by Robert Crais
“James!”
Carter. Carter and Stiles had followed him out. Carter called again as they approached.
“I apologize, okay? Get past it. Let’s catch this guy.”
Scott waited until they arrived.
“What, Carter? Ask.”
“Last night, when you saw Cole—”
Scott interrupted, cutting him off.
“What’s the obsession with Cole? Talk to the people who live on that street. Maybe they know what happened. And what about Carlos Etana? His asshole buddies might know.”
Carter showed his palms, trying to make peace.
“We’re doing those things.”
Carter’s phone buzzed. He checked the incoming number and glanced at Stiles.
“It’s them.”
Carter answered as he turned away, and went to the edge of the slope.
Stiles picked up where Carter left off.
“We’re doing those things, Scott. Detectives are talking to the neighbors right now. We have people naming Etana’s family and associates, and we’ll talk to them.”
“I told you what happened with Cole, and so did Alvin. He was trying to help. He seemed like a good guy.”
“Have you known him for long?”
“Have you ever been bitten by a German shepherd?”
Stiles glanced at Maggie.
Scott said, “Don’t be cute with me, I won’t be cute with you. Deal?”
Stiles made a slow nod.
“Cole’s been arrested four times, including felony pops for burglary and interfering with an investigation. Doesn’t sound like such a good guy now, does he?”
Scott found this sobering, but something didn’t add up. The State of California didn’t license convicted felons.
“Wait. I thought he was a PI.”
“The burg was dropped. The interference cost his ticket on a plea deal, but the plea was later reversed. You know the name Frank Garcia?”
“No.”
“Monsterito tortillas and chips?”
“Yeah, sure. I love’m.”
Carter finished his call and rejoined them with his phone clenched in his fist. Scott thought he looked furious.
“Frank Garcia was a dipshit banger who made a billion dollars.”
Carter and Stiles looked at each other, something in Carter’s eyes giving her bad news about the call. Stiles took in the news, and calmly continued her explanation.
“Cole is a known associate of Mr. Garcia, and Mr. Garcia has known gang ties.”
“Etana’s gang?”
Carter took over again.
“We’re checking, but if Cole has dealings with one gangster, why not two? Maybe he was there to pick up Etana. Maybe Cole killed him, and got trapped by the blockade before he could leave.”
Stiles smiled as if she didn’t believe this for a second, but knew better than to dismiss it.
“Point being, we’re not wasting your time or ours when we ask about Mr. Cole. Okay?”
Scott didn’t argue, but this business about Cole seemed like a stretch.
Stiles said, “Okay, this is important, so let me refresh. You ran to the front of the house hoping to contain the suspect. Reaching the front, you saw the suspect cross the street four or five houses to your right. This was when Mr. Cole drew your attention to the left.”
“Yeah. That’s correct.”
“How far away was Cole when you saw him?”
“Couple of houses. Not far. I ordered him to stop. He stopped. Like I told you last night.”
“How did Mr. Cole attract your attention?”
“He waved his arms. He was shouting. He shouted a man ran from the house, and pointed down the street.”
“Did you look to see what he was pointing at?”
“I had my gun on Cole. I didn’t look anywhere else until Alvin waved me off.”
Carter jiggled his phone. Scott couldn’t tell if he was excited or nervous.
“What if Cole wasn’t trying to catch the suspect? Maybe he was distracting you, or warning the suspect about you.”
“It wasn’t like that. He told Alvin he saw the guy, way before he reached me.”
“Same difference. He created a distraction to help the suspect escape.”
A phone buzzed, but this time it belonged to Stiles. She glanced at the message, and nodded to Carter.
“Federales. It’s a go.”
“Tell’m we’re on our way. Meet me at the car.”
Carter walked quickly to the brass circle. He huddled with Mantz and the deputy chief, and Kemp joined their group.
Stiles said, “Look through the photos. The hair and skin tone will vary, but we’ll tweak the parameters. Tomorrow or the next day, I want you to come in.”
“You weren’t there, Stiles. Cole wasn’t trying to distract me.”
Kemp left the group, and came toward them. Carter pointed at Stiles, pointed at the line of parked cars, and hurried toward the cars.
Stiles made a small smile, not one of her oversized, flashy smiles. This smile felt real.
“Mr. Cole knows more than he’s telling. So do me the courtesy. Think about what he did last night in this new context. We’ll talk again.”
Stiles hurried after Carter, and passed Kemp as he arrived.
“Sergeant Leland is getting his car. He’ll transport you and Maggie home.”
“Thanks, LT. I’ll be in as soon as I shower.”
“Not today. Stay home. You’re off the roster until this is resolved.”
Scott hoped he misunderstood.
“Home as in I get today off, or home until further notice?”
“Further notice. And PIO canceled the interview we discussed. They don’t think it’s wise to put you on TV.”
“I just got back. I don’t want to be off the roster.”
“This is serious, Scott. We’ll have a patrol car at your house around the clock.”
“I don’t want guards. What could be safer than being on the job surrounded by policemen?”
“This comes from the top. You’re home until further notice.”
Kemp returned to the brass circle. Scott led Maggie along the line of cars to find Leland. He was angry, and frustrated, and wondered what Cole knew.
Mr. Cole knows more than he’s telling.
Leland’s K-9 car appeared, and Leland gestured for Scott to get in. Scott opened the back door for Maggie, but she wouldn’t jump into Leland’s car.
“Get in. C’mon, Maggie. In.”
Scott finally lifted her. He climbed into the passenger seat, and Leland immediately pulled away. His three-fingered hand was draped on the wheel.
“I’m off the roster.”
“So I was told.”
Leland drove the oldest and rattiest of the K-9 vehicles. An ancient Crown Vic with almost a million miles, but it was immaculate.
“This is bullshit.”
Leland didn’t respond. The crackle of the radio was soft noise. They drove without speaking for almost fifteen minutes before Leland broke the silence.
“You and Miss Maggie are welcome to stay with me.”
Scott couldn’t bring himself to look at the man.
“Thank you, Sergeant, but no. We have a crate. We’re not going to leave.”
This was the last time they spoke until Scott was home.
21
IN SCOTT’S NIGHTMARE, the man in the sport coat stepped from the house as a helicopter thrummed overhead, so crazy low the trees shivered and whipped. Blood and brain spattered the man’s face, and he held out the box from beneath Scott’s car in the palm of his hand.
He said, “Boom.”
Scott turned to escape, and found himself on a downtown street, facing Stephanie’s killer, a large, masked man c
lad in head-to-toe black. The man raised an AK-47 and said, “You’re next.”
The muzzle exploded with a bright yellow flash, and Scott lurched awake, diving out of the line of fire to find himself on the couch. He woke the same way each time. Damp with cold sweat, trembling.
Maggie’s big face was only inches away, her ears folded and eyes sad. Just as he went to her when she had a nightmare, she came to him.
“Sorry, baby girl. This one’s on me.”
Maggie circled away, sniffed a good spot, and lowered herself.
Scott checked the time. He had fallen asleep after dinner, and now it was only a few minutes after nine. Scott had refused Cowly’s offer to let them stay at her place, and now he was doubly glad. She knew about his nightmares, but hadn’t yet seen him wake up as a thrashing, sweat-soaked mess. The thought of it embarrassed him.
Scott got up and went into the bathroom. Maggie shoved to her feet and followed.
He peeled off the T-shirt and washed his face and neck. He still felt slimy, so he stripped and took a shower. Maggie was in the doorway when he got out, waiting.
His medicine chest was lined with a row of brown bottles. Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety meds. Painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Lined up and waiting. He opened the mirror, looked at the row, then closed the mirror, and looked down at Maggie.
“We’re in it together, Maggie Marine. If you’re not taking, I’m not taking.”
Maggie’s tail thumped the floor when it wagged.
Thump thump thump.
Scott talked to his dog. This used to bother him until he learned the other handlers all talked to their dogs. Leland told him, so long as Maggie doesn’t talk back, you’re fine.
“How about a walk?”
Maggie scrambled to her feet and raced to the door. She didn’t talk, but she knew the word ‘walk.’
Scott dressed, and found Maggie waiting in the living room. Scott rented a one-bedroom, one-bath guest house from an elderly woman named MaryTru Earle near the Studio City Park. It was small, private, and tucked behind a wooden gate in Mrs. Earle’s backyard. Scott liked the quiet. Mrs. Earle liked having a black-and-white police car parked in her front yard. She gave him a break on the rent.
Scott said, “Treat.”
Maggie scrambled into the kitchen, and sat at rigid attention. She knew the word ‘treat,’ too.
Scott took a baloney log from the fridge, carved two hefty chunks, and tossed the pieces to her one at a time. She snapped them out of the air.
“If they made baseballs out of baloney, you could play for the Dodgers. Let’s hit it.”
He saw his laptop on the dining table, and remembered he still needed to answer Stiles’s email. He had looked at the photo file she sent when he got home. She had sent almost two hundred mug shots, and most looked nothing like the man in the sport coat. Scott had grown angry as he worked his way through the pictures, feeling as if Stiles had ignored his description.
Scott opened the laptop and tapped out a smart-ass reply, then thought better of it and simply told her none of these were the man. He hit Send as Maggie pawed at the door.
“Hang on, I’m coming. I wanna get outta here, too.”
Scott grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, clipped Maggie, and walked her past Mrs. Earle’s house to the patrol car parked on the street. Henders and Martinez were from Devonshire Station in the northwest part of the Valley. Scott felt guilty they were stuck playing babysitter and vaguely ashamed he was the baby.
“Thought you guys might like some water.”
Henders took the bottles and passed one to Martinez.
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
“This wasn’t my idea. I’m sorry you’re stuck out here.”
Martinez leaned forward to see past Henders.
“Dude, please. You doin’ okay?”
“We’re taking a walk. You need the facilities, the door’s unlocked.”
Martinez checked the time.
“Next car comes at twenty-two hundred.”
Cars were being posted for two-hour shifts with the duty being shared between the North Hollywood, Van Nuys, Foothill, and Devonshire Police Areas. The next car would relieve Martinez and Henders in thirty minutes. They were probably bored silly and couldn’t wait to get gone.
“No problem. We won’t be long.”
Scott turned toward the park at the end of his street, and let Maggie set the pace. He wanted to call Cowly, but knew he would end up complaining, and didn’t want to come off as a whiner.
He thought about Mantz.
Work under the assumption you are not safe. This person is dangerous.
Great.
Someone had tried to kill him. Someone built an explosive device with the intent to incinerate him.
Scott tried to get his head around it but couldn’t. He had spent seven years as a patrol officer. Drunks, assholes, and people with chemical brains had taken swings at him, thrown bricks and bottles at him, and tried to brain him with baseball bats. He had been shot and almost died two separate times, but the violence had been spontaneous, random, or grew from the moment. This was different. A certifiable killer had planned, stalked, and attempted to murder him.
This person is dangerous.
Scott turned to gaze at the patrol car. They were halfway to the park, and the car seemed far away. Scott suddenly felt vulnerable and angry. This would be his life until the man in the sport coat was caught.
“What are we supposed to do, sit around like a couple of ducks?”
Maggie wagged her tail, and found something more interesting in a bush.
Carter and Stiles were supposed to be top cops, but their theories about Cole left him doubtful.
Cole knows more than he’s telling.
The business about Cole having a record bothered him, but Cole had seemed okay when they spoke, and even last night on the street.
Scott followed Maggie toward the park. He tried to reframe Cole the way Stiles had asked, as if Cole created a distraction so the sport coat man could escape. It felt like a stretch. Cole had seemed for real, but maybe he knew more than he was telling.
Scott clicked his tongue. Maggie pricked her ears, and looked at him.
“We’re not going to wait for the sonofabitch to kill us.”
Maggie squared herself, ready for his command.
Scott glanced at the patrol car again, and made up his mind.
Scott was off the duty roster, but he wasn’t out of the hunt.
22
Elvis Cole
THE FREEWAY MOVED like a dying pulse. The air tasted of burning oil as I worked my way out of the Valley, or maybe I imagined these things because I didn’t like what I learned about Amy Breslyn.
Amy might be crazy and weird, but she was a Ph.D. engineer who knew how to solve problems. If the people at the X-Spot were unwilling or unable to answer her questions, she would’ve found others to ask, and maybe Thomas Lerner had helped.
The more I considered it, the more it made sense. Writers were researchers. If Amy asked Lerner for help, maybe Lerner found people who knew what Amy wanted to know. Lerner had been Jacob’s best friend. Amy and Lerner remained close after Jacob’s death. Lerner once lived in the Echo Park house. The roads came back to Lerner. Meryl Lawrence believed Lerner might know who Amy was seeing, and maybe Thomas Lerner was the person who introduced them.
Pike called as I reached the Sepulveda Pass.
“They went to your house.”
“Who?”
“Blue Dodge. There’s a black-and-white, what looks like a D-ride, two white sedans, and the Dodge.”
Carter was hitting back fast.
“Are they in my house?”
“Yes. I count five, but there could be more. Keep the loaner as long as you want.”
�
��No need. I’ll pick up my car, and come home. Where are you?”
“Top of the ridge, across from your house.”
“Stay put.”
The climb up Kenter took forever. I parked the Lexus behind my car, left the key on the tire, and drove home to meet the policemen.
Home was a redwood A-frame perched on a narrow road off Woodrow Wilson Drive near the top of Laurel Canyon. I stashed the burner, the yearbooks, and Amy’s file behind a century plant off Woodrow. My street was too narrow for the line of police vehicles parked outside my house. The D-ride, the blue Dodge, and the black-and-white were tattered and dinged, but the two white sedans were sparkly-new. Federal money. They bore Department of Homeland Security emblems.
A man and a woman sat in one of the white sedans, blocking my carport.
I parked behind them, and went to the driver’s window. The male agent.
“You’re blocking my carport.”
They were in their mid-thirties, fit, and wore sunglasses like the Men in Black.
“Inside.”
“How about you move the car so I can park?”
The woman peered over the top of her shades.
“Go inside, Mr. Cole. Don’t be boring.”
Carter, Stiles, and a man in a dark blue suit were in the living room. Carter was going through the hutch by the dining table. Glory Stiles and the blue suit sat at the table. Two uniformed officers were outside on my deck with the blond from the Dodge. One of the uni’s was pointing at something down in the canyon, and the other was bent over the rail to see. The blond leaned with his back to the rail, staring at me.
I said, “If my lock is broken, I’m suing the city.”
Carter turned from the hutch.
“Ditching my guys was stupid.”
“Did I ditch someone? Wait, Carter, are you following me?”
Stiles was all business, and ignored the suit.
“Where did you go, Mr. Cole?”
“When?”
“You know when.”
“Today? I slept in, went to my office, grabbed a burrito, and went for a hike. I came home, and now I want a shower and something to eat. How about you get the hell out of my house?”
