The Last Detective

  “How long does it take?”

  “It's computers, man. It's fast.”

  Starkey's pager buzzed again. She glanced at it, then slipped it into her pocket.

  “Gittamon.”

  “He wants you bad.”

  “Fuck him. I gotta have a cigarette.”

  Starkey was turning away when Chen's computer chimed with an incoming E-mail.

  Chen said, “Let's see.”

  The file downloaded automatically when Chen opened the E-mail. An NCIC/Interpol logo flashed over a set of booking photos showing a man with deep-set eyes and a strong neck. His name was Michael Fallon.

  Chen touched a line of numbers along the bottom of the file.

  “We've got a ninety-nine point nine-nine percent positive match on all twelve characteristic points. It's his cigar wrapper.”

  Starkey nudged me.

  “So? Do you know him?”

  “I've never seen him before in my life.”

  Chen scrolled the file so that we could read Fallon's personal data; brown, brown, six, one-ninety. His last known residence was in Amsterdam, but his current whereabouts were unknown. Michael Fallon was wanted for two unrelated murders in Colombia, South America, two more in El Salvador, and had been indicted under the International War Crimes Act by the United Nations for participating in mass murder, genocide, and torture in Sierra Leone. Interpol cautioned that he was to be considered armed and extremely dangerous.

  Starkey said, “Jesus Christ. He's one of those people with a fucked-up brain.”

  Chen nodded.

  “Lesions. They always find lesions in people like this.”

  Fallon had extensive military experience. He had served in the United States Army for nine years, first as a paratrooper, then as a Ranger. He had served an additional four years, but whatever he had done during those years was described only as “classified.”

  Starkey said, “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I knew what it meant, and felt a sharp tightness in my chest that was more than fear. I knew how he had come by the skills to watch and move and leave no sign when he stole Ben. I had been a soldier, and I had been good at it. Mike Fallon was better.

  “He was in Delta Force.”

  Chen said, “The terrorist guys?”

  Starkey stared at his picture.

  “No shit.”

  Delta. D-boys. The Operators. Delta trained for hard, hot insertions against terrorist targets, and membership was by invitation only. They were the best killers in the business.

  Starkey said, “All this Army stuff, maybe he got a hard-on for you while he was in the service.”

  “He doesn't know me. He's too young for Vietnam.”

  “Then why?”

  I didn't know.

  We kept reading. After Fallon left the service, he had used his skills to work as a professional soldier in Nicaragua, Lebanon, Somalia, Afghanistan, Colombia, El Salvador, Bosnia, and Sierra Leone. Michael Fallon was a mercenary. Lucy's words came to me: This isn't normal. Things like this don't happen to normal people.

  Starkey said, “This is just great, Cole. You couldn't have a garden-variety lunatic after you. You gotta have a professional killer.”

  “I don't know him, Starkey. I've never heard of him. I've never known anyone named Fallon, let alone someone like this.”

  “Someone knows him, buddy, and he sure as hell knows you. John, can we get a hard copy of this?”

  “Sure. I can print the file.”

  I said, “Print one for me, too. I want to show Lucy, then talk to the people in her neighborhood. After that, we can go back to the construction site. It's easier when you show people a picture. One memory leads to another.”

  Starkey smiled at me.

  “We? Are we partners now?”

  Somewhere in the minutes between the parking lot and our waiting for the file, it had become “we.” As if she wasn't on LAPD and I wasn't a man desperate to find a lost boy. As if we were a team.

  “You know what I meant. We finally have something to work with. We can build on it. We can keep going.”

  Starkey smiled wider, then patted my back.

  “Relax, Cole. We're going to do all that stuff. Play your cards right, and I might let you tag along. I'm gonna put this on the BOLO.”

  Starkey put it on the BOLO, then phoned a request for information about Fallon to the L.A. offices of the FBI, the U.S. Secret Service, and the Sheriffs. After that, we rolled back to Lucy's. We.

  The street outside Lucy's apartment was jammed with Richard's limo, Gittamon's black and white, and a second black and white with MISSING PERSONS UNIT emblazoned on the side. Gittamon answered the door when we knocked. He seemed surprised to see us, then angry. He glanced back inside, then lowered his voice. He kept the door pulled like he was hiding.

  “Where have you been? I've been calling you all morning.”

  Starkey said, “I was working. We found something, Dave. We know who took the boy.”

  “You should have told me. You should have answered my calls.”

  “What's going on? Why is Missing Persons here?”

  Gittamon glanced back inside, then opened the door.

  “They fired us, Carol. Missing Persons is taking the case.”

  time missing: 47 hours, 38 minutes

  Richard rubbed his hand nervously through his hair. His clothes were wrinkled worse than yesterday, as if he had slept in them. Lucy sat cross-legged on the couch, and Myers was leaning against the far wall. He was the only one of them who looked rested and fresh. They were listening to an immaculately groomed woman in a dark business suit and her male clone, who were seated on chairs that had been pulled from the dining room. Lucy had been looking at them, but now she stared at me. She didn't want me involved, yet here I was. Making it worse.

  Gittamon cleared his throat to interrupt. He stood at the edge of the living room like a child who had been reprimanded before the class.

  “Ah, Lieutenant, excuse me. This is Detective Starkey and Mr. Cole. Carol, this is Detective-Lieutenant Nora Lucas and Detective-Sergeant Ray Alvarez, from the Missing Persons Unit.”

  Lucas had one of those shrunken, porcelain faces with absolutely no lines; probably because she never smiled. Alvarez held my hand too long when we shook so that he could make a point with Gittamon.

  “I thought we understood that Mr. Cole wasn't going to be involved, Sergeant.”

  I said, “Let go of my hand, Alvarez, or you'll see how involved I can be.”

  Alvarez hung onto my hand for a moment longer just to show me that he could.

  “These are interesting allegations against you on that tape. We'll talk about them as we review the case.”

  Richard ran his hand through his hair again as he paced to the window. He seemed irritated. He looked at Lucas and Alvarez.

  “What can you people do that's any different from what's already being done?”

  Myers said, “More horsepower.”

  Lucas nodded.

  “That's right. We'll bring the full weight and authority of the Missing Persons Unit to finding your son, not to mention our experience. Finding people is what we do.”

  Alvarez leaned forward on his elbows.

  “We're the A-team, Mr. Chenier. We'll get the case organized, review what's been done, and find your son. We'll also cooperate with you and Mr. Myers in your own efforts.”

  Richard turned impatiently from the window and motioned for Myers to peel himself away from the wall.

  “Good. That's great. Now I want to get back to finding my son instead of just talking about it. Come on, Lee.”

  I said, “We know who took him.”

  Everyone looked at me as if they weren't sure what I had said or why I had said it. Lucy opened her mouth, then stood.

  “What did you say?”

  “We know who took Ben. We have a description on the vehicle and two men, and an ID on one of them.”

  Myers peeled himself from the wall.


  “You're full of shit, Cole.”

  Starkey held out her copy of the Interpol file so that Lucy could see Fallon's picture.

  “Look at this man, Ms. Chenier. Try to remember if you've seen him before. Maybe at a park when you were with Ben, or after school or when you were at work.”

  Lucy studied Fallon as if she was falling into his picture. Richard hurried across the room so that he could see.

  “Who is that? What did you find out?”

  I ignored Richard and the rest of them. I was totally focused on Lucy.

  “Think hard, Luce—maybe you had one of those feelings like you were being followed; maybe you got a weird vibe from someone you saw, and this was him.”

  “I don't know. I don't think so.”

  Lucas said, “Who is that?”

  Starkey glanced at Lucas and Alvarez, then handed the sheet to Gittamon.

  “His name is Michael Fallon. I've already put it out on a BOLO, along with a description of the vehicle they used. At least one other man was involved—a black male with distinctive marks on his face, but we don't have an ID for him yet. Probably because we're not the A-team.”

  Richard stared at Fallon's picture. He breathed hard and rubbed his hair again. He shoved the picture at Myers.

  “You see this? You see what they have? They've got a fucking suspect.”

  Myers nodded with little roach eyes.

  “I can see that, Richard.”

  The roach eyes came to me.

  “How do you know it's him?”

  “We found a cigar wrapper on the ridge opposite my house. We found it near footprints that match the footprint where Ben was taken.”

  Richard's eyes were bright.

  “That footprint we saw? The one you showed us yesterday?”

  Starkey said, “Yeah. We got an NCIC hit on fingerprints from the wrapper on twelve out of twelve points. It doesn't get more positive than that.”

  Both Lucas and Alvarez got up so they could see the picture, too. Lucas glanced at Gittamon.

  “You didn't tell me about this.”

  Gittamon shook his head as if he were on the spot.

  “I didn't know. I called her, but she didn't call back.”

  Starkey said, “We found the wrapper this morning. We only got the ID a few minutes ago. That's what Cole and I were doing while you people were figuring out how to steal our case.”

  “Take it easy, Detective.”

  “Read his goddamned warrants. Fallon is a professional killer, for Christ's sake. He's got a war-crimes indictment in Africa. He's murdered people all over the world.”

  Lucas said, “Detective!”

  She glanced at Lucy as she said it, and her voice snapped across Starkey like a slap.

  This guy is a professional killer. He's murdered people all over the world.

  And now he has your son.

  Starkey flushed deep when she realized what she had done.

  “I'm sorry, Ms. Chenier. That was insensitive.”

  Richard went to the door, anxious to leave.

  “Let's get on this, Lee. We can't waste any more time with this.”

  Myers didn't move.

  He said, “I'm not wasting time. I'm investigating how Cole knows this man. Everything I've heard so far fits with the tape. Cole and Fallon have a lot in common. How do you know each other, Cole? What does this guy want from you?”

  “He doesn't want anything from me. I don't know him, never met him, and don't have any idea why he's doing this.”

  “That isn't what he says on the tape.”

  “Fuck yourself, Myers.”

  Lucy's forehead was lined in concentration.

  “This doesn't make sense. He has to have some connection with you.”

  “He doesn't. There isn't.”

  Lucas whispered to Alvarez, then spoke loudly to interrupt.

  “Let's not get sidetracked. This is a good start, Detective. Ray, call SID to confirm the identification, then have Central distribute the picture.”

  Lucas had assumed command of the case, and she wanted everyone to know that she was still running the show.

  “Mr. Chenier, Ms. Chenier—what we want to do now is bring the elements of the investigation together. This won't take long, then we can get on with developing this lead.”

  Starkey said, “It's already developed. We just have to find the sonofabitch.”

  Gittamon touched her arm.

  “Carol. Please.”

  Richard muttered something, then opened the door.

  “You people can do what you want, but I'm going to find my son. Lee, goddamnit, let's go. Do you need a copy of that?”

  “I have what I need.”

  “Then let's get the hell out of here.”

  They left.

  Alvarez turned toward Gittamon.

  “Sergeant, you and Starkey wait outside. We'll review what you've done so far when we're finished with Ms. Chenier.”

  Starkey said, “Have you people been asleep? We made a major breakthrough here. We don't need to have a meeting about it.”

  Alvarez raised his voice.

  “Wait outside until we're finished. You, too, Gittamon. Stop wasting time and get on with it.”

  Starkey stalked out, and Gittamon followed, so humiliated that he shuffled.

  Alvarez said, “You stick around, too, Cole. We want to know why this guy has it in for you.”

  “No, I'm not wasting more time with that. I'm going to find Ben.”

  I looked at Lucy.

  “I know you don't want me involved, but I'm not going to leave it alone. I'm going to find him, Luce. I'm going to bring him back to you.”

  “You'd better be downstairs, Cole. I'm not asking; I'm telling.”

  Alvarez said something else, but I had already shut the door. Starkey and Gittamon were on the sidewalk by his car, arguing. I ignored them.

  I went to my car. I could get in, I could drive, but I didn't know where to go or what to do. I looked at Michael Fallon's picture and tried to figure out what to do.

  This doesn't make sense. He has to have some connection with you.

  All investigations run the same course: You follow the trail of a person's life to see where it crosses with another. Fallon and I had both been in the Army, but we had been in the Army at different times, and, so far as I knew, our lives had never crossed. So far as I knew, his life had never crossed the life of any man with whom I served, and I didn't see how it would. A Delta-trained killer. A professional mercenary. A man wanted for murder in El Salvador and war crimes in Africa who had come to Los Angeles to steal Ben Chenier and make up a lie. Current whereabouts unknown.

  I glanced up and down the street to see if I could spot Joe. He would be here, watching, and I needed him.

  “Joe!”

  Men like Michael Fallon lived and worked in a shadow world that I knew nothing about; they paid cash and were paid in cash, lived under other names, and moved in circles so clannish that they were known in their true lives by very few others.

  “Joe!”

  Pike touched my shoulder. He might have stepped out of a tight thatch of plants at the corner of the building. His dark glasses gleamed like polished armor in the sun. My hands shook when I gave him the file.

  “This man took Ben. He's lived all over the world. He's fought and done things everywhere. I don't have any idea how to find him.”

  Pike had lived and worked in dark places, too. He read through the file without speaking until he had finished. Then he put the pages away.

  “Men like this don't fight for free. People hire him, so somebody somewhere knows how to reach him. All we have to do is find that person.”

  “I want to talk to them.”

  Pike's mouth twitched, then he shook his head.

  “They won't talk to you, Elvis. People like this won't even let you get close.”

  Pike stared, but he didn't seem to be staring at me. I wondered what he was thinking.

  ??
?I can't go home. I can't just wait.”

  “It's out of your hands.”

  Pike disappeared between the buildings with the same distant look on his face, but I was too worried about Ben to notice.

  17

  time missing: 47 hours, 54 minutes

  Pike

  Pike thought that Cole's eyes looked like tunnels the color of bruises. Pike had seen the same purple eyes on cops cruising the edge of a burnout and combat soldiers with too much trigger time. Cole was in The Zone; amped up, wrung out, and driving forward like the Terminator with mission lock. You get in The Zone, Pike knew, and your thinking grew fuzzy. You could get yourself killed.

  Pike ran the three blocks to his Jeep, feeling awkward in the way he moved. His back was tight from having been still for so long and his shoulder was numb. The jogging hurt his shoulder, but Pike ran anyway.

  Mercenaries didn't simply show up in a war zone and get hired to kill people or train foreign troops; they were recruited by private military corporations, security firms with international contracts, and “consultants.” The talent pool was small. The same people hired the same people over and over, just like software engineers jumping from job to job in Silicon Valley. Only with shorter life expectancies.

  Pike once knew a few consultants, but he didn't know if they were still in the business. He didn't know if any of them would be willing to help, or, if so, what they would want or how long it would take. He didn't even know if they were alive. Pike had been out of that life for a long time, else he would have called from his car. He no longer remembered their numbers.

  Pike drove to his condo in Culver City. When he reached home, he pulled off his sweatshirt, then drank a bottle of water with a handful of Aleve and aspirin. The phone numbers for the men he had known were in a safe he kept in his bedroom. They weren't written as digits, but as a coded list of words. He got them, then made the calls.

  The first four numbers were no longer in use. A young woman with a bubbly voice answered the fifth number, which had clearly been recycled into the system. The sixth number was another disconnect, and the seventh a dentist's office. War was a business with a high casualty rate. Pike scored on the eighth.

  “Yeah?”

  Pike recognized the voice as soon as he heard it. As if they had spoken only that morning.