by Robert Crais
“I got it.”
Mills told the Parkers to come see him when they finished, and left with his pictures.
Grace Parker rolled her eyes.
“They call him the I-Man. Ian ‘the I-Man’ Mills. Isn’t that precious?”
Orso cleared his throat to quiet her, and looked at Scott.
“Yesterday afternoon, at our request, Rampart and Northeast detectives arrested and questioned fourteen individuals known to resell stolen goods.”
Grace Parker said, “Fences.”
Orso pushed on.
“Two of these individuals claim to know a thief who laid off Chinese DVDs, Chinese cigarettes, herbs, and the kinds of things Shin carried in his store.”
Scott looked from the picture to Orso.
“This man?”
“Marshall Ramon Ishi. Last night, we showed this picture to Mr. Shin. Shin remembers Ishi would loiter in his store, but never buy anything. You put that with the two fences, and, yes, the odds are pretty good Mr. Ishi is the man who burglarized Shin’s store the night you were shot.”
Scott stared at the picture, and felt a cold prickle over his chest. Maggie sat up, leaned against his legs, and Scott realized Orso was still talking.
“The home he shares with his brother, girlfriend, and two other men is currently under surveillance. Mr. Ishi and the girl are not present. They left—”
Orso checked his watch.
“—forty-two minutes ago. They’re being followed by SIS officers, who tell us Ishi and his friend appear to be selling hits of ice to morning commuters.”
Grace Parker said, “Tweakers. They’re meth addicts.”
Orso nodded happily, and once more resumed.
“They’ll go home in a couple of hours. We’ll give them a chance to settle in, then arrest them. Joyce will have command. I’d like you to be with her, Scott. Would you go?”
All of them were watching him again.
Scott didn’t understand what Orso was asking, then realized he was being handed a ticket into the investigation. He had spent nine months wanting to help catch Stephanie’s killers, and now felt unable to breathe.
Maggie rested her chin on his leg and gazed at him. Her ears were folded and her eyes appeared sad.
Grace Parker said, “Damn, that’s a big dog. Her poop must be the size of a softball.”
Lonnie Parker laughed, and it was the laughter that helped Scott find his voice.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. I absolutely want to be there. I’ll have to clear it with my boss.”
“It’s cleared. You’re mine the rest of the day.”
Orso glanced at Maggie.
“Though we only expected one of you.”
Cowly said, “He can bring the dog. He’s not going to participate.”
She grinned at Scott.
“We’re management. We watch other people do the work.”
Orso stood, ending the meeting, and the other detectives pushed back their chairs and stood with him. Maggie scrambled to her feet, and the two Parkers both stared at her, frowning.
Lonnie said, “What happened to her?”
Scott realized they had not been able to see her hindquarters when they were seated on the other side of the table. Now they saw her scars.
“A sniper shot her. Afghanistan.”
“No shit?”
“Twice.”
Now Orso and Cowly stared at her, too, and Cowly looked sad.
“You poor baby.”
Lonnie’s face folded into a grim stack of black plates, and he nudged around the table toward the door.
“I don’t wanna hear nuthin’ sad ’bout no dog. C’mon. Let’s go see the I-Man. We got work to do.”
Grace arched her eyebrows at Scott.
“The man has a master’s in political science from S.C., and speaks three languages. He puts on the ghetto accent when he gets emotional.”
Lonnie looked insulted.
“That’s racist and offensive. You know that is not true.”
They continued bickering as they left. Scott turned to Orso and Cowly.
“What do you want me to do?”
Cowly answered.
“Stay here or close by. There’s a park across the street, if it’s easier with Maggie. I’ll text you. We have plenty of time. Take the files with you.”
When she mentioned the files, Scott remembered the notes in his pocket. He took out his map, showed them the four dots, and pointed out the discrepancy he’d found with Pahlasian’s driving time.
“Even if they stopped at both buildings to talk about them, there’s no way it should take an hour and ten minutes to get from the restaurant to the kill zone. Seems like there’s twenty or thirty minutes missing.”
Scott looked up from the map, waiting for their reaction, but Orso only nodded.
“You’re missing a stop. Club Red. It’s in the files.”
Scott had no idea what Orso was talking about.
“I read the interviews with Pahlasian’s wife and his office assistant. They didn’t mention another stop.”
Cowly stepped in with the answer.
“They didn’t know about it. Club Red is like a strip club. Melon didn’t learn about it until Beloit’s credit card charges posted. Beloit picked up the tab.”
Scott felt deflated and stupid, and even more stupid when Cowly waved at the heavy stack of files.
“It’s in there. Melon interviewed the manager and a couple of waitresses. Use my desk or go to the park. I’ll text when we have to roll.”
Scott tucked the files under his arm, and looked from Cowly to Orso. He wanted to see the security video, but now felt too embarrassed to ask.
“Thanks for letting me tag along. It means a lot.”
Orso smiled the scoutmaster smile.
“Sure.”
Scott turned away with Maggie at his side. He felt like an idiot for believing he had discovered a glaring discrepancy when top-cop detectives like Orso and Cowly knew the case inside and out.
Scott wasn’t an idiot, but three more days would pass before he understood.
18.
Scott took the files to Cowly’s cubicle, saw her tiny, cramped space, and decided Maggie would be happier at the park. Then he noticed the framed pictures beside Cowly’s computer, and eased into her chair. Maggie wedged herself under the desk.
The first picture showed a younger, uniformed Cowly at her Police Academy graduation with an older man and woman who were probably her parents. The picture next to it showed Cowly and three other young women all glammed up in satin and sequins for a night on the town. Scott studied the four, and decided Cowly was the only one who looked like a cop. This made Scott smile. Stephanie had looked like a cop, too. The next picture showed Cowly and a good-looking young guy on a beach. Cowly was wearing a red one-piece and her friend was wearing baggy swim trunks that hung to his knees. Scott tried to recall if Cowly wore a wedding ring, but couldn’t. The last picture showed Cowly on a couch with three little kids. Christmas decorations were on a table behind them, and the oldest kid was wearing a Santa hat. Scott glanced at the pic of Cowly and the man on the beach, and wondered if these were their kids.
“C’mon, Mags. Let’s see the park.”
Maggie was too big to turn around in the cramped space, so she backed out from under the desk like a horse backing out of a stall.
Scott led her downstairs and across First Street to the City Hall park. The park was small, but a surrounding grove of California Oaks made the space pleasant and shady.
Scott found an unoccupied bench in the shade, and searched through the file for the Club Red interviews. They were short, and mistakenly attached to a document about Georges Beloit.
The three in
terviews had been conducted twenty-two days after the shooting. Melon described Club Red as “an upscale after-hours lounge featuring what the management calls ‘performance erotica,’ where semi-nude models pose on small stages above the bar.” Melon and Stengler interviewed Richard Levin, the manager on the night of the shooting, and two bartenders. None of them remembered Pahlasian or Beloit, or recognized their pictures, but Levin provided the times their tab opened and closed from his electronic transaction records. As he did on the interview with Emile Tanager, Melon had handwritten a note on Levin’s interview:
R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B
Levin had delivered the Club Red security video on two discs, which were logged into the case file.
When Scott finished the interviews, he entered Club Red’s address into his phone’s map app to find its location, and added a fifth dot to his map. He stared at the fifth dot for a moment, then checked to be sure he entered the correct address. The address was correct, but now the times and routes seemed even more wrong.
Leaving Club Red, both commercial properties were now several blocks beyond the kill zone. If Pahlasian had driven to either property, he would have passed the kill zone and had no reason to turn back. The freeway was in the other direction.
Scott grew frustrated, and decided to see for himself. The kill zone was less than twenty blocks away, and Tyler’s and Club Red were closer.
“C’mon, let’s take a ride.”
They hurried back to the Boat for his car.
Tyler’s had been Pahlasian’s starting point, so Scott drove to Tyler’s.
The restaurant occupied the corner of an older, ornate building at an intersection not far from Bunker Hill. The front was paneled in black glass with its name mounted on the glass in brass letters. Tyler’s was closed, but Scott stopped to consider the area. He saw no nearby parking lots, so he assumed valets waited at the corner during business hours. He wondered if the Gran Torino was watching the valet station when Pahlasian arrived, or if it followed him from LAX.
Club Red was only nine blocks away. Scott made the daytime drive in twelve minutes, most of which was spent waiting for pedestrians. At one-thirty in the morning, the travel time would have been four minutes or less.
Club Red was also on the ground floor of an older building. It sat next to a parking lot, and its exposed side bore a faded sign advertising custom machine parts. Jutting from the side of the building into the parking lot was a small vertical neon sign spelling out RED. A red door was cut into the building beneath the sign. Patrons probably passed a couple of oversized bouncers as if entering a clandestine world.
Scott checked his map again. Ignoring Tyler’s, the remaining four dots formed a capital Y, with Club Red at the bottom, the kill zone directly above it at the fork, and the two properties Pahlasian wanted to show Beloit at the tips of the arms.
Scott looked at Maggie.
“Everything’s wrong.”
Maggie sniffed his ear, and blew dog breath in his face. Scott tried to push her off the console, but she held firm.
Two attendants were on duty in the parking lot. Scott parked across their entrance, and got out. The older attendant was a Latin man in his fifties with short black hair and a red vest. He hurried over when he saw Scott block their drive, but pulled up short when he saw Scott’s uniform. This was the cop effect.
He said, “You wan’ to park?”
Scott let Maggie out. The man saw her, and took a step back. This was the German shepherd effect.
Scott pointed at the building.
“The club here, Club Red? What time do they close?”
“Really late, man. They don’t open ’til nine. They close at four.”
“Four in the morning.”
“Yeah, four in the morning.”
Scott thanked the man, let Maggie back into the car, and climbed in behind the wheel. He thought he had it figured.
“There’s no mystery here. They were coming back. They saw the buildings, and decided they wanted another drink. That’s all there is to it.”
Maggie panted, but this time Scott was out of range. Then he glanced at the map again and realized his latest theory was also wrong.
“Shit.”
The Bentley’s direction.
The Bentley wasn’t driving toward Club Red when it passed in front of his radio car. Pahlasian was driving in the opposite direction. Toward the freeway.
Scott was still staring at the map when Cowly texted him.
WE’RE ROLLING. CALL ME
Scott immediately called.
“I’m only a few blocks away. Give me five minutes.”
“Take ten, but don’t come to the Boat. We’re staging at MacArthur Park. Can you be there in ten?”
“Absolutely.”
“On the east side between Seventh and Wilshire. You’ll see us.”
Scott put down his phone, wondering why Pahlasian was going to the freeway when he entered the kill zone. Time was still missing, and it hadn’t been filled by looking at buildings.
19.
MacArthur Park was four square blocks split down the middle by Wilshire Boulevard. A soccer field, playgrounds, and a concert pavilion occupied the area north of Wilshire. MacArthur Park Lake took up the south side. The lake was once known for paddleboats until gang violence, drug dealing, and murders drove away the people who rented the boats. Then LAPD and the local business community rolled in, the lake and the park were rebuilt, serious surveillance systems were installed, and the gangbanging drug dealers were rolled out. The paddleboats tried to make a comeback, but the lake’s reputation for ’bangers and violence had polluted the water. So had the tools of their trade. When the lake was drained for repair, more than a hundred handguns were found on the bottom.
Scott followed Wilshire to the park, and saw the staging area. Six LAPD radio cars, a SWAT van, and three unmarked but obvious police sedans were parked near the old paddleboat concession. A uniformed police officer blocked the entrance when he saw a Trans Am turning in, but he stepped aside when he saw Scott’s uniform. Scott rolled down the window.
“I’m looking for Detective Cowly.”
The officer leaned closer to grin at Maggie.
“With the SWAT team. Man, I love having these dogs with us. He’s a beauty.”
Maybe the officer leaned too close or spoke too loudly. Maggie’s ears spiked forward, and Scott knew what was coming even before she growled.
The officer stepped back and laughed.
“Jesus, I love these dogs. Good luck finding a place to park. Maybe put it on the grass over there.”
Scott raised the window, and ruffled Maggie’s fur as he pushed her out of the way.
“He, my ass. How can he think a beautiful girl like you is a he?”
Maggie licked Scott’s ear, and watched the officer until they were parked.
Scott clipped her lead, got out, and watered her with a squirt bottle. After she drank, he let her pee, and spotted Cowly beside the SWAT unit’s tactical van. She was huddled with the SWAT commander, a uniformed lieutenant, and three detectives, none of whom Scott recognized. The SWAT team was lounging by the boathouse, as relaxed as if they were on a fishing trip. Scott felt the kiss of a passing dream, then looked down at Maggie, and found her watching him, tongue hanging loose, ears back and happy. He petted her head.
“No limping. Either of us.”
Maggie wagged her tail and fell in beside him.
Cowly saw him approaching, and held up a finger, signaling him to wait. She spoke with her group a few minutes longer, then they broke up and went in different directions, and Cowly came over to meet him.
“We’ll take my car. Ishi is only five minutes away.”
Scott was doubtful.
“You don’t mind
? She’s going to leave hair.”
“All I care is she doesn’t throw up. She gets carsick, you have to clean it.”
“She doesn’t get carsick.”
“She’s never ridden with me.”
Cowly led them to an unmarked tan Impala that wasn’t in much better shape than Scott’s ratty Trans Am. He loaded Maggie in back, and climbed into the shotgun seat as Cowly fired the engine. She popped it in gear, and backed up to leave.
“This won’t take long. You see the manpower we got? The I-Man wanted to roll the Bomb Squad, forchrissake. Orso said, these idiots use meth, they don’t cook it.”
Scott nodded, not knowing how to respond.
“Thanks again for asking me along. I appreciate it.”
“You’re doing your part.”
“By keeping you company?”
Cowly gave him a glance he couldn’t read.
“By eyeballing Ishi. If you see him, maybe you’ll remember him.”
Scott immediately tensed. Maggie paced from side to side in the back seat, whining. Scott reached back to touch her.
“I didn’t see him.”
“You don’t remember seeing him.”
Scott felt as if he was being tested again, and didn’t like it. His stomach knotted, and he flashed on the shooting—bright yellow bursts from the rifle, the big man walking closer, the impact as the bullet slammed through his shoulder. Scott closed his eyes, and visualized himself on a beach. Then Cowly and her boyfriend appeared on the sand, and he opened his eyes.
“This is bullshit. I’m not a lab monkey.”
“You’re what we have. You don’t want to be here, I’ll let you out.”
“We don’t even know if this is the guy.”
“He laid off Chinese goods three different occasions before Shin closed. He lives fourteen blocks from the kill zone. You see him up close, maybe something will come back to you.”
Scott fell silent and stared out the window. He desperately hoped Ishi had witnessed the shootings, but didn’t want to believe he had seen the man and forgotten. That was too crazy. Seeing a man and forgetting you’ve seen him was way more screwed up than recalling white hair. Cowly and Orso seemed to think this was possible, which left Scott feeling they doubted his sanity.
