Pike was good at some things, but not so good at others. He wanted information about Ana and Rina Markovic, and on the phone numbers in Rahmi Johnson’s phone. Pike was a warrior. He could hunt, stalk, and defeat an enemy in almost any environment, but detective work required relationships Pike did not possess.

A man answered on the second ring.

“Elvis Cole Detective Agency. We find more for less. Check our prices.”

Pike said, “I need your help.”

Chapter 12

12

Elvis Cole

ELVIS COLE PUT DOWN the phone, feeling even more concerned than he was before Pike called. Cole couldn’t count the times Pike had saved his life, or the endless moments of silence they had shared when just being with someone who has seen the same horrible things you have seen was the last best way to survive. But he could count on one hand the times Joe Pike had asked for help.

Cole hadn’t felt right since Detective-Sergeant Jack Terrio hit him with questions he couldn’t answer about a multiple homicide he knew nothing about, and now Cole was irritated he had to wait to find out what was going on. As usual, Pike hadn’t explained anything over the phone. Just said he was on his way, and hung up. Ever the mannered conversationalist.

The Elvis Cole Detective Agency maintained a two-office suite four flights above Santa Monica Boulevard. The selling point had been the balcony. Cole could step outside on a clear day and see all the way down Santa Monica to the sea. Sometimes, the seagulls flew inland, floating in the air like white porcelain kites, blinking at him with beady eyes. Sometimes, the woman in the next suite stepped onto her balcony to sun herself. Her selection of bikinis was impressive.

Cole’s name was on the door, but Joe Pike was his partner, as well as his friend. They bought the agency the same year Pike left the LAPD and Cole was licensed by the state of California as a private investigator.

That morning, the sky was milky, but bright, cool, but not chilly, and the French doors were open so Cole could enjoy the air. Cole was wearing a killer Jams World aloha shirt (colors for the day: sunburst and lime), khaki cargo pants, and an Italian suede shoulder holster of impeccable design, said holster currently gunless. Cole was wearing the holster in hopes the woman next door would emerge in her latest bikini, see it, and swoon, but so far, Cole was zero for two: no woman, no swooning.

Twenty minutes later, Cole was balancing his checkbook when Pike arrived. Cole didn’t hear the door open or close. This was just how Pike moved. As if he was so used to moving quietly he no longer touched the earth.

Cole pushed the checkbook aside, letting Pike see his irritation.