by Robert Crais
Maggie hurried to the French doors and pushed her nose under the curtain. She heard a twig snap, brittle leaves being crushed, and the scuffing grow louder. Tree rats stopped moving to hide in their stillness.
Maggie walked quickly to the side of the curtains, stuck her head under, and sampled more air. The footsteps stopped.
She cocked her head, listening. She sniffed. She heard the soft metal-to-metal clack of the gate latch, caught their scent, and recognized the intruders. The strangers who had entered their crate had returned.
Maggie erupted in a thunder of barking. She lunged against the glass, the fur on her back bristling from her tail to her shoulders.
Crate in danger.
Pack threatened.
Her fury was a warning. She would drive off or kill whatever threatened her pack.
She heard them running.
“Maggie! Mags!”
Scott came off the couch behind her, but she paid him no mind. She drove them harder, warning them.
“What are you barking at?”
The scuffing faded. Car doors slammed. An engine grew softer until it was gone.
Scott pushed aside the curtains, and joined her.
The threat was gone.
Crate safe.
Pack safe.
Alpha safe.
Her job was done.
“Is someone out there?”
Maggie gazed up at Scott with love and joy. She folded her ears and wagged her tail. She knew he was seeking danger in the darkness, but would find nothing.
Maggie trotted to her water, and drank. When she returned, Scott was back on his couch. She was so happy to see him, she laid her face in his lap. He scratched her ears and stroked her, and Maggie wiggled with happiness.
She sniffed the floor, turned until she found exactly the best position, and lay down beside him.
Alpha safe.
Crate safe.
Pack safe.
Her eyes closed, but Maggie lay awake as the man’s heart slowed, his breathing evened, and the hundred scents that made him Scott changed with his cooling skin. She heard a living night familiar with squeaking mice and freeway traffic; tasted air rich with the expected scent of rats, oranges, earth, and beetles; and patrolled their world from her place on the floor as if she was an eighty-five-pound spirit with magical eyes. Maggie sighed. When Scott was at peace, she let herself sleep.
28.
The next morning, after he walked Maggie and showered, Scott decided to check on the missing disc himself. Richard Levin’s contact information was on the first page of his interview.
Club Red would be deserted at this hour, so he phoned Levin’s personal number. The voice mail message was male, but offered no identifying information. Scott identified himself as a detective working on the Pahlasian murder, said he had questions regarding the discs, and asked Levin to phone as soon as possible.
At seven-twenty, Scott was tying his boots while Maggie bounced between the door and her lead. He got a kick out of how she knew the signs. Whenever he tied his boots, she knew they were going out.
Scott said, “You one smart dog.”
His phone rang at seven twenty-one. Scott thought he had lucked out, and Levin was returning his call. Then he saw LAPD in the incoming-call window.
“Morning. Scott James.”
He tucked the phone under his chin, and finished tying as he listened.
“Detective Anson, Rampart Detectives. I’m in front of your house with my partner, Detective Shankman. We’d like to speak with you.”
Scott went to the French doors, wondering why two Rampart detectives had come to his home.
“I’m in the guest house. See the wood gate in front of you? It’s not locked. Come through the gate.”
“We understand you have a K-9 police dog on the premises. We don’t want a problem with the dog. Will you secure her?”
“She won’t be a problem.”
“Will you secure the dog?”
Scott didn’t want to lock her in her crate, and if he put her in the bedroom, she would shred the door trying to get out.
“Hang on. I’ll come out.”
Scott nudged Maggie aside, and opened the door.
“Do not come out. Please secure the dog.”
“Listen, man, I don’t have anywhere to secure her. So come meet the dog or I’ll come to you. Your choice.”
“Secure the dog.”
Scott tossed the phone onto the couch, slipped past Maggie, and went out to meet them.
A gray Crown Vic was parked in the street across the mouth of the drive. Two men in sport coats and ties had come up partway, and stood in the drive. The taller was in his early fifties, with dusty blond hair and too many lines. The shorter detective was in his late thirties, and broader, with a shiny face and a bald head ringed with brown hair. Neither looked friendly, and neither pretended.
The older man flashed a badge case showing his ID card and gold detective shield.
“Bob Anson. This is Kurt Shankman.”
Anson put away the badge.
“I asked you to secure the dog.”
“I don’t have a place to secure her. So it’s out here or inside with the dog. She’s harmless. She’ll sniff your hands, you’ll love her.”
Shankman looked at the gate as if he was worried.
“You latch the gate? She can’t get out, can she?”
“She’s not in the yard. She’s in my house. It’s fine, Shankman. Really.”
Shankman hooked his thumbs in his belt, opening the sport coat enough to flash a holster.
“You’ve been warned. That dog comes charging out here, I’ll put her down.”
The hair on Scott’s neck prickled.
“What’s wrong with you, man? You pull on my dog, you better pop me first.”
Anson calmly interrupted.
“Do you know a Daryl Ishi?”
There it was. Daryl had probably filed a complaint, and these two were here to investigate.
“I know who he is, yes.”
“Would Mr. Ishi think your dog is harmless?”
“Ask him.”
Shankman smiled without humor.
“We’re asking you. When was the last time you saw him?”
Scott hesitated. If Daryl filed a complaint, he would have been asked if there were witnesses. Anson and Shankman might have spoken with Estelle Rolley and Daryl’s friends from the park. Scott answered carefully. He wasn’t sure where they would take this, but he did not want to be caught in a lie.
“I saw him yesterday. What is this, Anson? You guys work for IAG? Should I call a PPL rep?”
“Rampart Detectives. We’re not with Internal Affairs.”
Shankman didn’t wait for Scott to respond.
“How’d that come about, you seeing him yesterday?”
“Daryl’s brother was recently arrested on multiple burglary counts—”
Shankman interrupted.
“His brother being?”
“Marshall Ishi. Marshall copped to four burglaries, but there’s evidence Daryl worked with him. I went to his home to speak with him. I was told he was meeting friends at MacArthur Park.”
Shankman interrupted again.
“By who?”
“Marshall’s girlfriend, a woman named Estelle Rolley. She’s a tweaker, hard-core like Marshall. She lives in their house.”
Anson gave a vague nod, which seemed to confirm he had gotten a full report, and was now considering the differences between what he had been told and what Scott was telling him.
“Okay. So you went to MacArthur Park.”
“Daryl ran when he saw me approaching. My dog stopped him. Neither my dog nor mysel
f touched him at any time, nor was he placed under arrest. I asked for his cooperation. He refused. I told him he was free to leave.”
Shankman arched his eyebrows at Anson.
“Listen to this dude, Bobby, out questioning people. When did K-9 officers start carrying detective shields?”
Anson never looked at his partner, nor changed his expression.
“Scott, let me ask you—did Daryl threaten you during this conversation?”
Scott found Anson’s question odd, and wondered where he was going.
“No, sir. He didn’t threaten me. We talked.”
“Did you see Daryl a second time yesterday, after the park?”
Scott found this question even more odd.
“No. Did he say I did?”
Shankman interrupted again.
“You buy drugs from Daryl?”
The drug question came out of nowhere, and caused a sick chill to flash up Scott’s spine.
“Oxy? Vicodin?”
Shankman made jazz hands, as if taunting Scott for an answer he already knew.
“No? Yes? Both?”
Both painkillers had been prescribed by Scott’s surgeon, and legally purchased from a pharmacy two blocks away. Shankman had used brand names, not generic names. He specifically named the two painkillers prescribed for Scott.
Shankman dropped the hands, and turned serious as death.
“No answer? Are you medicated now, Scott? Do the anxiety meds make it difficult to think?”
The chill spread across his shoulders and out to his fingers. Scott flashed on Maggie’s intruder alert when they returned home the other night.
Scott took a step back.
“Until and unless I’m ordered otherwise by my boss, this Q&A is over. You assholes can fuck off.”
Anson remained calm and casual, and made no move to leave.
“Do you blame Marshall Ishi for Stephanie’s murder?”
The question froze Scott like the click of a shutter.
Anson kept going, voice reasonable and understanding.
“You got shot up, your partner was murdered, these two assholes maybe saw it, and never came forward. You must carry a lot of anger, man. Who could blame you, with the shooters still running around? Marshall and Daryl are letting them skate. I can see how a man would be angry.”
Shankman nodded agreeably, his unblinking eyes like tarnished dimes.
“Me, too, Bobby. I’d want to punish them. Oh, yeah. I’d want to get mine.”
The two detectives stared at him. Waiting.
Scott’s head throbbed. He now understood they were investigating something worse than a harassment complaint.
“Why are you people here?”
Anson seemed genuinely friendly for the first time.
“To ask about Daryl. We did.”
Anson turned, and walked to their car.
Shankman said, “Thanks for your cooperation.”
Shankman followed his boss.
Scott spoke to their backs.
“What happened? Anson, is Daryl dead?”
Anson climbed into the passenger side.
“If we have further questions, we’ll call.”
Shankman trotted around the front end, and dropped in behind the wheel.
Scott called out as the Crown Vic started.
“Am I a suspect? Tell me what happened.”
Anson glanced back as the car rolled away.
“You have a good day.”
Scott watched them leave. His hands trembled. His shirt grew damp with sweat. He told himself to breathe, but he couldn’t make it happen.
Barking.
He heard Maggie barking. Him here, Maggie trapped in the guest house, she didn’t like it and wanted him back.
Scotty, don’t leave me.
“I’m coming.”
Maggie bounced up and down when he opened the door, and spun in happy circles.
“I’m here. Hang on, baby. I’m happy, too.”
Scott wasn’t happy. He was confused and scared, and stood numb by the door as Maggie swirled around him until he noticed the phone’s message light was blinking. The counter showed he had received two calls in the minutes he was outside with Anson and Shankman.
Scott touched the playback button.
“Hello, Scott, this is Doctor Charles Goodman. Something rather important has come up. Please call me as soon as possible. This is very important.”
This is Doctor Charles Goodman.
As if Scott wouldn’t recognize the man’s voice after seeing him for seven months.
Scott deleted the message, and moved on. Paul Budress was next.
“Dude, it’s Paul. Call me before you come in. Call right now, man. Do not come in until we talk.”
Scott didn’t like the strain in Budress’ voice. Paulie Budress was one of the calmest people he’d ever met.
Scott took a deep breath, blew out, and called him.
Budress said, “What the fuck, man? What’s going on?”
Scott prayed he wouldn’t throw up. He could tell Budress knew something from his tone.
“What are you talking about?”
“Some IAG rats are here waiting for you. Fucking Leland is gonna explode.”
Scott took deep breaths, one after another. First Anson and Shankman, and now Internal Affairs.
“What do they want with me?”
“Shit, man, you don’t know?”
Fake it ’til you make it.
“Paul, c’mon. What did they say?”
“Mace heard them in there with Leland. They’re hauling you downtown, and you won’t be coming back here.”
Scott felt as if Budress was talking about someone else.
“I’m being suspended?”
“Full on. No badge. No pay. You’re going home, pending whatever the fuck investigation.”
“This is crazy.”
“Call the union. Hook up with a rep and a lawyer before you come in. And for Christ’s sake, don’t tell them I called you.”
“What about Maggie?”
“Dude, you don’t own her. I’ll find out what I can. I’ll call you back.”
Budress hung up.
Scott felt woozy and off balance. He clenched his eyes, and imagined himself alone on a beach the way Goodman taught him. Distraction came with focusing on the details. The sand was hot from the sun, and gritty, and smelled of dead seaweed and fish and salt. The sun beat down until his skin crinkled with its terrible heat. Scott’s heart slowed as he calmed, and his head cleared. He had to be calm to think clearly. Clarity was everything.
Internal Affairs was investigating, but Anson and Shankman hadn’t arrested him. This meant no arrest warrant had been issued. Scott had room to move, but he needed more facts.
He called Joyce Cowly’s cell, and prayed his call wouldn’t go to her voice mail.
She answered on the third ring.
“It’s Scott. Joyce, what’s happening? What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer.
“Joyce?”
“Where are you?”
“Home. Two Rampart detectives just left. They made it sound like Daryl Ishi was dead, and I was the suspect.”
She hesitated again as if she was deciding whether to answer, and he grew frightened she would hang up. She didn’t.
“The Parkers went to pick him up for a swab last night. They found him shot to death. Daryl, Estelle Rolley, and one of the roommates.”
Scott lowered himself to the couch.
“They think I killed three people?”
“Scott—”
“It sounds like a drug killing. These people deal drugs. T
hey’re addicts.”
“Ruled out. They had a new stash, and they hadn’t been robbed.”
She paused again.
“There’s this talk about you being unstable—”
“Bullshit.”
“—the way you blew up at Melon and Stengler, the stress you’ve been under, all these medications you take.”
“The Rampart dicks knew my prescriptions. They specifically knew which meds I take. How could they know, Joyce?”
“I don’t know. No one here should know.”
“Who’s saying this stuff?”
“Everyone’s talking about you. Top floor. Division brass. It could have come from anyone.”
“But how can they know?”
“It’s a big deal. They don’t like the way you inserted yourself into the case.”
“I didn’t kill these people.”
“I’m just telling you what’s being said. You’re a suspect. Lawyer up. I can give you some names.”
He went back to the beach. Slow deep breaths in, slow exhales out.
Maggie rested her chin on his knee. He stroked her seal-sleek head and wondered if she would like to run on the beach.
“Why would I kill him? I wanted to know if he saw something. Maybe he didn’t. Now we won’t know.”
“Maybe you tried to make him talk, and got carried away.”
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“It’s been mentioned. I have to go.”
“You think I did this?”
Cowly was silent.
“Do you think I killed them?”
“No.”
Joyce Cowly was gone.
Scott lowered his phone.
Maggie’s soft brown eyes watched him.
He stroked her head, wondering if Daryl had died with anything worth knowing.
“Now we’ll never know.”
Nine months was a long time to keep secrets. If Daryl saw something, Scott doubted he could keep quiet, and wondered who Daryl would tell. Marshall might know, but Marshall was currently in Men’s Central Jail.
Scott thought for a moment, then went to his computer. He opened the Sheriff’s Department website for Marshall’s booking number and the phone for the MCJ Liaison Desk.
“This is Detective Bud Orso, LAPD Robbery-Homicide. I need to see a prisoner named Marshall—M, A, R, S, H, A, double-L—Ishi, I, S, H, I.”
