Free The Watchman by Robert Crais

found his address, and now were trying to find him. This told him much—someone who knew his name had provided it, and the only people who knew his name were the girl’s people, Jon Stone, and Bud Flynn. There was no other way, so someone was selling her out. Pike was right to cut them out of the loop.
    Pike hoped they would wait for him at his home, but they would probably move on to his shop, then return to his condo again later. At some point they would learn of his association with Cole, but they would move on his gun shop first. However they handled it would tell him much about the size of their operation and their skills. It was important to know your enemy.
    But, for now, the girl was sleeping. The night had passed. She was still alive. He had done his job, but still had much to do.
    Pike let the girl sleep. He phoned Cole to let him know, then stood in the living room, waiting. His heart rate slowed. His breathing slowed. His body and mind were quiet. He could wait like that for days, and had, to make a perfect shot.
     
     
     

9
     
     
    Elvis Cole
     
    ANOTHER in the long line of classic Pike phone conversations. Like this. Cole, out on his deck sweating through some asanas when the phone rings. Six A. M. , who else would it be? Gimps inside. Scores the call.
    “Hello?”
    Pike says, “Be advised. They just hit my condo.”
    Click.
    No whaddayadoing? No heyhowareya? No whaddayathinkaboutthat?
    Classic.
    Cole finished the asanas, showered, then pulled the old .38 George Feider gave him from his gun safe and made a cup of coffee. He brought the gun, coffee, and materials on George King and Alexander Meesh out to his deck. He had spent much of last night pulling things off the Internet. Cole wasn’t worried about being stormed by black-shirted hitters, so he used the gun as a paperweight to keep the papers from flying away.
    It was a lovely morning, hinting at a brutally hot day.
    Cole squinted into the milky haze that filled his canyon, enjoyed the coffee, and noticed a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, searching for field mice and snakes.
    Cole said, “What do you think? Is today his day or not?”
    A black cat sat nearby on the deck, staring down through the rail into the canyon. The cat didn’t answer, which is what you get when you talk to cats.
    Cole said, “You’re just jealous you can’t fly.”
    The cat blinked as if it was falling asleep, then abruptly licked its penis. Cats are amazing animals.
    Cole studied the hawk. The day after Cole came home from the hospital, he went out onto his deck at dawn (just as he had every morning since) and struggled through twelve sun salutations from hatha yoga (just as he had every morning since). He had not done them well that first morning, or completely, but he did what he could, then sat on the edge of his deck to watch the hawk. The hawk returned every day, but Cole never saw it catch anything. Yet every morning it appeared again, circling, searching for something it never found. Cole admired its spirit.
    Cole had more of the coffee, then reread the material he’d pulled off the Internet on George King. King was a real estate developer from Orange County who began his career by building a single-family spec house on a shoestring budget using money borrowed from his wife’s parents. It was the classic by-his-bootstraps success story: King sold that first house for a profit, then built three more, and the houses led to a couple of tiny strip malls. The strip malls led to twenty-, forty-, then one-hundred-sixty-unit apartment houses. The apartments led to a real estate concern that now developed shopping centers, residential tract housing, and high-rise commercial office space throughout California, Arizona, and Nevada. None of the articles hinted at impropriety, illegal activity, or shady business practices. Based on everything Cole read, George King was a solid citizen.
    Alexander Meesh was not.
    Cole had found nothing about Meesh on the Internet. The last