The Promise

by Robert Crais

  37

  Maggie

  MAGGIE PACED THROUGH their crate with her head down. She paused in the bathroom, whined, and rounded Scott’s bed to the window. The window was closed, but outside air seeped in through hairline gaps in the window’s frame. The tiny drafts were too small to be noticed by Scott, but were as obvious to Maggie as plumes of colored smoke. She pushed her nose under the drapes, found nothing alarming, and returned to the living room. Maggie whined at Scott, but Scott ignored her. She pawed the floor, turned in a circle, and lowered herself.

  Scott’s scent was rich with the rancid oils of tension. Their crate was alive with unexpected sounds and unfamiliar scents. Each time Maggie heard the gate, she barked and charged to the door.

  “Maggie, shut up! They’re friends!”

  Scott’s manner with the uniformed strangers told Maggie they weren’t a threat, but Maggie remained alert. Each time a visitor left, her ears swiveled, tipped, and followed their footsteps through the gate.

  Scott safe.

  Pack safe.

  Most dogs could hear four times better than a person, but Maggie’s enormous, upright ears evolved to detect quiet predators and distant prey. She could control each ear independently of the other. Eighteen muscles articulated each ear, shaping and sculpting her sail-like pinna to gather and concentrate sounds at frequencies far beyond any a human could hear. This allowed Maggie to hear seven times better than Scott. She could hear the whine of a jet at thirty thousand feet, termites chewing through wood, the crystal in Scott’s watch hum, and thousands of sounds as invisible to Scott as the scents he could not smell.

  When sounds and scents were normal, Maggie lay on her belly with her head between her paws.

  She listened.

  She sniffed.

  She watched Scott.

  Not long after they returned from the park, Maggie heard an approaching intruder and raced to the door, but this time the intruder was Joyce. Maggie wagged her tail.

  Scott happy.

  Maggie happy.

  Maggie went to the kitchen, drank, roamed through Scott’s bedroom, and returned to the living room. Scott and Joyce were talking. Maggie lowered herself, sighed, and closed her eyes, but did not sleep. She listened to Scott and Joyce, and the world beyond their crate, and heard the gate open as loud as a gunshot.

  Maggie scrambled to the door, barking.

  “Maggie, down! Quiet!”

  Maggie recognized the intruder’s scent, and remembered the tall, human woman as friendly and nonthreatening.

  “Hi, pretty girl! What’s all that barking about?”

  Scott allowed the woman to enter.

  Maggie picked a new spot on the floor, settled, and listened. The tall woman left a few minutes later.

  Scott and Joyce ate their chow. Joyce sometimes stayed, and slept with Scott in the bed, but this didn’t happen tonight. They sat on the couch, and talked. Maggie heard strange sounds. The first time, she rushed to the door. The second, she raged into the bedroom. Joyce soon left, and Scott took Maggie to do her business.

  When they returned to the crate, Maggie followed Scott to the bathroom where he urinated, showered, and made the blue foam in his mouth. Maggie stayed close.

  She followed him through the crate as he turned off the lights and stretched on the couch. Maggie knew patterns. This was their time for sleep. She sniffed a spot near the couch, turned in a circle, and lay.

  “Night, dog.”

  Thump thump.

  Maggie’s nose crinkled as she tested the air.

  Her ears swiveled to listen.

  She heard cheeps and chirps from the police car on the street and the mumble of the old woman’s television. She heard Scott’s heartbeat slow as he fell asleep.

  Maggie sniffed.

  She listened, and raised her head.

  The high-pitched squeak of branches rubbing together was unusual. A board in the fence behind their crate popped. Leaves rustled, and rustled again, closer.

  Maggie charged to the door, raging and fierce.

  “Maggie, please. I’m begging you.”

  Her bark was deep-chested, and furious. She ran to the bedroom, reared up, and hit the windowsill with her paws.

  “SHUT UP!”

  Maggie listened.

  The pops and rustle had stopped. Nothing was approaching, but she heard nothing move away.

  Maggie sniffed the plumes of outside air—sniff sniff sniff, sniff sniff sniff. She smelled nothing out of the ordinary, but she growled low and deep in her chest.

  The air was still. Scent would spread slowly. She sniffed again, and waited.

  38

  Mr. Rollins

  MR. ROLLINS was surprised when Eli called, but the call made his night. That crazy fuck, Eli, had really come through.

  Now, later that night, Mr. Rollins stood in deep shadow next to a motor home, across the street and two houses away. He had a clear view of the Trans Am in the old lady’s front yard, the patrol car parked by their drive, and the two cops in the car.

  Eli, on the phone, whispered in his ear.

  “You hear the dog?”

  Mr. Rollins, whispering back.

  “Where’s your man?”

  “The house to the west. In the backyard.”

  Eli was on a roof behind the old lady’s property, up on the next street. One of his men, Hari, had a car over by Eli. A second, some guy with a name Mr. Rollins couldn’t pronounce, was parked at the mouth of the clown’s dead-end street. Eli had called to discuss the dog, and Mr. Rollins had brought the solution. Also, he wanted to share in the kill. Some things never get old.

  Eli sent a man so Mr. Rollins could hear the dog. When the dog fired up, a cop got out of the car, and walked up the drive.

  Mr. Rollins whispered.

  “Move your man. Cop.”

  The officer stopped at the gate. She waited until the barking tailed away, then went back to the car. Her partner got out to meet her, and the two of them stayed in the drive.

  “Clear. They’re out here, bullshitting.”

  “You see what I say, this crazy barking?”

  “Yeah. Loud.”

  “Whichever way we approach, the dog does this. The officers always come look.”

  All these little yards were fenced, and the fences were overgrown with vines and hedges.

  “You know where I am, right?”

  “The motor home. Across the street, and two driveways east.”

  “Right. The package is behind the front right tire.”

  Mr. Rollins had dealt with dogs before.

  “We throw it over the fence?”

  “Them. There’s four. Toss’m over the fence. The dog will take care of the rest.”

  “I will send Hari.”

  “Don’t wait. No telling when he’ll let the dog out.”

  “We will not wait.”

  “Hari has to wash his hands, okay?”

  “Wash?”

  “You get this in your mouth, it’ll kill you. Hari’s gotta wash his hands or wear gloves.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m serious, Eli.”

  “I tell Hari. Wash.”

  Eli was laughing.

  Mr. Rollins peeled off his vinyl gloves, backed away from the motor home, and eased over a fence. Eli didn’t take him seriously, or didn’t give a shit. People from that part of the world cared nothing for human life.

  Hari would probably be dead by morning, just like the stupid dog.

  Alpha Dogs

  39

  Scott James

  THE LAST PURPLE was fading from the gray dawn sky when Scott eased open the door. Maggie pushed her snout through the crack, and tried to shoulder her way out, but Scott blocked her way. He studied the backyard, and whispered.
>
  “Easy.”

  Maggie’s nose worked triple-time, sniffing for scent. Scott smiled at her obvious desire.

  Mrs. Earle had a small, raggedy lawn, but most of the yard was filled with a clutter of rose beds, shrubbery, and fruit trees. Bird feeders hung from the fruit trees, which attracted squirrels, who picked through the fallen seed.

  Maggie loved to chase squirrels. She knew squirrels were fruit tree regulars, and usually appeared in the morning, so each day began with a hopeful search for a squirrel.

  “Got one, Maggie? You got one?”

  Scott saw no squirrels, and decided the coast was clear. He clipped her to the thirty-foot lead, and opened the door.

  “Get’m!”

  Scott got a kick out of watching her charge to the tree. Head up, ears pricked, she was totally into the hunt. She hit the base of the tree, seemed surprised that no squirrels were present, then lowered her nose and trotted in high-speed circles, searching for scent.

  Mrs. Earle called out from her door.

  “Did she get one?”

  Mrs. Earle was a straw of a woman in her eighties, bundled in a terry cloth robe.

  “No, ma’am. Not today.”

  “I’d love to see her get one. Do you know the difference between a squirrel and a rat?”

  Scott didn’t know many jokes, but this was an old joke. He was pleased he remembered.

  “A squirrel is a rat having a bad hair day.”

  Mrs. Earle frowned.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Earle was confused, or putting him on. He decided she was serious.

  “A rat has a skinny tail. A squirrel’s tail is fluffy. You know how when you have a bad hair day, your hair sticks out and won’t do what you want? A squirrel is a rat having a bad hair day.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Rats and squirrels both eat my oranges. These tree rats have been stealing my fruit for years.”

  Scott felt a tug on the lead. Maggie had widened her search.

  “Mrs. Earle? I know Maggie’s been barking a lot, what with all the officers coming and going. I’m sorry. They won’t be around much longer.”

  She waved a hand, dismissive.

  “A person can’t have too many policemen. I’ve never felt safer.”

  Scott felt another tug.

  Maggie was circling something in the flower bed. She leaned forward to sniff, then backed away, circled a few steps, and leaned forward again. Scott saw an object but couldn’t make out what it was.

  Mrs. Earle said, “Don’t let her pee-pee in my flowers. These girl dogs kill grass.”

  “She found something. Maggie!”

  Maggie’s head snapped up. Scott took up the lead, and walked over to see what she’d found.

  Mrs. Earle called from her door.

  “What is it, a rat? If it’s a rat, don’t let her touch it!”

  “It’s a raccoon.”

  Raccoons, opossums, and skunks were common in Los Angeles. Scott often saw the nocturnal creatures when he patrolled the city at night, and when he arrived home at the end of his shift. And twice, Maggie had gone berserk when opossums waddled slowly past the French doors, safely out of reach behind the glass.

  Adult raccoons could grow pretty large, but this raccoon wasn’t much larger than a cat. Scott’s first thought was rabies, so he pulled Maggie away. The animal’s coat appeared glossy and clean, but its eyes were a vivid red, and thin blood and bile matted its rear end and mouth. As he studied it, a blood bubble grew in its mouth, and the animal made a soft hiss.

  “Aw, damn. Poor thing.”

  Then Scott saw what appeared to be gray crumbs flecked with red and blue, and realized the raccoon had thrown up ground meat. Only the red and blue didn’t fit. He probed through the mess with a twig, and saw what appeared to be fragments of red and blue pills.

  Scott put Maggie into the guest house. He covered the raccoon with a large plastic pail, and was trying to decide what to do when he spotted the gray ball. It was dirty and lopsided, and stood out on the hard-packed soil under a rosebush.

  Scott moved closer, and saw red and blue flecks. He broke open the ball with a branch, and saw it was made of raw hamburger. Red and blue flecks were mixed with the meat, along with something that looked like white powder.

  Scott found a third meatball next to the guest house, and this ball was partially eaten. The raccoon.

  Scott covered the balls to mark their location and protect the evidence. He alerted the duty officers out in the patrol car, and called Carter to report his discovery.

  —

  A DOZEN RADIO CARS blocked Scott’s street and the street above. SID rolled out criminalists to collect the samples and the raccoon. Mrs. Earle’s yard was searched, as were the properties on either side, and the property directly behind. A boot officer named Leslie Day found a fourth meatball caught between agapanthus three feet from Mrs. Earle’s back door. No additional lumps of meat were found.

  Scott stood with Maggie in the yard, watching the officers search. He had tried to keep her in the guest house at first, but she wouldn’t stop barking. Once she was outside and leashed up with Scott, she was as calm as she was at any other crime scene.

  Carter, Stiles, and a third task force detective rolled out, along with two detectives from North Hollywood Station. Carter and Stiles spoke briefly to Scott, then set about coordinating a door-knock to question the neighbors.

  Scott stayed out of the way. He watched the action, and thought about the man in the sport coat, and Cole’s offer.

  Carter snagged the criminalist as he was leaving.

  “How long has the meat been here?”

  “Fire up the grill. You could eat’m.”

  “Give me a frame. Time in the weeds.”

  The criminalist thought for a second.

  “Moderate oxidation on the exterior, the inside’s still pink. No ants to speak of. Cool night like we had, I’d say they’ve been here at least ninety minutes, and not more than six hours.”

  “Sometime between midnight and sunup.”

  “That’s my call.”

  Stiles said, “What about the poison?”

  “A central nervous system component for sure, and a fast-acting anticoagulant. Maybe an acid. Something nasty. Blew out the raccoon in no time.”

  “I’d like a source list, and a list of the countries where these things are sold.”

  “Even if they’re available here?”

  “Even so, and if it turns out these items aren’t sold in the U.S., would you call me? Don’t even take the time to type a report.”

  Stiles followed the criminalist out to his van. Carter seemed to notice Scott, and came over. Carter hadn’t mentioned yesterday’s incident, and neither had Scott.

  “You call your boss?”

  Meaning Lieutenant Kemp.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m required to notify your division commander, and he’ll call your boss, so you might want to give him a call. Let him know what’s going on, and all that. As a courtesy.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.”

  Carter watched the uniformed officers searching the weeds and the flower beds. An officer with a ladder was searching the roof.

  Carter said, “Not my business, but you might want to think about a change of location.”

  “I have to figure out what to do about Mrs. Earle.”

  “The old lady in here?”

  Scott nodded.

  “Either she’s gotta go, or I have to go. This is her home.”

  Carter looked uncomfortable, and Scott wished he would leave.

  “So you know, we’re increasing our presence. We’ll have two cars out front, two on the next block, and both streets will be residents-only for the next two days.”


  “Even if I leave?”

  “Even if you leave. If you stay, we’ll maintain the closure as long as necessary.”

  “I’ll leave.”

  “Good. I think that’s wise.”

  Carter stared at the ground, and still didn’t leave.

  Scott said, “I’ll see you downtown.”

  “Don’t bother. You have to find a place.”

  “I’ll look through mug shots. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Carter finally turned to leave.

  “Up to you.”

  Scott watched Carter walking away, and touched Maggie’s ear.

  “Detective Carter.”

  Carter glanced back.

  “He tried to kill my dog.”

  “I understand. I’ll see you downtown.”

  Scott watched Carter leave, and gazed down at Maggie. He touched the soft fur of her head, and smiled when her tail wagged.

  Carter didn’t understand yet, but he would.

  40

  Elvis Cole

  THE WOMAN I didn’t know met me at a supermarket in West Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard. I bought two hot espresso drinks, arrived thirty-six minutes early, and parked behind a tow truck in a gas station across the street. I checked in with Pike and Jon Stone, and set back to wait.

  The Mystery Meryl arrived twenty minutes early. She parked among a loose scatter of cars and trucks, and did nothing out of the ordinary. She seemed comfortable with waiting, like someone who thought nothing could go wrong.

  I copied her tag, and called my DMV friend.

  “Shows a silver Lexus SUV registered to a Meryl Lawrence. We checked this name last night, didn’t we?”

  “You found four. Three up north, and one in Pasadena. Bellefontaine.”

  “I remember. The Lexus shows the same.”

  “The Lexus shows the Bellefontaine address?”

  “Correct.”

  The woman who wasn’t Meryl Lawrence was driving a Lexus registered to a Meryl Lawrence who supposedly lived at the real Meryl Lawrence’s address, only the real Meryl Lawrence didn’t own a Lexus. Impressive.

  “Last night, you found a Cadillac and a Porsche registered to Meryl Lawrence. You didn’t mention a Lexus.”