The PCPS was a low, modern brick building surrounded by a block wall and wispy pine trees on Culver Boulevard less than a mile from Pike's home. A flagpole bearing the American flag stood proudly out front, across from a billboard advertising a bail bondsman. The middle-class homes across the boulevard were neat and attractive. These neighborhoods-like the police station-made it difficult to believe that wars between rival gangs often filled the streets with blood only a few minutes away.
Pike pulled to the curb by the flagpole at seven minutes after three. The watch would change at four, so any detectives not in court or in the field would be inside finishing up for the day. Pike needed to find out if Button was one of them.
He phoned Information for the PCPS detective desk number, then called.
"Pacific. This is Detective Harrison."
"This is Dale King at the PAB. Is Button still there?"
The Police Administration Building was the new administrative building that had replaced Parker Center.
Harrison said, "Yeah, hang on. I'll get him."
Pike waited until she put him on hold, then closed his phone. Believing Button would refuse to see him, Pike walked around the side of the station through the civilian parking lot, then hopped a low wall and went to the two-story parking structure where officers kept their cars. He didn't like losing the time, but he didn't have long to wait.
Fourteen minutes later, Button came out the rear of the station in a loose file of other detectives and uniformed officers on their way to their cars. He carried a briefcase with his jacket and tie over his opposite arm, and wore a light blue shirt with sweat rings under the arms. A small revolver was clipped to his belt.
Pike was behind a column when Button passed, angling toward a tan Toyota pickup. Button shifted his jacket from his right arm to his left, and was fishing for his keys when Pike stepped from behind the column.
"Button."
Button lurched sideways at Pike's appearance. He scrambled for his gun, dropping his briefcase and keys as he got hung up in his jacket.
Pike calmly raised his hands, showing his palms.
"We're good."
If Button was embarrassed by his reaction, he didn't show it. He picked up his briefcase and keys, and continued toward his truck.
"This is an off-limits police parking area. Get out."
"They were abducted."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne. They're gone."
Button unlocked the truck, and tossed his jacket and briefcase inside.
"They're on their way to Oregon, man. And another thing-Straw is fucking livid, not that it matters a damn. Fucking self-important Fed. He probably hates you more than I do."
"Reuben Mendoza and a second man who might have been Gomer were at their home at eight forty-five this morning. What time did Smith call?"
Button already had one leg in the truck, but now he backed out, squinting at Pike.
"How do you know he called me?"
"Hydeck. I was at Smith's shop when you spoke with her. From there, I went to Smith's house."
"Is this for real?"
"They have a locked front gate you have to go through to enter the property. The kid next door saw Mendoza and another man going through the gate at eight forty-five. Jared Palmer. Talk to him."
Pike saw the strain on Button's face as he weighed his hatred of Pike against what he was hearing, as if he had to climb a wall before he could move forward. He finally walked over, leaving the Toyota's door open.
"How's the kid know Mendoza?"
"He doesn't. I showed him this."
Pike held out the snapshot. Button gave it a glance, but did not touch it.
"One to ten, how confident was he?"
"Ten."
"He's sure about the time?"
"The mother pegged it to the Today show. Jared went out for some chocolate milk at the beginning of the eight-o'clock hour and got back a few minutes after the half-hour break. That puts Mendoza there at about eight forty-five. When did you hear from Smith?"
Button glanced at the snapshot again, and this time he took it to examine Mendoza more closely.
"What about the second man? Was it Gomer?"
"I didn't have a picture of Gomer. What time did you talk to Smith?"
"Around nine, right in there, maybe a few minutes after."
Button frowned as he thought about it and what it would mean if it were true, but he still didn't buy it. He shook his head.
"There's no way. He didn't say anything about this."
"Maybe Mendoza had a gun to his head."
"There's no way. The kid was confused."
"He saw the cast. I didn't prompt him, Button. He told me the man was wearing a cast. He saw them going in through the front gate at eight forty-five."
Button glanced at the picture again as if he still couldn't see it clearly.
"I talked to the man. He was fine."
"Not if Mendoza was with him."
Button flushed, and his eyes shrank into dark little bullets.
"Are you saying I missed something?"
"Did you?"
The Academy taught officers that people making statements under duress exhibited telltale cues. They were typically terse and hesitant because they were scared to say the wrong thing. Their sentence structure was often confused or repetitive for the same reason, and their voices would quaver or break due to a constricted trachea brought on by the adrenaline flooding their systems.
"He was fine. The guy did not sound like a man with a gun to his head. Even thinking back now, there were none of the cues."
"Then forget the cues. What did he say?"
"That people like us-that would be me and you, Pike, who he specifically mentioned-were making things worse, costing him a fortune, and were gonna get him killed. You want more? He told me to shove Mendoza and pretty much the rest of Los Angeles up my ass."
Button grew loud as he went through it, which caused three passing officers to stare. He waited until they were gone before he spoke again, but his eyes remained angry.
"What the hell do you care anyway? This isn't your business."
"Like Smith said, maybe I made it worse."
Button glanced away as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.
"Why do you think they're missing?"
"You're the last person they had contact with. A lot of people have been calling them, but they don't answer and haven't returned the calls."
"That doesn't mean shit. You can come up with a hundred different reasons for that."
"Until Mendoza goes through the gate."
Button stared at the pavement again, then sighed.
"The guy was angry, okay? But he sounded natural. Just pissed off and venting. Told me what they did to his shop with the heads and all that, and that they were going to get out of Dodge for a few weeks to let things cool down."
"Oregon."
"Said they have friends up there. That was it. Even if I accept this business about Mendoza going through the gate, nothing the man said stands out. He wasn't trying to send a hidden message. There weren't any subtle pleas for help. I don't see it."
Pike took Button's read at face value, though his description of Smith's call didn't jibe with Mendoza's presence. Pike had hoped for some hint or clue to what had happened and where they might be.
"Then what was Mendoza doing at his house?"
Button sighed, and Pike knew he was wondering the same thing.
"What's the kid's name?"
"Jared Palmer. He lives in the white modern next door to Smith."
Button took a pad and pen from his pocket and jotted the note.
"Okay. I'll bring along the six-pack with Gomer."
He slipped the pad back into the pocket, but didn't look happy about it.
"He told you about the cast on his own? You didn't tell him about it first?"
Pike shook his head, and Button scowled.
"Fucking douchebags. Mendoza's looking at an assault charge he knows the D.A. will dispo down to a battery, and he just can't leave it alone."
Pike knew what Button was saying, but offered nothing in response because his thoughts were too dark. Prisons were filled with convicted murderers who got a drumstick when they wanted a thigh, or who felt dissed when a woman wouldn't speak to them on a bus, or who decided a bartender was ignoring them. When a man felt frustrated or angry enough, any reason would do.
Button started away, then turned back. Pike saw he still had the picture of Mendoza. He held it out, but when Pike took it, Button did not let go.
"I guess you don't remember the rules of the road, you giving up the badge. If we have to make a case on this asshole, you took this kid Jared off the board as a witness. You showing him the one picture like this, his attorney is going to argue you convinced this kid that Mendoza is who he saw, even though he saw someone else. And the judge is going to go with it."
Button released the picture, and went back to his truck.
Pike knew Button was right, but he didn't care about the case. He cared about saving Dru Rayne.
He was halfway back to his Jeep when Elvis Cole called.