Suspect

by Robert Crais

Tension played on Orso’s face until a tic developed beneath his left eye. Then the ripples settled, and his face softened.

  “I apologize, Scott. I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “I fucked up. I’m sorry, too. But the band was at the scene, and Daryl Ishi was wearing it. Guaranteed. My dog isn’t wrong.”

  Cowly said, “Daryl denies it’s his, and denies being at the scene. Okay, we can swab him and comp the DNA. Then we’ll know.”

  Orso considered the evidence bag, then rolled his chair to the door.

  “Jerry! Petievich! Would you see if Ian’s here? Ask him to come see me.”

  The I-Man joined them a few minutes later. His face was more red than Scott remembered. A surprised smile split Ian Mills’ face when he saw Scott.

  “You get a news flash from the memory bank? That white sideburn turn into a big ol’ pocked nose?”

  The stupid joke was irritating, but Orso got down to business before Scott responded.

  “Scott believes Marshall Ishi’s younger brother, Daryl, was present when Marshall robbed Shin’s store, and may have witnessed the shootings.”

  Mills frowned.

  “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

  “No reason you should. Until now, we had no reason to think he was involved.”

  Mills crossed his arms. He peered at Scott, then turned to Orso.

  “He passed the poly. We established Marshall left before the shootings went down.”

  “He also claimed he was alone. If Scott’s right, maybe Marshall is just a good liar.”

  The I-Man’s gaze clicked back to Scott.

  “You remember this kid? He saw the shootings?”

  “This isn’t a memory. I’m saying he was at the scene, and I believe he was on the roof. I don’t know when he was there, and I don’t know what he saw.”

  Orso slid the evidence bag to Mills, who glanced at the bag but did not touch it.

  “Scott found this in the case file. It’s half a leather watchband SID collected at the scene. Scott believes he’s linked it to Daryl Ishi, which would put Daryl at the scene. Before we go further, you need to know we have a chain-of-custody issue.”

  Orso described Scott’s mistake without passion or inflection, but Mills’ face grew darker. Scott felt like a twelve-year-old in the principal’s office when Mills unloaded.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “That no one had done a goddamned thing for nine months and the case was still open.”

  Orso held up a hand for Mills to stop, and glanced at Scott.

  “Tell Ian about the dog. Like you explained it to me.”

  Scott began with Maggie’s first exposure to the scent sample, and walked the I-Man through his test at MacArthur Park, where Maggie tracked the scent across the width of the park directly to Daryl Ishi.

  Scott gestured at the evidence bag, which was still on the table by Mills.

  “This was his. He was there the night we were shot.”

  Mills had listened in silence, frowning across his bristling forearms. When Scott finished, his frown deepened.

  “This sounds like bullshit.”

  Orso shrugged.

  “Easy enough to find out. The dog might have something.”

  Scott knew Mills would listen to Orso, so he pressed his case harder.

  “She has Daryl Ishi. See these red streaks? There’s a rusty iron safety fence on the roof. SID says these little red smears are rust. His watch got caught on the fence, the band broke, and this piece landed on the sidewalk. That’s where SID found it.”

  Orso leaned toward Mills.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. We pick the kid up, swab him, run the DNA. Then we’ll know if it’s his. After that, we can worry about whether he saw anything.”

  Mills paced to the door, but didn’t leave, as if he had needed motion to contain himself.

  “I don’t know whether to hope the thing is good or garbage. You screwed us, kid. I can’t fucking believe you walked out with a piece of evidence, which, by the way, even the stupidest defense attorney will point out you contaminated.”

  Orso leaned back.

  “Ian, it’s done. Let it go.”

  “Really? After nine fucking months with nothing to show?”

  “Pray it’s good. If we get a match, we’ll know he’s a liar, we’ll know he’s hiding something, and we’ll find a thousand work-arounds. We’ve danced this dance before, man.”

  If a future judge excluded the watchband, he or she might also exclude all downstream evidence derived from the band. The downstream evidence was called “fruits of the poisonous tree,” under the principle that evidence derived from bad evidence was also bad. If investigators knew they had a piece of bad fruit, they tried to find a path around the bad fruit by using unrelated evidence to reach the same result. This was called a work-around.

  Mills stood in the door, shaking his head.

  “I’m too old. The stress is killing me.”

  He seemed thoughtful for a moment, then turned back to Scott.

  “Okay. So when you and the Hound of the Baskervilles ran down this kid, I suppose you questioned him?”

  “He denied everything.”

  “Uh-huh, and you being the trained interrogator you are, did you ask if he saw the shootings?”

  “He said he wasn’t there.”

  “Of course he did. So what you actually accomplished here was, you gave the kid a big heads-up that we’re coming for him, and what it is we want to know. Now he’ll have plenty of time to think up good answers. Way to go, Sherlock.”

  The I-Man walked out.

  Scott looked at Orso and Cowly. He mostly looked at Cowly.

  “I know it’s worth nothing, but I’m sorry.”

  Orso shrugged.

  “Shit happens.”

  Orso pushed back from the table and walked away.

  Cowly stood last.

  “Come on. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  Scott followed her, not knowing what to say. When he found the small leather strap in the manila envelope, the sidewalk where it was found and the smears of rust gave him a sense the band and he somehow shared the events of that night. It had been a physical link to Stephanie and the shooting and the memories he could not recall, and he had hoped it would help him see the night more clearly.

  When they reached the elevator, Cowly touched his arm. She looked sad.

  “These things happen. Nobody died.”

  “Not today.”

  Cowly flushed, and Scott realized his comment had made her feel awkward and embarrassed.

  “Jesus, I’m batting a thousand. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You were being nice.”

  Her flush faded as she relaxed.

  “I was being nice, but I meant it. Exclusions aren’t automatic. Issues like this are argued every day, so don’t sweat it until it’s time to start sweating.”

  Scott was feeling a little better.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I say. And if the DNA matches Daryl to the band, we have something to chase, which is all thanks to you.”

  The elevator opened. Scott caught the doors with a hand, but didn’t go in.

  “The picture of you and a man on the beach. Is he your husband?”

  Cowly was so still, Scott thought he had offended her, but she smiled as she turned away.

  “Don’t even think about it, Officer.”

  “Too late. I’m thinking.”

  She kept walking.

  “Turn off your brain.”

  “My dog likes me.”

  When she reached the Homicide Special door, Cowly stopped.

 
“He’s my brother. The kids are my niece and nephews.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Have a good day, Officer.”

  Scott boarded the elevator and rode down to his car.

  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.