by Robert Crais
“Detective Cowly! Joyce Cowly!”
She turned to the voice, and saw a nicely dressed man trotting toward her, waving a hand. Tan sport coat over a medium blue shirt and darker blue tie, jeans; he could have trotted off the pages of a Ralph Lauren catalog. His sport coat flapped as he ran, revealing a gold detective shield clipped to his belt.
He slowed to a stop, smiling.
“I hope you don’t mind. I saw you at the Mosk.”
“Have we met?”
He touched her arm, stepping aside for two women hurrying toward the courthouse.
“I’d like to talk to you about Robbery-Homicide. You going back? I’ll walk with you.”
He touched her arm again, encouraging her to walk, and fell in beside her. He was relaxed, boyish, and totally charming, but he stood too close. Cowly wondered why he assumed she had come from the Boat, and was now going back.
A dark blue sedan slid past them and slowed.
Cowly said, “You work Homicide or Robbery?”
“Robbery. I’m good at it, too.”
He touched her arm again, as if she should know him, and Cowly felt irritated.
“Now isn’t a good time. Give me your card. We can talk another time.”
He flashed the boyish smile, and moved so close she teetered on the curb.
“You don’t remember me?”
“Not a clue. What’s your name?”
The sedan’s rear door swung open in front of them.
“David Snell.”
He gripped her arm hard, and pushed her into the car.
41.
Sunland was a working-class community in the foothills north of Glendale. Down in the flats, it was arid and dry, and deserving of its name. The neighborhood streets between the freeway and the mountains were lined with small stucco ranch homes, but as the land climbed into Tujunga Canyon, eucalyptus and black walnut trees gave the neighborhoods a rural, country feel. George Evers lived in a clapboard house that might have been a converted barn. He had a large rocky yard, a satellite dish, and a metallic blue powerboat parked on the side of his house. The powerboat was covered, and looked as if it hadn’t seen the water in years. Evers had a carport instead of a garage, and the carport was empty.
Scott drove past, turned around, and parked two houses away. Police officers rarely have listed phone numbers, but Scott tried Information, asking for a George Evers in Sunland. Nothing. He studied Evers’ house for a while, wondering if anyone was home. The empty carport meant little, but the alternative was to stare at the house forever.
Scott was glad he was wearing civilian clothes. He tucked his pistol under his shirt, let Maggie out, and didn’t bother with the leash.
He went to the front door, had Maggie sit to the side out of sight, and rang the bell twice. When no one answered, he walked around the side of the house into the backyard. Scott found no alarms, so he broke the pane from a kitchen window and let himself in. Maggie stretched to reach the window, and whined to follow.
“Sit. Stay.”
He opened the kitchen door, called, and Maggie trotted inside. Scott knew she was alerting by her expression. Her head was high, her ears were forward, and her face was furrowed in concentration. She went into a high-speed search, trotting wavy patterns throughout the house as if a scent here concerned her and she was seeking its source.
Scott realized it could only be one thing.
“You got him, don’t you? This prick came into our house.”
The kitchen, dining room, and family room contained nothing out of the ordinary. Worn, mismatched furniture and paper plates speckled with crumbs. Two framed photos of LAPD officers from the thirties and forties, and a poster from the old TV series Dragnet, with Jack Webb and Harry Morgan holding revolvers. It didn’t look like the home of a man who banked a five-million-dollar split from the diamonds, but that was the point.
Maggie was calmer when she rejoined him in the family room.
A short hall off the living room led to the bedrooms, but the first room they reached was part storage and part Evers’ I-love-me room. Framed photographs of Evers and his LAPD friends dotted the wall. A young, uniformed Evers at his Academy graduation. Evers and another officer posed beside their patrol car. Evers and a blond, sad-eyed woman showing off the gold detective shield he had just received. Evers and a younger Ian Mills at a Hollenbeck crime scene. Scott recognized Evers because Evers appeared in all of the pictures, and as he changed through the years, Scott felt the floor drop from beneath him.
George Evers was bigger than anyone else in the photos. He was a large, thick man with a big belly over his belt, not a soft, flabby belly, but hard.
Scott had no doubt. He knew it in his soul.
George Evers was the big man with the AK-47, and in the moment he realized this he saw the rifle flashing, flashing, flashing.
“Stop.”
Scott made himself breathe. Maggie was beside him, whining. He touched her head, and the flashing disappeared.
Nothing on the wall would connect Evers with the crime scene or the diamonds, but Scott couldn’t turn away. He glanced from photo to photo until one photo held him. A color shot of Evers and another man on a deep-sea fishing boat. They were smiling, and had their arms across each other’s shoulders. The other man was a few years older, and smaller. He was crowned by white hair, and had vivid blue eyes.
Seeing him triggered Scott’s memory, which unfolded like a film: The getaway driver lifted his mask as he shouted at the shooters, exposing his white sideburns. The driver faced forward again as the shooters piled into his car, pulled off his mask, and Scott saw his face—this man’s face—as the Gran Torino roared away.
Scott was still in the memory when the vibration in his pocket broke the spell. He checked his phone, and found a text message from Cowly.
I FOUND IT
A second message quickly followed the first.
MEET ME
Scott texted back.
FOUND WHAT?
It took several seconds for her answer to arrive.
DIAMONDS. COME
Scott typed back his answer.
WHERE?
He ran to his car, and Maggie ran with him.
42.
Maggie
Maggie rode on the console, watching Scott. She noted the nuance of his movements and posture and facial expressions as completely as she noted his scent. She watched his eyes, noting where he looked and for how long and how quickly. She listened to his sounds even when he was not speaking to her. Every gesture and glance and tone was a message, and her way was to read him.
She sipped his changing scent, and tasted a familiar stew—the sour of fear, the bright sweetness of joy, the bitter rose of anger, the burning leaves of tension.
Maggie felt her own anticipation growing. She recalled similar signs in the moments before she and Pete walked the long roads, Pete strapping up, gathering himself, the other Marines doing the same. She remembered their words. Strap up. Strap up. Strap up.
Maggie whined with excitement.
Scott touched her, filling her heart with joy.
They would walk the long road.
Scott was strapped up.
Maggie danced from paw to paw, anxious and ready. The fur on her spine rippled from tail to shoulders as the taste of blood filled her mouth.
Pack would seek.
Pack would hunt.
Maggie and Scott.
War dogs.
43.
Scott left the Hollywood Freeway only a few blocks from the Boat, and crossed the First Street Bridge to the east side of the Los Angeles River. The east side was lined with warehouses, small factories, and processing plants. He drove south between lines of big rig trucks, searching for Cowly’s location.
“Take it easy, baby. Settle. Settle.”
Maggie was on her feet, nervously moving back and forth between the console and back seat. When she was on the console, she peered through the windshield as if she were searching for something. Scott wondered what.
He turned between two bustling warehouses, and spotted the empty building behind them, the remains of a bankrupt shipping company set well back from the street. It was lined with loading docks built for eighteen-wheel trucks, and marked by a big FOR SALE OR LEASE sign by the entrance.
“There she is.”
A light tan D-ride was parked by the loading dock. The big loading door was closed, but a people-sized door beside it was open.
Maggie dipped her head to see, and her nostrils flickered.
Scott pulled up beside the D-ride, and sent a quick text.
HERE
He was getting out when he received Cowly’s reply.
INSIDE
Scott let Maggie hop out, and headed for the door. He wondered how Cowly learned about this place, and why the diamonds were here, but didn’t much care one way or the other. He wanted this to be the needle that slid into Evers’ vein; Evers, the I-Man, and the rest of them.
The warehouse was dim, but lit well enough. The great, empty room was wide enough for four trucks, thirty feet high, and broken only by support pillars as big around as trees. Doors on the far side of the warehouse led to offices. One of the doors was open, and showed light.
Maggie lowered her head, and sniffed.
“Hey, Cowly! You in there?”
Scott stepped inside, and Maggie moved with him. He wondered why Cowly hadn’t waited in her car, and why she hadn’t come out when he arrived.
Scott called to the open door on the far side of the warehouse.
“Cowly! Where are you?”
Cowly didn’t answer. Not even a text.
Scott was moving deeper into the building when Maggie alerted. She froze in place, head down, ears forward, and stared.
Scott followed her gaze, but saw only the empty warehouse and the open door on the far wall.
“Maggie?”
Maggie suddenly looked behind them, and faced the door to the parking lot. She cocked her head and growled, and her growl was a warning.
Scott ran back to the door, and saw two men with pistols coming from the end of the building. One was a man in his thirties wearing a tan sport coat, and the other was George Evers’ white-haired fishing buddy. Scott felt sick. His heart pounded. The instant he recognized the white-haired driver, he realized Mills and Evers knew. They had taken Cowly or murdered her, and baited him into a trap.
Then the white-haired man saw Scott, and fired.
Scott shot back, and scrambled away. He thought he hit the older man but he was moving too fast to know.
“Maggie!”
Scott ran through the warehouse toward the far door. The younger man appeared behind him, and fired twice. Scott cut sideways, fired again, and took cover behind the nearest support pillar. He pulled Maggie close.
The man in the tan jacket fired twice more, and a bullet slammed into the pillar.
Scott made himself as small as he could, and held Maggie tight. He glanced at the offices, and prayed Cowly was alive. He shouted as loud as he could.
“COWLY! ARE YOU HERE?”
Stephanie Anders, Daryl Ishi, and now Joyce Cowly.
His personal body count was climbing, and he might be next.
Scott checked the front door, then the door to the offices behind him. He was so scared and angry he trembled. If Evers and the I-Man and the other shooter were there, they had him boxed. Sooner or later someone with a gun would show in the office door, and finish what they started nine months ago. They would kill him, and probably kill Maggie, too.
He pulled her closer.
“No one gets left behind, okay? We’re partners. Cowly, too, if she’s here.”
Maggie licked his face.
“Yeah, baby. I love you, too.”
Scott ran for the office door. Maggie ran with him, then stretched out and ran ahead.
“Maggie, no! Come back here.”
She ran for the door.
“Heel!”
She ran through the door.
“Maggie, out! OUT!”
Maggie was gone.
Maggie
Maggie felt Scott’s fear and excitement when they entered the building, and knew it as her own. This place was rich with the scent of threats and danger. Loud noises like she heard on the long road, the intruder’s fresh scent, and the scents of others. Scott’s own rising fear.
Her place was with him.
Please him and protect him.
If Scott wanted to play in this dangerous place, it was her joy to play with him, though each loud noise made her cringe.
Scott ran deeper into the big room and Maggie ran at his side. More loud noises came, and Scott held her close. Approval! Praise!
Alpha happy.
Pack happy.
Her heart was joy and devotion.
Maggie knew the intruder was ahead, as clearly as if she could see through the walls. His fresh, living scent grew brighter as the scent cone narrowed.
Scott ran, Maggie ran, knowing she must protect him. She must drive the intruder away or destroy him.
Maggie lengthened her stride, seeking the threat.
Scott commanded her to stop, but Maggie did not stop. She was strapped up.
Alpha safe.
Pack safe.
Maggie knew nothing else. The air was alive with the scents of intruders and other men, some familiar, some not; she smelled their fear and anxiety. She smelled gun oil and leather and sweat.
They were strapped up, too.
Maggie reached the door well before Scott, and saw another door ahead. The intruder and another man were waiting beyond it.
Ten thousand generations filled her with a guardian’s rage.
Scott was hers to care for, and hers to keep.
She would not let him be harmed.
She would rather die.
Maggie ran hard up the cone to save him.
Joyce Cowly
Snell and Evers left Cowly tied and gagged in the I-Man’s trunk like a stupid girl victim in an old TV show. Cowly had stayed her own execution with a call-your-bluff play. She told them Orso knew. She identified the captain friend at Bureau Personnel who had given her the background on Evers and Snell, and her story rang true enough to make Ian hesitate. Better for him to check out her story than kill her too quickly. Staying his hand might mean the difference between beating the rap and taking the needle.
But Ian would not stay his hand forever. Cowly could identify four of the five men who murdered Pahlasian, Beloit, and Stephanie Anders. The white-haired driver was George Evers’ older brother, Stan. The fifth man was not present, though she had learned his name was Barson.
Cowly knew too much to live. Ian would kill her as soon as he checked her story and came up with a work-around to explain her death.
So now Cowly was in the trunk, furious, and fighting down the pain. She wasn’t stupid and didn’t intend to be a victim, on this day or any other.
The plasticuffs cut down to the bone. She lost a deep flap of meat on her hand, but she twisted free. She found the trunk release, and let herself out. Blood ran from her hand like water from a faucet.
Ian and Stan had parked behind the warehouse. Her gun and phone were gone, so Cowly tried to get into their cars, but both were locked. She found a lug wrench in Ian’s trunk.
Cowly was still blinking at the harsh California light when she heard gunfire within the warehouse. She could have run down the street for help, but she knew Ian had used her phone to text Scott. Ia
n planned to kill them that day, and he might be killing Scott now.
Cowly ran toward the building, leaving a blood trail in the dust.
Maggie
Maggie sprinted into the dim room and reached the end of the cone. The intruder loomed tall and large, with his scent burning as brightly as if he was on fire. Maggie knew the second man’s scent, but ignored him even though he spoke.
“Watch out! The dog!”
The intruder turned, but was slow and heavy.
Maggie snarled as she charged, and the man threw up his arms.
Maggie caught him below the elbow. She bit deep, snarling and growling as she savagely shook her head. The taste of his blood was her reward.
The man stumbled back, screaming.
“Get it off! Get it!”
The other man moved, but was only a shadow.
Maggie twisted, trying to pull down the intruder. He stumbled backwards into a wall, flailing, screaming, but stayed on his feet.
The other man shouted.
“I can’t get a shot! Shoot it yourself, damnit! Kill it!”
Their words were meaningless noise, as Maggie fought hard to pull him down.
“Kill it!”
Scott James
Scott ran harder, afraid for his dog. She was trained to enter houses without him, and face danger alone, but she did not understand what she faced. Scott knew, and was scared for both of them.
“Maggie, OUT! Wait for me, damnit!”
Scott heard Maggie snarling as he reached the door, and found himself in a short hall. A man screamed.
A gunshot boomed behind him, and a bullet snapped into the wall. Scott glanced back. The man in the sport coat was chasing him.
Scott steadied his pistol against the door, and squeezed off one shot even as the snarls and screaming grew louder.
The man in the sport coat went down, and Scott turned toward the snarls.
Ian Mills shouted.
“I can’t get a shot! Shoot it yourself, damnit! Kill it!”