by Robert Crais
Cowly guided the D-ride onto a narrow residential street past two idling black-and-whites, turned at the first cross street, and stopped in the center of the street. A pale green unmarked sedan exactly like hers faced them at the next cross street. Scott saw no other police presence.
Cowly said, “Fourth house from the corner, left side. See the van covered with graffiti? It’s parked in front.”
A battered Econoline van covered with Krylon graffiti was parked in front of a pale green house. A broken sidewalk led up a withered yard to a narrow cinder-block porch.
Scott said, “Who’s inside?”
Ishi shared the house with two male friends who were also meth addicts, a girlfriend named Estelle “Ganj” Rolley, who worked as a part-time prostitute to support their meth addiction, and his younger brother, Daryl, a nineteen-year-old dropout with several misdemeanor arrests to his credit.
Cowly said, “Ishi, the girl, and one of the males. The other guy left earlier, so we picked him up. The brother hasn’t been home since yesterday. You see our guys?”
The street and the houses appeared deserted.
“Nobody.”
Cowly nodded.
“A team from Fugitive Section will make the pop. Two guys are on either side of the house right now, and two more have the rear. Plus, we have people from Rampart Robbery to handle the evidence. Watch close. These people are the best.”
Cowly lifted her phone and spoke softly.
“Showtime, my lovelies.”
The van’s driver’s-side door popped open. A thin African-American woman slipped out, rounded the van to the sidewalk, and walked toward the house. She wore frayed jean shorts, a white halter top, and cheap flip-flop sandals. Her hair hung in braids dotted with beads.
Cowly said, “Angela Sims. Fugitive detective.”
The woman knocked when she reached the door. She waited with the nervous anxiety of an impatient tweaker. When no one opened the door, she knocked again. This time the door opened, but Scott did not see who opened it. Angela Sims stepped into the doorway, and stopped, preventing the door from being closed. Two male Fugitive dicks charged from each side of the house at a dead sprint, converging on the door as Angela Sims shoved her way into the house. The four male officers slammed inside behind her. As the Fugitive detectives made their entry, a male and a female detective jumped from the van and raced up the sidewalk.
Cowly said, “Wallace and Isbecki. Rampart Robbery.”
Wallace and Isbecki were still on the sidewalk when two radio cars screeched to a stop behind Cowly’s sedan and two more stopped behind the sedan at the far end of the street. Four uniformed officers deployed from each car to seal the street.
Ishi’s house was quiet and still, but Scott knew all hell was breaking loose inside. Maggie fidgeted from his anxiety.
Five seconds later, two of the male Fugitive detectives emerged with an Anglo male handcuffed between them. Cowly visibly relaxed.
“That’s it, baby. Done deal.”
Cowly drove forward, parked alongside the van, and shoved open her door.
“C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Scott let Maggie out the rear, clipped her lead, and hurried to catch up as Sims and another Fugitive dick brought out Estelle Rolley. Rolley looked like a walking skeleton. Street officers called this “the meth diet.”
Cowly motioned Scott to join her in the yard.
The remaining Fugitive Section detective brought out Marshall Ishi last. Ishi’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He was maybe five eleven, and had the same hollow eyes and cheeks as in his booking photo. He stared at the ground, and wore baggy cargo shorts, sneakers without socks, and a discolored T-shirt that draped him like a parachute.
Scott studied the man. Nothing about him was familiar, but Scott couldn’t turn away. He felt as if he was falling into the man.
Cowly nudged close.
“What do you think?”
She sounded lost in a tunnel.
The arresting detective steered Ishi off the porch down two short steps to the sidewalk.
Scott saw the Kenworth slam into the Bentley. He saw the Bentley roll, and the flare of the AK-47. He saw Marshall Ishi on the roof, peering down at the carnage, and running away. Scott saw these things as if they were happening in front of him, but he knew this was only a fantasy. He saw Stephanie die, and heard her beg him to come back.
Ishi glanced up, met Scott’s eyes, and Maggie growled deep in her chest.
Scott turned away, hating Cowly for dragging him here.
“This was stupid.”
“Man, you should’ve seen your face. Are you okay?”
“I was thinking about that night, is all. Like a flashback. I’m fine.”
“Did seeing him help?”
“Does it look like it helped?”
Scott’s voice was sharp, and he immediately regretted it.
Cowly showed her palms and took a step back.
“Okay. Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could be our guy. We just have to roll with it.”
Scott thought, Fuck you and your roll with it.
Scott followed her into a small, dirty house permeated with a burnt-plastic and chemical odor so strong it made his eyes water. Cowly fanned the air, making a face.
“That’s the crystal. Soaks into the paint, the floors, everything.”
The living room contained a futon piled with rumpled sheets, a threadbare couch, and an elaborate blue glass bong almost three feet tall. Rock pipes dotted the futon and couch, and a square mirror smeared with powder sat on the floor. Maggie strained against her lead. Her nostrils flickered independently as she tested the air, then the floor, then the air again, and her anxiety flowed up the leash. She glanced at Scott as if checking his reaction, and barked.
“Take it easy. We’re not here for that.”
Scott tightened her lead to keep her close. Maggie had been trained to detect explosives, and explosives-detection dogs were never trained to alert to drugs. Scott decided the combined chemical smells of crystal and rock were confusing her. He tightened her lead even more, and stroked her flanks.
“Settle, baby. Settle. We don’t want it.”
The male Rampart detective appeared in the hall, and grinned at Cowly.
“We own this dude, boss. Come see.”
Cowly introduced Scott to Bill Wallace, who worked Rampart Robbery. Claudia Isbecki was in the first of two tiny bedrooms, photographing dime bags of rock cocaine, a large pill bottle filled with crystal meth, a glass jar filled with weed, and assorted plastic bags containing Adderall, Vyvanse, Dexedrine, and other amphetamines. Wallace then led them to a second bedroom, where he pointed out a tattered black gym bag, and grinned like a man who won the lottery.
“Found this under the bed. Check it out.”
The bag contained a pry bar, two screwdrivers, a bolt cutter, a hacksaw, a lock pick set with tension wrenches, a bottle of graphite, and a battery-powered lock pick gun.
Wallace stepped back, beaming.
“We call this a do-it-yourself burglary kit as defined under Penal Code four-forty-six. Also known as a one-way ticket to conviction.”
Cowly nodded.
“Pictures. Log everything, and email the pix to me asap. They’ll save time with his lawyer.”
Cowly glanced at Scott, then turned away.
“Let’s go. We’re finished here.”
“What happens now?”
“I’ll bring you to your car. Then I’m going back to the Boat, and you should probably go wherever you dog guys go.”
“I meant with Ishi.”
“We’ll question him. We’ll use the charges we have to press him about Shin. If he didn’t rob Shin, maybe he knows who d
id. We work the case.”
Her phone rang when they reached the living room. She glanced at the Caller ID.
“That’s Orso. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She moved away to take the call. Scott wondered if he should wait, then decided to get Maggie out of the stink, and took her outside.
A small crowd of neighborhood residents was gathered across the street and in the surrounding yards to watch the action. Scott was watching them when two senior officers came up the walk with a thin young male in his early twenties. He sported a mop of curly black hair, gaunt cheeks, and nervous eyes. Then Scott saw the resemblance, and realized this was Marshall Ishi’s younger brother, Daryl. He was not handcuffed, which meant he was not under arrest.
Scott was stepping off the sidewalk to let them pass when Maggie alerted, and lunged toward Daryl. She caught Scott by surprise, and almost pulled him off his feet. She pulled so hard, she raised up onto her hind legs.
Daryl and the closest officer both lurched sideways, and the officer shouted.
“Jesus Christ!”
Scott reacted immediately.
“Out, Maggie. Out!”
Maggie retreated, but kept barking.
The officer who shouted was bright red with anger.
“Christ, man, control your dog. That thing almost bit me!”
“Maggie, out! Out! Come!”
Maggie followed Scott away. She didn’t seem frightened or angry. Her tail wagged, and she glanced from Daryl Ishi to the pocket with the hidden baloney to Daryl Ishi again.
Daryl said, “That dog bites me, I’ll sue your ass.”
Cowly stepped from the house and came down the steps. The flushed uniform introduced Daryl as Marshall’s brother.
“Says he lives here and wants to know what’s going on.”
Cowly nodded, and seemed to consider Daryl with a remote detachment.
“Your brother has been arrested on suspicion of burglary, theft, possession of stolen goods, possession of narcotics, and possession of narcotics with the intent to distribute.”
Daryl waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he leaned sideways, trying to see inside through the open front door.
“Where’s Ganj?”
“Everyone within the house has been arrested. Your brother is being processed at the Rampart Community Police Station, and will then be transferred to the Police Administration Building.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. I got things in there. Can I go inside?”
“Not at this time. When the officers are finished, you’ll be allowed to enter.”
“I can leave?”
“Yes.”
Daryl Ishi slouched away without looking back. Maggie watched him, whimpering as she looked from Daryl to Scott.
Cowly said, “What’s wrong with her?”
“He probably smells like the house. She didn’t like that chemical odor.”
“Who in their right mind would?”
Cowly watched Daryl disappear down the street, and shook her head.
“How’d you like Marshall as your resident adult? That boy is following in his brother’s footprints right into his brother’s shitty life.”
She turned to Scott, and her professional face was softer.
“If this was unpleasant for you, I’m sorry. We should have explained why we wanted you here. Bud made it sound like we were doing you a favor.”
Scott’s head flooded with things to say, but they all sounded like apologies or excuses. He finally managed a shrug.
“Don’t sweat it.”
Scott said nothing more as they drove back to MacArthur Park. The SWAT van was gone, and only two radio cars and his Trans Am remained.
When Cowly stopped behind his car, he remembered the security videos and asked her about them.
“Melon got the security videos from Tyler’s and Club Red. Okay if I see them?”
She seemed surprised.
“Fine by me. All you’ll see is whatever the bartenders and waitresses said. They don’t show anything else.”
Scott tried to figure out how to explain.
“I’ve never seen Pahlasian and Beloit. Still pictures, yeah, but not alive.”
She gave a slow nod.
“Okay. I can make that happen.”
“They weren’t in the box.”
“Physical evidence is in the evidence room. I’ll dig them out for you. It probably won’t be today. I’ll be busy with Ishi.”
“I understand. Whenever is fine. Thanks.”
Scott got out, and opened the back door for Maggie. He clipped her lead, let her hop out, then looked at Cowly.
“I’m not crazy. It’s not like I have big holes in my head.”
Cowly looked embarrassed.
“I know you’re not crazy.”
Scott nodded, but didn’t feel any better. He was turning away when she called.
“Scott?”
He waited.
“I’d want to see them, too.”
Scott nodded again, and watched as she drove away. He checked the time. It was only ten minutes after eleven. He still had most of the day to work with his dog.
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”
Maggie stared up at him and wagged her tail.
Scott scratched her ears, stroked her back, and gave her two pieces of baloney.
“You’re a good girl. A really good girl. I shouldn’t have taken you into that damned house.”
He drove to the training field, hoping the chemicals in the house hadn’t hurt Maggie’s nose. A dog man would know. A dog man would keep his dog safe.
20.
The sun beat down hot and hard on the training field, frying the grass and the men and the dogs.
Budress said, “No peeking.”
Sweat and sunblock dripped into Scott’s eyes.
“No one is peeking.”
Scott was crouched beside Maggie behind an orange nylon screen. The screen was pulled taut between two tent poles stuck into the ground. Its purpose was to prevent Maggie from seeing a K-9 officer named Bret Downing hide in one of four orange tents scattered at far points on the field. The tents were tall and narrow like folded beach umbrellas, and big enough to conceal a man. Once Downing was hidden, Maggie would have to use her nose to find him, and alert Scott by barking.
Scott was scratching her chest and praising her when a sharp explosion behind him caught them off guard. Budress had surprised them with the starter pistol.
Scott and Maggie cringed at the shot, but Maggie instantly recovered, licked her lips, and wagged.
Scott rewarded her with a chunk of baloney, squeaked what a good girl she was, and ruffled her fur.
Budress put away the gun.
“Somebody oughta feed you that baloney. You jump pretty good.”
“Could you step back a couple of feet next time? I’m going deaf.”
Budress surprised them three or four times during each session. He would fire the gun, and Scott would give Maggie a treat. They were trying to teach her to associate unexpected sounds with a positive experience.
Budress waved at Downing to continue.
“Stop whining and get her ready. I like to watch her hunt.”
They had already run the exercise eight times, with five different officers posing as “bad guys” to vary the scent. Maggie had been flawless. Scott was relieved to see Maggie’s sense of smell was unharmed by the chemical odors in Ishi’s house.
Earlier, Leland had watched for almost an hour, and was so impressed he took a turn playing the bad guy. Scott instantly saw why. Leland rubbed himself on all four tents, then climbed a tree at the end of the field. His trick confused her for all of twenty seconds, then she whiffed his trac
k leading from the tents, and narrowed the cone until she found him.
Leland had trotted back from the tree without his usual scowl.
“That dog may be the best air dog I’ve seen. I do believe she could follow a fly fart in a hurricane.”
Air dogs excelled at tracking scent in the air. Ground dogs like bloodhounds and beagles worked best tracking scent particles close to or on the ground.
Scott was pleased with Leland’s enthusiasm, but relieved when Leland was called inside for a call. He worried Maggie’s limp would return with all the running, and Leland would see.
Now, with Leland gone, Scott felt more at ease, and enjoyed the work. Maggie knew what he expected of her, and Scott was confident with her performance.
When Downing disappeared inside the third tent, which was eighty yards across the field and slightly upwind, Budress gave Scott the nod.
“Turn her loose.”
Scott jiggled Downing’s old T-shirt in Maggie’s face, and released her.
“Smell it, girl. Smell it—seek, seek, seek!”
Maggie charged from behind the screen, head high, tail back, ears up. She slowed to test the air for Downing’s scent, then ran in a slow curve downwind of the tents. Thirty yards from the screen, Scott saw her catch the edge of Downing’s scent cone. She veered into the breeze, broke his ground scent, and powered hard for the third tent. Watching her dig in and stretch out when she accelerated was like watching a Top Fuel dragster explode off the line.
Scott smiled.
“Got him.”
Budress said, “She’s a hunter, all right.”
Maggie covered the distance to the tent in two seconds, jammed on the brakes, and barked. Downing eased out until he was in full view. Maggie stood her ground, barking, but did not approach him, as Scott and Budress had taught her.
Budress grunted his approval.
“Bring her in.”
“Out, Maggie. Out.”
Maggie broke away from the tent and loped back, pleased with herself. Her joy showed in her bouncy stride and happy, open-mouth grin. Scott rewarded her with another chunk of baloney and praised her in the high squeaky voice.
