by Robert Crais
After a while the man grew tired, and they started back to the crate. Maggie sniffed for new scents as they walked home, and knew three different dogs and their people had followed much the same path. A male cat had crossed the old woman’s front yard, and the old woman was inside the house. A female cat had slept for a time beneath a bush in the backyard but was now gone. She knew the female cat was pregnant, and close to giving birth. As they approached the man’s crate, Maggie increased her sniff rate, searching for threats. Before the man opened the door, she already knew no one was inside or had been inside since the man and Maggie left earlier that day.
“Okay. Let’s get you fed. You’re probably thirsty, right, all that running? Jesus, I’m dying.”
Maggie followed the man to the kitchen. She watched him fill her water bowl and food bowl, then watched him disappear into his bedroom. She touched her nose to the food, then drank deep from the water. By this time, she heard the man’s water running, smelled soap, and knew he was showering. Pete had washed her in the showers when they were in the desert, but she had not liked rain that fell from the ceiling. It beat into her eyes and ears, and confused her nose.
Maggie turned from the food, and walked through the man’s crate. She checked the man’s bed and the closet and once again circled the living room. Content their crate was as it should be, Maggie returned to the kitchen, ate her food, then curled in her crate. She listened to the man as she drifted near sleep. The running water stopped. She heard him dress, and after a while he came into the living room, but Maggie didn’t move. Her eyes were slits, so he probably thought she was sleeping. He moved into the kitchen, where he ate standing up. Chicken. More water ran, then he went to his couch. Maggie was almost asleep when he jumped to his feet, clapping his hands.
“Maggie! C’mon, girl! C’mere!”
He slapped his legs, dropped into a crouch, then sprung tall, smiling and clapping his hands again.
“C’mon, Maggie! Let’s play.”
She knew the word “play,” but the word was unnecessary. His energy, body language, and smile called to her.
Maggie scrambled from her crate, and bounded to him.
He ruffled her fur, pushed her head from side to side, and gave her commands.
She happily obeyed, and felt a rush of pure joy when he squeaked she was a good girl.
He commanded her to sit, she sat, to lay, she dropped to her belly, her eyes intent on his face.
He patted his chest.
“Come up here, girl. Up. Gimme a kiss.”
She reared back, front feet on his chest, and licked the taste of chicken from his face.
He wrestled her to the floor, and rolled her over onto her back. She struggled and twisted to escape, but he rolled her onto her back again, where she happily submitted, paws up, belly and throat exposed. His, and happy.
The man released her, smiling, and when she saw joy in his face, her own joy blossomed. She dropped to her chest, rear in the air, wanting more play, but he stroked her and spoke in his calming voice, and she knew playtime was over.
She nuzzled him as he stroked her, and after a few minutes he lay on the couch. Maggie sniffed a good spot nearby and curled against the wall. She was happy with joy from their play, and sleepy from her long day, but she never fully slept as she sensed a change in the man. Small changes in his scent told her his joy was fading. The scent of fear came with the bright pungent scent of anger as his heart beat faster.
Maggie lifted her head when the man rose, but when he sat at the table she lowered her head and watched him. She took fast, shallow sniffs, noting that the taste of anger left him and was replaced by the sour scent of sadness. Maggie whimpered, and wanted to go to him, but was still learning his ways. She smelled his emotions roll and change like clouds moving across the sky.
After a while he crossed the room, sat on the floor, and picked up a stack of white paper. His tension spiked with the mixed scents of fear and anger and loss. Maggie went to him. She sniffed the man and his paper, and felt him calm with her closeness. She knew this was good. The pack joins together. Closeness brings comfort.
Maggie curled up beside him, and felt a flush of love when he rested his hand upon her. She sighed so deeply she shuddered.
“What do you think, Mags? Would two rich dudes in a Bentley walk around in a crappy neighborhood like this, that time of night?”
She stood at his voice, licked his face, and was rewarded by his smile. She wagged her tail, hungry for more of his attention, but he picked up a plastic bag. Maggie noted the chemical scent of the plastic and the scents of other humans, and how the man focused on it.
He took a piece of brown skin from the plastic, and examined it closely. She watched the man’s eyes and the nuanced play of his facial expressions, and sensed the brown skin was important. Maggie leaned closer, nostrils working, sniffing to draw air over a bony shelf in her nose into a special cavity where scent molecules collected. Each sniff drew more molecules until enough collected for Maggie to recognize even the faintest scent.
Dozens of scents registered at once, some more strongly than others—the skin of an animal, organic but lifeless; the vivid strong sweat of a male human, the lesser scents of other male humans; the trace scents of plastic, gasoline, soap, human saliva, chili sauce, vinegar, tar, paint, beer, two different cats, whiskey, vodka, water, orange soda, chocolate, human female sweat, a smear of human semen, human urine—and dozens of scents Maggie could not name, but which were as real and distinct to her as if she was seeing colored blocks laid out on a table.
“What do you think? Some dude on the roof, or am I losing my mind?”
She met the man’s eyes, and saw love and approval! The man was pleased with her for sniffing the skin, so Maggie sniffed again.
“I know. I’m crazy.”
She filled her nose with the scents. Pleasing the man left her feeling safe and content, so Maggie curled close beside him, and settled for sleep.
A few moments later, he stretched out beside her, and Maggie felt a peace in her heart she had not known in a long while.
The man spoke a final time, then his breath evened, his heart slowed, and he slept.
Maggie listened to the steady beat of his heart, felt his warmth, and took comfort in his closeness. She filled herself with his scent, and sighed. They lived, ate, played, and slept together. They shared comfort and strength and joy.
Maggie slowly pushed to her feet, limped across the room, and picked up the man’s green ball. She brought it to him, dropped it, and once more settled for sleep.
The green ball gave the man joy. She wanted to please him.
They were pack.
PART III
TO PROTECT AND TO SERVE
17.
Two days later, Scott was dressing for work when Leland called. Leland never phoned him, and seeing his Sergeant’s name as an incoming call inspired a twinge of fear.
Leland’s voice was as hard as his glare.
“Don’t bother coming to work. Those Robbery-Homicide sissies you’ve been dating want you at the Boat at oh-eight-hundred hours.”
Scott glanced at the time. It was a quarter to seven.
“Why?”
“Did I say I know why? The LT got a call from the Metro commander. If the boss knows why, he did not see fit to share. You are to report to a Detective Cowly down there with the geniuses at oh-eight-hundred sharp. Do you have any other questions?”
Scott decided Cowly wanted the files back, and hoped she hadn’t gotten in trouble for letting him take them.
“No, sir. This shouldn’t take long. We’ll see you as soon as we can.”
“We.”
“Maggie and me.”
Leland’s voice softened.
“I knew what you meant. Looks like you’re learning something, now a
ren’t you?”
Leland hung up, and Scott stared at Maggie. He didn’t know what to do with his dog. He didn’t want to leave her in the guest house, but he also didn’t want to leave her at the training facility. Leland might get it in his head to work with her. If Leland discovered the limp, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of her.
Scott went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and sat behind his computer. He tried to think of a friend who could watch her for a few hours, but his friendships had withered since the shooting.
Maggie walked over and put her head on his leg. Scott smiled, and stroked her ears.
“You’re going to be fine. Look how screwed up I am, and I made it back.”
She closed her eyes, enjoying the ear massage.
Scott wondered if a veterinarian could help with her leg. LAPD had vets under contract to care for their dogs, but they reported to Leland. Scott would have to fly under the radar if he had Maggie checked. If anti-inflammatories or something like cortisone could fix her problem with no one the wiser, Scott would pay for it out of pocket. He had done the same for himself to keep the department from knowing how many painkillers and anti-anxiety meds he took.
He Googled for veterinarians in North Hollywood and Studio City, then skimmed the Yelp, Yahoo!, and Citysearch reviews. He was still reading when he realized it was too late to find someone to dog-sit.
Scott quickly gathered the Pahlasian files, tucked his notes on the missing drive time into his pants, and clipped Maggie’s lead.
“Detective Cowly wants to see your picture. We’ll do her one better.”
The crush-hour drive through the Cahuenga Pass was a forty-five-minute slog, but Scott led Maggie across the PAB lobby with three minutes to spare. They cleared the front desk, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. This time when the doors opened, Cowly was waiting alone. Scott smiled as he led Maggie into the hall.
“I thought the real thing was better than a picture. This is Maggie. Maggie, this is Detective Cowly.”
Cowly beamed.
“She’s beautiful. Can I pet her?”
Scott ruffled Maggie’s head.
“Let her smell the back of your hand first. Tell her she’s pretty.”
Cowly did as Scott asked, and soon ran her fingers through the soft fur between Maggie’s ears.
Scott offered the heavy stack of files.
“I didn’t finish. I hope you didn’t get into trouble.”
Cowly glanced at the files without taking them, and led Scott and Maggie toward her office.
“If you didn’t finish, keep them. You didn’t have to bring them.”
“I thought that’s why you wanted to see me.”
“Nope, not at all. Some people here want to talk to you.”
“People?”
“This thing is developing fast. C’mon. Orso is waiting. He’s going to love it you brought your dog.”
Scott followed her into the conference room, where Orso was leaning against the wall by his diagram. Two men and a woman were at the table. They turned when Scott and Maggie entered, and Orso pushed away from the wall.
“Scott James, this is Detective Grace Parker from Central Robbery, and Detective Lonnie Parker, Rampart Robbery.”
The two Parkers were on the far side of the table, and did not stand. The female Parker made a tight smile, and the male Parker nodded. Grace Parker was tall and wide, with milky skin. She wore a gray dress suit. Lonnie Parker was short, thin, and the color of dark chocolate. He wore an immaculate navy sport coat. Both were in their early forties.
Lonnie Parker said, “Same last name, but we aren’t related or married. People get confused.”
Grace Parker frowned at him.
“Nobody gets confused. You just like saying it. You say the exact same thing every time.”
“People get confused.”
Orso cut in to introduce the remaining man. He was large, with a red face, furry forearms, and wiry hair that covered a sun-scorched scalp like cargo netting. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with a red-and-blue striped tie, but no sport coat. Scott guessed him to be in his early fifties.
“Detective Ian Mills. Ian’s with Robbery Special, down the hall. We’ve set up a task force to cover these robberies, and Ian’s in charge.”
Mills was seated on the near side of the table, closest to Scott. He stood and stepped toward Scott to offer his hand, but when he reached out, Maggie growled. Mills jerked back his hand.
“Whoa.”
“Maggie, down. Down.”
Maggie instantly dropped to her belly, but remained focused on Mills.
“Sorry. It was the sudden move toward me. She’s okay.”
“Can we try that again? The handshake?”
“Yes, sir. She won’t move. Maggie, stay.”
Mills slowly offered his hand, this time without standing.
“I’m sorry about your partner. How’re you doing?”
Scott felt irritated Mills brought it up, and gave his standard answer.
“Doing great. Thanks.”
Orso pointed at an empty chair beside Mills, and took his usual seat beside Cowly.
“Sit. Ian’s been involved since the beginning. He and his guys gave us Beloit’s French connection, and worked with Interpol. Ian’s the reason you’re here today.”
Mills looked at Scott.
“Not me. You. Bud says you’re remembering things.”
Scott immediately felt self-conscious, and tried to downplay it.
“A little. Not much.”
“You remembered the driver had white hair. That’s pretty big.”
Scott nodded, but said nothing. He felt as if Mills was watching him.
“Have you remembered anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t know if there’s anything else to remember.”
“You seeing a shrink?”
Scott felt a rush of discomfort, and decided to lie.
“They make you see someone if you’re involved in a shooting, but I didn’t get anything out of it.”
Mills studied him for a moment, then pushed a manila envelope forward and rested his hand on it. Scott wondered what was inside.
“You know what we do in Robbery Special?”
“You cover the big bank and armored-car scores. Serial robberies. Things like that.”
Mills made a satisfied shrug.
“Close enough. The people who shot you and your partner weren’t assholes who blew up a couple of rich guys and police officers for kicks. Your boys had skills. The way they worked together to pull this thing off tight. I’m thinking they were a professional crew—the same people who take down big scores.”
Scott frowned.
“I thought the robbery idea was ruled out.”
“Robbery as the motive, yeah. We chased bad leads for weeks before we ruled that one out, but we didn’t rule out the crews who take scores. Any asshole who will blow up bank tellers and rent-a-cops will do murder for hire. We keep tabs on these people.”
Mills opened the envelope, and slid out more pictures.
“Crews are made up of specialists. The alarm guy does alarms, the vault man does vaults, the driver drives.”
Mills turned the pictures so Scott could see them. Eight Anglo men with white or light gray hair and blue eyes stared up at him.
“These men are drivers. We believe they were in Los Angeles on or about the night you were shot. Anything?”
Scott stared at the pictures. He looked up, and found Mills, Orso, Cowly, and the two Parkers watching him.
“I saw a sideburn when he turned away. I didn’t see his face.”
“What about the other four guys? You
remember anything new about them?”
“No.”
“Was it four or five?”
Scott didn’t like the empty expression in Mills’ eyes.
“The driver plus four.”
“The driver get out?”
“No.”
“So that’s four plus the driver makes five, altogether. How many got out of that Kenworth?”
“Two. Two got out of the Torino. Two plus two makes four.”
Grace Parker rolled her eyes, but if Mills took offense he didn’t show it.
“Four people running around, shooting, is a lot of people. Maybe someone pulled off his mask, or called out a name? Remember anything like that?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Mills studied him a few moments longer, then picked up the pictures and slid them into the envelope.
“These aren’t the only drivers in town. Maybe you’ll remember something else. Maybe you’ll even remember someone else. Lonnie?”
Lonnie Parker leaned forward and placed yet another booking photo on the table. It showed a thin young man with sunken eyes and cheeks, bad skin, and frizzy black hair that haloed his head in a limp ’fro.
Lonnie Parker tapped the picture.
“Seen this dude before?”
Everyone was watching him again.
“No.”
“Skinny guy. Six feet. Take your time. Give him a good look.”
Scott felt as if he was being tested and didn’t like it. Maggie shifted beside his chair. Scott reached down to touch her.
“No, sir. Who is he?”
Mills stood with his envelope before anyone could answer.
“I’m done here. Thanks for coming in, Scott. You remember anything else—I don’t care what—let me know asap. Me and Bud.”
Mills glanced at Orso.
“You got it from here?”