“No shit. That’s a bad break. How’d they kill him?”
“Looks like an ice pick or a screwdriver. Stuck him sixty-two times.”
Walsh smiled a warm, soft smile all the way from Jordie Brant’s grave.
“Thanks for letting me know. Sounds like someone had a serious mad-on for this prick.”
“No kidding. Hope that dude doesn’t get mad at me.”
Walsh laughed politely, then closed her phone. She sat in silence for a moment, feeling her spirits lighten. Walsh had called in big favors to have Darko transferred to Corcoran, and would owe a big favor in return, but Special Agent Kelly Walsh had fulfilled her obligation. Jordie Brant had been one of her guys. You have to take care of your own, and that’s what she did.
Walsh had known how she would do it since she learned Lonnie Tang was in Corcoran.
A nasty little sonofabitch.
A natural-born killer.
Walsh ejected the Orbison, and decided she wanted to hear something lighter. More bouncy and upbeat. She loaded her favorite all-girl mix into the player—Pussycat Dolls, No Doubt, Rihanna, and Pink, sprinkled with classics by the Bangles, Bananarama, and the Go-Go’s. She hit the play button, and cranked up the volume.
The energy filled her.
She sang with the band.
This town is my town.
She felt better already.
Those women can rock!
48
COLE FOUND THE FAMILY. They were good people, a young couple from Sierra Madre who had already adopted two children, both, coincidentally, from the former Soviet Union. Cole had checked them out thoroughly, and interviewed them several times, and Pike had watched how they related to the boy and their other children. He thought they would do a fine job.
Walsh had come through on the paperwork. Documents would be created that established the boy as a natural-born citizen of the United States, born to a fictitious couple in Independence, Louisiana, and adopted through a private attorney.
Pike held the boy for the last time on a bright sunny morning outside a federal office building in downtown Los Angeles. A private social worker employed by the attorney was going to deliver the boy to his new parents, who were currently waiting across the street.
The boy liked the sun, and he liked being outside. He flapped his arms and made the gurgling laugh.
Pike said, “You good?”
The boy flapped his arms harder, and touched Pike’s face.
Pike stroked his back, then handed him off to the social worker. Pike watched her deliver him to the young couple. The young woman took the boy in her arms, and the young man made a silly face. The baby seemed happy to see them.
Pike turned away without looking back, went into the building, and found the office. A woman there was going to generate the necessary paperwork.
She told Pike to have a seat, then faced her computer.
“I have to fill in the birth information. The name, place of birth, things like that. Most of these things will change with the adoption—like his name—but we need something right now to create his place in the system.”
“I understand.”
“I was told you’re the one who has that information?”
Pike nodded.
“Okay. Let’s get started. What’s his first name?”
“Peter.”
“Spell it, please.”
“P-E-T-E-R.”
“Middle name?”
“No middle name.”
“Most people have a middle name.”
“I don’t. Neither does he.”
“Okay. His last name?”
“Pike. P-I-K-E.”
Robert Crais, The First Rule
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