The Watchman by Robert Crais Page B

it.”
    A narrow grey house with a steep roof sat off the street. A covered front porch guarded the door and a one-car garage filled the backyard. Pike’s real estate friend had left a key under a potted plant near the door.
    Larkin looked warily at the house.
    “Who lives here?”
    “It’s a rental. The owners live in Las Vegas, and they’re between tenants. When you get out, go directly to the front door.”
    A sunset breeze out of Chavez Ravine stirred the warm air. Families were outside on their porches, some listening to the radio and others just talking. Pike heard Vin Scully, calling the game from nearby Dodger Stadium, Dodgers up over the Giants, five to two. Most of the neighbors appeared to be Eastern Europeans. Across the street, five young men who sounded Armenian were standing around a late-model BMW. They laughed together, and one of them spoke loudly, trying to make a point over the laughter.
    Larkin didn’t move toward the front door. She stared at the house like it was waiting to eat her, then looked at the surrounding houses, then the five men.
    Pike said, “It’s okay. Let’s go.”
    Pike carried her bags. He could have carried his as well, but didn’t. He found the key, then let them into a small living room. A door to their right branched into a bathroom and a front and back bedroom. The little house was fully furnished and the interior was clean and neat, but the furniture was worn and the rooms were small. A single window air conditioner hummed in the living room, left on by Pike’s friend to cool the house.
    Larkin said, “I’ve been thinking. No one knows where we are now, right? We have my credit cards. We have my ATM. We can go wherever we want.”
    Pike dropped her bags.
    “It has two bedrooms. Take whichever you want.”
    Pike continued on through both bedrooms and the bath and kitchen, checking the windows and pulling the shades. Larkin didn’t touch her bags or pick a bedroom. She followed him, walking so close that twice she stepped on his heels.
    “Just listen. We can take the Gulfstream. My father won’t care. We have a fabulous apartment in Sydney. Have you ever been to Oz?”
    “You’ll be recognized. Someone at the airport, there’s Larkin Barkley in her jet.”
    Pike opened the fridge. Two grocery bags, a case of bottled water, and a six-pack of Corona were waiting.
    “My friend left this. Help yourself.”
    “You’re being a prick. Okay, look—we have a house on the rue Georges Cinq a block from the Champs-Elysées. I’ll pay our way on a commercial flight. It’s not a problem.”
    “Credit cards leave a trail. Airplanes file flight plans.”
    Pike headed back into the living room, and Larkin caught up.
    “I’ll take cash from the ATM. It’s really no problem. This place doesn’t even have a TV.”
    The window unit made a heavy
thump
when the compressor kicked on, like someone had stumbled into the wall. The air blowing from the vent roared like a windstorm with a faraway metallic vibration. Pike turned it off. The silence from the dying air conditioner was filled by barking dogs, a motorcycle echoing between the hills, and the laughter of the men across the street.
    Larkin looked horrified.
    “What are you doing? Why did you turn off the air?”
    “I couldn’t hear.”
    “But it’s hot. It’s going to be an oven in here.”
    She had crossed her arms, and her fingers had dug into her flesh. Pike knew this wasn’t about Paris or Sydney. It was about being scared.
    Pike touched her arm.
    “I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but we have what we need. Right here—right now—this is a safe place. We’re safe.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”
    “I’m going to get my things from the car. You okay alone for a few minutes?”
    “I miss my dog.”
    Pike didn’t know what to say about that, so he didn’t say anything.
    Larkin made a tired smile.
    “Of course. I’ll be fine.”
    Pike turned off the lamps so he wouldn’t be