Suspect (17 page)

26.

Scott spent the rest of the afternoon working with Maggie on advanced vehicle exercises. These included exiting the car through an open window, entering a car through an open window to engage a suspect, and obeying off-leash commands while outside the vehicle when Scott remained inside the vehicle. Their K-9 vehicle was a standard police patrol sedan with a heavy wire screen separating the front and back seats, and a remote door-release system that opened the rear doors from as far as one hundred feet away. The remote system allowed Scott to release Maggie without exiting the car, or exit the vehicle without her, and release her from a distance by pushing a button on his belt.

Maggie hated the K-9 car. She hopped into the back seat willingly enough, but as soon as Scott got in behind the wheel, she whined and pawed at the screen that kept them apart. She stopped when he gave her commands to lie down or sit, but a few seconds later she would try even harder to reach him. She bit and pulled the mesh so hard, Scott thought her teeth would break. He moved on to other exercises as quickly as possible.

Leland watched them work on and off throughout the afternoon, but was absent most of the time. Scott wasn’t sure if this was a good sign, but with Maggie jumping in and out of the car, the less Leland was around, the better. He was relieved when Maggie reached the end of the day without limping.

Scott stowed the training gear, cleaned up, and was leading Maggie out of the kennel when the office door opened behind them and Leland appeared.

“Officer James.”

Scott tugged the leash to stop Maggie’s growl.

“Hey, Sergeant. Heading for home.”

“I won’t keep you.”

Leland came out, so Scott walked back to meet him.

“I am assigning our beautiful young man, Quarlo, to another handler. Because I first offered Quarlo to you, I thought you should hear this from me.”

Scott wasn’t sure why Leland was telling him, or what his assigning Quarlo to another handler meant.

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“There is one more thing. When we began our work with Miss Maggie here, you asked for two weeks before I re-evaluated her. You may have three. Enjoy your evening, Officer James.”

Scott decided a treat was in order. They celebrated at a construction site in Burbank with fried chicken, beef brisket, and two turkey drumsticks. The women who worked in the food truck fell in love with Maggie, and asked if they could take each other’s picture, posing with Scott and the dog. Scott said sure, and the construction workers lined up for pictures, too. Maggie growled only once.

Scott walked her when they reached home, then showered and brought the envelope containing the discs to his table. The idea of watching two dead men enjoying themselves creeped him out, but Scott hoped this would help him deal with the crazy, innocent-bystander nature of the shooting and Stephanie’s violent loss. He hoped he wasn’t deluding himself. Maybe he only wanted a better target for his rage.

Scott found two discs when he opened the envelope, one labeled Tyler’s, the other Club Red. Something about the number of discs bothered him, and then he recalled Melon had logged two discs from Club Red. He wondered why Cowly gave him only one of the Club Red discs, but decided it didn’t matter.

Scott fed the Club Red disc into his computer. While it loaded, Maggie went into the kitchen, slurped up what sounded like gallons of water, then curled into a huge black-and-tan ball at his feet. She did not sleep in her crate anymore. He reached down to touch her.

“Good girl.”

Thump thump.

The Club Red video had been recorded using a stationary, black-and-white ceiling camera. There was no sound. The high angle covered a room crowded with upscale men and couples in booths or at tables, watching costumed women pose while servers moved between the tables. Thirty seconds into the video, Beloit and Pahlasian were shown to a table for two. Scott felt nothing as he watched them. A couple of minutes later, a waitress approached to take their order. Scott grew bored, and hit the fast-forward. Drinks were delivered by the high-speed, herky-jerky waitress, Beloit yukked it up, Pahlasian stared at the dancers. At one point, Beloit stopped a passing waitress, who pointed to the rear of the room. Beloit followed her finger at triple-time speed, and returned just as quickly two minutes later. Pit stop. More fast-forward minutes passed, Beloit paid, they left, off to meet the Wizard, and the image froze.

End of recording.

Other than staff, the two men had interacted with no one. No one approached them. Neither man approached or spoke to another customer. Neither had used his cell phone.

Scott ejected the disc.

Beloit and Pahlasian were no more real now than before—two middle-aged men about to get whacked for reasons unknown. Scott hated them. He wished he had a video of them being shot to death. He wished he had shot them as they left the club, stopped the bastards cold right there before they got Stephanie killed and him shot to pieces, and put Scott James on a path that led to him, here, now, crying.

Thump thump thump.

Maggie was beside him, watching. With her folded ears and caring eyes, she looked as soft and sleek as a seal. He stroked her head.

“I’m okay.”

Scott drank some water, took a pee, and loaded the Tyler’s disc. The high angle included the reception station, an incomplete view of the bar, and three blurry tables. When Pahlasian and Beloit entered from the bottom left corner of the frame, their faces were hidden by the bad angle.

A host and hostess in dark suits greeted them. After a brief conversation, the woman showed them to their table. This was the last Scott saw of Pahlasian and Beloit until they departed.

Scott ejected the disc.

The Club Red disc was by far the superior, which left Scott wondering what the missing disc showed. He dug out Melon’s interview with Richard Levin to make sure he had it right, and reread the handwritten note:

R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B

Scott decided to phone Cowly.

“Joyce? Hey, it’s Scott James. Hope you don’t mind. I have a question about these discs.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was wondering why you gave me only one of the Club Red discs and not both.”

Cowly was silent for a moment.

“I gave you two discs.”

“Yeah, you did. One from Tyler’s and one from Club Red, but there are supposed to be two from Club Red. Melon has a note here saying two discs were logged.”

Cowly was silent some more.

“I don’t know what to tell you. There was only the one disc from Club Red. We have the LAX stuff, the disc from Tyler’s, and the disc from Club Red.”

“Melon’s note says there were two.”

“I hear you. Those things were screened, you know? All we got was a confirmation of arrival and departure times. Nobody saw anything unusual.”

“Why is it missing?”

She sounded exasperated.

“Shit happens. Things get lost, misplaced, people take stuff and forget they have it. I’ll check, okay? These things happen, Scott. Is there anything else?”

“No. Thanks.”

Scott felt miserable. He hung up, put away the discs, and stretched out on the couch.

Maggie came over, sniffed for a spot, and lay down beside the couch. He rested his hand on her back.

“You’re the only good part of this.”

Thump thump.

27.

Maggie

Maggie roamed a drowsy green field, content and at peace. Belly full. Thirst quenched. Scott’s hand a warm comfort. The man was Scott. She was Maggie. This place was their crate, and their crate was safe.

Dogs notice everything. Maggie knew Scott was Scott because he looked at other humans when they used the word. This was how she learned Pete was Pete, and she was Maggie. People looked at her when they said it. Maggie understood come, stay, out, crate, walk, ball, pee, bunk, seek, rat, MRE, chow, good girl, drink, sit, down, fucker, roll over, treat, sit up, guard’m, eat up, find’m, get’m, and many other words. She learned words easily if she associated them with food, joy, play, or pleasing her alpha. This was important. Pleasing her alpha made the pack strong.

Maggie opened her eyes when Scott moved his hand. Their crate was quiet and safe, so Maggie did not rise. She listened to Scott move through the crate. She heard him urinating a few seconds before she smelled his urine, which was followed by the familiar rush of water. A moment later, she smelled the sweet green foam Scott made in his mouth. When the water stopped, Scott returned, smelling brightly of the green foam, water, and soap.

He squatted beside her, stroked her, and made words she did not understand. This did not matter. She understood the love and kindness in his tone.

Maggie lifted her hind leg to expose her belly.

Alpha happy, pack happy.

I am yours.

Scott lay down on the couch in the darkness. Maggie smelled the growing cool of his body, and knew when he slept. When Scott slept, she sighed, and let herself drift into sleep.

A sound new to their crate roused her.

Their crate was defined by its scents and sounds—the carpet; the paint; Scott; the scent of the mice in the walls, and the squeak when they mated; the elderly female who lived with only her voice for pack; the rats clawing their way up the orange trees for fruit; the scent of the two cats who hunted them. Maggie began learning their crate when Scott brought her home, and learned more with each breath, like a computer downloading a never-ending file. As the information compiled in her memory, the pattern of scents and sounds grew familiar.

Familiar was good. Unfamiliar was bad.

A soft scuffing came from beyond the old female’s crate.

Maggie instantly lifted her head, and cocked her ears toward the sound. She recognized human footsteps, and understood two people were coming up the drive.

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 myself 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. They’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.