Suspect

by Robert Crais

  File folders, diagrams, and the mass of newspaper clippings he compiled on the shootings spread from the couch to the wall in neat little stacks. Scott sipped more beer, and decided he looked like a nut case trying to prove aliens worked for the CIA, raving about lost memories, recovered memories, imagined memories, and memories that may not even exist—a flash of white hair, forchrissake—as if some miraculous miracle memory only HE could provide would solve the case and bring Stephanie Anders back to life. And now he even had the best detectives at Robbery-Homicide buying into it, as if he could provide the missing piece to their puzzle.

  Scott ran his fingers through Maggie’s fur.

  Thump thump.

  “Maybe it’s time to move on. What do you think?”

  Thump.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He stared at the stacks with their corners all squared off and neat, and their neatness began to bother him. Scott wasn’t neat. His car, his apartment, and his life were a mess. If rats were in his apartment, they had made an effort to make his papers appear undisturbed, and overdid it. If someone had the tools in Marshall Ishi’s burglary kit, they wouldn’t need Mrs. Earle to get inside without breaking a window.

  Scott got his Maglite from the bedroom, and went out. Maggie followed him, sniffing at the French doors as he shined his light on the lock.

  “You’re in the way. Move.”

  The lock was weathered and scratched, but Scott found no new scratches on the keyhole or faceplate to indicate the lock had been picked.

  He checked the side door next. The French doors had a single lock, but the side door had a knob lock and a deadbolt. Scott knelt close with the light. No fresh cuts showed on either lock, but he noticed a black smudge on the deadbolt’s faceplate. It might have been dirt or grease, but it gave a metallic shimmer when he adjusted the light.

  Scott touched it with his pinky, and it came away on his skin. The substance appeared to be a silvery powder, and Scott wondered if it was graphite—a dry lubricant used to make locks open more easily. A bottle of graphite had been in Marshall Ishi’s burglary kit. Squirt in some graphite, insert a lock pick gun, and the lock would open in seconds. No key was necessary.

  Scott suddenly laughed and turned off the light. Nothing had been stolen, and his place hadn’t been vandalized. Sometimes a smudge was just a smudge.

  “See a burglary kit, and now you’re imagining burglars.”

  Scott went back inside, locked up, and pulled the curtains. He went to Stephanie’s picture.

  “I’m not moving on, and I’m not going to quit. I did not leave you behind, and I’m not leaving now.”

  He sat on the floor beneath her picture, and looked over the files and documents. Maggie lay down beside him.

  Melon and Stengler had gotten nowhere, but it hadn’t been from lack of effort. He now understood their effort had been enormous, but they needed the ATF to bust Shin, and Shin wasn’t arrested until they were both off the case. Shin changed everything.

  Scott fingered through the clutter, and found the evidence bag containing the cheap leather watchband. Rust, Chen had said. Scott wondered again if the rust on the band had come from the roof. Not that this would prove anything even if it had.

  Scott unzipped the bag. Maggie lurched to her feet when he took out the leather strap.

  Scott said, “You need to pee?”

  She nosed so close she almost stood in his lap. She looked at Scott, wagged her tail, and sniffed the cheap leather. The first time he opened the bag to examine the band, she had been in his face, and now she was trying to reach the strap as if she wanted to play.

  She was behaving like she had at Marshall Ishi’s house.

  Scott moved the band to the right, and she followed the band. He hid it behind his back, and she danced happily from foot to foot as she tried to get behind him.

  Play.

  Dogs do what they do to please us or save us. They don’t have anything else.

  Maggie was with him the first time he took the band from the bag. They had been playing a few minutes earlier, and she had nosed at the band when he examined it. She had come so close he pushed her away, so maybe she associated the band with play. He tried thinking about it the way he imagined Maggie would think.

  Scott and Maggie play.

  Scott picks up the band.

  The band is a toy.

  Maggie wants to play with Scott and his toy.

  Find the band when you smell the band, Scott and Maggie will play.

  Welcome to Dogland.

  Scott dropped the band back into the evidence bag. He originally thought Maggie alerted to the chemicals fumed off the crystal because she confused them with explosives. Budress had convinced him this wasn’t the case, which meant there must be another scent on the band she recognized.

  Marshall and Daryl would both carry the chemical crystal scent, but Maggie had not alerted to Marshall. She had alerted inside the house, she alerted on Daryl, and now she had alerted on the watchband. Scott stared at Maggie, and slowly smiled.

  “Really? I mean, REALLY?”

  Thump thump thump.

  The thin leather strap had been in the bag for almost nine months. Scott knew scent particles degraded over time, but it seemed logical a person’s sweat and skin oils would soak deep into a leather band.

  He reached for his phone, and called Budress.

  “Hey, man, it’s Scott. Hope this isn’t too late.”

  “No, I’m good. What’s up?”

  Scott heard TV voices in the background.

  “How long can a scent last?”

  “What kind of scent?”

  “Human.”

  “I need more than that, bro. A ground scent? An air scent? An air scent is gone with the wind. A ground scent, you get maybe twenty-four to forty-eight. Depends on the elements and environment.”

  “A leather watchband in an evidence bag.”

  “Shit, that’s different. One of those plastic bags?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why you want to know something like this? You got a sample you want to hunt?”

  “One of the detectives asked. It’s a piece of evidence from one of their cases.”

  “Depends. A glass container is best because it’s nonporous and nonreactive, but those heavy-duty evidence bags are pretty good. Has the bag been sealed? If it wasn’t sealed, you get air migration and the oils break down.”

  “No, it was sealed. It’s been in a box.”

  “How long?”

  Scott felt uneasy with all the questions, but he knew Budress was trying to help.

  “They made it sound like a pretty long time. Six months? Call it six months. They were just asking in general.”

  “Okay. In one of those sealed bags, airtight, no sunlight, I’m thinking they’d have good scent for three months easy, but I’ve seen dogs work off clothes sealed for more than a year.”

  “Okay, man, thanks. I’ll pass it along.”

  Scott was ending the call when Budress stopped him.

  “Hey, I forgot. Leland told me he likes the way you’re working with Maggie. He thinks we’re making progress with her startle response.”

  “Great.”

  Scott didn’t want to talk about Leland.

  “Don’t tell him I told you, okay?”

  “Never.”

  Scott hung up, and fingered the band through the bag.

  He’s following in his brother’s footsteps.

  Daryl lived in his brother’s house, so Daryl’s scent was in the house. Maggie alerted on Daryl and on the band. Could the watch have been Daryl’s?

  Scott touched Maggie’s nose. She licked his fingers.

  “No effin’ way.”

  Maybe
both brothers robbed Shin’s store. Maybe Daryl was his brother’s lookout, up on the roof to watch for the police. Maybe Daryl was the witness, and not Marshall.

  Scott studied the shabby brown piece of leather in the plastic evidence bag.

  Scott put the bag aside, and thought about Daryl as he petted his dog.

  22.

  Scott woke the next morning, feeling anxious and agitated. He had dreamed about Marshall and Daryl. In the dream, they stood calmly in the street as the shooting unfolded around them. In the dream, Marshall told Orso and Cowly the five men removed their masks after the shooting, and called each other by name. In the dream, Marshall knew their names and addresses, and had close-up photos of each man on his cell phone. Scott just wanted to know if the man had been there.

  He took Maggie out, then showered, and ate cereal at the kitchen sink. He brooded over whether to tell Cowly and Orso about the watchband. He decided they already thought he was crazy enough. He didn’t want to make things worse by floating a theory based on a dog.

  At six-thirty, he was fed up with waiting, and phoned Cowly on her cell.

  “Hey, Joyce, it’s Scott James. Okay if I pick up the discs?”

  “You know it’s only six-thirty?”

  “I didn’t mean now. Whenever you say.”

  She was silent for a moment, and Scott worried she was still in bed.

  “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “I just finished a five-mile run. Let me think. Can you roll by about eleven?”

  “Eleven would be great. Ah, listen, what’s happening with Ishi? Did he see anything?”

  “As of last night, he wasn’t talking. He’s got a pretty good P.D. Orso has a D.A. coming down, first thing. They’re trying to work out a deal.”

  Scott reconsidered whether to mention Daryl, but again decided against it.

  “Okay, I’ll see you around eleven.”

  Scott worked with Maggie at the training facility from seven-fifteen until ten-thirty, then left her and rolled for the Boat. Her confused expression when he closed her run filled him with guilt. He felt even worse when she barked as he walked away. Her steady bark-bark-bark plea hurt so badly he clenched his eyes. He walked faster when he realized he had heard it before.

  Scotty, don’t leave me.

  The Trans Am felt empty without Maggie beside him. Maggie cut the car in half like a black-and-tan wall when she straddled the console, but now the car felt strange. This was only the second time he had been alone in the car since he brought Maggie home. They were together twenty-four hours a day. They ate together, played together, trained together, and lived together. Having Maggie was like having a three-year-old, only better. When he told her to sit, she sat. Scott glanced at the empty console, and hoped she wasn’t still barking.

  He pushed on the gas, then realized, here he was, a grown man, a cop, and he was speeding because he was worried his dog was lonely. He laughed at himself.

  “Relax, moron. You’re all spooled up like she was a human being. She’s a dog.”

  He pushed the gas harder.

  “You’re talking to yourself way too much. This can’t be right.”

  Scott parked at the Boat twelve minutes later, went up to the fifth floor, and was surprised when he found Orso waiting with Cowly. She held out a manila envelope.

  “You can keep them. I burned copies.”

  Scott felt the discs shift when he took the envelope, but only managed a nod. Orso looked like a funeral director.

  “You have a few minutes? Could we see you inside?”

  A bitter heat filled Scott’s belly.

  “Was it Ishi? He was there?”

  “Let’s talk inside. I’m sorry you didn’t bring Maggie. It was fun having her here.”

  Scott heard only mumbles. He was preparing to relive the shooting through Marshall Ishi’s eyes, even as he disappeared in his own nightmare. The Bentley rolling over, the big man raising his rifle, Stephanie reaching out with red hands. Scott was vaguely aware Orso expected a response, but walked on in silence.

  None of them spoke again until they were seated in the conference room, and Orso explained.

  “Mr. Ishi confessed this morning. He remembered three of the items he stole that night—a set of carved ivory pipes.”

  Cowly said, “Not ivory. Rhinoceros horn. Inlaid with tiger teeth. Illegal in the United States.”

  “Whatever. The pipes were among the things Mr. Shin listed stolen.”

  Scott didn’t care what was stolen.

  “Did he see the shooters?”

  Orso shifted as if he was uncomfortable. His face softened and turned sad.

  “No. I’m sorry, Scott. No. He can’t help us.”

  Cowly leaned forward.

  “He broke into Shin’s almost three hours before the hit. He was back home and loaded by the time you rolled up.”

  Scott looked from Cowly to Orso.

  “That’s it?”

  “We took our shot. It looked really good, here’s this burglary fifty feet from the shooting, on the same night, what are the odds? But he didn’t see it. He can’t help us.”

  “He’s lying. He saw these guys murder a police officer and two other people. A fucking asshole with a machine gun.”

  Cowly said, “Scott—”

  “He’s scared they’ll kill him.”

  Orso shook his head.

  “He’s telling the truth.”

  “A meth-addict? A drug-dealing burglar?”

  “Between witness testimony and evidence, we had the man cold on nine separate felony and misdemeanor charges. He already has a felony strike, so two more would put him over the three strike mandatory.”

  “That doesn’t mean he told the truth. It means he was scared.”

  Orso kept going.

  “He confessed to four burglaries including Shin’s. Everything he told us about time, place, how he got in, what he stole, all the details—everything checked. His statements about the Shin burglary—checked. He was required to take a polygraph. He passed. When we asked him what time he broke into Shin’s, and what time he left, and what he saw, he passed.”

  Orso leaned back and laced his fingers.

  “We believe him, Scott. He wasn’t lying. He didn’t see anything. He can’t help us.”

  Scott felt as if he had lost something. He thought he should ask more questions, but nothing occurred to him, and he didn’t know what to say.

  “Did you release him?”

  Orso looked surprised.

  “Ishi? God, no. He’s in Men’s Central Jail until the sentencing. He’s going to prison.”

  “What about the girl and the roommates?”

  “Flipped like three burgers. They helped with our leverage, so we let them walk.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Okay. So now what?”

  Orso touched his hair.

  “White hair. Ian has sources. Maybe one of them knows of a driver with white hair.”

  Scott looked at Cowly. She was staring at the table as if she was about to nod out. Scott felt the urge to ask her about the man on the beach, and wondered again if he should mention the watchband.

  Cowly suddenly straightened as if she felt his stare, and looked at him.

  “This really sucks, man. I’m sorry.”

  Scott nodded. The connection between the watchband and Daryl was lame. If he tried to explain, they would think he sounded pathetic or crazy. He didn’t want Cowly to see him that way.

  He absently reached down to touch Maggie, but felt only air. Scott glanced at Cowly, embarrassed, but she seemed not to have noticed. Orso was still talking.

  “And we have you, Scott. The investigation didn’t end with Marshall Ishi.”

  Orso st
ood, ending the meeting.

  Scott stood with Cowly. He picked up the manila envelope, shook their hands, and thanked them for their hard work. He respected them the way he now knew he should have respected Melon and Stengler.

  Scott believed Orso was right. The investigation didn’t end with Marshall Ishi. There was Daryl, only Orso and Cowly didn’t know it.

  Scott wondered if Maggie was still barking. He was careful not to limp when he hurried out.

  23.

  Maggie was barking when Scott entered the kennel, but now her bark was pure joy. She jumped onto the gate, standing tall and wagging her tail. Scott let her out and ruffled her fur as he spoke in the squeaky voice.

  “Told you I’d be back. Told you I wouldn’t be long. I’m happy to see you, too.”

  Maggie wagged her tail so hard her entire body wiggled.

  Paul Budress and his black shepherd, Obi, were at the end of the hall. Dana Flynn was in a run with her Malinois, Gator, checking his razor-sharp teeth. Scott smiled. All these tough K-9 handlers, a lot of them ex-military, and nobody thought twice about grown men and women talking to dogs in a high-pitched, little girl’s voice.

  Scott clipped Maggie’s lead as Leland appeared behind him.

  “Good of you to rejoin us, Officer James. We hope you’ll stick around.”

  Maggie’s joy became a soft, low growl. Scott took up the play in her leash and held her close to his leg. If Leland liked the way Scott worked with Maggie and thought they were making progress, then Scott would give him more. But not by sticking around.

  “Just coming to see you, Sergeant. I’d like to do some crowd work with her. That okay with you?”

  Leland’s scowl deepened.

  “And what would ‘crowd work’ be?”

  Scott quoted from sessions with Goodman.

  “She gets nervous with people because of anxiety that comes with the PTSD. The anxiety makes her think something bad is going to happen, like when she’s surprised by a gunshot. It’s the same anxiety. I want her to spend time in crowded places so she learns nothing bad will happen. If she gets comfortable with crowds, I think it might help her with gunfire. You see?”

  Leland was slow to respond.