by Robert Crais
“She’s here at my request, as is Lieutenant Kemp.”
Scott nodded. Mitchell’s presence felt strange. Here he was, a federal agent, keeping secrets from Carter and Stiles and the others, and only Scott knew. Scott’s throat was dry, but he thought he should say something.
“Why are we here?”
Ignacio glanced at Carter.
“Detective, show the officer, please?”
Carter picked up a tablet computer from the table and showed Scott a picture of himself with Cole and Pike outside Safety Plus Storage.
The picture rocked him like a blindside truck. Carter and Stiles had him followed, and now he was screwed.
Ignacio gestured at the picture.
“Recognize yourself? This would be you, an hour or so ago, with Mr. Cole and his associate.”
Scott wedged his hands under his thighs.
“Yes, sir. That’s me.”
Ignacio grunted.
“You don’t appear to have a drug or alcohol problem. Can we assume you recall the direct order I gave you to stay away from Mr. Cole? Do you recall this order?”
Scott glanced at Kemp, hoping for help, but found no encouragement.
“Yes, sir. I remember.”
Ignacio glanced at the IAG lieutenant.
“Lieutanant, please.”
VanMeter read from a notebook.
“From the Manual. Two-ten-point-thirty. Compliance with lawful orders. Obedience of a superior’s lawful command is essential for the safe and prompt performance of law enforcement. Negative discipline may be necessary where there is a willful disregard of lawful orders, commands, or directives.”
Ignacio was putting on the show to set the stage. They wanted something. Scott thought he knew what they wanted, and it left him feeling queasy.
Ignacio nodded.
“Here’s the deal, Scott. Detective Carter believes Mr. Cole has information crucial to his investigation, and you probably know the true nature of Mr. Cole’s involvement. After your little field trip today, I’m pretty sure he’s right. So here we are, and I’m giving you another lawful order. I order you to cooperate, and answer his questions.”
Kemp cleared his throat. He pulled a chair from the table, turned it, and sat facing Scott.
“Eight-twenty-eight. It’s a violation of department policy for an employee to make false or misleading statements.”
Kemp’s expression was as hard as Ignacio’s, but Scott sensed the LT was warning him. Whatever you do, don’t lie.
“I’d like to speak with a League rep or an attorney.”
Stiles sighed.
“This is so wrong, Scott. Why are you doing this?”
Carter stepped forward as if no one had spoken, and asked his first question.
“What were you and Cole doing up there?”
Scott looked at Ignacio.
“Commander, considering the situation, I’d like to speak with a League rep, or an attorney.”
Scott’s thoughts were racing. He wasn’t going to lie, but he wouldn’t give up Cole. He looked at Mitchell. Scott wanted to give up Mitchell. He wanted to tell Carter that Mitchell’s boss brought Cole into the case.
Ignacio said, “Lieutenant.”
VanMeter read another.
“Eight-oh-five-point-one. Cause for disciplinary action. Employees shall be subject to disciplinary action for acts of misconduct. Misconduct defined. Violation of Department policies, rules, or procedures, to wit, disobeying a lawful order, or making false or misleading statements.”
Stiles said, “Don’t do this, Scott.”
Carter picked up the tablet again, and showed him a picture of Pike carrying the bags and jacket to his Jeep.
“What’s in the bags?”
Scott shook his head.
“He took them out of your car. This is your car, right, the piece of shit Trans Am? They were in your car.”
Scott wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say.
“I’d like to speak with a rep or an attorney.”
Ignacio’s face was stern, but Scott sensed the man didn’t want to go through this mess.
Mitchell spoke for the first time.
“If charges are eventually brought, those charges will be federal.”
Ignacio glanced angrily at the fed.
“No one is talking about charges. This is an administrative matter.”
Ignacio conferred with VanMeter, and read from the notebook.
“I’m required to read this admonition. Your silence can be deemed as insubordination and lead to administrative discipline, which could result in your discharge or removal from office. You understand what this means?”
“Yes, sir.”
Do what we say, or we can fire you.
VanMeter placed a printed form and a pen on the table.
“This is an acknowledgment you received the admonition. Sign and date here. If you refuse to sign, I’ll mark the space ‘refused,’ and sign as the witnessing supervisor. Up to you.”
Scott signed.
Ignacio said, “I hereby order you to answer the administrative questions we’ve put to you, and give a statement for administrative purposes.”
The rigid formality was frightening.
“I’d like a League rep, and an attorney.”
Ignacio fired another angry glance at Mitchell, and turned back to Scott.
“To clear up any confusion, by being ordered to make a statement, nothing you say can be used against you. Is that clear?”
“I’d like a League rep.”
Ignacio’s jaw flexed. He took a printed form from the end of the table.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. This is the completed complaint form, signed by Detective Carter. The complaint alleges you willfully failed to obey a lawful order, and by doing so violated department policy. If you answer the man’s questions, I’ll trash it. If not, I’ll hand it to Lieutenant VanMeter, and she’ll open an investigation. None of us wants this to happen.”
He put down the first form, and held up a second.
“One-sixty-one-double-aught, already signed by the chief. Temporary relief from duty. If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be placed on administrative leave, pending the outcome of the investigation. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Scott’s mouth felt dry as an East L.A. sidewalk at noon.
“Yes, sir.”
Kemp leaned forward.
“When you’re placed on leave, you’re required to return all city-owned property. This means everything, Scott.”
Kemp leaned closer until his face was only inches away.
“Maggie.”
Scott wanted to give them all of it. Tell them about the woman and Colinski and the Homeland feds who were screwing them, and what Cole was planning to do, but he couldn’t make the words come out.
Carter asked again, and this time his voice was soft.
“What do you know, son? What’s Cole doing?”
Scott felt numb in a way he hadn’t felt since he lost Stephanie Anders. Kemp and Carter and the people in the room seemed a thousand miles away. His eyes burned, and he blinked, but the burning got worse. Carter’s voice was an echo.
“What did he tell you?”
Scott heard himself speak.
“We can sit here forever, Carter, but I want a rep.”
He wanted to see Maggie. He wanted to sit with her, and hold her, and explain.
Kemp sat back.
“Goddamn it, Scott.”
Ignacio glanced from Carter to VanMeter, and shook his head. He was a tall man, and towered overhead.
“Dismissed. Get out of here.”
Scott didn’t rise until Kemp took his arm.
“Get up.”
Ke
mp steered him out and away from the conference room. He turned Scott to face him, and leaned very close.
“Really? Really? You’ll be gone in a month. Is that what you want?”
Scott shook his head.
“Where’s your K-9?”
“Glendale.”
“Sergeant Leland will arrange for her care. Do you have other city property?”
“I want to see her.”
“The commander just sent your ass home. You lost her. Do you have other city property in your possession?”
“No.”
“Get out of here, and go home. Whatever’s going on with you and Cole, you’d better get that shit together. I’ll save you if I can, but don’t count on it.”
Making his way to the hall took forever. Reaching the elevator took even longer. Scott felt trapped in someone else’s life in a world he didn’t create. He wanted to start over, but didn’t know how. He wanted to take everything back, and return to the beginning, but here he was, and even pushing the button for the elevator seemed beyond him.
Mitchell stepped into the hall, and turned toward the elevator. He stopped when he saw Scott, frowned, and went back into the office.
A few seconds later, Stiles came out. She saw him, too, but she didn’t hide in the office. She crossed the hall to the restroom. Scott remembered something Cole asked earlier, and the memory sparked a tickle of hope.
Scott went to the restroom, knocked twice, and walked in.
“Detective Stiles?”
Stiles was closing the door in a stall when he entered. A shock of angry surprise flashed on her face.
“Turn yourself around, and get out of here.”
Scott stepped back, and held the door to the hall open. He didn’t want her to feel threatened.
“I’m sorry. I need to ask you something. One thing.”
The surprise passed, but she was still angry.
“What?”
“Why did you pull the surveillance off Cole?”
Her mouth tightened as if this was an unpleasant topic.
“This wasn’t our decision. Our friends at Homeland preferred to handle Mr. Cole, whatever that means.”
“Mitchell.”
“He encouraged the surveillance. This came from above.”
Hess.
Stiles came out of the stall, and made an exasperated sigh.
“Would you please come to your senses, and talk to Brad? You can save yourself.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Scott returned to the elevator, and went to his car. The tickle of hope grew to a flame. Hess was the key. Hess was his last, best hope to make everything right.
51
Dominick Leland
SERGEANT DOMINICK LELAND sat in his office at the Glendale training facility, remembering Dakota. The rest of the Platoon was up at the Mesa, so Leland had the place to himself. Chewing tobacco was forbidden by regulations, but Leland didn’t give a damn. He spit the juice into a Styrofoam cup, and sipped an orange soda. The soda tasted worse than the Red Plug, but wasn’t against the rules.
Over his thirty-two years as a handler, what with his time spread between the military, the Sheriffs, and the Los Angeles Police Department, Leland was blessed with nine certified K-9 partners. Five German shepherds, three Belgian Malinois, and a Dutch shepherd. Two were killed during service, two died of unexpected illness, two wore out their hips, and three gave the full measure until they were too damned old, at which time Leland adopted them. At home, which he shared with his wife of thirty-six years, whom he called the Missus, the walls of his study were hung with pictures of his children, his grandchildren, and portraits of himself and each of his nine K-9 partners.
Dakota was his favorite. She was a slender, black German shepherd, right at seventy pounds. This put her on the small side for a GSD, but with that jet shep face and ears like horns, the bad guys must’ve thought she was Satan’s own hound. Truth was, she was a sweetheart. Smart as a whip, no quit in her, and superb with the kids and the Missus.
So, anyway, the day she was retired, Leland brought her home, same as any other day, let her hop out of the car, and gave her a good scratch.
“Welcome home, dog. From this day forward, you’re on vacation.”
Hopping out when they got home that night was normal, but when Leland went to his black-and-white K-9 car the next day, leaving her behind was a nightmare. Dakota expected to go with him, just as she had every morning for the past eight years. She whined, cried, barked, shivered like a Chihuahua, and tried to chew through the fence. Leland had never seen a more pathetic face, like an abandoned child pleading with her best friend and daddy not to leave her behind. This went on every morning. Leland felt a terrible guilt, and an even more terrible shame. Truth was, Dominick Leland could have trained that behavior out of her, but he didn’t want to lose the fierce love and true loyalty that burned in his partner’s heart.
Leland left the house earlier the next day, and took Dakota for a ride. He did this most mornings thereafter, and, when he got home after work, if he wasn’t too beat, and on his days off, he took her out in the car. And sometimes, for a treat, he’d pop the siren and lights, and rip down the highway rolling Code Three. She loved to go fast.
A few years back, Dakota went End of Watch. Leland missed her, and their rides, and thought of her often, especially when he was reminded of the pain a man can visit upon the delicate heart of a dog.
Sitting there in the quiet, Leland heard a car pull up, and the kennel door open. He thought about Dakota, and the way she carried on that morning. He gave them a few minutes before he got up, blew his nose, and went to the kennel.
He opened the door, but didn’t go in. Scott was sitting in the run with his dog.
“Officer James, go on home. She’s mine.”
Leland closed the door, and went back to his office. He heard the kennel door a few minutes later. When Scott’s car left the parking lot, the dog cried. She carried on, and it was terrible.
Leland broke off a bite of the Red Plug. He chewed, and listened to the dog, and thought about the rides with Dakota, each and every one precious. He got to wondering if a ride would make Maggie feel better. Might not, but Leland gave it a try.
52
Elvis Cole
PIKE STAYED IN SILVER LAKE to wait for Amy and Jon, and I drove home with the putty explosives and Amy’s terrible jacket. Jon called as I climbed the hill.
“We’re home.”
“She stop anywhere the explosives could be?”
“She stopped for Italian. Looks like we’re in for the evening.”
“I’ll come up later. Can I bring anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. I heard back from my guy. He stands by what he told me.”
“C’mon, Jon. They’re on it.”
“I asked him to check again, and got the same answer. Unresolved, pending future developments. HSI kicked the case.”
“He’s lying.”
“Lying to someone who does what I do isn’t smart, and this dude is smart. He’s so smart, he crunched a few numbers, and decided the L.A. office has too many quality cases that go nowhere.”
A quality case was a case with a high probability of success.
“How many is too many?”
“Three this past year, and four the year before. All involved explosives, munitions, or computer technology.”
“Cases derived from the Internet?”
“No, not all. What they had in common was the quality of the intel. The leads were solid, he says, but L.A. kicked them back. My guy finds this suspicious.”
I was finding it suspicious, too.
The A-frame was peaceful and calm when I pulled into the carport. I let myself in and drank a bottle of water, then brought the jacket and the bags inside. I didn’t like having forty poun
ds of high explosives in my home, so I carried them outside, and down the slope, and hid them under my deck. I didn’t like having them under my deck, either, but it was better than keeping them in the kitchen.
Colinski’s rap sheet described a hard-core professional criminal with a history of violent crime, but nothing in his record linked him to explosives or extremist political groups. With the most recent entry dating from sixteen years ago, nothing in his sheet gave me a likely way to find him. I called Eddie Ditko, and asked him to help.
Eddie hacked up a phlegm ball.
“Sixteen years doesn’t mean shit. A guy like this, they’re keeping tabs. Whadaya wanna know?”
“The tabs. I want to put eyes on him.”
Eddie thought for a moment.
“Hijacking, armed robbery, all the stuff with the guns. Got a friend at Robbery Special I can tap.”
“Great. And see if anything ties him to explosives or radical extremists.”
“Radical extremists?”
“Al-Qaeda.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me. A crook from East L.A.?”
“A lot can happen in sixteen years.”
I scrambled three eggs with jalapeños, ate at the sink, and went up for a shower. I let the hot water beat my shoulders and neck, and wondered if Colinski and Charles were worried, or confident, or setting the stage for tomorrow. I wondered if Hess was one of the good guys, or a bad guy. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Amy.
When the shower ran cold, I toweled off and put on fresh clothes. I was walking downstairs when the phone rang. Eddie.
“Pucker up, baby. You’re gonna want to kiss me on the lips.”
“Don’t toy with me.”
“Colinski dropped off the world six or seven years ago. Nobody knows where he is.”
“He was in Echo Park.”
“No one’s saying he isn’t here, only that he dropped off the grid. If we can find him, my guy wants to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“A couple of armored-car capers up near Palmdale, and another out in Palm Springs.”
“They think Colinski pulled the scores?”