Rahmi wet his lips as if he was expecting a trick, then snatched the bills and went to the door.

“How you know Jamal?”

“He murdered me.”

Rahmi froze with his hand on the knob.

Pike said, “You see Jamal before I find him, tell him Frank Meyer is coming.”

Rahmi let himself out.

Pike stood by the door, listening. He heard the gate. He heard the Malibu rumble, and the tires screech. Just as before, the SIS detail would scramble to follow.

Pike slipped out the bathroom window, and returned to the night.

Chapter 11

11

PIKE RETURNED TO UCLA the next morning. When he stepped off the elevator onto the ICU floor, he saw Rina outside her sister’s door with a doctor and two nurses. Pike stepped back onto the elevator and rode down to the lobby. He wanted to speak with her alone.

Pike repositioned his Jeep so he could watch the lobby entrance, then turned on the phone he had taken from Rahmi Johnson. He had bought a power cord for the phone on the way to the hospital. Pike wanted to keep the phone charged in case Jamal called his cousin.

Pike scrolled through the list until he reached Jamal’s number, then pressed the button to dial. Pike had called the number twice last night, and now again, but the response was the same. A female computer voice came on, informing Pike that Jamal’s message box was full.

Pike put away the phone, then stared at the lobby. He was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but Rina emerged a few minutes later. Same jeans and jacket as yesterday. Same shoulder bag clutched to her chest.

Pike moved through a row of cars as she crossed into the parking lot. She walked fast, with hard, clipped steps, as if she wanted to cover as much ground as possible.

She didn’t see Pike until he stepped from between the cars, then she gasped.

Pike said, “Do you know who did this?”

“Of course not. How could I know?”

“Is that why you’re afraid? You know who did this?”

She edged away, keeping the purse close.

“I don’t know what you are saying. Of course I don’t know. The police are looking.”

Pike stepped in front of her.

“The people who shot her were sent by a Serbian.”

“And this means what? Please—”

She tried to get around him, but Pike caught her arm.

“The crew who shot your sister bought the score from a Serbian gangster. They bought information about a house where your sister worked. And now here you are, afraid, with the gun.”

She glared at his hand, then drew herself up.

“Leave go of me.”