by Robert Crais
I started the car and drove north to the Valley, wondering why Amy Breslyn bought a nine-millimeter pistol and what she intended to do with it.
16
THE X-SPOT INDOOR PISTOL RANGE was housed in a white block building not far from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. The street was lined with similar buildings, each fronted by the same small parking lot, but only the X-Spot lot was ringed by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped by concertina wire. More concertina wire circled their roof. Protection from break-ins.
The X-Spot’s lot was full, so I parked on the street. The muffled whoomp-wh-whoomp of overlapping gunfire within the building was audible when I cut the engine.
The entrance opened into a lobby with a long glass counter, where pistols for sale or rent were displayed. A soundproof window behind the counter allowed the clerks to keep an eye on the firing lanes behind the wall. A balding man with a hefty gut and a younger man with lean cheeks and a mustache were behind the counter. The mustache was cleaning pistols at a workbench while the heavy man sat at the counter. Both wore pistols clipped to their waists. Robbing a pistol range was probably a bad idea.
The balding man nodded without much interest.
“Howdy. Can I help you?”
I placed Amy’s picture and receipt on the counter and showed him my license.
“Elvis Cole. I’m looking into the disappearance of this woman. I’d like to speak with her shooting instructor and whoever wrote up the sale.”
The man stared at the receipt in slow motion.
“Been a while since Amy was here. How’s she doing?”
“She’s missing. I’m hoping you can tell me why she wanted a gun.”
He dripped off his stool like cold molasses.
“I’ll get Jeff.”
He left to get Jeff through a door at the end of the lobby. Whoever Jeff was.
“Amy’s missing, huh?”
The mustache was watching me as he swabbed a slide action with powder solvent.
“Seems to be. Do you know her?”
“Weird lady. Hope she didn’t get into trouble.”
I moved down the counter, closer.
“What kind of trouble would she get into?”
He shrugged.
“She was kinda pathetic. I felt bad for her.”
I was about to ask why he felt bad when the balding man returned. Jeff was in his fifties, clean-cut, and wore jeans and a knit shirt with an X-Spot logo on the left breast. His expression was somewhere between concern and sorrow and he immediately offered his hand.
“Jeff Lombardi. Did something happen to Amy?”
“When I find her I’ll tell you. Know of a reason something would happen to her?”
“You said she’s missing?”
“Six days. Her gun’s missing, too.”
He glanced at the mustache.
“We haven’t seen her in more than two months. Almost three now.”
“She bought a pistol here six months ago and learned how to shoot it. Was she afraid of someone?”
The balding man spoke from his stool.
“She was crazy.”
I looked at him as a heavy door at the end of the counter opened. The muffled shooting was suddenly louder, then softer again as the door closed. A man and a woman came out, peeling off ear protection.
Lombardi touched my arm.
“Better in my office.”
He led me to a paneled room with a desk, a couch, and a coffee table. Autographed photos of Lombardi with actors and other celebrities hung on the walls. Lombardi offered the couch and sat behind his desk.
I said, “What did he mean, crazy? The other guy said she was weird.”
Lombardi shifted, uncomfortable.
“You know about her son, Jacob, how he died?”
“I know.”
“She never mentioned him at first, but later, if she found out you were in the Gulf, well, the things she asked made people uncomfortable.”
I tried to imagine Amy Breslyn haranguing strangers about Jacob and began to feel queasy. Maybe Lombardi was squirming for the same reason.
I said, “Things about Jacob?”
He stared at me awkwardly, then went to the door.
“Hey, Gordon! Gordo! See you a minute, please.”
Lombardi returned to his desk as the clerk with the mustache appeared. Lombardi introduced us. Gordon Hershel had pulled two tours in the Middle East driving armored vehicles for the Army.
“Gordo, tell Mr. Cole what Amy asked you.”
Gordon shrugged, as if he were half embarrassed.
“IEDs. Roadside bombs. She had all these questions, like how they made’m, and where they got the components, and it just got really weird. I understand about her son and all, but it was weird.”
Lombardi nodded.
“Tell him about the other thing.”
Gordon looked even more embarrassed.
“What she told me, or what she told Timmy?”
“You.”
I said, “Who’s Timmy?”
Lombardi said, “A customer. Gordo?”
“She wanted to talk to them.”
“Talk to who?”
“Al-Qaeda. Asked if I knew how to reach them. This other time, she asked if I knew any arms dealers. It got really weird.”
Lombardi nodded again.
“Thanks, Gordo. Wanna close the door please?”
Gordon Hershel shut the door as he left. Lombardi tapped his desk, and his eyes were pained.
“Here’s this sweet little woman, a really nice person, saying she wanted to meet terrorists, and arms dealers, and all this madness. Asking young vets about Taliban bomb makers and secret message boards, as if they would know. People complained. I felt terrible, what with her son, but I told her it had to stop. She hasn’t been back.”
He sighed, as if he didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know what to say, either. The queasy feeling became a sharp ache.
“Meet for what reason, she thought they’d know about Jacob?”
“I guess. The things that poor woman had in her head, I don’t know.”
“Do you have an instructor named Charles?”
“No. Never had a Charles. Why?”
“Amy might be involved with a Charles.”
He leaned back.
“She didn’t seem like the dating type. Then again, she didn’t seem like the crazy type, either. Not at the beginning.”
I thanked him, and walked to my car.
The sun was bright in the Valley. The sky was clear and the heat was rising.
Amy Breslyn’s interest in al-Qaeda, terrorists, arms dealers, and IEDs had left the men at the X-Spot troubled, and left me troubled, too.
The burner chirped, but this time I didn’t mind.
Pike said, “They’re leaving.”
“Both cars?”
“The Ford left ten seconds ago. The Dodge is leaving now.”
“On my way. How about you come up to my place later? I need your help with something.”
“Sure. What?”
“Things that blow up.”
Amy Breslyn already knew how to make explosives. Maybe now she wanted to make bombs.
The Targets
17
Scott James
SCOTT SAW COWLY’S D-RIDE by the Runyon gate as he rounded a curve. He whooped his siren, waved as he turned in, and parked next to a black BMW. The parking area was usually crowded at peak hiking times, but now only a few cars were present.
Detective-III Joyce Cowly was built small but sturdy, with dark hair cut to her shoulders. Cowly owned a dark gray pants suit, a black pants suit, and a navy pants suit, which she only wore on the job. Today was the gray. She called the suits her murder clothes. The expression made Scott smil
e. He liked that about her.
Scott got out and clipped Maggie’s lead, but dropped the leash as Cowly approached.
Maggie bounced forward to say hello, and Cowly cooed like a little girl.
“I’m glad to see you, too, Maggie. You’re such a good girl.”
Scott said, “Detective.”
Cowly answered formally.
“Officer James.”
Then Cowly’s face split in a goofy grin, and she whooped.
“You STUD! Congratulations!”
She jumped into him, wrapping him tight with her arms and legs. Scott rocked back, laughing, but Maggie wasn’t amused. Her ears pricked, and she tried to nose between them.
Scott kneed Maggie aside, and put Cowly down.
“Here’s this guy we were chasing, laid out on the couch with a scrambled head, and a stash of rockets and grenades in the next room. There was so much bleach and ammonia in this place. It was crazy.”
“A commendation?”
“Yes!”
“We have to celebrate. Dinner. Something nice.”
“Absolutely!”
“But until then—”
She took a white paper bag from her purse, opened it, and revealed an enormous frosted muffin.
“We were by Du-par’s, so I picked it up. Cinnamon raisin and cream cheese.”
“You’re too much. It’s perfect.”
Cowly hooked her arm through his, and gave him a tug.
“Walk and eat. I don’t have much time.”
Scott unclipped Maggie as they entered the park. Runyon allowed dogs to run free, but Maggie didn’t stray. She occasionally fell behind to sniff a passing dog, but when Scott grew too far ahead, she quickly caught up. Separation anxiety.
Cowly said, “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
Scott loved sharing with Cowly, and he loved having something to share. He’d been sidelined so long by his injuries, he felt as if he’d never get back in the game. Now the words flooded out. He told her about the search, the body, and Cole, and how the house reeked of so much ammonia his eyes had burned, and that he’d wanted to watch the bomb techs clear the munitions, but missed it because he was sent to the Boat.
Cowly said, “Who’s working it?”
“Carter and Stiles. You know’m?”
Cowly swallowed some muffin.
“Know the names. No, wait—”
She frowned for a moment, thinking.
“I’ve met Carter a couple of times, but not Stiles.”
Talking about Stiles brought back the doubt he’d felt earlier.
“She’s good?”
Cowly pushed a piece of muffin into his mouth, and took one for herself.
“Must be. She wouldn’t be with Major Crimes if she wasn’t.”
Major Crimes was a premier LAPD assignment, as was the Robbery-Homicide Division, where Cowly worked with Homicide Special. The word ‘Special’ signified that the crimes investigated by this unit transcended the scope of divisional detective bureaus, but the word had come to describe the detectives. Cowly had jumped quickly from a uniform to the Detective Bureau, and climbed even faster to Homicide Special. When Scott considered their differences, he wondered what a fast-track detective like Cowly saw in him.
“Do you think I should’ve gone after him?”
Cowly seemed surprised. She pushed another piece of muffin into his mouth.
“Who?”
“The guy who got away. The suspect.”
“You’re talking about before you entered the house? When Paul was in back, and you were in front?”
“If I’d gone after him, Maggie probably could’ve taken him down.”
“What about Paul?”
“I know, I’m just saying. We’ve got a murder suspect running loose, and I might’ve been able to stop him.”
Cowly ate a piece of muffin.
“I get it. The supercop wants to be in two places at once.”
Scott rolled his eyes.
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“Shut up and eat—”
Cowly pushed more muffin into his mouth.
“—and let’s examine the facts. You found the fugitive you were chasing, you’re last night’s hero, and you’re getting—”
She cupped her hands to her mouth like a megaphone and shouted.
“—a commendation.”
She sighed and ate another piece of muffin.
“Monday-morning quarterbacks are assholes.”
Scott laughed, and felt the doubt vanish.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For all of it.”
She bumped him.
“I knew what you meant.”
They reached a bench at the end of the ridge and sat to admire the view, but Scott found himself looking at Cowly. He liked her bent nose and the full curve of her lips, but he liked her eyes best. They were bright with intelligence, and crinkled from smiling, but sometimes he saw the shadows left by the terrible things she saw on the job. He touched her cheek.
“This thing we have, I like it.”
“I’m liking it, too.”
He leaned toward her, and they were still kissing when her phone rang. Cowly checked the number, sat back, and sighed.
“Bud. I have to go.”
Scott wanted to stay, and fall asleep on the bench beside her, but he smiled, and followed her back toward the gate without complaint. They were spending more and more time together, at his place or hers, and leaving her or seeing her go had become more and more difficult.
Their conversation drifted between TV shows they enjoyed and plans for the weekend as they walked back along the fire road. A few lethargic hikers passed them, heading into the park, and two speed-walking men blew past on their way out. Only a few cars remained when they reached the parking lot, so Scott didn’t bother to clip Maggie’s lead. The speed walkers were stretching by the BMW, and an older woman with a nest of frizzy gray hair was lifting an overweight pug from a Volvo.
The pug lady glared at Maggie, and held her dog like a bloated baby with its feet in the air.
“He won’t attack my dog, will he?”
“No, ma’am. She won’t hurt your dog.”
“He’s supposed to be leashed when you leave the park. A police officer should follow the rules.”
Cowly said, “She’s a she.”
Scott was turning away when Maggie pricked her ears and raised her nose. She trotted forward, stopped, and tested the air. Scott saw the change immediately, and so did Cowly.
“What’s she doing?”
“Smells something. She’s trying to source it.”
Maggie stared at Scott’s car, then abruptly lowered her head and trotted to the black-and-white.
Scott saw nothing out of the ordinary. The two men were talking, but Maggie ignored them. She sniffed along the underside of their K-9 car to the rear bumper, returned to the fender and wheel, and abruptly dropped to her belly. She glanced over her shoulder at Scott as if she’d found something wonderful, then stared under the car.
Cowly frowned.
“I hope it isn’t a cat.”
“It isn’t a cat. Get behind your car, okay?”
A knot formed in Scott’s belly, and grew tighter. Maggie was alerting in exactly the same manner she had alerted for Johnson, and as she had in Echo Park.
Joyce didn’t move.
“Why behind my car? What’s she doing?”
“Please, Joyce.”
“No fucking way.”
Scott called Maggie back, told her to stay, and went to his car. He squatted to peer underneath and saw nothing. He lowered himself and edged his way under. Rocks cut into his elbows, but then he saw the box and no longer fel
t the rocks. A box wrapped with silver tape was attached to his gas tank. The box was clean and showed no sign of road dust or grime, as if it had just been placed on his car.
Scott flashed on the man from the Echo Park house and the room filled with explosives. He scrambled to his feet and away from the car.
“Back away, Joyce! Something’s on the car.”
“What something?”
“I think it’s a bomb. MOVE!”
He jerked out his badge and waved it at the men.
“Police! Get behind the gate. Do it, man, MOVE! This isn’t a joke!”
Cowly shouted as she pushed the pug lady away.
“I’m calling it in! Wave off those cars! Keep people away!”
Scott ran to Mulholland and waved a car past. Maggie broke from her stay and joined him, anxious and wary. She smelled his adrenaline and took it as her own.
Scott hunkered low and scanned the surrounding area. If the box was a bomb, whoever planted it might be watching and they might have a detonator. Scott clipped Maggie’s lead and held her, expecting his car to erupt in a raging inferno. He pictured the man from Echo Park as clear as a snapshot and wished he had shot him. He pictured the flash.
Maggie’s fur bristled.
Scott had seen the man, the man had seen him, and now the man wanted him dead.
Scott waved past two more cars, then hunkered low again, and held Maggie close. She growled so deeply, it might have come from his chest.
“That’s right, baby. He tried to kill the wrong people.”
Four black-and-white units arrived eleven minutes later, followed by three additional units, all rolling Code Three. Thirty-eight minutes after Joyce Cowly called for assistance, the Bomb Squad arrived.
18
Maggie
MAGGIE WAS NOT THINKING of Pete when the bright green ball dropped from the sky ahead of her and bounced away. The flash of green and familiar bounce triggered a rush of scent memories: Pete, the approval Pete lavished on her when she found a special scent, and her joy when Pete threw the green ball to reward her. Maggie instinctively charged after the ball, but she slowed when the scent memories dimmed, and watched the ball roll away. She sniffed, and knew Pete had not touched this ball. She sniffed, and Pete was gone.