Pike let them gain ground before he followed them, creeping along several cars back through the ugly Westwood Village traffic, then onto the freeway. He kept the Toyota in sight, rolling north into the San Fernando Valley, then east to Studio City. Pike worked closer when they left the freeway, following them into a residential area between the L.A. River channel and Ventura Boulevard, and then into the parking lot of a large apartment complex. It was one of those complexes with gated entries and visitor parking, and lots of used brick and trees.

Pike parked at the curb and followed her on foot, staying along the edge of the building. He stopped when her brake lights flared. Yanni got out, spoke with her for a moment through the open window, then climbed into a metallic tan F-150 pickup truck. The Toyota continued into the residents’ parking lot.

Pike noted the F-150’s license plate, but stayed back until Yanni drove away, then jumped the gate into the parking structure. He continued along the line of parked vehicles until he found Rina’s Toyota parked in a space marked 2205. Pike thought it likely that 2205 would also be Rina’s apartment number.

Pike returned to his Jeep, wrote down the various license plates and numbers before he forgot them, then phoned a friend.

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.”

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.

“So I’m sitting here, the door opens, and these cops walk in, badge, badge, badge. Three of them, so I know it’s important. They say, what do I know about Frank Meyer? I say, who? They say, Meyer was a merc with your boy Pike. I say, okay, and? They say, Meyer and his family were shot to death. I don’t know what to say to that, but that’s when the alpha cop, a guy named Terrio, asked what I knew about your personal relationship with Meyer, and whether you had a business relationship. I said, brother, I have never heard that name before.”

Cole watched as Pike settled into a spot against the wall. Pike rarely sat when he was at their office. He leaned against the wall.

Pike said, “No reason you would. Frank was one of my guys. From before.”

“Terrio told me they had reason to believe this crew hit Meyer because he had cash or drugs at his home.”

“Terrio’s wrong. He believes the other six victims were crooked, so he’s gunning for Frank.”

Cole frowned, feeling even less in the know.

“Other six?”

“Frank’s home was the seventh hit in a string. Same crew, working the Westside and Encino. They’ve been ripping off criminals.”

“Terrio left out that part. So did the paper.”

After Terrio left, Cole had searched the L.A. Times website and local news stations for their coverage of the murders. The Times had provided the most information, describing Frank Meyer as a successful, self-made businessman. No mention was made of his past as a professional military contractor, but maybe that hadn’t been known at the time the article was written. A detective named Stan Watts was quoted, saying he believed a professional home invasion crew numbering between three and four men entered the home between eight and ten P.M., with robbery as the likely motive. Watts provided no details about what might have been stolen.

Cole had printed out the article, and now pushed it toward Pike, but Pike didn’t look at it.

Cole said, “If Terrio’s wrong, then what did these people go there to steal?”

Pike took a sheet of notepaper and a cell phone from his pocket, and placed them on Cole’s desk.

“I found a connection Terrio doesn’t know about.”

Cole listened as Pike told him about a recently released criminal named Jamal Johnson and his cousin, Rahmi. Pike told him about a new Malibu, and that Jamal told Rahmi his crew bought scores from someone in the Serbian mob. Pike was in the middle of telling it when Cole raised a hand, stopping him.

“Waitaminute. SIS is watching this guy, and you broke into his place?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

Pike tossed the phone to Cole.

“Rahmi’s phone. Jamal’s number is in the memory. Maybe you could ID the service provider, and back-trace Jamal’s call list. We might be able to find him through his friends.”

Cole put the phone aside, and picked up the note.

“I’ll see what I can do. How are these people connected?”

“Ana Markovic was the Meyers’ nanny. She died this morning. Rina was her sister. She has a friend called Yanni. I’m not sure how he spells it. Rina was at the hospital before her sister died. She was standing guard because she believed the people who shot her sister might come around to finish the job.”

“You think she knows something?”

“They’re Serbian. Rahmi says his cousin hooked up with a Serbian gangster. What are the odds?”

Cole thought about it. Los Angeles has always had a small Serbian population, but, just as the Russian and Armenian populations increased after the Soviet Union collapsed, the Serbian and expatriate Yugoslavian populations shot up after the conflicts in the nineties. Criminals and organized gangsters arrived along with everyone else, and L.A. now had significant numbers of criminal gang sets from all over Eastern Europe. But even with the increasing populations, the numbers of East Europeans remained statistically small. A Latin, African-American, or Anglo connection would have meant nothing. A Balkan connection in Westwood was worth checking out.