by Robert Crais
“She’s here. What do you want me to do?”
I didn’t know what to do. Learning Meryl Lawrence wasn’t Meryl Lawrence left me short on trust, and uncertain.
“Cole?”
“What’s she doing?”
“Eating. Looks like noodles. She got back maybe two minutes ago.”
I pictured Amy, eating her noodles. A woman I had been searching for, but not seen. The hour was early. Amy might leave. Charles might drop by.
“I’m coming.”
I carved the rack into seven equal chops, and put one aside. I carved the meat off the singleton, chopped it, and put it in a bowl for the cat. I split the remaining chops and the couscous into two plastic containers, and bagged them with napkins, plastic forks, and four bottles of water. I threw a fresh shirt and a razor into a second bag, and drove back to Silver Lake. No one followed me down off the hill, and no one watched my house. The surveillance units had vanished. Interesting.
Jon’s Rover sat across from the construction site, facing downhill. I parked two houses above him, walked down, and climbed in the passenger’s side. The interior lights didn’t come on when I opened the door. Jon’s seat was back and a laptop was balanced on the console.
I gave him the bag of food.
“What did I miss?”
He opened the bag as he answered.
“Nada. She ate, hit the potty, and now she’s reading. No calls in or out. No visitors.”
He popped off a lid.
“Dude, what is this, lamb? I’m starving.”
He dived on a rib, and sucked the meat from the bone.
I angled the laptop for a better view. Amy Breslyn was seated on the living room couch, almost dead-center at the top of the frame. The wide-angle lens gave the image a fish-eye bend, but the distortion wasn’t bad. Her feet were bare, and flat on the floor. A computer sat on her lap, and a smartphone lay by her leg, handy in case someone called. She seemed smaller and heavier than the woman in the brochure, but she was Amy.
I said, “We have a problem.”
“I’m not gonna bill you. Don’t sweat it.”
“The woman who hired me isn’t who she claims. She lied when she hired me, and she’s still lying. I don’t know who she is, or why she wants Amy, or what she intends. Nothing she’s told me is real.”
Jon took a second rib.
“You should look into that.”
I nodded.
Jon pointed the chop at Amy.
“She’s Amy Breslyn. Her boy is still dead. We’re gonna do what we do.”
I nodded again.
“You want my chops, you can have them.”
“Groovy.”
The way Amy sat, upright with her feet on the floor, didn’t look comfortable. She had eaten and now she was reading, but she didn’t look relaxed.
“Her car in the garage?”
“Yeah. The Volvo.”
“Can you put something on it?”
“The door’s a screamer. I can open it, but she’ll hear. It’s under the bedroom.”
We finished the food in silence, then bagged our trash and put it aside. The occasional car passed, but we were low in the seats, and motionless. A man in a light jacket walked by with a boxer dog on a leash. They stopped at the Rover’s front end. The boxer dog peed on the tire, but Jon made no comment. We didn’t tell war stories, or jokes, or make conversation. We sat without moving, watching a motionless woman.
Amy’s phone rang at seven minutes after ten. It was abrupt, and surprisingly loud.
Jon turned up the audio.
I said, “You recording this?”
“Yeah. Shh.”
Amy didn’t jump on the call. She watched the phone ring five times before she answered. Her voice was calm and crisp.
“Hello.”
We heard only Amy’s side of the conversation.
“All right. Good. Yes, the day after tomorrow is fine. Will Mr. Rollins be there?”
Rollins. A new player entered the game.
“I don’t care if he comes, so long as I meet the principals. Tell him—”
The caller must have interrupted. She listened for almost two minutes, and her face grew pinched with irritation.
“No, you listen, Charles—”
Charles. The man with the flowers, who Meryl pressed me to find. I wondered what Meryl knew about Charles.
“The funds have to be deposited prior to delivery. We’re not taking cash, credit cards, or a personal check. When I confirm the transfer, and only when the transfer is confirmed, I’ll take you to pick up the material, or we can meet them, whatever—”
She listened again.
“Plastic containers, like the sample. Two hundred kilograms less the weight of the sample.”
She listened some more, nodding along with whatever was being said.
“You do that. Call me.”
Amy hung up, and sat holding the phone. She swayed, so slightly she barely moved. Then she gathered the paper plate and take-out carton, and carried the trash to the kitchen.
I stared at Jon.
“Did you hear what I heard?”
Jon grinned. He seemed delighted.
“Yeah. She’s selling two hundred kilos of plastic explosives.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“Think she really has it?”
I remembered what Scott James told us. The plastic explosive found in the bomb on his car was the same material found in the house.
“Yes.”
The imitation Meryl had made a big deal out of embezzled money, but she’d said nothing about missing explosives. Losing two hundred kilograms of military explosives would jeopardize their position with the government far more than embezzled money.
I watched the screen, waiting for Amy to return.
Jon said, “It’s not here, and you searched the other place, right? Maybe it’s in her car.”
I shook my head, thinking.
Jon said, “Two hundred kilograms is four hundred forty pounds. That much C-4 takes up about eight cubic feet, which is your basic cardboard box.”
Amy returned from the kitchen. She made sure the front door was locked, gathered her phone and computer, and turned off the living room lamp.
Jon brought up the bedroom camera. The high-angle view looked across the bed through the length of the room. The desk, the closet, and the bath were on the right of the frame. Amy put her phone and laptop on the bed, and pulled off her top. She was fleshy and white, with folds in her skin. I felt bad for invading her privacy. When she took off her bra, I looked away.
A brown fringed jacket lay on her bed. She hung the jacket and her slacks in the closet, took pajamas from the chest of drawers, and went into the bathroom. We heard the toilet and running water. A few minutes later, Amy turned off the bathroom light, and climbed into bed.
At ten forty-two, Amy got out of bed, and touched a framed photograph that stood on the chest.
I said, “The picture. It wasn’t there earlier.”
“It was in her purse. She put it there when she got home.”
Jacob.
Her touch was loving, but did not linger.
She went back to bed, and turned off the lamp. The video image went dark. Her house went dark.
Seven minutes later, we heard a soft rasp. Sleep.
I said, “You’ve been here a long time. Take off. I got it.”
“I’m good.”
I lowered the seat, and settled back.
Jon and I sat in the Rover all night. I stayed until the next morning, when I left to meet the fake Meryl. I left, but Jon stayed. Jon didn’t leave, and he never complained.
36
Scott James
SCOTT KENNELED MAGGIE in Glendale, returned to the Boat, and spent the rest of
the day at Major Crimes. He phoned Cowly to tell her what happened, but she’d already heard. She was annoyed, but not as angry as Scott expected. Cowly called him a knucklehead, and they made plans for dinner. Scott was relieved.
Stiles brought him up to speed on the investigation, introduced him to several detectives, and tried to answer his questions. She didn’t have much to report, but Scott found himself liking her.
The size of the task force was impressive, but they were in the third day of the investigation and didn’t have a line on the man in the sport coat, how Carlos Etana was involved, or who had been using the Echo Park house in the name of a dead man.
Scott told himself to be patient, but wondered what Cole knew. Cole’s offer to help was like a worrisome terrier that wouldn’t let go of his ankle. Cole might be one of those people who colored outside the lines, but people who hung it over the edge weren’t always wrong. Cole might be able to use his secret knowledge and shady connections to break the case faster than Carter.
Scott took out the card with Cole’s number, but didn’t show it to Stiles. He flexed the card under the table, thinking.
“Why do you think Cole was there?”
“Up to no good, most likely.”
Stiles was on her computer in the conference room. Scott was at the far end of the table, flipping through reports.
Scott said, “He told me he was looking for someone named Thomas Lerner.”
Stiles glanced up, frowning at his interest.
“It’s true a resident confirmed that Mr. Cole asked about Lerner, but neither that resident, nor any other neighbor, including the old-timers, remembers a Lerner having lived on their street. And we haven’t been able to find any evidence—none—that the Lerner Mr. Cole described even exists.”
“You think he’s lying?”
She stared at Scott as if she were trying to figure out why he was asking.
“Yes. I believe he is lying.”
Stiles returned to her computer, but Scott didn’t want to let it go.
“Maybe he can’t tell us. Maybe he isn’t so much lying as withholding.”
Stiles didn’t look up this time.
“You’re thinking about Mr. Cole too much.”
Scott flexed Cole’s card again, and put it away.
“Yeah, you’re right. He seemed legit, is all. I can’t help thinking he might be able to help.”
Stiles pushed back from her computer, and crossed her arms.
“Do yourself a favor, stop thinking.”
Carter returned a half hour later, and continued to ignore him. Scott felt uncomfortable, and finally left. He picked up Maggie from Glendale, and bought a case of bottled water and two giant bags of chocolate chip cookies on his way home. Guilt snacks for the officers stuck pulling guard duty.
They reached home early in the evening. Scott introduced himself to the latest set of officers, gave them some water and cookies, then changed into shorts, and took Maggie to the park. They jogged for thirty minutes, which was exercise more for Scott than Maggie. Scott jogged with a gimpy lurch. Maggie kept up by walking quickly. They played with a tug toy after the run. The heavy rubber toy was made for large dogs, but dogs selected as police patrol K-9s went through them quickly. Maggie’s jaws and neck were so strong, and her drive to hold so fierce, Scott could swing her in circles once she clamped onto the toy. Despite her high drive, Maggie wouldn’t chase balls. Scott had tried dozens of times. He could catch her off guard with the sudden motion sometimes, and Maggie would take off, but once she realized she was chasing a ball, she’d break off the chase. No one knew why, not even Leland, but Scott had discovered a substitute.
Scott had brought along three large chunks of baloney, each about the size of a golf ball. He dug the treat bag out of his pack.
“Treat.”
Maggie jumped to a full alert, her eyes locked on the greasy cube.
Scott threw it hard, and Maggie sprinted after it.
The chunk bounced and skipped through the grass thirty yards away. Scott didn’t know if she could see it, but canine eyes were far more sensitive to motion than human eyes, and her nose would do the rest.
Maggie’s momentum carried her past. She clawed up divots of grass as she turned around, pounced on the meat, and devoured it. They played chase-the-baloney twice more, and headed for home.
Scott put out fresh food and water for Maggie, then showered and dressed. He was tying his shoes when Maggie let him know Joyce had arrived. Every time an officer walked up the drive or the cars changed, Maggie erupted in a frenzy of barking and charged to the door.
“It’s Joyce, Maggie. Stop.”
One of the uni’s had accompanied Joyce to the gate. Today was the black suit.
Scott pulled Maggie out of the way, and let Cowly in. She gave him a quick kiss, and carried a white plastic bag to the table.
“Tostadas. One pollo, one carne asada. Extra sides of rice and beans. We can share. Guac and chips. The chips are mine.”
Scott laughed.
“I can work with that. Thanks.”
Cowly slipped off her jacket, and began taking plastic containers and cartons from the bag.
“Cerveza, por favor? Lime, if you have one.”
“Coming up. Man, look at all this. You are definitely a woman with a plan.”
Scott went to his fridge for the beer as Cowly continued.
“I am! After dinner, I’ll help pack, and you and Maggie will come to my place.”
Scott hesitated at the fridge. Maybe Cowly was such a good detective because she was stubborn. He twisted the caps off two beers, and brought them into the living room.
“Thank you, babe, really, but I’m staying. He isn’t running us out of our home.”
Cowly smiled as patiently as a mother speaking to a reluctant child.
“Oh, but sweetie, you aren’t coming to avoid the man who’s trying to murder you. You’ll be with me so I can make sure you don’t do something stupid again, like flush your career down the toilet.”
Scott joined her, and offered a beer, but she didn’t take it. Her patient smile faded, and she painted him with the homicide eyes.
“Ignacio won’t cut you another break. You got a pass today.”
“I know.”
“I hope so. For your own good.”
She finally took the bottle. She sipped, but Scott didn’t.
“Cole knows something that can help us. I think he’d like to help.”
“Did he say that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“If he wants to help, he should tell Carter and Stiles. Not you. You’re a front-line Metro cop, not a detective.”
“Carter and Stiles are hitting him like a suspect.”
“That’s kinda their job, buddy. And ours.”
She tipped her bottle toward him.
“You can play, but you have to play by the rules. Okay?”
Scott clinked his bottle to hers.
“I hear you.”
Maggie suddenly broke into more barking and charged to the door. Her barking was thunderous. Cowly winced, and Scott hurried to pull Maggie from the door.
“That girl is loud.”
“It’s all night long. Every time they come back to check. Maggie, down. Quiet!”
Someone knocked as Scott reached the door. He pushed open the drape and saw Glory Stiles. She smiled, and held up a binder.
Scott was surprised, and quickly opened the door.
“Detective. Come in.”
He glanced at Cowly to indicate his surprise, but Cowly was staring at Stiles.
Stiles bent from the hips and beamed at Maggie.
“Hi, pretty girl! What’s all that barking about?”
Stiles stepped inside, and thrust out her hand to Cowly.
“
Sorry to interrupt. Glory Stiles. Detective-Three at Major Crimes.”
Cowly took the hand, and offered a perfunctory smile.
“Joyce Cowly. Detective-Three, Homicide Special.”
Stiles nodded, and took back her hand.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we’ll cross on a case one day.”
“Maybe we will.”
Stiles gave Scott the binder.
“More mug shots. I changed the parameters based on your comments. Hopefully, these will look more like our suspect.”
Cowly said, “How thoughtful. I usually email a photo-file.”
Stiles considered Scott for a moment.
“Truth is, I felt bad about how certain people carried on today. I don’t think it was so bad, you going to see Mr. Cole. We learned something useful.”
Scott glanced at Cowly. Surprised and pleased.
“Great. I’m glad I could help.”
“The man you named, the one you thought was a veteran.”
“Jon Stone.”
“Turns out, he is, only the government won’t tell us about him. Our request for information was denied.”
“I don’t understand, denied? We’re the police.”
Cowly moved closer, and now she seemed interested.
“The Department of Defense sealed his records?”
“Locked’m up tight, and threw away the key.”
Stiles seemed thoughtful.
“You know what the gentleman told me? He was very nice, by the way. Latin, of all things. ‘Si Ego Certiorem Faciam’—I don’t recall the rest.”
Stiles focused on Scott. Her voice didn’t change, but her gaze was pointed.
“‘I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’”
Stiles cocked her head, and stared even harder.
“Your Mr. Cole has interesting friends.”
Stiles took a quick step back, once again warm.
“I apologize again. I’ll let y’all get back to what you were doing. Maggie, you’re such a sweetie.”
She touched the binder Scott held.
“Look through, and let me know. Y’all have a good night.”
Stiles opened the door, and disappeared into darkness. A few seconds later, Scott heard the gate.
Cowly said, “Bitch.”