Page 71 of The Grave Artist

“There? They’ll eat him alive.”

Pratt’s eyes were wide. “Wait. Who was that? Who was on the phone?”

She spared him a glance. “Hush.”

Heron said, “You were telling me just the other day, Sanchez. You hate being lied to.”

She then nodded. “You’re right. La Brea it is.”

Pratt wrung his hands. “I’m sorry, okay. You don’t understand!”

She gave him her coldest glare. “Fill me in. You have five minutes. And if you lie again, you’re going straight to La Brea.”

Which was a perfectly fine street in Los Angeles, home to office buildings and the famed tar pit, filled with prehistoric, fossilized creatures, and, as far as Carmen knew, not a single detention center or jail.

“I was lying. I’m sorry, but I’m scared. He’s going to hurt my family!” Tears dotted his eyes.

They had finally gotten to the truth, and she could see where Pratt was going. She sat down. “Tell me.” Softer now.

Carmen Sanchez was often good cop and bad cop in the same interview.

“Okay, there was a man.” His eyes didn’t waver. “He was by the dock where we keep the service boats. Thirty, forty minutes ago, I was going off shift. He came up to me. He kept a flashlight in my eyes. He said he had a gun.”

“Shit,” Carmen muttered.

She called Liam Grange and told him what Pratt had said. The tactical leader and his team would search, but she was certain the instant the HSI boat appeared, HK had fled. Other officers would secure the scene until Su Ling and her evidence-collection crew arrived.

She then turned back to Pratt, whose voice cracked as he continued, “I thought I was being mugged. He asked for my wallet. Only he didn’t take any money or credit cards. He had me pull out my driver’s license and he took a picture of it.”

The ID with his home address meant HK could find, and hurt, Pratt’s family if he helped the police. A well-used gangbanger tactic to keep witnesses silent. They almost never acted on the threat, but the technique was powerful leverage.

“And he wanted you to take a boat out to the villa.” Heron was nodding with the same understanding Carmen now had.

“That’s all. Yes. Take it out and back.”

“Shit,” Carmen said. “He was testing—to see if it was a trap.”

Heron asked, “What else do you remember?”

“The light, my eyes. I really couldn’t see anything. I swear! His voice, I think he was White. Tall, from the silhouette. That’s all, and he was like, I’ll fucking kill you and your family in a minute, and I don’t care. I mean, he didn’t say it, but that was the tone, you know.”

She said, “We can protect your family.”

“He disappeared but maybe he waited around to see if I talked to you.”

“He didn’t,” she assured him. “But call your family and have them spend the night with friends or relatives. You’re not in danger but it’ll give you some peace of mind. Anything else you can remember?”

“No. I swear!”

Often those two words are an indicator of deception. Not now. He was telling the truth.

“He give you money?”

“No! Really. Here’s all I have on me.” He opened the wallet and showed a couple of twenties and dug a crumpled wad of cash—about forty dollars—from his pocket.

She believed HK hadn’t paid him. After all, why fork out money when it costs nothing to threaten violence?

“Where was he standing?”