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Watchman by Robert Crais
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(Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)
- Publisher: Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group
- Pub. Date: January 2008
- ISBN-13: 9781416514978
- Sales Rank: 4,114
- 416pp
- Series: Elvis Cole Ser.
- Edition Description: Reprint
- Other Formats:
- Hardcover
- Compact Disc - Abridged, 5 CDs, 6 hours
Synopsis
Larkin Conner Barkley lives like the City of Angels is hers for the taking. Young and staggeringly rich, she speeds through the city during its loneliest hours, blowing through red after red in her Aston Martin as if running for her life. Until out of nowhere a car appears, and with it the metal-on-metal explosion of a terrible accident. Dazed, Larkin attempts to help the other victims. And finds herself the sole witness in a secret federal investigation.
For maybe the first time in her life, Larkin wants to do the right thing. But by agreeing to cooperate with the authorities, she becomes the target for a relentless team of killers. And when the U.S. Marshals and the finest security money can buy can't protect her, Larkin's wealthy family turns to the one man money can't buy - Joe Pike.
Pike lives a world away from the palaces of Beverly Hills. He's an ex-cop, ex-Marine, ex-mercenary who owes a bad man a favor, and that favor is to keep Larkin alive. The one upside of the job is reuniting with Bud Flynn, Pike's LAPD training officer, and a man Pike reveres as a father. The downside is Larkin Barkley, who is the uncontrollable cover girl for self-destruction - and as deeply alone as Pike.
Pike commits himself to protecting the girl, but when they immediately come under fire, he realizes someone is selling them out. In defiance of Bud and the authorities, Pike drops off the grid with the girl and follows his own rules of survival: strike fast, hit hard, hunt down the hunters. With the help of private investigator Elvis Cole, Pike uncovers a web of lies and betrayals, and the stunning revelation that even the cops are not who they seem. As the body countrises, Pike's biggest threat might come from the girl herself, a lost soul in the City of Angels, determined to destroy herself unless Joe Pike can teach her the value of life...and love.
The New York Times - Marilyn Stasio
Foreign terrorists may lend an exotic touch to American crime fiction, but our preferred villains are still real estate developers and agents of the federal government. Not one to play favorites, Robert Crais tosses them all in the mix in The Watchman, a testosterone-fueled thriller expressly engineered for Joe Pike, the enigmatic sidekick of Crais’s so-cool Los Angeles private eye, Elvis Cole. Pike is the kind of solitary, scary guy who can do push-ups on his thumbs and attract a pack of coyotes when he goes out for a predawn run, and Crais writes in a taut, muscular style tailored to the lethal moves of this romantic mercenary soldier.
More Reviews and RecommendationsBiography
Following a tremendously successful run as a television screenwriter, Robert Crais broke into the publishing world in a big way with his Elvis Cole and Joe Pike mystery novels, proving that for a select few, Los Angeles truly can be a city of dreams.
More About the AuthorCustomer Reviews
- Reader Rating:
- Ratings: 11Reviews: 7
- See All Reviews
What a combo: Joe Pike and Elvis Coleby Anonymous
Reader Rating:
See Detailed Ratings
June 23, 2008: I loved this novel as it delved deeper into Joe Pike and what makes him tick. You can't beat Robert Crais for suspense. It's a page turner in every sense. Once you get started you can't put the book down. Love every book Crais has written. Keep it up, Mr. Crais. You are one hot author!
You gotta read this one!!by Anonymous
Reader Rating:
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July 02, 2007: If you are an Elvis Cole fan, you've got to read this book. While Elvis is in this book, the focus is really on Joe Pike. We learn some new things about Joe, even to the point where he seems human! :) Seriously, there is still a lot about him we don't know but I truly enjoyed this book. One of Crais' best yet!!
Fact File
Name:
Robert Crais
Current Home:
Los Angeles, California
Date of Birth:
1953
Place of Birth:
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
Education:
B.S., Louisiana State University, 1976; Clarion Writers Workshop at Michigan State University
Awards:
Anthony and Macavity Awards for Best Novel of the Year for The Monkey's Raincoat, 1987
Biography
Los Angeles is known as the city of dreams, largely because so many Americans dream of breaking into the Hollywood film and television industry. In 1976, Robert Crais went west from Louisiana to pursue that very dream. As it turned out, he became one of the lucky few to break into the industry in a big way. Crais has since written for such hugely popular TV shows as Quincy, Cagney and Lacey, Miami Vice, Hill Street Blues, and L.A. Law, just to name a few. However, after achieving such success (which included a prestigious Emmy nomination) in a business that so many would give everything to break into, Robert Crais decided to step away and pursue his true dream. Frustrated by the collaborative process that comes with screenwriting, and inspired by pulp-pioneers such as Raymond Chandler, Crais became a mystery novelist. With his massively popular Elvis Cole/Joe Pike mysteries series, it seems as though success has a funny way of following Crais no matter what he decides to do.
Crais published his very first novel in 1987. The Monkey's Raincoat introduced mystery fans to Elvis Cole and Joe Pike, a pair of L.A. private investigators who would become his most-beloved recurring characters. Crais's transition from screenwriting to novel-writing was an astoundingly smooth one. The Monkey's Raincoat earned him nominations for the Edgar, Anthony, Shamus, and Macavity awards, winning both the Anthony and Macavity for "Best Novel of the Year." Crais's publisher was so overjoyed by the novel's success that he encouraged Crais to keep the Cole/Pike team going. "I started writing these books to get away from writing other people's concepts, like TV and movies," Crais told Barnes&Noble.com. "I never expected to write these guys as a series...but the book proved to be so popular and the characters were so popular that my publisher wanted more." What followed was a series of bestselling mysteries, including Stalking the Angel (1989), Free Fall (1993), L.A. Requiem (1999), and last year's The Forgotten Man.
Although the series was not part of Crais's original plan, he still seems to hold the Cole and Pike team closer to his heart than anything he has previously written. He explained, "The characters have deepened, and I think they kind of reflect what's going on with me and the world as I see it." When asked about whether or not we can expect to see the crime-solving buddies on the big screen anytime soon, he said, "I think I would have a difficult time in the collaborative process when other people suddenly put their fingerprints on Elvis and Joe," further illustrating his personal feelings for his P.I. team.
As much as Crais loves his series, he does occasionally write novels outside of the Cole/Pike world. His latest, The Two-Minute Rule, tells the story of career criminal Max Holman, a recently released-from-prison bank robber who finds himself hunting an entirely different kind of criminal after his son is gunned down. The book has since raked in positive reviews from such publications as Booklist, Publisher's Weekly, and The Library Journal. While The Two-Minute Rule does not feature Cole and Pike, Crais fans will notice one significant similarity between his latest novel and his famous series -- the Los Angeles setting. "I can't think of a better place to set crime novels because of what Los Angeles is. Los Angeles is the main where the nation goes to make its dreams come true. When you have a place like that where so many people are risking their very identities, not just money and cash, but they're risking who they are because it's their hopes and dreams, when you have that kind of tension and that kind of friction, you can't help but have crime."
Fortunately, Crais will never have to succumb to such friction and tension since, for a success story such as he, Los Angeles completely lived up to its promise of being the city of dreams.
Good to Know
Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Crais:
"My first job was cleaning dog kennels. It was especially, ah, aromatic during those hot, humid Louisiana summers, but it prepared me for Hollywood."
"My fiction is almost always inspired by a character's need or desire to rise above him-or herself. No one is perfect and some of us have much adversity in our lives; it is those people who struggle to rise above their nature or background that I find the most interesting and heroic."
"Fun details? Like Elvis Cole, I have a dry sense of humor. Sometimes I am so dry that people don't know I'm kidding and think I'm being serious. I enjoy this because their reactions are often funny. Also, I wear beautifully colored shirts like Elvis Cole, only I was wearing them before him. People will say, ‘Look, RC dresses just like Elvis Cole,' and I'll say, 'No, Elvis Cole dresses like me!' I also wear sunglasses like Joe Pike, but not indoors and not at night."
"Elvis Cole wrote two episodes of television. No lie. It happened like this: I had written episodes of Miami Vice and Jag that were rewritten by person or persons unknown -- changed so badly that I didn't want my name on them, so I used Elvis Cole's name as a pen name."
Feature Interview
In the winter of 2005, Robert Crais took some time out to talk with us about some of his favorite books, authors, and interests. What book most influenced your life or career as a writer?
It wasn't just one book or author, but many and from many genres -- Chandler and Hammett and Robert B. Parker; John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway; Robert A. Heinlein and Ray Bradbury; the list goes on. But if I was forced to narrow the field, I would have to say Raymond Chandler's The Little Sister. It was the first book in the detective field I read. I fell in love with the main character, Philip Marlowe, and the setting, Los Angeles, and the power of Chandler's language.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
My favorite books change with my mood. I'll give you a few titles today, but ask me again in six months and the answers might be different. Let's start with five:
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
I listen to all types of music, from rock to country to classical, but not while I'm writing. If the music is something I like, I end up thinking about the music instead of thinking about what I'm writing.
If you had a book club, what would it be reading?
The Two Minute Rule, of course!
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
Nonfiction books. I love history, biographies, and popular science.
What are you working on now?
Next year's book, which happens to be an Elvis Cole novel.
Many writers are hardly ‘overnight success' stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
Ha. It took me about fifteen years to become an "overnight success." I had scores and scores of rejections at the beginning of my career when I was writing short stories. I found fairly easy success when I wrote television, but I ‘rediscovered' rejections when I turned to novels. I wrote two novels that were so bad I didn't even market them. Then I wrote The Monkey's Raincoat, which was rejected nine times before it sold. Even then, my career built slowly, but steadily. Each book sold more than the last. I finally hit the bestseller lists with the paperback publication of L.A. Requiem. The worst rejection I received was back in my short story days. I received one of those pre-printed form rejections with a very short, two-word note in the margin. The note was: You suck.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
If you've already written something, write something else. Newer writers will often finish a short story or novel, then live or die through the submission process without working on new material. Keep writing! My other big tip is to write what you love. This might seem obvious to some, but many aspiring writers chase trends or write what other people tell them they should write. This is a huge mistake. Write what you love. Follow your passion. And try to write well. None of us -- including myself -- is ever so good that we can stop trying to improve.
From Barnes & Noble
After his stand-alone Two-Minute Rule triumph, Robert Crais returns with a barnburner featuring his two most popular characters, Elvis Cole and Joe Pike. This time Pike is at the center of the action as he throws himself into the dangerous job of protecting the life of a spoiled, "rich bitch" federal witness. It just takes an ambush or two for the enigmatic cop to realize that somebody inside is leaking information that could get him and his contrarian companion killed. To outwit the plotters, he takes matters into his own hands by "kidnapping" the debutante songbird. High-octane excitement.
From the Publisher
Larkin Conner Barkley lives like the City of Angels is hers for the taking. Young and staggeringly rich, she speeds through the city during its loneliest hours, blowing through red after red in her Aston Martin as if running for her life. Until out of nowhere a car appears, and with it the metal-on-metal explosion of a terrible accident. Dazed, Larkin attempts to help the other victims. And finds herself the sole witness in a secret federal investigation.
For maybe the first time in her life, Larkin wants to do the right thing. But by agreeing to cooperate with the authorities, she becomes the target for a relentless team of killers. And when the U.S. Marshals and the finest security money can buy can't protect her, Larkin's wealthy family turns to the one man money can't buy - Joe Pike.
Pike lives a world away from the palaces of Beverly Hills. He's an ex-cop, ex-Marine, ex-mercenary who owes a bad man a favor, and that favor is to keep Larkin alive. The one upside of the job is reuniting with Bud Flynn, Pike's LAPD training officer, and a man Pike reveres as a father. The downside is Larkin Barkley, who is the uncontrollable cover girl for self-destruction - and as deeply alone as Pike.
Pike commits himself to protecting the girl, but when they immediately come under fire, he realizes someone is selling them out. In defiance of Bud and the authorities, Pike drops off the grid with the girl and follows his own rules of survival: strike fast, hit hard, hunt down the hunters. With the help of private investigator Elvis Cole, Pike uncovers a web of lies and betrayals, and the stunning revelation that even the cops are not who they seem. As the body countrises, Pike's biggest threat might come from the girl herself, a lost soul in the City of Angels, determined to destroy herself unless Joe Pike can teach her the value of life...and love.
The New York Times - Marilyn Stasio
Foreign terrorists may lend an exotic touch to American crime fiction, but our preferred villains are still real estate developers and agents of the federal government. Not one to play favorites, Robert Crais tosses them all in the mix in The Watchman, a testosterone-fueled thriller expressly engineered for Joe Pike, the enigmatic sidekick of Crais’s so-cool Los Angeles private eye, Elvis Cole. Pike is the kind of solitary, scary guy who can do push-ups on his thumbs and attract a pack of coyotes when he goes out for a predawn run, and Crais writes in a taut, muscular style tailored to the lethal moves of this romantic mercenary soldier.
Publishers Weekly
As the subtitle suggests, Joe Pike, the intriguing, enigmatic partner of L.A. PI Elvis Cole, takes center stage in this intense thriller from bestseller Crais (The Two Minute Rule). To pay back an old debt, Pike is coerced into protecting Larkin Barkley, a hard-partying young heiress whose life is in danger after a "wrong place wrong time" encounter that quickly escalates and spins out of control. The enemy is shadowy, violent and relentless—but the fierce, focused Pike, one of the strongest characters in modern crime fiction, is equal to the challenge. The breathless pace and rich styling are sure to appeal to readers of hard-boiled fiction in general, but since up to now Pike has mostly remained in the background, some fans of the Elvis Cole series (The Forgotten Man, etc.) may find the explicit picture that emerges of Pike at odds with the image they've constructed for themselves. (Mar.)
Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.David Keymer - Library Journal
Crais (The Two-Minute Rule) writes a number of fine detective stories featuring wisecracking P.I. Elvis Cole, who is assisted at times by partner Joe Pike. Now it's Pike's turn, with Cole on hand to help. An ex-cop and ex-mercenary, Pike is a good-guy version of Parker, Richard Stark's no-nonsense crook. In the novel, a young heiress goes joyriding in the middle of the night and rear-ends a Mercedes. When she stops to help, one passenger flees on foot, while the other takes off in the car. It turns out that one of them is a wanted man, and the heiress is the only witness to his continued presence in the United States. Attempts on her life follow, and Pike is called in to protect her. Soon, the two must flee, leaving a trail of dead bodies behind. Puzzles pile on top of puzzles--e.g., FBI agents tell Joe a story that doesn't hold up, and guns disappear from a crime lab. The twists and turns in this first-rate thriller are many and fast, and the tension never slackens. We should see more of Pike; he's too interesting a character to be playing second banana all the time. Recommended.
Library Journal
It's Joe Pike front and center when bratty rich miss Larkin Conner Barkley needs protection she's a federal witness. But he's got to work hard to get her cooperation. Elvis Cole helps out. With a 15-city tour. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Loading...Product Details
- ISBN:
141651497X
- ISBN-13: 9781416514978
- Format: Mass Market Paperback, 416pp
- Publisher: Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group
- Pub. Date: January 2008
- Edition Description: Reprint
- Sales Rank: 4,114
- Series: Elvis Cole Ser.
Read an Excerpt
The girl was moody getting out of the car, making a sour face to let him know she hated the shabby house and sun-scorched street smelling of chili and episote. To him, this anonymous house would serve. He searched the surrounding houses for threats as he waited for her, clearing the area the way another man might clear his throat. He felt obvious wearing the long-sleeved shirt. The Los Angeles sun was too hot for the sleeves, but he had little choice. He moved carefully to hide what was under the shirt.
She said, "People who live in houses like this have deformed children. I can't stay here."
"Lower your voice."
"I haven't eaten all day. I didn't eat yesterday and now this smell is making me feel strange."
"We'll eat when we're safe."
The house opened as the girl joined him, and the woman Bud told him to expect appeared: a squat woman with large white teeth and friendly eyes named Imelda Arcano. Mrs. Arcano managed several apartment houses and single-family rentals in Eagle Rock, and Bud's office had dealt with her before. He hoped she wouldn't notice the four neat holes that had been punched into their fender the night before.
He turned his back to the house to speak with the girl.
"The attitude makes you memorable. Lose it. You want to be invisible."
"Why don't I wait in the car?"
Leaving her was unthinkable.
"Let me handle her."
The girl laughed.
"That would be you all over it. I want to see that, you handling her. I want to see you charm her."
He took the girl's arm and headed toward the house. To her credit, the girl fell in beside him without making a scene, slouching to change her posture theway he had shown her. Even with her wearing the oversize sunglasses and Dodgers cap, he wanted her inside and out of sight as quickly as possible.
Mrs. Arcano smiled wider as they reached the front door, welcoming them.
"Mr. Johnson?"
"Yes."
"It's so hot today, isn't it? It's cool inside. The air conditioner works very well. I'm Imelda Arcano."
After the nightmare in Malibu, Bud's office had arranged the new house on the fly -- dropped the cash and told Mrs. Arcano whatever she needed to hear, which probably wasn't much. This would be easy money, no questions part of the deal, low-profile tenants who would be gone in a week. Mrs. Arcano probably wouldn't even report the rental to the absentee owner; just pocket Bud's cash and call it a day. They were to meet Mrs. Arcano only so she could give them the keys.
Imelda Arcano beckoned them inside. The man hesitated long enough to glance back at the street. It was narrow and treeless, which was good. He could see well in both directions, though the small homes were set close together, which was bad. The narrow alleys would fill with shadows at dusk.
He wanted Mrs. Arcano out of the way as quickly as possible, but Mrs. Arcano latched onto the girl -- one of those female-to-female things -- and gave them the tour, leading them through the two tiny bedrooms and bath, the microscopic living room and kitchen, the grassless backyard. He glanced at the neighboring houses from each window, and out the back door at the rusty chain-link fence that separated this house from the one behind it. A beige and white pit bull was chained to an iron post in the neighboring yard. It lay with its chin on its paws, but it was not sleeping. He was pleased when he saw the pit bull.
The girl said, "Does the TV work?"
"Oh, yes, you have cable. You have lights, water, and gas -- everything you need, but there is no telephone. You understand that? There really is no point in having the phone company create a line for such a short stay."
He had told the girl not to say anything, but now they were having a conversation. He cut it off.
"We have cell phones. You can hand over the keys and be on your way."
Mrs. Arcano stiffened, indicating she was offended.
"When will you be moving in?"
"Now. We'll take the keys."
Mrs. Arcano peeled two keys from her key ring, then left. For the first and only time that day he left the girl alone. He walked Mrs. Arcano to her car because he wanted to bring their gear into the house as quickly as possible. He wanted to call Bud. He wanted to find out what in hell happened the night before, but mostly he wanted to make sure the girl was safe.
He lingered at his car until Mrs. Arcano drove away, then looked up and down the street again -- both ways, the houses, between the houses -- and everything seemed fine. He brought his and the girl's duffels into the house, along with the bag they had grabbed at the Rite Aid.
The television was on, the girl hopping through the local stations for news. When he walked in, she laughed, then mimicked him, lowering and flattening her voice.
"'Hand over the keys and be on your way.' Oh, that charmed her. That certainly made you forgettable."
He turned off the television and held out the Rite Aid bag. She didn't take it, pissed about him turning off the set, so he let it drop to the floor.
"Do your hair. We'll get something to eat when you're finished."
"I wanted to see if we're on the news."
"Can't hear with the TV. We want to hear. Maybe later."
"I can turn off the sound."
"Do the hair."
He peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the front door. If he went out again or someone came to the door he would pull it on. He was wearing a Kimber .45 semiautomatic pushed into the waist of his pants. He opened his duffel and took out a clip holster for the Kimber and a second gun, this one already holstered, a Colt Python .357 Magnum with the four-inch barrel. He clipped the Kimber onto the front of his pants in the cross-draw position and the Python on his right side. He hadn't chanced the holsters with Mrs. Arcano, but he hadn't wanted to take the chance of being without a gun, either.
He took a roll of duct tape from his bag and went to the kitchen.
Behind him, the girl said, "Asshole."
He made sure the back door was locked, then moved to the tiny back bedroom, locked the windows, and pulled the shades. This done, he tore off strips of duct tape and sealed the shades over the windows. He taped the bottoms and sides to the sills and jambs, all the way around each shade. If anyone managed to raise a window they would make noise tearing the shade from the wall and he would hear. When the shades were taped, he took out his Randall knife and made a three-inch vertical slit in each shade, just enough for him to finger open so he could cover the approaches to the house. He was cutting the shades when he heard her go into the bathroom. Finally cooperating. He knew she was scared, both of him and of what was happening, so he was surprised she had been trying as hard as she had. And pleased, thinking maybe they would stay alive a little while longer.
On his way to the front bedroom he passed the bath. She was in front of the mirror, cutting away her rich copper hair. She held the hair between her fingers, pulling it straight from her head to hack it away with the cheap Rite Aid scissors, leaving two inches of jagged spikes. Boxes of Clairol hair color, also fresh from the Rite Aid, lined the sink. She saw him in the mirror and glared.
"I hate this. I'm going to look so Melrose."
She had peeled down to her bra but left the door open. He guessed she wanted him to see. The five-hundred-dollar jeans rode low on her hips below a smiling dolphin jumping between the dimples on the small of her back. Her bra was light blue and sheer, and the perfect color against her olive skin. Looking at him, she played with her hair, which now stuck out in uneven spikes. She fluffed the spikes, shaped them, then considered them. The sink and floor were covered with the hair she had cut away.
She said, "What about white? I could go white. Would that make you happy?"
"Brown. Nondescript."
"I could go blue. Blue might be fun."
She turned to pose her body.
"Would you love it? Retropunk? So totally Melrose? Tell me you love it."
He continued on to the front bedroom without answering. She hadn't bought blue. She probably thought he hadn't been paying attention, but he paid attention to everything. She had bought blond, brown, and black. He locked and taped the front bedroom windows as he had done in the rest of the house, then returned to the bathroom. Now the water was running and she was leaning over the sink, wearing clear plastic gloves, massaging color into her hair. Black. He wondered how long it would take for the red to be hidden. He took out his cell phone, calling Bud Flynn as he watched.
He said, "We're in place. What happened last night?"
"I'm still trying to find out. I got no idea. Is the new house okay?"
"They had our location, Bud. I want to know how."
"I'm working on it. Is she okay?"
"I want to know how."
"Jesus, I'm working on it. Do you need anything?"
"I need to know how."
He closed the phone as she stood, water running down the trough of her spine to the dolphin until she wrapped her hair in a towel. Only then did she find him in the mirror again and smile.
"You're looking at my ass."
The pit bull barked.
He did not hesitate. He drew the Python and ran to the back bedroom.
She said, "Joe! Damnit."
In the back bedroom, he fingered open a slit in the shade as the girl hurried up behind him. The dog was on its feet, squinting at something he could not see.
She said, "What is it?"
"Shh."
The pit was trying to see something to their left, the flat top of its head furrowed and its nubby ears perked, no longer barking as it tested the air.
Pike watched through the slit, listening hard as the pit was listening.
The girl whispered, "What?"
The pit exploded with frenzied barking as it jumped against its chain.
Pike spoke fast over his shoulder even as the first man came around the end of the garage. It was happening again.
"Front of the house, but don't open the door. Go. Fast."
The towel fell from her head as he pushed her forward. He hooked their duffels over his shoulder, guiding her to the door. He checked the slit in the front window shade. A single man was walking up the drive as another moved across the yard toward the house. Pike didn't know how many more were outside or where they were, but he and the girl would not survive if he fought from within the house.
He cupped her face and forced her to see him. She had to see past her fear. Her eyes met his and he knew they were together.
"Watch me. Don't look at them or anything else. Watch me until I motion for you, then run for the car as fast as you can."
Once more, he did not hesitate.
He jerked open the door, set up fast on the man in the drive, and fired the Colt twice. He reset on the man coming across the yard. Pike doubled on each man's center of mass so quickly the four shots sounded like two -- baboombaboom -- then he ran to the center of the front yard. He saw no more men, so he waved out the girl.
"Go."
She ran as hard as she could, he had to hand it to her. Pike fell in behind her, running backwards the way cornerbacks fade to cover a receiver, staying close to shield her body with his because the pit bull was still barking. More men were coming.
When Pike reached the bodies, he dropped to a knee and checked their pockets by touch. He was hoping for a wallet or some form of ID, but their pockets were empty.
A third man came around the corner of the house into the drive, saw Pike, then dove backwards. Pike fired his last two shots. Wood and stucco exploded from the edge of the house, but the man had made cover and the Python was dry. The third man popped back almost at once and fired three shots -- bapbapbap -- missing Pike, but hitting his Jeep like a ball-peen hammer. Pike didn't have time to holster the Python. He dropped it to jerk free the Kimber, pounded out two more shots and dropped the man at the edge of the house. Pike ran for the car. The girl had the driver's door open, but was just standing there.
Pike shouted, "Get in. In."
Another man appeared at the edge of the house, snapping out shots as fast as he could. Pike fired, but the man had already taken cover.
"In."
Pike pushed the girl across the console, jammed the key into the ignition and gunned his Jeep to the corner. He four-wheeled the turn, buried the accelerator, then glanced at the girl.
"You good? Are you hurt?"
She stared straight ahead, her eyes red and wet. She was crying again.
She said, "Those men are dead."
Pike placed his hand on her thigh.
"Larkin, look at me."
She clenched her eyes and kneaded her hands.
"Three men just died. Three more men."
He made his deep voice soft.
"I won't let anything happen to you. Do you hear me?"
She still didn't look.
"Do you believe me?"
She nodded.
Pike swerved through an intersection. He slowed only enough to avoid a collision, then accelerated onto the freeway.
They had been at the house in Eagle Rock for twenty-eight minutes. He had killed three more men, and now they were running. Again.
He was sorry he lost the Colt. It was a good gun. It had saved them last night in Malibu, but now it might get them killed.
Copyright © 2007 by Robert Crais
Read a Sample Chapter
The Watchman
A Joe Pike NovelBy Robert Crais
Simon & Schuster
Copyright © 2007 Robert CraisAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9780743281638
Chapter One
The girl was moody getting out of the car, making a sour face to let him know she hated the shabby house and sun-scorched street smelling of chili and episote. To him, this anonymous house would serve. He searched the surrounding houses for threats as he waited for her, clearing the area the way another man might clear his throat. He felt obvious wearing the long-sleeved shirt. The Los Angeles sun was too hot for the sleeves, but he had little choice. He moved carefully to hide what was under the shirt.
She said, "People who live in houses like this have deformed children. I can't stay here."
"Lower your voice."
"I haven't eaten all day. I didn't eat yesterday and now this smell is making me feel strange."
"We'll eat when we're safe."
The house opened as the girl joined him, and the woman Bud told him to expect appeared: a squat woman with large white teeth and friendly eyes named Imelda Arcano. Mrs. Arcano managed several apartment houses and single-family rentals in Eagle Rock, and Bud's office had dealt with her before. He hoped she wouldn't notice the four neat holes that had been punched into their fender the night before.
He turned his back to the house to speak with the girl.
"The attitude makes you memorable. Lose it. You want to be invisible."
"Why don't I wait in thecar?"
Leaving her was unthinkable.
"Let me handle her."
The girl laughed.
"That would be you all over it. I want to see that, you handling her. I want to see you charm her."
He took the girl's arm and headed toward the house. To her credit, the girl fell in beside him without making a scene, slouching to change her posture the way he had shown her. Even with her wearing the oversize sunglasses and Dodgers cap, he wanted her inside and out of sight as quickly as possible.
Mrs. Arcano smiled wider as they reached the front door, welcoming them.
"Mr. Johnson?"
"Yes."
"It's so hot today, isn't it? It's cool inside. The air conditioner works very well. I'm Imelda Arcano."
After the nightmare in Malibu, Bud's office had arranged the new house on the fly -- dropped the cash and told Mrs. Arcano whatever she needed to hear, which probably wasn't much. This would be easy money, no questions part of the deal, low-profile tenants who would be gone in a week. Mrs. Arcano probably wouldn't even report the rental to the absentee owner; just pocket Bud's cash and call it a day. They were to meet Mrs. Arcano only so she could give them the keys.
Imelda Arcano beckoned them inside. The man hesitated long enough to glance back at the street. It was narrow and treeless, which was good. He could see well in both directions, though the small homes were set close together, which was bad. The narrow alleys would fill with shadows at dusk.
He wanted Mrs. Arcano out of the way as quickly as possible, but Mrs. Arcano latched onto the girl -- one of those female-to-female things -- and gave them the tour, leading them through the two tiny bedrooms and bath, the microscopic living room and kitchen, the grassless backyard. He glanced at the neighboring houses from each window, and out the back door at the rusty chain-link fence that separated this house from the one behind it. A beige and white pit bull was chained to an iron post in the neighboring yard. It lay with its chin on its paws, but it was not sleeping. He was pleased when he saw the pit bull.
The girl said, "Does the TV work?"
"Oh, yes, you have cable. You have lights, water, and gas -- everything you need, but there is no telephone. You understand that? There really is no point in having the phone company create a line for such a short stay."
He had told the girl not to say anything, but now they were having a conversation. He cut it off.
"We have cell phones. You can hand over the keys and be on your way."
Mrs. Arcano stiffened, indicating she was offended.
"When will you be moving in?"
"Now. We'll take the keys."
Mrs. Arcano peeled two keys from her key ring, then left. For the first and only time that day he left the girl alone. He walked Mrs. Arcano to her car because he wanted to bring their gear into the house as quickly as possible. He wanted to call Bud. He wanted to find out what in hell happened the night before, but mostly he wanted to make sure the girl was safe.
He lingered at his car until Mrs. Arcano drove away, then looked up and down the street again -- both ways, the houses, between the houses -- and everything seemed fine. He brought his and the girl's duffels into the house, along with the bag they had grabbed at the Rite Aid.
The television was on, the girl hopping through the local stations for news. When he walked in, she laughed, then mimicked him, lowering and flattening her voice.
"'Hand over the keys and be on your way.' Oh, that charmed her. That certainly made you forgettable."
He turned off the television and held out the Rite Aid bag. She didn't take it, pissed about him turning off the set, so he let it drop to the floor.
"Do your hair. We'll get something to eat when you're finished."
"I wanted to see if we're on the news."
"Can't hear with the TV. We want to hear. Maybe later."
"I can turn off the sound."
"Do the hair."
He peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the front door. If he went out again or someone came to the door he would pull it on. He was wearing a Kimber .45 semiautomatic pushed into the waist of his pants. He opened his duffel and took out a clip holster for the Kimber and a second gun, this one already holstered, a Colt Python .357 Magnum with the four-inch barrel. He clipped the Kimber onto the front of his pants in the cross-draw position and the Python on his right side. He hadn't chanced the holsters with Mrs. Arcano, but he hadn't wanted to take the chance of being without a gun, either.
He took a roll of duct tape from his bag and went to the kitchen.
Behind him, the girl said, "Asshole."
He made sure the back door was locked, then moved to the tiny back bedroom, locked the windows, and pulled the shades. This done, he tore off strips of duct tape and sealed the shades over the windows. He taped the bottoms and sides to the sills and jambs, all the way around each shade. If anyone managed to raise a window they would make noise tearing the shade from the wall and he would hear. When the shades were taped, he took out his Randall knife and made a three-inch vertical slit in each shade, just enough for him to finger open so he could cover the approaches to the house. He was cutting the shades when he heard her go into the bathroom. Finally cooperating. He knew she was scared, both of him and of what was happening, so he was surprised she had been trying as hard as she had. And pleased, thinking maybe they would stay alive a little while longer.
On his way to the front bedroom he passed the bath. She was in front of the mirror, cutting away her rich copper hair. She held the hair between her fingers, pulling it straight from her head to hack it away with the cheap Rite Aid scissors, leaving two inches of jagged spikes. Boxes of Clairol hair color, also fresh from the Rite Aid, lined the sink. She saw him in the mirror and glared.
"I hate this. I'm going to look so Melrose."
She had peeled down to her bra but left the door open. He guessed she wanted him to see. The five-hundred-dollar jeans rode low on her hips below a smiling dolphin jumping between the dimples on the small of her back. Her bra was light blue and sheer, and the perfect color against her olive skin. Looking at him, she played with her hair, which now stuck out in uneven spikes. She fluffed the spikes, shaped them, then considered them. The sink and floor were covered with the hair she had cut away.
She said, "What about white? I could go white. Would that make you happy?"
"Brown. Nondescript."
"I could go blue. Blue might be fun."
She turned to pose her body.
"Would you love it? Retropunk? So totally Melrose? Tell me you love it."
He continued on to the front bedroom without answering. She hadn't bought blue. She probably thought he hadn't been paying attention, but he paid attention to everything. She had bought blond, brown, and black. He locked and taped the front bedroom windows as he had done in the rest of the house, then returned to the bathroom. Now the water was running and she was leaning over the sink, wearing clear plastic gloves, massaging color into her hair. Black. He wondered how long it would take for the red to be hidden. He took out his cell phone, calling Bud Flynn as he watched.
He said, "We're in place. What happened last night?"
"I'm still trying to find out. I got no idea. Is the new house okay?"
"They had our location, Bud. I want to know how."
"I'm working on it. Is she okay?"
"I want to know how."
"Jesus, I'm working on it. Do you need anything?"
"I need to know how."
He closed the phone as she stood, water running down the trough of her spine to the dolphin until she wrapped her hair in a towel. Only then did she find him in the mirror again and smile.
"You're looking at my ass."
The pit bull barked.
He did not hesitate. He drew the Python and ran to the back bedroom.
She said, "Joe! Damnit."
In the back bedroom, he fingered open a slit in the shade as the girl hurried up behind him. The dog was on its feet, squinting at something he could not see.
She said, "What is it?"
"Shh."
The pit was trying to see something to their left, the flat top of its head furrowed and its nubby ears perked, no longer barking as it tested the air.
Pike watched through the slit, listening hard as the pit was listening.
The girl whispered, "What?"
The pit exploded with frenzied barking as it jumped against its chain.
Pike spoke fast over his shoulder even as the first man came around the end of the garage. It was happening again.
"Front of the house, but don't open the door. Go. Fast."
The towel fell from her head as he pushed her forward. He hooked their duffels over his shoulder, guiding her to the door. He checked the slit in the front window shade. A single man was walking up the drive as another moved across the yard toward the house. Pike didn't know how many more were outside or where they were, but he and the girl would not survive if he fought from within the house.
He cupped her face and forced her to see him. She had to see past her fear. Her eyes met his and he knew they were together.
"Watch me. Don't look at them or anything else. Watch me until I motion for you, then run for the car as fast as you can."
Once more, he did not hesitate.
He jerked open the door, set up fast on the man in the drive, and fired the Colt twice. He reset on the man coming across the yard. Pike doubled on each man's center of mass so quickly the four shots sounded like two -- baboombaboom -- then he ran to the center of the front yard. He saw no more men, so he waved out the girl.
"Go."
She ran as hard as she could, he had to hand it to her. Pike fell in behind her, running backwards the way cornerbacks fade to cover a receiver, staying close to shield her body with his because the pit bull was still barking. More men were coming.
When Pike reached the bodies, he dropped to a knee and checked their pockets by touch. He was hoping for a wallet or some form of ID, but their pockets were empty.
A third man came around the corner of the house into the drive, saw Pike, then dove backwards. Pike fired his last two shots. Wood and stucco exploded from the edge of the house, but the man had made cover and the Python was dry. The third man popped back almost at once and fired three shots -- bapbapbap -- missing Pike, but hitting his Jeep like a ball-peen hammer. Pike didn't have time to holster the Python. He dropped it to jerk free the Kimber, pounded out two more shots and dropped the man at the edge of the house. Pike ran for the car. The girl had the driver's door open, but was just standing there.
Pike shouted, "Get in. In."
Another man appeared at the edge of the house, snapping out shots as fast as he could. Pike fired, but the man had already taken cover.
"In."
Pike pushed the girl across the console, jammed the key into the ignition and gunned his Jeep to the corner. He four-wheeled the turn, buried the accelerator, then glanced at the girl.
"You good? Are you hurt?"
She stared straight ahead, her eyes red and wet. She was crying again.
She said, "Those men are dead."
Pike placed his hand on her thigh.
"Larkin, look at me."
She clenched her eyes and kneaded her hands.
"Three men just died. Three more men."
He made his deep voice soft.
"I won't let anything happen to you. Do you hear me?"
She still didn't look.
"Do you believe me?"
She nodded.
Pike swerved through an intersection. He slowed only enough to avoid a collision, then accelerated onto the freeway.
They had been at the house in Eagle Rock for twenty-eight minutes. He had killed three more men, and now they were running. Again.
He was sorry he lost the Colt. It was a good gun. It had saved them last night in Malibu, but now it might get them killed.
Copyright 2007 by Robert Crais
Continues...
Excerpted from The Watchman by Robert Crais Copyright © 2007 by Robert Crais. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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