.”

  “I meant his relatives here.”

  “He leave them all in Serbia.”

  “Okay. What about your friends? Maybe one of them can help us find Michael.”

  “I have no friends. They are all afraid of Michael.”

  Cole looked over at Pike again.

  “I can’t write fast enough to keep up.”

  Rina squinted at him.

  “Is the great finder of people making fun of me?”

  Pike cleared his throat.

  “We need some names. Who does Michael work with? Who works for him? Even if you don’t know them, you must’ve heard the names mentioned, time to time.”

  Rina frowned at Yanni as if looking for guidance. Yanni glanced at Pike, afraid to say anything. Pike nodded, giving permission. They had a brief conversation that sounded more like an argument, and then they both started spitting out names. The names were difficult to understand, and even more difficult to spell, but Cole scratched them into his notebook.

  When Cole finished with the names, he looked up, and seemed hopeful.

  “Has Darko ever been arrested? Here in L.A.?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. He has been here much l
onger than me.”

  Cole glanced over at Pike, arching his eyebrows again.

  “Keep your fingers crossed on that one. I’ll check out Darko and these other guys, see if they’re in the system. If Darko’s been arrested, we might get lucky here. The one person you can’t lie to about where you live or what you own is the bail bondsman.”

  Pike knew this to be true from his time as an officer. Criminals lie to everyone about everything. They would give phony names, ages, and addresses to the police, the courts, each other, and even their own lawyers, but they could not lie to a bail bondsman. A bondsman would not post a bond without collateral, and if a bondsman could not confirm that the applicant legally owned what he claimed to own, that applicant stayed in jail.

  Cole continued the questioning, but she didn’t know very much more. Darko paid for everything in cash, used no credit cards that were not stolen, and made Rina pay all the bills for herself and the baby from her own checking account, which he then reimbursed in cash. Phones changed, addresses changed, locations changed, and cars changed. He was a man who left no trails and lived a hidden life.

  Pike said, “How were you planning to find him?”

  She shrugged as if there were only one way, and they should have gotten around to it sooner.

  “I would watch for the money.”

  Cole and Pike traded a glance, then Cole turned back to her.

  “How does he make his money?”

  “Sex. He has the girls. He has the people who steal the big trucks—”

  “Hijackers? Trucks filled with TVs, clothes, things like that?”

  “Yes. He has the people who steal the credit card information. He sells the bad gasoline. He has the strip clubs and bars.”

  Pike said, “You know where these places are?”

  “Some. I mostly know the girls.”

  Cole glanced up from his notes.

  “You know where he keeps the girls?”

  “I don’t know to say the address. I can show you.”

  Now Cole glanced over, and this time he stood. Pike followed him to the far side of the room, where Cole lowered his voice. Both Rina and Yanni were watching.

  “Did you find anything of her sister’s?”

  Pike told him what he found—the laptop, the yearbook, a few other things. All out in the Jeep.

  Cole said, “Good. I want to check out her story. Just because she tells us this stuff doesn’t make it real.”

  “I’ll put everything in your car when I leave.”

  “Also, I want to see what I can find out about this guy, Darko. If she’s giving it to us straight about him, then I probably know someone on LAPD who can help.”

  Pike knew someone, too, though not on LAPD, and now Pike wanted to see him.

  From the couch, Rina said, “I don’t like all these whispers.”

  Pike turned to face her.

  “You’re going to take a ride with him. Show him whatever you know about Darko’s businesses, and answer his questions.”

  “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to answer his questions, too.”

  Pike glanced at Cole.

  “You good?”

  “Living the dream.”

  Pike let himself out.

  17

  PIKE PLACED THE LAPTOP and other things he had taken from Ana’s room in Cole’s car, then headed back to his Jeep. As he was crossing the visitors’ parking lot, a brown Nissan Sentra slowed by the entrance. Two Latin men in the front seats tumed to check out the parking lot, and seemed to be looking at Pike’s Jeep. Then the driver saw Pike. There was a slight hesitation, then the driver gestured angrily at his passenger, making as if they were in the middle of an argument and seeing Pike hadn’t meant anything. Then the Sentra sped up and was gone.

  Maybe it was something, but maybe not.

  Troops in the desert called it spider-sense, after the movies about the Marvel comic book character, Spider-Man, how he senses something bad before it happens.

  Pike’s spider-sense tingled, but then the Sentra was gone. He tried to remember if he had seen a brown Sentra with two Latin guys earlier, but nothing came to mind.

  Pike was in no hurry to leave. If the Sentra was waiting around the corner to follow him, they might get tired of waiting and come back to see what he was doing. Then Pike would have them.

  Pike spent the next few minutes thinking about Michael Darko. Learning that Darko belonged to an EEOC gang set was a major break, mostly because it gave Pike direction. Los Angeles held the second largest collection of East European gangsters in the United States, most of whom were Russian. The fifteen republics of the former Soviet Union had all contributed gang sets to what most cops called Russian Organized Crime, whether they originally came from Russia or not. The Odessa Mafia was the largest set in L.A., followed by the Armenians, but smaller sets from Romania, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan, Chechnya, and the rest of Eastern Europe had been arriving for years. Most had been criminals back in their home states, but some had done other things.

  Pike called Jon Stone.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Bugger off. My head’s fine, bro. That’s just another night for me.”

  “Is Gregor still in L.A.?”

  “It’s George. He’s George Smith now. You have to be careful with his name.”

  “I remember. Is he here?”

  “Got a new place over on La Brea. What do you want with George?”

  “He might be able to help.”

  “This thing with Frank?”

  “An EOC gang is involved.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone was silent for a moment, then gave Pike an address.

  “Take your time getting there, okay? I’ll talk to him first. You walk in cold, he might get the wrong idea.”

  “I understand.”

  La Brea Avenue starts at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, and runs south through the city to the Hollywood Park racetrack. A ten-block stretch of its length between Melrose and Wilshire was known as decorators’ row because it was lined with everything from high-end custom furniture boutiques to Middle Eastern rug merchants to designer lighting and antique shops. The people who owned the stores came from all over the world, and sold to customers from all over the world, but not all of them were what they seemed.

  Pike found a spot for his Jeep outside a flower shop a block south of Beverly Boulevard. Pike had watched for the Sentra on a meandering drive from the Valley, and now he checked for the Sentra again when he got out of his Jeep. The Sentra had probably been nothing more than two guys who thought they saw something they didn’t, but Pike still had the creeped out sensation of crosshairs on his back.

  Pike didn’t go into the florist. He walked south one and a half blocks to an antique-lighting store. The store was narrow, with so many ceiling lights and wall sconces filling the window that the place looked like a secondhand junk store. A chime tinkled when Pike entered.

  The interior of the shop was as cluttered as the window; the walls festooned with sconces, and chandeliers and pendant lamps dripping from the ceiling like moss. Lamps of different sizes sprouted from every available surface like tropical plants in a jungle.

  A man’s voice said, “Hello, Joseph.”

  Took Pike a moment to find him, hidden behind the lamps like a hunter hidden by undergrowth.

  “Gregor.”

  “It’s George now, please. Remember?”

  “Sure. I’m sorry.”

  George Smith materialized from between the lamps. Pike hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked the same—shorter than Pike, and not as muscular, but with the sleek, strong build of a surfer, a surfer’s tan, and pale blue eyes. George was one of the deadliest human beings Pike knew. A gifted sniper. An immaculate assassin.

  George was Gregor Suvorov in those days, but had changed his name when he moved to Los Angeles. George Smith sounded as if he had grown up in Modesto, having what
broadcasters called a “general American” accent, but Gregor Suvorov had grown up in Odessa, Ukraine, where he enlisted in the Army of the Russian Federation, and spent a dozen years in the Russian Special Purpose Regiment known as the Spetsnaz GRU—the Russian version of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces—which was run by the KGB. The KGB gave special schooling to their brightest troopers, and Gregor was exceptionally bright. Hence, his fluency with English.

  After combat tours in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he cashed in to the private contractor market, enjoyed his newfound money and freedoms, and opted for even more. He moved to Los Angeles, where he enjoyed the sun, sold collectible lamps, and worked for the Odessa Mafia.

  George offered his hand, and Pike took it. Warm iron. George smiling, welcoming Pike into his store.

  “Man, it’s been forever. You good?”

  “Good.”

  “I was surprised when Jon called. But pleased. Watch your head. That’s a deco Tiffany, circa 1923. Eight thousand to the trade.”

  Pike dipped sideways to avoid the light. Despite being filled with lamps, the shop was dingy and dim, with shadows lurking in the corners. George probably liked it that way.

  Pike said, “Business good?”

  “Excellent, thank you. I wish I had come to America sooner. I should have been born here, man. I’m telling you!”

  “Not the lamp business. Your other business.”

  “I knew what you meant. That business is good, too, both here and abroad.”

  George still accepted special assignments outside of the Odessa work if the price was right, though his clients these days were almost always governments or political agencies. No one else could afford him.

  Pike followed George to a desk at the rear of the shop where they could sit.

  “Jon tell you why I’m here?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about Frank. Really. I never met the dude, but I’ve heard good things.”

  “You still involved with Odessa?”

  George’s smile flashed again.

  “You wouldn’t mind a quick scan, would you? Would that be all right?”

  Pike spread his hands, saying scan all you want.

  George took an RF scanner similar to the one Pike owned from his desk, and ran it over Pike from his sunglasses to his shoes. Pike didn’t object. He would have been surprised if George hadn’t checked him. When George was satisfied, he put the scanner away.