Suspect

29.

Scott was passing Universal Studios at the Hollywood split when his phone rang. He hoped it was Cowly or Budress, with more information, but it was Goodman. The last person he wanted to speak with, but he answered the call.

“This is Charles Goodman, Scott. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I was going to call. I have to cancel our session tomorrow.”

Scott’s regular appointment was the following day.

“I was phoning to cancel, as well. Something happened here at the office. Personally embarrassing for me, and I’m afraid this will be upsetting for you.”

Scott had never heard Goodman so strained.

“Are you okay, Doc?”

“The privacy of my clients and their trust is of paramount importance to me—”

“I trust you. What happened?”

“My office was broken into two nights ago. Scott, some things were stolen, your file among them. I’m terribly sorry—”

Scott flashed on Shankman and Anson, and the top-floor brass knowing things about him they had no way to know.

“Doc, wait. My file was stolen? My file?”

“Not only yours, but yours was among them. Apparently they grabbed a handful of files at random—current and past clients whose last names begin with the letters G through K. I’ve been calling to—”

“Did you call the police?”

“Two detectives came out. They sent a man to look for fingerprints. He left black powder on the door and the windows and my cabinet. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to leave it or if I can clean it.”

“You can clean up, Doc. They’re finished. What did the detectives say?”

“They didn’t tell me whether to leave it or clean it.”

“Not about the fingerprint powder. What about the burglary?”

“Scott, I want you to know I did not give them your name. They asked for a list of the clients whose files were stolen, but that would violate our confidence. The State of California protects you in this. I did not and will not identify you.”

Scott had the sick feeling his confidence had already been violated.

“What did they say about the burglary?”

“The door and the windows weren’t broken, so whoever broke in apparently had a key. The detectives said burglaries like this are usually committed by someone known to the cleaning crew. They have a key made, and grab the first thing they see.”

“What would a janitor want with files?”

“The files have your personal and billing information. The detectives said I should warn you—not you specifically, but all of you—to alert your credit card companies and banks. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. These people are out there with my notes on your sessions, and now you have to deal with this credit card nonsense.”

Scott’s mind raced from Anson and Shankman to Cowly to Goodman’s break-in, all of it coming together.

“When did this happen?”

“Two nights ago. I came to the office yesterday morning, and, well, my heart sank when I saw what had happened.”

Three nights ago, Maggie alerted to an intruder. Scott recalled a powdery substance on his locks, but had written it off.

Scott steered for the next off-ramp, and left the freeway in the Cahuenga Pass. He stopped in the first parking lot he saw.

“Doc? Who were the detectives who came out?”

“Ah, well, I have their—yes, here we are. Detective Warren Broder and a Detective Deborah Kurland.”

Scott jotted the names, told Goodman he would phone in a few days, and immediately called the North Hollywood Community Police Station. When he reached the Detective Bureau, he identified himself, and asked to speak with Broder or Kurland.

“Kurland’s here. Hold on.”

A few seconds later, Kurland picked up. Her smart professional voice reminded him of Cowly.

“Detective Kurland speaking.”

Scott repeated his name, adding his badge number and station.

Kurland said, “Okey-doke, Officer. How can I help?”

“You and Detective Broder are handling the burglary of a Doctor Charles Goodman. His office in Studio City?”

“You bet. May I ask your interest?”

“Doctor Goodman is a friend. This call is unofficial.”

“I get it. Ask whatever you like. I’ll answer or I won’t.”

“How’d the perp get in?”

“Door.”

“Funny. You guys told Goodman the guy used a passkey?”

“No, that was me, and what I said was, you see entries this clean, more often than not the perp bought a key from someone who works at the building. My partner thinks the locks were bump-keyed. Personally, I think the dude used a pick gun. Up on that second-floor walkway with your butt in the air, you want the locks open fast. A pick gun is easier.”

The ache in Scott’s side crept up his back.

“Why either one instead of the passkey?”

“I wanted to check the locks, so I borrowed the doctor’s keys. They felt slippery. I wiped them, worked the locks, the keys were slippery again. Both locks were blown full of graphite.”

The Trans Am’s doors and top bulged toward him, as if the car was being crushed by an outside pressure.

Kurland said, “Anything else?”

Scott started to say no, then remembered.

“The prints?”

“Nothing. Gloves.”

Scott thanked her, and lowered his phone. He stared at the passing traffic, and grew more frightened with each passing car. Someone had invaded his life, and was using his life to frame him for Daryl Ishi’s murder. Someone wanted to know what he knew, and thought, and suspected about Stephanie’s killers. Someone didn’t want Stephanie’s killers found.

Scott turned around and drove back to his guest house. He went to his bedroom, and found his old dive bag in his closet. It was a huge nylon duffel, currently packed with fins, a buoyancy compensator, and other diving gear. Scott dumped the contents while Maggie sniffed from the door. He had not opened the bag in almost three years. He wondered if she smelled the ocean and fish, or if time had killed their scent.

Scott filled the bag with his spare pistol and ammo, his dad’s old watch, the cash under the clock radio, the shoe box filled with credit card receipts and billing statements, two changes of clothes, and his personal items. He cleaned out his meds from the bathroom. Goodman’s name was on the labels, and now Scott had no doubt there was a connection. Three nights ago, someone entered his home, went through his things, and saw Goodman’s name. Two nights ago, someone broke into Goodman’s office, and made off with Scott’s therapeutic history.

Scott carried his bag to the living room. He gathered the material he amassed on the shooting into a single large stack, and packed it into the bag. The empty floor looked larger.

Maggie stuck her head into the bag, looked at Scott as if she was bored, and walked into the kitchen for water.

Scott studied the room, thinking what else should he take? He added his laptop computer, and took down his diagrams and pictures. He considered leaving Stephanie’s picture on the wall, but she had been with him at the beginning, and he wanted her with him at the end. Her picture was the last thing he put in the bag.

He clipped Maggie’s lead, and braced himself as he slung the dive bag over his shoulder. He expected his side to scream, but he felt almost normal.

“C’mon, big girl. Let’s get this done.”

Scott told Mrs. Earle he would be away for a few days, stowed the dive bag in his trunk, and headed back to the freeway.

Going to jail.

Driving fast.

30.

Elton Joshua Marley frowned at their surroundings as she stepped onto the roof.

“Look how fil’ty, all dis mess. You ruin dese nice clothes you hab.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Marley. Thanks.”

The roof was littered with wine bottles, broken rock pipes, and condoms, as she had seen in Scott James’ pictures. She moved away from the stairwell to get her bearings. She was looking for the roof above the kill zone.

Mr. Marley stayed at the door.

“Leh me do dis, sabe you nice clothes? Come down de stairs. I gib you beach pants an’ a beautiful MarleyWorld shirt, de rayahn so soft it keess your skeen.”

“Thank you, but I’m good like this.”

Cowly determined the direction of the intersection, and picked her way across the roof.

“Watch for de needles. Dey be nahsty tings up here.”

His concern was cute, but annoying as hell. Cowly was glad he stayed by the door.

She climbed over a low wall onto the corner building, and moved to the edge of the roof. A low, wrought-iron safety barrier ran along the parapet just as Scott described. It was dirty, rusted, and eaten by corrosion. Cowly was careful not to touch it when she leaned forward to look between the bars. She saw a perfectly normal street four floors below, bustling with normal activity, but nine months ago, three people were murdered here, Scott James was bleeding to death, and the street glittered with cartridge casings.

Cowly walked along the fence. The little remaining black paint had faded to a soft gray. Most of the metal was scabbed with fine, reddish-brown rust. Cowly touched it, and examined the rust on her finger. More brown than red, but enough red to look like dried blood.

She stood on her toes, trying to see the sidewalk, but wasn’t tall enough. She was directly above the spot where SID collected the watchband, thinking the red smears were blood.

Cowly took the evidence bag from her purse. She unsealed the bag and maneuvered the leather strap until it was exposed, being careful not to touch it with her fingers. She held it using the plastic like a glove.

Cowly pressed her free thumb to the fence, and compared the rust on her thumb to the streaks on the leather. They looked alike. Cowly pressed her thumb to the fence again, and grinded it to pick up more rust. The streaks on the band and on her thumb now looked identical. Cowly was encouraged, but knew their appearance proved little or nothing.

She resealed the evidence bag, tucked it into her purse, and took out a white envelope and pen. Using the pen, she scraped a generous amount of rust into the envelope. When she felt she had enough, she sealed the envelope, thanked Mr. Marley for being so helpful, and took her samples to SID.

31.

Men’s Central Jail was a low, sleek, concrete building wedged between Chinatown and the Los Angeles River. Built stern and foreboding, it could have passed for the science center at a well-endowed university except for the chain-link fence rimming its perimeter and the five thousand inmates between its walls.

Scott parked in a public parking lot across the street, but stayed in his car, his hand on Maggie’s back to keep them both calm. Twenty-five minutes later Maggie sniffed, and her ears went up on alert. Scott clipped her lead and waited. When Paul Budress appeared, they got out.

“She had you forty seconds before I saw you.”

Budress was clearly uncomfortable. His mouth was an unhappy line and his eyes were narrowed to slits.

“The rats left. They decided you weren’t coming in.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Hell, man, I know, else I wouldn’t be here.”

Scott hadn’t been able to figure out what to do with Maggie while he was in jail, so he called Budress from the freeway. Budress thought he was crazy, but here he was.

Scott held out the lead. Budress frowned for a moment, but took it. He let Maggie sniff his hand, and ruffled her head.

“We’ll take a walk. Text me when you’re out.”

“If they take her, find her a good home, okay?”

“She has a home. Go.”

Scott walked quickly away and did not look back. They knew Maggie would try to follow him, and she did. In her world, they were a pack, and the pack stayed together.

Maggie whined and barked, and he heard her claws scrape the tarmac like files. Budress had cautioned him not to look back or wave bye-bye or any of the silly things people did. Dogs weren’t people. Eye contact would make her struggle harder to reach him. A dog could see your heart in your eyes, Budress told him, and dogs were drawn to our hearts.

Scott dodged cars to cross the street, and entered the main entrance. During his seven years as a patrol officer, he had visited MCJ less than two dozen times. Most of these had been to transport suspects or prisoners from his area station, and deliveries were made up a ramp in the back.

Scott took a moment to orient himself, then told a Sheriff’s Deputy he was scheduled to see a prisoner, and gave Marshall’s name. Standing there in his dark navy uniform with his badge pinned to his chest, Scott looked nothing like a Robbery-Homicide detective. He took a breath, and identified himself as Bud Orso.

The dep made a call without comment, and a female deputy appeared a few minutes later.

“You Orso?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’re bringing him up. I’ll take you back.”

Scott felt little relief. He followed her past a security station to a room where she asked for his handcuffs and weapon. She gave him a receipt, locked both in a gun safe, and showed him to an interview room. Scott was pleased with the room. Civilian visitors and attorneys were brought to booths where they talked to prisoners on phones while separated by a heavy glass screen. Law-enforcement personnel required an interview environment with greater flexibility. The room contained an ancient Formica-topped table and three plastic chairs. The table jutted from a wall, and was fitted with a steel rod for securing prisoners. Scott took a chair facing the door.

The deputy said, “Here he comes. You need anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“I’m at the end of the hall when you finish. Out this door, turn right. We’ll get you your things.”

An athletic young dep fresh from the Academy guided Marshall into the room. Marshall wore a bright blue jumpsuit, sneakers, and manacles on his pencil-thin wrists. He appeared even more frail than Scott remembered, which was probably from the withdrawal. Marshall glanced at Scott, and stared at the floor. Same as when he was led from his house.

The young dep seated Marshall in the chair facing Scott, and hooked the manacles to the steel rod.

Scott said, “You don’t need to do that. We’re fine.”

“Got to. Marshall, you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

The deputy closed the door on his way out.

Scott studied Marshall, and realized he didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know anything about Marshall Ishi other than he was a wasted-away tweaker with a brother and a girlfriend who were murdered the day before. Marshall probably learned about it this morning. The red eyes were probably from crying.

“You love your brother?”

Marshall glanced up before glancing away. Scott caught a flash of anger in the red eyes.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what kind of relationship you had. Some brothers, you know how it is, they hate each other. Others . . .”

Scott let it trail. The welling in Marshall’s eyes gave the answer.

“I raised him since he was nine.”

“I’m sorry. About Daryl, and Estelle, too. I know how it hurts.”

Marshall’s eyes flashed angry again.

“Oh, that’s right, for sure. Spare me, partner, how could you? Let’s get down to business here. Who killed my brother?”

Scott pushed his chair back, stood, and unbuttoned his shirt.

Marshall leaned back, clearly surprised. He didn’t understand what was happening, and shook his head.

“No, don’t do that. Stop, dude, I’ll call the sheriffs.”

Scott dropped his shirt on the chair, took off his undershirt, and watched Marshall’s expression change when he saw the gray lines across Scott’s left shoulder and the large, knobby Y that wrapped around his right side.

Scott let him take a good look.

“This is how I know.”

Marshall glanced at Scott, then went back to the scars. He couldn’t stop looking at the scars.

“What happened?”

Scott pulled on the undershirt, and buttoned his shirt.

“When you cut your plea, you told detectives about a Chinese import store you hit nine months ago. They asked if you saw a shooting. Three people were murdered. One left for dead.”

Marshall nodded as he answered.

“Yes, sir, they asked. I did commit that burglary, but I didn’t see the shooting. My understanding is all that happened after I left.”

He glanced at Scott’s shoulder, but the scars were hidden.

“Was that you, left for dead?”

Marshall was so genuine and natural, Scott knew he was telling the truth. The poly wasn’t necessary.

“I lost someone close that night. Last night, you lost your brother. The same people who did this to me killed Daryl.”

Marshall sat there, staring, his face pinched as he struggled to get his head around it. His eyes shimmered, and Scott thought, if Budress was right, if a dog saw a person’s heart through their eyes, Maggie would see a heart broken in Marshall.

“Help me out here, ’cause—”

“Was Daryl with you that night?”

Marshall leaned back again, and seemed irritated.

“What the fuck? I don’t take Daryl with me to do burglary. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Up on the roof. Your lookout.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

He meant it. Marshall was telling the truth.

“Daryl was there.”

“Bullshit. I’m telling you, he wasn’t.”

“What if I told you I could prove it?”

“I’d call you a liar.”

Scott decided to leave Maggie out of it, and tell Marshall they had a DNA match. But as he took out his phone for a picture of the watchband, it occurred to him Marshall might remember his brother’s watch.

He held out his phone so Marshall could see.

“Did Daryl have a watch with a band like this?”

Marshall slowly sat taller. He reached for the phone, but the manacles stopped him.

“I got that watch for him. I gave it to him.”

Scott thought carefully. Marshall was with him now, and Marshall would help. Luck was better than DNA.

“This was found on the sidewalk the morning I was shot. These little smears are from a fence on the roof. I don’t know when he was up there that night, or why, or what he saw, but Daryl was there.”

Marshall shook his head slow, trying to remember and asking himself questions.

“Are you saying he saw those murders?”

“I don’t know. He never mentioned it to you?”

“No, ’course not. Not ever. Jesus, don’t you think I’d remember?”

“I don’t know if he saw them or not, but I think the shooters were scared he had seen them.”

Marshall’s gaze shifted, searching the little room for answers.

“Y’all thought I saw the shootings, and I didn’t. Maybe Daryl was long gone like me, and didn’t see shit.”

“Then they killed him for nothing, and he’s still dead.”

Marshall wiped his eyes on his shoulders, leaving dark spots on the blue.

“Goddamnit, this is bullshit. Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“I want them, Marshall. For me and my friend, and for Daryl. I need your help to get this done.”

“What the fuck, if he saw something, he didn’t tell me. Shit, even if he didn’t see anything, he didn’t tell me. Probably scared I’d kick his ass!”

“Something crazy and exciting like this? Let’s say he saw it. Let’s pretend.”

Because if Daryl left the roof having seen nothing, Scott had no place to go.

“It’s a big thing to hold. Who would he tell? His best friend. A person he might tell even if he was too scared to tell anyone else.”

Marshall’s head bobbed.

“Amelia. His baby mama.”

“Daryl has a child?”

Marshall’s gaze flicked around the room as he sorted through memories.

“Be about two, a girl. Don’t really know it’s Daryl’s, but she says it is. He loves her.”

Then Marshall realized what he’d said.

“Loved.”

Her name was Amelia Goyta. The baby’s name was Gina. Marshall didn’t know the address, but told Scott where to find her building. Marshall hadn’t seen the baby in almost a year, and wanted to know if she looked like Daryl.

Scott promised to let Marshall know, and was leaving to find the deputy when Marshall twisted around in his chair and asked a question Scott had been asking himself.

“All this time later, why they all of a sudden get scared Daryl seen’m? How’d they know Daryl was up there?”

Scott thought he knew, but didn’t share the answer.

“Marshall, the detectives will probably come see you. Don’t tell them about this. Don’t tell anyone unless you hear that I’m dead.”

Marshall’s red eyes grew scared.

“I won’t.”

“Not even the detectives. Especially not the detectives.”

Scott took a right turn out the door, collected his handcuffs and gun, and left the jail as quickly as he could.

He waited on the sidewalk by the parking lot for almost ten minutes before Budress and Maggie rounded the corner. Maggie bounced and yelped and strained at her lead, so Budress let her go. She raced toward Scott with her ears back and tongue out, looking like the happiest dog in the world. Scott opened his arms, and caught her when she plowed into him. Eighty-five pounds of black-and-tan love.

Budress didn’t look as happy as Maggie.

“What happened in there?”

“I’m still in the game.”

Budress grunted.

“Okay, then. Okay. I’ll see you later.”

Budress turned to leave.

“Paul. Marshall recognized the watchband. It was Daryl’s. Maggie pinned him, man.”

Budress glanced at the dog, then the man.

“Never doubt.”

“I didn’t.”

Scott and Maggie climbed into their car.

32.

Scott found Amelia Goyta’s prewar apartment house on a shabby run-down street north of the freeway in Echo Park. The old building had three floors, four units per floor, an interior central stair, no air-conditioning, and was pretty much identical to every building on the block except for the Crying Virgin. A towering Virgin Mary crying tears of blood was painted on the front of her building. Marshall told Scott the painting looked more like an anorexic Smurf, but he couldn’t miss it. Marshall had told it true. The Virgin Smurf was three stories tall.

Marshall didn’t remember which was Amelia’s apartment, so Scott checked with the manager. Wearing his uniform helped. Top floor in back, 304.

Scott wondered if news of Daryl’s death had reached Amelia. When he and Maggie reached the third floor, he heard crying and knew it had. He paused outside her door to listen, and Maggie sniffed at the floor jamb. Inside, a child wailed between whooping breaths, as a sobbing woman alternated pleas to stop crying with reassurances they were going to be okay.

Scott rapped on the door.

The child kept wailing, but the sobbing stopped. A moment later, the wailing stopped, too, but no one came to the door.

Scott rapped again, and gave her his patrol officer’s voice.

“Police officer. Please open the door.”

Twenty seconds passed without a response, so Scott knocked again.

“Police officer. Open the door or I’ll have the manager let me in.”

The wailing began again, and now the woman’s sob came from the other side of the door.

“Go away. Go AWAY! You’re not the police.”

She sounded afraid, so Scott softened his voice.

“Amelia? I’m a police officer. I’m here about Daryl Ishi.”

“What’s your name? WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

“Scott James.”

Her voice rose to a frantic scream.

“TELL ME YOUR NAME.”

“Scott. James. My name is SCOTT. Police officer. Open the door, Amelia. Is Gina safe? I’m not leaving until I see that she’s safe.”

When he finally heard the deadbolt slide, Scott stepped away to appear less threatening. Maggie automatically stood by his left leg as she’d been trained, and faced the door.

A girl not more than twenty peeked out when the door opened. She had long, straw-colored hair and pale, freckled skin. Her eyes and nose were red, and her lips quivered between gasps, but nothing about her expression suggested a broken heart or mourning.

Scott had seen her expression on the faces of women who were punching bags for their husbands, hookers on the run from pimps out to cut them, and the shell-shocked faces of rape victims. He had seen it on mothers with missing children—an expectation that something worse was coming. Scott knew the face of fear. He saw it on Amelia Goyta, and instantly knew Daryl had witnessed the shooting, and told her he would be killed if the shooters found out.

She wiped away snot, and asked him again.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Scott. This is Maggie. Are you and Gina okay?”

She glanced at Maggie.

“I gotta pack. We’re leaving.”

“Can I see the baby, please? I want to see she’s okay.”

Amelia glanced toward the stairs as if someone might be hiding, then threw open the door and hurried to her child. Gina was in a playpen, her face pinched and smeared with snot. She had dark hair, but looked nothing like Daryl. Amelia lifted her, jiggled her, and put her back in the playpen.

“Here, you see? She’s fine. Now I gotta pack, I got a friend coming. Rachel.”

A faded blue wheelie carry-on was waiting by the door. A Samsonite suitcase older than Scott was open like a giant clam on the floor, half-filled with toys and baby supplies. She ran into the bedroom, and returned dragging a brown garbage bag fat with clothes.

Scott said, “Did Daryl say they would kill you?”

Amelia dropped the bag by the door, and ran back to the bedroom.

“Yes! That dumbass piece of shit. He said they’d kill us, and I ain’t waiting.”

“Who killed him?”

“The fuckin’ killers. You’re the policeman. Don’t you know?”

She ran back with a wastebasket filled with combs, brushes, hair spray, and toiletries. She upended it into the Samsonite, tossed the basket aside, and pushed a small velvet pouch into Scott’s hands.

“Here. Take’m. I told the dumb fuck he was an idiot.”

Scott caught her arm as she turned for the bedroom.

“Slow down. Listen to me, Amelia. Nine months ago. What did Daryl tell you?”

She sobbed, and rubbed her eye.

“He saw these masked dudes shoot up a car.”

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

“He said if they knew he saw, they’d fuckin’ kill us and the baby, too. I want to pack.”

She tried to twist away, but Scott held her. Maggie edged closer and growled.

“I’m here to stop them, okay? That’s why I’m here. So help me. Tell me what Daryl said.”

She stopped fighting him, and gazed down at Maggie.

“Is that a guard dog?”

“Yes. A guard dog. What did Daryl tell you?”

Scott felt her relax as she considered the guard dog, and turned loose her arms.

“He was on some building somewhere, and heard a crash. Stupid Daryl went to see, and here’s this truck and the cops and these men were around this Rolls-Royce, shooting the shit out of it.”

Scott didn’t bother to correct her.

“He said it was crazy. He was, like, fuck, it was Tarantino, these masked guys shootin’ the cops and the Rolls. Daryl freaked, and slammed down off the roof, but it was all quiet when he hit the ground, and they were yellin’ at each other, so idiot fuckass Daryl goes to see.”

“Did he tell you what they were saying?”

“Just bullshit, hurry up, find the damned thing, whatever. They were scared of the sirens. The sirens were coming.”

Scott realized he had stopped breathing. His pulse had grown loud in his ears.

“Did Daryl say what they found?”

“This one dude gets in the Rolls, and jumps out with a briefcase. They piled into this car and tore out of there, and stupid Daryl, he’s thinking, rich people in this Rolls, he might get a ring or a watch, so he runs to the car.”

Scott thought Daryl had embellished his story.

“With the sirens getting closer?”

“Is that fuckin’ damaged? These two people are shot to shit, blood everywhere, and my moron boyfriend risks his life for eight hundred dollars and this—”

She slapped the velvet pouch.

“I said, you stupid shit, are you crazy? The money had blood on it. Idiot Daryl had blood all over, and he’s freaking. He made me promise, we can’t tell, we can’t even hint, ’cause these maniacs would kill us.”

“Did he see their faces?”

“You didn’t hear what I just said? They had masks.”

“Maybe one of them took off his mask.”

“He didn’t say.”

“How about a tattoo, hair color, a ring or a watch? Did he describe them in any way?”

“All I remember is masks, like ski masks.”

Scott thought harder.

“You kept asking my name. Why were you asking my name?”

“I thought you were them.”

“Meaning what? He heard their names?”

“Snell. He heard this one guy say, ‘Snell, c’mon.’ If your name was Snell, I wasn’t going to let you in. Listen, man, I gotta pack. Please. Rachel is coming.”

Scott looked at the pouch. It was lavender velvet, closed by a drawstring, with a dark discoloration. Scott opened it, and poured seven gray rocks into his palm. Maggie raised her nose, curious about the pouch because Scott was curious. This was something he had learned about her. If he focused on something, she was interested. Scott poured the stones back into the pouch, and slipped the pouch into his pocket.

“When will Rachel be here?”

“Now. Any second.”

“Pack. I’ll help carry your stuff.”

She was ready to go when Rachel arrived. Scott carried the Samsonite and the garbage bag stuffed with clothes. Amelia carried the little girl and a pillow, and Rachel carried everything else. Scott unclipped Maggie, and let her follow off-leash. At Scott’s request, Amelia left her apartment unlocked.

When everything was in the car, Scott asked for her and Rachel’s cell numbers, and took Amelia aside.

“Don’t tell anyone you’re with Rachel. Don’t tell anyone what you think happened to Daryl, or what Daryl saw that night.”

“Can’t a policeman stay with me? Like in witness protection?”

Scott ignored the question.

“You hear about Marshall? He’s in Men’s Central Jail?”

“Uh-uh. I didn’t know.”

Scott repeated it.

“Men’s Central Jail. I’m going to call you in two days, okay? But if you don’t hear from me, on the third day, I want you to go see Marshall. Tell him what you told me.”

“Marshall don’t like me.”

“Bring Gina. Tell him what Daryl saw. Tell him everything just like you told me.”

She was scared and confused, and Scott thought she might get in the car and tell Rachel to never stop driving, but she looked at Maggie.

“I get a big enough place, I want a dog.”

Then she got into Rachel’s car and they left.

Scott let Maggie pee, then picked up his dive bag, and lugged it up to Amelia’s apartment. He found a large pot in the kitchen, filled it with water, and set the pot on the floor.

“This is yours. We may be here a few days.”

Maggie sniffed at the water, and walked away to explore the apartment.

Scott sat with the dive bag on Amelia’s couch in Amelia’s living room in Amelia’s apartment, and stared at the wall. He felt tired, and wished he were living on the far side of the world under an assumed name, with a head that wasn’t filled with anger and fear.

Scott opened the velvet pouch and poured out the pebbles. He was pretty sure the seven little rocks were uncut diamonds. Each was about the size of his fingernail, translucent, and gray. They looked like crystal meth, and the irony made him smile.

He poured them back into the pouch, and the smile went with them.

Interpol had supposedly connected Beloit to a French diamond fence, which led Melon and Stengler to speculate that Beloit had smuggled diamonds into the country for delivery, or had come to the U.S. to pick up diamonds the fence purchased. Either way, the bandits learned of the plan, followed Beloit’s movements, and murdered Beloit and Pahlasian during the robbery. Melon and Stengler used these assumptions to drive the case until the same person who tipped them to Beloit’s diamond connection later told them Beloit had no such involvement.

The I-Man. Ian Mills.

Scott thought it through. Melon and Stengler knew nothing of Beloit’s diamond connection until Mills brought it to their attention. Why bring it up, and later discredit it? Either Mills had bad information when he cleared Beloit and made an honest mistake, or he lied to turn the investigation. Scott wondered how Mills knew about the connection, and why he later changed his mind.

Scott searched his dive bag for the clippings he collected during the early weeks of the investigation. Melon still ran the case at that time, and had given Scott a card with his home phone and cell number written on the back, saying Scott could call him anytime. That was before they reached the point Melon stopped returning his calls.

Scott stared at Melon’s number, trying to figure out what to say. Some calls were more difficult than others.

Maggie came out of the bedroom. She studied Scott for a moment, then went to the open window. He figured she was charting the scents of their new world.

Scott dialed the number. If his call went to Melon’s voice mail, he planned to hang up, but Melon answered on the fourth ring.

“Detective Melon, this is Scott James. I hope you don’t mind I called.”

There was a long silence before Melon answered.

“Guess it depends. How’re you doing?”

“I’d like to come see you, if it’s okay?”

“Uh-huh. And why is that?”

“I want to apologize. Face-to-face.”

Melon chuckled, and Scott felt a wave of relief.

“I’m retired, partner. If you want to drive all the way out here, come ahead.”

Scott copied Melon’s address, clipped Maggie’s lead, and drove up to the Simi Valley.

33.

Melon tipped his lawn chair back, and gazed up into the leaves.

“You see this tree? This tree wasn’t eight feet tall when my wife and I bought this place.”

Scott and Melon sat beneath the broad spread of an avocado tree in Melon’s backyard, sipping Diet Cokes with lemon wedges. Rotting avocados dotted the ground like poop, drawing clouds of swirling gnats. A few gnats circled Maggie, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Scott admired the tree.

“All the guac you can eat, forever. I love it.”

“I’ll tell you, some years, the best avocados you could want. Other years, they have these little threads all through them. I have to figure that out.”

Melon was a big fleshy man with thinning gray hair and wrinkled, sun-dark skin. He and his wife owned a small ranch house on an acre of land in the Santa Susana foothills, so far from Los Angeles they were west of the San Fernando Valley. It was a long commute to downtown L.A., but the affordable home prices and small-town lifestyle more than made up for the drive. A lot of police officers lived there.

Melon had answered the door wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He was friendly, and told Scott to take Maggie around the side of the house, and he would meet them in back. When Melon joined them a few minutes later, he brought Diet Cokes and a tennis ball. He showed Scott to the chairs, waved the ball in Maggie’s face, and sidearmed it across his yard.

Maggie ignored it.

Scott said, “She doesn’t chase balls.”

Melon looked disappointed.

“That’s a shame. I had a Lab, man, she’d chase balls all day. You like K-9?”

“I like it a lot.”

“Good. I know you had your heart set on SWAT. It’s good you found something else.”

As they settled under the tree, Scott remembered a joke Leland loved to tell.

“There’s only one difference between SWAT and K-9. Dogs don’t negotiate.”

Melon burst out laughing. When his laughter faded, Scott faced him.

“Listen, Detective Melon—”

Melon stopped him.

“I’m retired. Call me Chris or Bwana.”

“I was an asshole. I was rude and abusive, and wrong. I’m ashamed of the way I acted. I apologize.”

Melon stared for a moment, and tipped his glass.

“Unnecessary, but thank you.”

Scott clinked his glass to Melon’s, and Melon settled back.

“Just so you know, you were all that and then some, but, hell, man, I get it. Damn, but I wanted to close that case. Despite what you may think, I broke my ass, me and Stengler, shit, everyone involved.”

“I know you did. I’m reading the file.”

“Bud let you in?”

Scott nodded, and Melon tipped his glass again.

“Bud’s a good man.”

“I was blown away when I saw all the paperwork you guys generated.”

“Too many late nights. I’m surprised I’m still married.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Whatever you like.”

“I met Ian Mills—”

Melon’s laughter interrupted him.

“The I-Man! Bud tell you why they call him the I-Man?”

Scott found himself enjoying Melon’s company. On the job, he had been humorless and distant.

“Because his name is Ian?”

“Not even close, though that’s what everyone says to his face. Now don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine detective. He truly is, and he’s had a scrapbook career, but every time Ian is interviewed, it’s always, I discovered, I located, I apprehended, I take all the credit. Jesus, the I-Man? The ego.”

Melon laughed again, and Scott felt encouraged. Melon enjoyed talking about the I-Man and seemed willing to discuss the case, but Scott cautioned himself to tread carefully.

“Were you pissed at him?”

Melon appeared surprised.

“For what?”

“The business with Beloit. Chasing the diamond connection.”

“Him being hooked up with Arnaud Clouzot, the fence? Nah, Ian’s the guy who straightened it out. Interpol had a list of Clouzot associates, and Beloit was on the list. It was bogus. Clouzot’s business manager invested in a couple of Beloit’s projects along with a hundred fifty other people. That’s not a connection.”

“That’s what I mean. Seems he should’ve checked it out first. Save everyone the trouble.”

“Nah, he had to bring it. He had Danzer.”

Scott thought for a moment, but didn’t recognize the name.

“I don’t know it. What’s Danzer?”

“You know it. Danzer Armored Cars. Three or four weeks before Pahlasian, a Danzer car on its way from LAX to Beverly Hills was hit. The driver and two guards were killed. Bad guys got twenty-eight million in uncut diamonds, though you didn’t hear it on the news. Remember now?”

Scott was quiet for a long time. Pressure built in his temples as he thought about the velvet pouch in his pocket.

“Yeah, vaguely.”

“These big heists always end up with Special. Ian heard the rocks were going to France, so he asked Interpol for likely buyers. This was all weeks before Beloit was murdered, so his name meant nothing. But once he gets blown up, if you put Danzer in a world where Beloit is connected to Clouzot, you have to go with it. When you find out they’re not connected, Beloit’s just another Frenchman who got off the plane that night.”

Scott watched gnats circling the avocados. The I-Man was like a gnat circling Beloit. Scott felt the pouch through his pants, and ran his finger over the stones.

Melon swatted the air at a gnat. He checked his hand to see if he had the gnat.

“I hate these damned things.”

Scott wanted to ask Melon about the missing disc, but knew he had to be careful. Melon seemed fine with shooting the shit, but if he sensed Scott was investigating the investigation, he might pick up the phone.

“I get it, but I’m curious about something.”

“Don’t blame you. So am I.”

Scott smiled.

“You guys tracked Pahlasian and Beloit from LAX pretty much all the way to the kill zone. Where’d he pick up the diamonds?”

“He didn’t.”

“I meant before you cleared him. Where did you think he picked them up?”

“I knew what you meant. He didn’t. You know what happens when people steal diamonds?”

Melon didn’t wait for Scott to answer.

“They find a buyer. Sometimes it’s an insurance company, sometimes a fence like Clouzot. If a fence buys them, you know what the fence has to do? He has to find a buyer, too. We believed Clouzot bought the diamonds earlier, had them in France, and resold them to a buyer here in L.A.”

“Meaning Beloit was his delivery boy.”

“We had LAX video, baggage claim, parking structure, the restaurant, the bar. Unless somebody tossed him the rocks at a red light—which I considered—it was more likely he carried them in. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t in business with Clouzot, so the whole diamond thing was a mirage. You watch. Bud’s going to find out one or both of these people borrowed from the wrong guy and couldn’t hide behind Chapter Eleven.”

Scott felt he had pushed enough. He wanted to learn about Danzer, and decided to wind up his visit with Melon.

“Listen, Chris, thanks for letting me visit. Reading the file is an eye-opener. You did a great job.”

Melon nodded, and gave Scott a tiny smile.

“Appreciate it, but all I can say is, if you’re reading that file, you must be getting a lot of sleep.”

Melon laughed, and Scott laughed with him, but then Melon sobered and leaned toward him.

“Why are you here?”

Maggie looked up.

Melon’s eyes were webbed with lines, but clear and thoughtful. Melon had retired with thirty-four years on the job, and almost twenty in Robbery-Homicide. He had probably interviewed two thousand suspects, and put most of them in prison.

Scott knew he had crossed the line, but he wondered what Melon was thinking.

“What if Beloit had diamonds?”

“I’d find that interesting.”

“Danzer unsolved?”

Melon’s clear eyes never moved.

“Solved. Case closed.”

Scott was surprised, but read nothing in Melon’s eyes other than a thoughtful detachment.

“Did you talk to them?”

“Too late.”

Scott read something in the unmoving eyes.

“Why?”

“They were found shot to death in Fawnskin thirty-two days after you were shot. They’d been dead at least ten days.”

Fawnskin was a small resort town in the San Bernardino Mountains, two hours east of L.A.

“The crew who took Danzer? Positive IDs?”

“Positive. Professional takeover bandits. Long records.”

“That isn’t positive.”

“A gun matching the weapon used to kill the Danzer driver was found. Two uncut rocks were also found. Insurance company confirmed the rocks were part of the Danzer shipment. Positive enough?”

Scott slowly nodded.

“I guess it’s supposed to be.”

“Regardless, if I had to bet, I would bet they did it.”

“Were the diamonds recovered?”

“Not so far as I know.”

Scott found this an odd comment.

“Who killed them?”

“They were in a crappy cabin on the side of a mountain with no other cabins near by. The theory is, they hid out up there after the robbery, shopped for a buyer, and got ripped off.”

“Two months after the robbery?”

“Two months after the robbery.”

“You buy it?”

“Not sure. I’m trying to decide.”

Scott searched Melon’s eyes, and wondered if the man was giving him permission to ask more.

“Thirty-two days. You blew off Beloit before they were found.”

“This is true, but closing Danzer was a nice capper. It put the knife in any lingering doubts.”

“Who closed it?”

“San Bernardino Sheriffs.”

“Danzer was our case. Who closed it for us?”

“Ian.”

Melon pushed slowly to his feet, groaning like an old man.

“Sitting makes me stiff. C’mon, let’s get you on your way. It’s a longer drive than you think.”

Scott once more debated showing the diamonds to Melon as they walked to his car. Melon had obviously been thinking about these things, but only offered cryptic answers requiring Scott to read between the lines. This meant Melon was still on the fence, afraid, or playing Scott to learn what he knew. Scott decided the diamonds would stay in his pocket. He could not reveal the diamonds or Amelia to anyone he didn’t trust.

Scott let Maggie hop into the car, and turned back to Melon when a last question occurred to him.

“Did you watch the videos yourself?”

“Ha. Maybe Ian does everything himself, but I’m not the I-Man. A case this size, you delegate.”

“Meaning someone else checked them.”

“You trust what your people tell you.”

“Who checked them?”

“Different people. You might find something in the file or the evidence log.”

Scott expected this answer, but Melon also appeared to be giving him a direction. Then Melon added more.

“The I-Man makes out he’s a one-man show, but don’t you believe it. He has help. And you can bet they are people he trusts.”

Scott searched the clear, thoughtful eyes, and realized he would find only what Melon allowed him to find.

“Thanks for letting me come out. The apology was overdue.”

Scott slid in behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down the window. Melon looked past him to Maggie, who was already perched on the console.

“She doesn’t get in your way, riding like that?”

“I’m used to it.”

Melon shifted his gaze to Scott.

“I may be retired, but I’d still like to see this case closed. Take your time driving home. Stay safe.”

Scott backed out the long drive, and turned toward the freeway, wondering if Melon meant this as a warning or a threat.

Scott adjusted the mirror until he saw Melon, still on his driveway, watching.

34.

Scott climbed onto the Ronald Reagan Freeway, his stomach knotted and sour. He didn’t believe Melon would give him up, but Melon had walked him in circles, giving only enough to get. Melon was good, better than Scott had ever imagined, but Melon had given him Danzer.

The Danzer Armored Car robbery had been just another news story to Scott when it happened, of no more importance than any other, and quickly forgotten. During his weeks in the hospital, Scott had no knowledge of the Danzer case, and had not known an overlapping investigation into an armored-car robbery was having a major impact on his own. He had now read a five-inch stack of reports and interviews about Eric Pahlasian, but Pahlasian had no connection with diamonds, so Danzer had not been mentioned. Danzer Armored Car felt like a secret that had been hiding in the file. When Scott realized the total case file was four or five feet thick, he wondered how many more secrets were hiding.

The Santa Susana Pass was directly ahead, with the San Fernando Valley beyond it. After a while, Maggie left the console, stretched out across the back seat, and closed her eyes. After all the effort to make her sit in back, he missed having her next to him.

Scott rolled up his window, and checked his cell. His K-9 Platoon Lieutenant, the Metro Commander, and a woman who identified herself as an Internal Affairs Group detective named Nigella Rivers had left messages. Scott deleted them without listening. Budress had not called, and neither had Richard Levin. Joyce Cowly hadn’t called, either.

Scott wanted to call her. He wanted to hear her voice, and he wanted her to be on his side, but he didn’t know if he could trust her. He wanted to tell her everything, and show her the diamonds, but he could not put Amelia and her baby at risk. He had done this to Daryl. He had painted a target on Daryl’s back, and someone had pulled the trigger.

Scott drove on in silence, holding the phone in his lap. He glanced in the mirror. Maggie still slept. He touched the pouch through his pants to make sure it was real. He didn’t know what to do next or where to go, so he drove the lonely miles across the top of the Valley, thinking. He could start with the Internet. Search old news stories about Danzer and the dead men found on the mountain. See if the I-Man was mentioned. Search the stories for someone named Snell.

Sooner or later, he would go back to Cowly, and he needed something to back up Amelia’s story. He needed something that would convince her to help him without risking Amelia’s life.

Scott’s phone rang as he approached the I-5 interchange. He didn’t recognize the number, so he let the call go to voice mail. When the phone told him a message was waiting, he played back the message, and heard a bright male voice he didn’t recognize.

“Oh, hey, Detective James, this is Rich Levin, returning your call. Sure, whatever you want. I’m happy to answer your questions or help however I can. You have the number, but here it is again.”

Scott didn’t wait for the number. He hit the call back button. Rich Levin answered on the first ring.

“Hi, this is Rich.”

“Scott James. Sorry, I was on another call.”

“Oh, hey, no problem. We didn’t meet before, did we? I don’t remember your name.”

“No, sir, we didn’t. I’ve only been with the investigation for a couple of weeks.”

“Uh-huh, okay, I see.”

“You recall being interviewed by Detectives Melon and Stengler?”

“Oh, for sure. You bet.”

“Regarding customers named Pahlasian and Beloit?”

“The men who were murdered. Absolutely. I felt so bad. I mean, here they were enjoying themselves—well, not here, but at the club—and five minutes later this terrible thing happens.”

Levin liked to talk, which was good. More importantly, he was one of those people who liked to talk to police officers, which was better. Scott had met many such people. Levin enjoyed the interaction, and he would bend over backwards to help.

“The casebook here indicates you provided two video disc recordings from the night Pahlasian and Beloit were at the club.”

“Uh-huh. That’s right.”

“Did you deliver them personally to Detective Melon?”

“No, I don’t think he was there. I left them with an officer there in the lobby. At that desk. He said that was fine.”

“Ah, okay. And this was two discs, not one.”

“That’s right. Two.”

“Two different discs, or two copies of the same disc?”

“No, no, they were different. I explained this to Detective Melon.”

“He retired, so he isn’t here. I’m trying to make sense of these files and log entries, and between me and you, I’m lost.”

Richard Levin laughed.

“Oh, hey, I totally get it. Here’s what happened. I burned one disc off the inside camera and one off the outside camera. They feed to separate hard drives, so it was easier that way.”

Scott flashed on the parking lot outside Club Red, and felt an adrenaline rush.

“A camera covers the parking lot?”

“Mm-hm. That’s right. I clipped the time from their arrival to their departure. That’s what Detective Melon said he wanted.”

Secret pieces appeared. One by one, they snapped together. A pressure in Scott released like a cracking knuckle.

Maggie sensed something, and stirred behind him. He glanced in the mirror, and saw her stand.

Scott said, “I’m embarrassed to say this, really, but it looks like we lost the outside disc.”

“No worries. That isn’t a problem.”

The man sounded so confident Scott wondered if Levin had walked them to their car, and could describe the entire evening.

“Do you recall what Pahlasian or Beloit did in the parking lot?”

“I can do better than that. I have copies. I’ll burn a replacement for you. That way nobody gets in trouble.”

Levin laughed when he said it, and the adrenaline burn grew fierce.

“That’s great, Mr. Levin. We don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”

“I can send them or drop them? That same address?”

“I’ll pick them up. Now, tonight, tomorrow morning. It’s kind of important.”

Scott drove on as they worked it out. Maggie climbed onto the console, and rode at his side until they left the freeway.

35.

At ten-oh-four the next morning, Cowly was in her cubicle. She stood, straightened her pants, and used the opportunity to check the squad room. Orso was in the LT’s office, discussing Daryl Ishi’s murder with Topping, Ian Mills, two Rampart Homicide detectives, and an IAG rat. The rat was grilling Orso about Scott’s access to the case file. They were digging for some sort of administrative violation, and Orso was pissed. Cowly had already been questioned, and expected to be questioned again.

Two-thirds of the squad cubicles were empty, which was typical with detectives out working cases. The remaining cubicles were occupied, including the cubicle next door. Her neighbor was a D-III named Harlan Meeks, but Meeks was on the phone with one of his four girlfriends, flashing his perfect false teeth and shoveling bullshit.

Cowly sat, picked up her phone, and resumed her conversation.

“Okay, keep going. Does it match or not?”

The SID criminalist, John Chen, sounded smug.

“Tell me I’m a genius. I want to hear those words drip over your luscious, beautiful lips.”

“You’ll hear the sound of a harassment charge. Knock off the crap.”

Chen turned sulky.

“I guess we were too busy flirting to pay attention in science class. Only iron and iron alloys rust, and rust, by definition, is iron oxide. Hence, all rust is the same.”

“So you can’t tell?”

“Of course I can tell. That’s why I’m a genius. I didn’t look at the rust. I looked at what’s in the rust. In this case, paint. Both samples contain paint residue showing titanium dioxide, carbon, and lead in identical proportions.”

“Meaning, the rust on the watchband came from the fence?”

“That’s what I said.”

Cowly put down her phone and stared at the picture of her niece and nephews. Her brother was making noise about a family cruise to Alaska. It was one of those ten- or eleven-day voyages where you sail from Vancouver, follow the Canadian coast from port to port, and end up in Alaska. See glaciers, he said. Killer whales. Cowly had her fill of killers on the job.

Orso and the others were still locked in conversation. Cowly got up, and wound her way past Topping’s office to the coffeepot. She took her time, trying to eavesdrop. The faces in these meetings changed, but the talk remained the same, and Cowly found it troubling. People who should have no knowledge of such things discussed Scott James’ psychiatric and medical history with authoritative detail as they debated a warrant for his arrest. It seemed like a done deal.

The I-Man noticed her lingering at the coffee machine, and closed the door. Cowly dumped the coffee and returned to her cubicle.

The phone rang as she settled into her chair.

“Detective Cowly.”

Scott James asked her the damnedest question.

“Can I trust you?”

She straightened enough to glance next door. Meeks was still on with his girlfriend, laughing too hard at something she said. Cowly lowered her voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you a bad cop, Joyce? Are you part of this?”

His voice was so strained she grew scared the people in Topping’s office were right. She lowered her voice even more.

“Where are you?”

“Someone broke into my home. The next night, someone broke into my shrink’s office and stole my file. Dr. Charles Goodman. North Hollywood detectives Broder and Kurland have it. Call. So you know this is real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Call. Whoever stole Goodman’s file is feeding the information to someone inside the department, and that someone is trying to frame me.”

Cowly checked the squad room. No one was listening or paying attention.

“I don’t like where you’re going with this.”

“I don’t like living it.”

“Why did you run? You know how bad that looks?”

“I didn’t run. I’m getting it done.”

“What are you getting done?”

“I have things to show you. I’m not far away.”

“What things?”

“Not over the phone.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m on your side. I had SID check the rust on Daryl’s watchband. It matches the rust on the roof, okay? He was there.”

“I can beat that. I have the missing disc.”

She checked Topping’s office. The door was still closed. Meeks was still on with his girlfriend.

“The Club Red disc? Where would you get the missing disc?”

“The manager kept copies. You want to see this, Joyce. Know why you want to see it?”

She knew what he thought, and gave him his own answer.

“Someone doesn’t want me to.”

“Yep. Someone up there with you.”

“Who would this be?”

“Ian Mills.”

“Are you crazy?”

“That’s what they say. Call North Hollywood.”

“I don’t need to call them. Where are you?”

“Left turn out of the building, walk across Spring Street. If it’s safe, I’ll pick you up.”

“Jesus, Scott, what do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who to trust.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Come alone.”

“I get it.”

When Cowly put down the phone, she realized her hands were shaking. She rubbed them together as Topping’s door opened, and the sudden surprise made them shake worse. Ian Mills came out, followed by the IAG rat and one of the Rampart dicks. Mills glanced at her, so she snatched up her phone and pretended to talk. He glanced at her again as he passed, but kept going and left the squad room.

Cowly continued her fake conversation, waiting to see if Orso emerged. She waited for thirty seconds, then put down the phone, slung her purse on her shoulder, and quickly left the building.

36.

Scott let the Trans Am idle forward. He watched the Boat’s entrance from across City Hall Park. Maggie was on the console, with the AC blowing in her face. The cold air rippled her fur. She seemed to like it.

Scott hoped Cowly would show, but wasn’t sure she would. Ten minutes had passed. He grew afraid she was telling Orso or the other dicks about his call, and the passing time meant they were figuring out what to do.

Cowly appeared beneath the Boat’s glass prow and walked quickly toward Spring Street. She stopped at the corner for the light to change, and started across. Scott watched the prow, but no one appeared to be following her. He pulled up beside her at the next corner, and rolled down the window.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No, I didn’t tell anyone. Can you get this dog out of the way?”

Maggie moved to the back seat when Cowly opened the door, almost as if she understood the front seat wasn’t large enough.

Cowly dropped into the car, and pulled the door. He could tell she was angry, but it couldn’t be helped. He needed her help.

“Jesus, look at this hair. It’s going to be all over my suit.”

Scott accelerated away, checking his mirror for a tail car.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. Thanks.”

“I didn’t tell anyone. Nobody’s behind us.”

Scott took the first turn, and kept an eye on the mirror.

“Suit yourself. Where are we going?”

“Close.”

“This better be worth all the drama. I hate drama.”

Scott didn’t respond. He rounded the block, and a few seconds later badged their way into the Stanley Mosk Courthouse parking lot. Juror parking. They were three blocks from the Boat.

He found a spot in the shade and shut down the engine.

“There’s a laptop on the floor by your feet. We’ll watch, and you can tell me if I’m being dramatic.”

She handed the laptop to him. He opened it to bring it to life, and handed it back. The disc was already loaded. The recording’s opening image was frozen in the player’s window. It showed a bright, clear, high-angle image of the Club Red parking lot illuminated by infrared light. There were hints of color, though the colors were mostly bleached to grays. The angle included the club’s red entrance, the parking attendant’s shack on the far side of the entrance, and most of the parking lot. Scott had watched the disc seven times.

Cowly said, “The Club Red parking lot?”

“Outside camera. Before you see this, you need to know a couple of things. I have more than a disc. Daryl saw the shooting. He told a friend about it, and I have the friend.”

Cowly looked dubious.

“Is this person credible?”

“Let’s watch. Daryl told his friend one of the shooters took a briefcase from the Bentley. I’ve cued it to the end, when they leave.”

Scott leaned close, and touched the Play button. The frozen image immediately snapped to life. Pahlasian and Beloit emerged from the club, and stopped a few paces outside the door. A parking attendant scurried to meet them. Pahlasian gave him a claim check. The attendant ducked into his shack for the keys, then trotted across the parking lot until the camera no longer saw him. Pahlasian and Beloit remained outside the door, talking.

Scott said, “We can fast-forward.”

“I’m good.”

A minute later, the Bentley heaved into view from the lower right corner of the frame, moving away from the camera. The brake lights flared red, and Pahlasian stepped forward to meet it. The attendant got out, and traded the keys for a tip. Pahlasian got in, but Beloit walked past him to the street in the background. His murky image could be seen on the sidewalk, but he was too far out of the light to be seen clearly. Pahlasian closed his door, and waited.

Scott said, “It goes on like this for twenty-five minutes.”

“What?”

“Beloit is waiting for someone. This is the missing time.”

“I’m fine.”

Two young women as thin as reeds arrived in a Ferrari. A single man left in a Porsche, followed by a middle-aged couple who left in a Jaguar. When the cars entered or left, their headlights flashed over Beloit, who paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Pahlasian remained in the car.

Scott said, “It’s coming. Watch.”

A car on the street slowly passed Beloit, and stopped. Beloit was lit by its brake lights, and could be seen moving toward the car. Once he passed the brake lights, he could no longer be seen.

Cowly said, “Can you tell what kind of car that is?”

“No. Too dark.”

A minute later, Beloit walked from the darkness into the parking lot with a briefcase in his left hand. He got into the Bentley, and Pahlasian pulled away.

Scott stopped the playback, and looked at her.

“Someone in the investigation watched this, right? They told Melon and Stengler there was nothing worth seeing, and then they got rid of the disc.”

Cowly slowly nodded. Her eyes seemed lost.

“A briefcase wasn’t found in the Bentley.”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Not yet, but you will. Do you remember the Danzer Armored Car robbery?”

A deep line appeared between her eyebrows.

“Of course. Melon thought Beloit was here for the diamonds.”

“Twenty-eight million dollars in uncut, commercial-grade diamonds, right?”

Cowly gave the slow nod again, almost as if she sensed what was coming.

Scott took the velvet pouch with the ugly stain from his pocket, and dangled it between them. Her eyes went to the pouch, and returned to his.

“Daryl didn’t only describe what he saw. He gave his friend something he took off one of the bodies after the shooters left. What do you think they are?”

He poured the stones into his hand.

“Holy shit.”

“Really? My guess is uncut, commercial-grade diamonds.”

She stared at him, not amused.

“You believe the diamonds were in the briefcase?”

“That would be my guess. What’s yours?”

“That this stain on the pouch scores a DNA match with Beloit.”

“We’re on the same page.”

Scott poured the stones back into the pouch, and found Cowly still staring at him.

“Who gave these to you?”

“I can’t tell you, Joyce. I’m sorry.”

“Who did Daryl confess to?”

“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

“These things are evidence, Scott. This person has direct knowledge. This is how you build a case.”

“This is how you get someone killed. Someone up there murdered Daryl. Someone is trying to frame me for killing three people.”

“If this is true, we have to prove it. That’s how it’s done.”

“How, open a case? Go to Orso, and say, hey, what should we do about this? If one person up there knows, everybody knows, and I would be putting a target on this person’s back just like I put one on Daryl.”

“That’s crazy. You didn’t kill Daryl.”

“I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

“You have to trust someone.”

Scott glanced at Maggie.

“I do. The dog.”

Cowly’s face turned hard as glass.

“Fuck. You.”

“I trust you, Joyce. You. That’s why I called you. But I don’t know who else is involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Danzer. Everything started with Danzer.”

“Danzer closed. Those guys were murdered up in San Bernardino somewhere.”

“Fawnskin. One month after the briefcase you saw in this video was stolen from Georges Beloit. The diamonds were never recovered. These diamonds.”

Scott dangled the pouch, then pushed it into his pocket.

“The Danzer crew—dead. Beloit and Pahlasian—dead. Daryl Ishi—dead. And the I-Man keeps showing up. West L.A. opened the Danzer case, the I-Man pulled it downtown, and used the West L.A. guys for his task force.”

Her mouth was a tight, grim line as Cowly shook her head.

“That’s totally normal.”

“Fuck normal. Nothing about this is normal. The I-Man shoved Beloit at Melon to convince Melon that Beloit had no connection to the diamonds—the same diamonds Daryl Ishi took off Beloit’s body.”

“Why would he do that?”

“The same reason someone lied about what they saw on this disc. Because Melon or Stengler or you would eventually find out about Beloit and Clouzot. The I-Man put himself in a position to control what Melon knew. Melon wouldn’t question him. Melon had to believe him. He did. Melon told me how it worked.”

“You went to Melon?”

“I got a vibe, like he has doubts about Danzer, and how Danzer closed.”

Scott could tell she was fitting the pieces together.

“We have to look at the people who opened the case, and see how they’re tied with the I-Man. Melon gave me a hint. He told me the I-Man never does anything alone, and only with people he trusts. He wasn’t implying they’re honest.”

“What do you want?”

“A head-shot case. Something so tight they’re off the street before they know it, and can’t kill anyone else.”

“Sooner or later, we’ll need Daryl’s friend. We need a sworn statement. Whatever this person says has to be checked. We might need a poly.”

“When you’re ready to lock the cuffs, I’ll take you to Daryl’s friend.”

“We’ll need DNA from the pouch, and an order for SID to run it. We’ll need the insurance company or some other authority to affirm these diamonds were stolen from Danzer.”

“You can have everything.”

“Great. Everything. Can I at least have the disc?”

“Why stir the water?”

Cowly sighed, and opened the door.

“I’ll walk back. I’ll see what I can find out, and let you know.”

Scott gave her the last thing.

“Daryl heard a name.”

She stopped with one leg out the door, and stared at him.

“One of the shooters called another by name. Snell.”

“Are you holding back anything else?”

“No. That’s it. Snell.”

“Snell.”

She got out, closed the door, and started away.

“Stay clear of the I-Man, Joyce. Please. Don’t trust anyone.”

Cowly stopped, and looked back through the window.

“Too late. I’m trusting you.”

Scott watched her walk across the parking lot, and felt his heart breaking.

“You shouldn’t.”

He had pinned a target on Cowly’s back now, and knew he could not protect her.

37.

Cowly brushed at the last of the dog hair stuck to her pants, and stepped off the elevator. She stared down a hall she had walked for over three years, only now the hall loomed taller and wider and went on forever, and everyone in it watched her. A sharp pain stabbed behind her right eye. She heard her mother’s voice, I warned you not to watch so much TV, it must be a brain tumor. If only. Maybe her mother was right, and the tumor had made her as crazy as Scott. Only Scott wasn’t crazy. Scott had the disc and the diamonds.

She pushed one foot forward and the next and after a while she entered the squad room. Orso was in his cubicle. Topping’s door was open, but now her office was empty. Meeks checked the time like he was anxious to leave. Men and women she had known for three years worked and talked and got coffee.

Are you part of it?

Can I trust you?

Cowly went to the conference room, and sat down with the murder book. She sat facing the door so she could see if someone was coming.

Cowly had spent most of her walk back from the Stanley Mosk Courthouse figuring out how to find out who opened the original Danzer case file at West Los Angeles Robbery. She couldn’t ask Ian or anyone who worked with Ian, and she couldn’t call West L.A. Robbery. If Scott was right, and these guys were bad, any question about Danzer would be a warning.

Cowly had read the murder book twice and the complete case file once. She had only skimmed the sections referencing Beloit, Arnaud Clouzot, and Danzer. Knowing the Clouzot connection had been discounted by Robbery Special months earlier, she had seen no point in wasting time on a blind alley. She flipped through now, searching for the Danzer case number.

Cowly quickly found the number, and took it back to her cubicle.

She brought up the LAPD File Storage page, and was typing in the number when Orso surprised her.

“Have you heard from Scott?”

She swiveled to face him, trying to draw his eye from her computer. He glanced at her screen before he looked at her.

“No. Is he still in the wind?”

Orso’s face was pinched.

“Would you mind calling him?”

“Why would I call him?”

“Because I’m asking. I left a message, but nothing. Maybe he’ll call you back.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“I’ll give it to you. If you reach him, try to talk sense to him. This thing is getting out of hand.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He glanced at her computer again, and turned away.

“Bud. You think he killed those people?”

Orso made a face.

“Of course not. I’ll get his number.”

Cowly cleared her screen, and fidgeted until Orso returned. She typed in her file request as soon as he was gone. Officers were only allowed to request materials relevant to a case they were working on, so Cowly provided the number for an unsolved homicide that had been on her table for two years.

Case #WL-166491 appeared as a PDF. The first document was a closure form filled out and signed by Ian Mills, along with a three-page statement describing how Dean Trent, Maxwell Gibbons, and Kim Leon Jones, all deceased, were found and identified as the perpetrators of the Danzer Armored Car robbery. Mills cited and referenced SID and San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department reports tying a weapon found as having been a weapon used in the Danzer robbery, as well as Transnational Insurance Corporation documents affirming that the two diamonds found were among those stolen in the robbery. He concluded that the three perpetrators of the robbery were now dead, and as such, the case was rightfully being closed.

Boilerplate bullshit.

Cowly skimmed the documents Ian attached, until she found the beginning of the original West L.A. file. It opened with a couple of form documents filled in and signed by the detectives who caught the case, followed by a scene report describing how the detectives received their orders to report to the scene, and what they found when they arrived. Cowly didn’t bother reading it. She skipped to the end. The report was signed by Detective George Evers and Detective David Snell.

Cowly blanked her screen.

Orso was in his cubicle, talking on the phone. Topping’s door was closed. She stood, took in the room, then sat and stared at the screen.

She said, “You sonofabitch.”

Cowly abruptly stood, and walked down the hall to the Robbery squad room. Same cubicles, same carpet, same everything. A Robbery detective named Amy Linh was in the first cubicle.

“Is Ian here?”

“I think so. I just saw him.”

Cowly walked back to Ian’s office. The I-Man was scribbling something on a report when Cowly walked in. He looked surprised when he saw her, and maybe a little watchful.

“Ian, you have more names to go with those white sideburns? We gotta bust these low-life, scumbag pieces of shit. We gotta fuck’m up.”

She wanted to see him. She wanted to say it.

“I hear ya. I’ll get you those names as soon as I can.”

Cowly stalked back to her desk.

George Evers.

David Snell.

She wanted to find out everything about them, and she knew how to do it.

38.

Robbery Special Section kept extensive files on people who stole for a living, whether they were actively being sought on warrant or not. Not chickenshit perps like teenage car thieves or the clowns who knocked over an occasional gas station, but hard-core professional thieves. Fifty minutes after Cowly left his office, Ian was searching this database for likely white-haired drivers when his email chimed, and he saw the note.

His shoulders tightened when he saw it was an auto-notification from the Storage Bureau. Such notifications were available at the option of the commanding bureau, unit, or closing officer, and Ian had opted to be notified when any of his closed cases were requested. He did this for every case he closed, but he only cared about four. The others were only a cover story.

Ian got up, closed his door, and returned to his desk. He had only received three notifications since the LAPD adopted the new system. Each time, he was afraid to open them, but all three had turned out to reference meaningless cases. It took him a full thirty seconds to work up his nut before opening it now. Then his belly flushed with acid.

Danzer.

The information provided by the notification was slight. It did not include the name of the requesting officer or agency, only the date and time of request, and the requesting officer’s active case number.

The case number told him plenty, and he didn’t like what it told him.

The number bore an HSS designator, which meant it was a Homicide Special Section case. Any dick on the Homicide side could walk forty feet, and ask whatever they wanted about Danzer, but someone had chosen to keep him out of the loop. This wasn’t good. An active case number was required to process the retrieval, which meant their case file was locked, but Ian had a work-around.

He phoned down the hall, calling Nan Riley. Nan was a civilian employee, and Carol Topping’s office assistant.

“Hey, Nanny, it’s Ian. Are you as beautiful now as you were ten minutes ago?”

Nan laughed, as she always did. They had flirted for years.

“Only for you, baby. You want the boss?”

“Just a quick answer. You guys have an active down there—”

Ian read off the number.

“Who’s on it?”

“Hang on. Let’s see here—”

He waited while Nan typed in the number.

“That’s Detective Cowly. Joyce Cowly.”

“Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

Ian put down his phone, and liked this even less. If Cowly was interested in Danzer, he wondered why she didn’t mention it when she came to his office. Instead, she had shoveled up some bullshit about nailing the shooters in the Pahlasian case. He mulled over what this might mean, then gathered his things and walked down the hall to Homicide Special.

Cowly was in her cubicle. She was hunched over her computer, and appeared to be on the phone.

He walked up behind her. He tried to see what she was reading, but her head blocked the screen. She spoke so quietly he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“Detective.”

She jerked at his voice, and visibly paled when she turned. She pressed the phone to her chest, and leaned sideways to cover the screen. This wasn’t a good sign.

Ian held out the list of names.

“The names you wanted.”

She took the page.

“Thanks. I didn’t expect it so soon.”

He watched shadows move in her eyes. She was afraid. This left him wondering how much the Ishi kid had told Scott James, and how much James told Cowly.

“Happy to help. You going to be here a while?”

“Ah, yeah. Why?”

“I’ll try to come up with some others.”

Ian returned to his office, closed the door, and used his cell phone to call George Evers.

“We have a problem.”

Ian told Evers what he wanted him to do.

39.

Three hours after their earlier meeting, Cowly texted Scott that she had the information about Danzer. They agreed to meet in the Stanley Mosk parking lot, same as before. Scott thought she looked tight and compressed when she got into his car.

“I talked to a friend at Bureau Personnel about Evers and Snell, strictly on the down low. I told her I was thinking about using them on a task force, and needed top people. She understands. This woman was my first supervisor.”

“What did you find out?”

“They suck.”

Scott wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that.

“Snell has a rep for smart, efficient case work, but he’s sketchy. He likes to take chances and cut corners. He has no history with Ian, but Evers and Ian are hooked through the ass. Jesus, I’m already covered with fur. Look at this.”

Maggie was laid out across the back seat.

“I haven’t had time to brush. What about Evers?”

Cowly brushed uselessly at her pants, and went on with her report.

“Evers and Ian were partners for four years in Hollenbeck. Evers was the lead, but it was common knowledge Ian carried him. Evers got himself in the tall grass and made a mess of his life. He was drinking, the wife left him, all the usual blue nonsense. Ian covered for him and kept him going, but too many complaints were filed. When Ian jumped to Special, Evers was sent to West L.A.”

“What kind of charges are we talking about?”

“Deep-shit charges. You know finders keepers?”

It was cop slang officers joked about, only for bad cops it wasn’t a joke. If they found a bag of cash when they made a bust, they left enough to meet the felony statute, and took the rest for themselves. Finders keepers.

“I know. Did any of the dirt stick to the I-Man?”

“Ian came out like a rose. He propped Evers up until Evers got his shit together.”

Scott looked at Maggie, and touched her. She opened her eyes.

“It flows both ways.”

“What flows?”

“If Ian cleaned up after Evers, there were times Evers cleaned up after Ian.”

“Whatever. So now Evers is in West L.A., and his partner is Snell. They had Danzer for all of four days, then Ian sucked it up, and made them his front men. The very next day, that’s six days after the robbery, Evers obtained wiretap warrants on Dean Trent and William F. Wu.”

Scott had no idea who these people were, but Cowly rolled on like an express train.

“Two months later, Dean Trent, Maxwell Gibbons, and Kim Leon Jones were found murdered in the San Bernardino Mountains.”

Scott remembered this from Melon.

“The crew who took Danzer.”

“So it’s believed, and it’s probably true.”

Also what Melon said.

“Who’s Wu?”

“A fence in San Marino. He deals jewelry and art to rich people in China, but he’s hooked up in Europe, too. What makes this telling is Dean Trent and Wu are known to have a long relationship. If Dean Trent steals jewelry or art, you can bet he’s going to Wu.”

Scott realized where she was going.

“Evers and Snell knew Trent had the diamonds.”

“Had to. Maybe one of Ian’s informants tipped him. It was only six days after the robbery, and they knew or suspected Dean Trent’s crew took the score. So they wired up Trent and Wu, and listened to these guys for the next three weeks. The case file contains no transcripts. None. Zero.”

Scott felt numb.

“They heard Wu make the deal with Clouzot. They knew Beloit was arriving, and when and where he would pick up the diamonds. They wanted to steal the diamonds.”

Scott looked at Maggie. He touched the tip of her nose, and she play-bit his finger.

“Is this enough to make our case?”

Cowly shook her head.

“No. I wish it was, but it isn’t.”

“It sounds like enough to me. You can connect the dots from start to finish.”

“Here’s what Ian would say, we received information from three independent reliable sources Trent was attempting to move the diamonds through Mr. Wu, who we know to have an established history with Mr. Trent. Acting on this reliable information, we obtained the required judicial warrant for wiretap service, but failed in our efforts to obtain incriminating information. We are left to believe Mr. Trent or Mr. Wu communicated only in person or using disposable phones. You see? Nothing here hurts him.”

Scott felt himself growing angry.

“Evers, Snell, and Mills make three. Five men hit Beloit.”

“No one in what I’ve seen jumped out at me. Let’s focus on who we have. If we can bust these guys, they’ll give us the other two.”

Scott knew she was right.

“Okay. Are Evers and Snell still on the job?”

“Snell is on the job, but Evers retired six days after the murders.”

“That isn’t smart.”

“I don’t know. He had the years. He’s older than Ian, so it’s not out of line.”

“Old enough to have white hair?”

“Jesus. I don’t know. I’ve never seen either one of these people.”

Scott thought if Evers was old enough to retire, maybe he was the white-haired, blue-eyed driver, and his DNA would match with the hair follicles recovered from the getaway car.

“Evers is the point man here. You have his address?”

Cowly leaned back.

“What do you think you’ll find, the diamonds? The diamonds are gone. The guns are gone. Every piece of that night is gone.”

“We need a direct connection between these people and the robbery, something that puts Evers or Snell or the I-Man there on the scene, right?”

“Yes. If you want this so-called slam-dunk case, that’s what we need.”

“Okay, I’ll nose around. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“Weren’t you paying attention when we lectured you about the watchband? Nothing you find will be admissible. Your testimony about whatever you find will not be admissible. It will do us no good.”

“I heard you. I won’t take anything. If I find something useful, you’ll come up with a work-around.”

Cowly looked disgusted, but dug through her papers, and found George Evers’ address.

“I should have my head examined.”

“Have faith.”

Cowly rolled her eyes, pushed open the door, and hesitated. She looked concerned.

“You have a safe place to stay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Okay.”

Scott watched her get out of the car, and wanted to say more.

“Can I drive you back?”

“I’ll walk. It gives me time to pick off the fur.”

Scott smiled as she walked away, and pulled out of the parking lot. He went to find George Evers.

40.

Cowly cut through the Stanley Mosk parking lot, making her way toward the Boat. She picked away dog hair and brushed at her pants as she walked. That German shepherd was a beauty, but she was also a fur machine.

Cowly reached the end of the parking lot, and stepped over a low chain barrier onto the sidewalk. She didn’t think they were doing this the right way, and now she worried Scott would contaminate the case. Cowly absolutely believed a conspiracy linked Danzer and the murders of Beloit and Pahlasian, and, by extension, Stephanie Anders, but she and Scott weren’t playing it the right way. She knew better, even if he didn’t, and she was irritated with herself for going along.

Criminal police conspiracies had always existed, and always would, even within the finest police department in the world. There were protocols for dealing with such investigations, which often had to be conducted in total secrecy until charges were levied. Cowly had a friend who once worked with the Special Operations Division, and planned to ask her advice.

“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.

A second message quickly followed the first.

Scott texted back.

It took several seconds for her answer to arrive.

Scott typed back his answer.

He ran to his car, and Maggie ran with him.

42.

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. Ian 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!”

Scott thought, I’m coming. He ran toward the voice.

The hall opened into a large, barren utility room with dirty windows. Ian Mills was on the far side of the room, waving a gun. George Evers was stumbling sideways along the wall with Maggie hanging from his arm. Evers was big, a big strong man with a big belly, maybe even bigger than Scott remembered, but he couldn’t escape her. Then Scott saw his pistol, and the pistol swung toward Maggie.

The muzzle kissed her shoulder.

A voice in Scott’s head screamed, or maybe the voice was his own, or maybe Stephanie’s.

I won’t leave you.

I’ll protect you.

A man does not let his partner die.

Scott slammed into the gun, and felt it go off. He did not feel the bullet, or his ribs break when the bullet punched through him. He felt only the pressure of hot gas blow into his skin.

Scott shot George Evers as he fell. He saw Evers wince, and clutch at his side. Scott bounced on the concrete floor as Evers stumbled sideways. The I-Man was in the shadows, but was swept by light when an outside door opened. Joyce Cowly may have come in, but Scott was not sure. Maggie stood over him, and begged him not to die.

He said, “You’re a good girl, baby. The best dog ever.”

She was the last thing he saw as the world faded to black.

Joyce Cowly

The gunshots were loud, so loud Cowly knew they were on the other side of the door. She pushed into the warehouse, and found Ian Mills in front of her. Scott was on the floor, Evers was down on a knee, and the dog was going crazy.

Mills turned at the sound of the door, and looked surprised to see her. He was holding a gun, but it was pointed the wrong way.

Cowly swung hard, and split his forehead with the lug wrench. He staggered sideways and dropped the gun. Cowly hit him again, above the right ear, and this time he fell. She scooped up his gun, checked him for other weapons, and scored his cell phone.

The dog stood over Scott, barking and snapping in a frenzy as Evers crabbed past, trying to reach the far door.

Cowly pointed her gun at him, but the damned dog was in the way.

“Evers! Put it down. Lower it, man. You’re done.”

“Fuck you.”

The dog was acting like she wanted to gut Evers, but she wouldn’t leave Scott to do it.

“You’re shot. I’ll get an ambulance.”

“Fuck you.”

Evers fired a single wide shot and scrambled into the warehouse.

Cowly called the Central Station’s emergency number, recited her name and badge number, told them she had an officer down, and requested assistance.

She checked Mills again, then ran to help Scott, but the dog lunged at her and stopped Cowly cold.

Maggie’s eyes were crazy and wild. She barked and snarled, showing her fangs, but Scott lay in a pool of blood, and the red pool was growing.

“Maggie? You know me. That’s a good girl, Maggie. He’s bleeding to death. Let me help him.”

Cowly edged closer, but Maggie lunged again. She ripped Cowly’s sleeve, and once more stood over Scott. Her paws were wet with his blood.

Cowly gripped the gun, and felt her eyes fill.

“You gotta move, dog. He’s going to die if you don’t move.”

The dog kept barking, snarling, snapping. She was wild with an insane fury.

Cowly checked the pistol. She made sure the safety was off as tears spilled from her eyes.

“Don’t make me do this, dog, okay? Please don’t.”

The dog didn’t move. She wouldn’t get off him. She wouldn’t leave.

“Dog, please. He’s dying.”

Maggie lunged at her again.

Cowly aimed, crying harder, but that’s when Scott raised a hand.

Scott James

Scott was floating in darkness when he heard her call.

Scotty, come back.

Don’t leave me, Scotty.

Scott drifted toward her voice.

I won’t leave you.

I never left.

I won’t leave you now.

He drifted closer, and the darkness grew light.

The voice became barking.

Scott opened his eyes, and reached up.

Maggie

Maggie attacked the intruder with primal ferocity, and fought to bring him down. Her fangs had been designed for this. They were long, sharp, and curved inward. They sank deep, and when he tried to pull away, his own struggles forced them deeper, making his escape even less likely. Her fangs, as was her bone-crushing jaw, were gifts from her wild ancestors before her kind were tamed. The tools for killing were in her DNA.

Scott safe.

Pack safe.

She had ranged ahead to protect him, but now her heart soared when Scott entered the room.

They were pack.

A pack of two, they were one.

Scott attacked, fighting beside her and for her, fighting as pack, and Maggie’s soaring heart filled with bliss.

A loud, sharp crack ended it.

Scott fell, and his changing scents confused her. His pain and fear washed through her as if they were her own. The smell of his blood filled her with fire.

Alpha hurt.

Alpha dying.

Maggie’s world shrank to Scott.

Protect. Protect and defend.

Maggie released the intruder, and turned to Scott. She frantically licked his face, whined, cried, and snarled her rage at the intruder as he crawled past them. She stood over Scott, and snapped her jaws as a warning.

Protect.

Guard.

The intruder ran away, but the woman approached. Maggie knew her, but the woman was not pack.

Maggie snarled, warning the woman. She barked and snapped. Maggie slashed the woman’s arm and held her at bay. Then she felt Scott’s calming touch.

Maggie’s heart leaped with happiness. She licked his face, healing him with her heart, as his heart now healed her.

Scott opened his eyes.

“Maggie.”

She was instantly alert.

Maggie looked into his eyes, watching, waiting, wanting his command.

Scott glanced toward the big room beyond the door.

“Get’m.”

Maggie leaped over Scott without hesitation and sprinted after the intruder. His fresh blood scent was easy to follow.

She powered up the scent cone, stretching and pulling, and closed on him in seconds. She flashed through the warehouse, outside into the sun, and saw the man who hurt Scott stumbling toward a car.

Maggie ran harder, joy in her heart, for this was what Scott wanted.

She will get’m.

The man saw her coming, and raised a gun. Maggie knew this was an act of aggression, but this was all she understood. His aggression fueled her rage, and darkened her purpose.

She stared at his throat.

She will get’m.

Scott safe.

Pack safe.

Maggie launched herself into the air, baring her fangs, jaws open wide, her heart filled with a terrible, perfect bliss.

She saw the flash.

44.

Three female nurses and two female surgeons told her the waiting room was filled with hunky young cops. Emma was dying to see, even though they also warned her about the nasty old Sergeant who scowled and shouted. He’ll be on you like an attack dog, they told her.

Emma was curious about him most of all, and she wasn’t afraid. She had been a head floor nurse for almost twenty years, and damn few doctors had the balls to stand up to her.

She put away Officer James’ chart, told her staff she would be back in a minute, and pushed through the double doors into the hall.

Emma Wilson had seen this kind of thing before when officers were brought in, but the sight always moved her.

Dark blue uniforms spilled from the waiting room, and crowded the hall. Male officers, female officers, officers in civilian clothes with their badges clipped to their belts.

“What in hell is going on in there?”

His voice cut through the hall, and every officer turned.

Emma wheeled around, and thought, yep, you’re him.

A tall thin uniformed Sergeant pushed through the crowd. Bald on top, hair short and gray on the sides, and the nastiest scowl she had ever seen.

Emma held up a hand, motioning for him to stop, but he stalked right up to her until his chest touched her hand. He scowled down his nose.

“I am Sergeant Dominick Leland, and Officer James is mine. How is my officer doing?”

Emma stared up at him, and lowered her voice.

“Take one step back.”

“Goddamnit, if I have to go back there to—”

“One. Step. Back.”

His eyes bulged so wide she thought they would pop from his head.

“Please.”

Leland stepped back.

“The surgeon will be out to give you more details, but I can tell you he came through the surgery well. He woke a few minutes ago, but now he’s sleeping again. This is normal.”

A murmur swept through the officers filling the hall.

Leland said, “He’s okay?”

“The surgeon will answer your questions, but, yes, he appears to be doing fine.”

The fierce scowl softened and the Sergeant sagged with relief. Emma thought he seemed older, and tired, and not nearly so fearsome.

“All right then. Thank you—”

He glanced at her name tag.

“Nurse Wilson. Thank you for helping him.”

“Is Maggie here?”

Leland stood taller, and the edge returned to his eyes.

“Officer James is in my K-9 Platoon. Maggie is his police service dog.”

Emma didn’t expect Maggie to be a dog, but she was touched by the idea, and nodded.

“When he woke, he asked if Maggie was safe.”

The Sergeant stared, and seemed unable to speak. His eyes filled, and he blinked hard to fight the tears.

“He asked after his dog?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I was with him. He said, ‘Is Maggie safe?’ He didn’t say anything else. What should I tell him when he wakes?”

Leland wiped his eyes before he answered, and Emma saw two of his fingers were missing.

“You tell him Maggie is safe. Tell him Sergeant Leland will look after her, and keep her safe until he returns.”

“I’ll tell him, Sergeant. Now, as I said earlier, the surgeon will be out shortly. All of you rest easy.”

Emma turned for the double doors, but Leland stopped her.

“Nurse Wilson, one more thing.”

When she turned back, Leland’s eyes were filled again.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Tell him I will continue to pretend I have not seen that dog limp. Please tell him. He will understand.”

Emma assumed this was a private joke, so she didn’t ask for an explanation.

“I’ll tell him, Sergeant. I’m sure he will be happy to hear it.”

Emma Wilson stepped through the double doors, thinking how wrong the others were about the scowling Sergeant. He was a sweetheart, once you got past the fierce scowl, and stood up to him.

All bark and no bite.

45.

Scott James jogged slowly across the field at the K-9 training facility. His side hurt more now, after the second shooting, than it had after the first. A full bottle of painkillers was back at his guest house. He told himself he should stop being stubborn and take them, but he didn’t. Being stubborn was good. He was stubborn about being stubborn.

Dominick Leland scowled as Scott lurched to a stop.

“I see my dog here is responding to her injections. I have not seen her limp in almost two months.”

“She’s my dog, not yours.”

Leland puffed himself up, and swapped a glare for the scowl.

“The hell you say! Every one of these outstanding animals is my dog, and best you not forget it.”

Maggie gave him a low, menacing growl.

Scott touched her ear, and smiled when her tail wagged.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

“You may be the toughest, most stubborn sonofabitch I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Leland glanced at Maggie.

“The vet tells me her hearing is better.”

After the warehouse, Leland and Budress noticed that Maggie didn’t hear so well with her left ear. The vets tested her, looked in her ears, and determined she had suffered a partial hearing loss. Something about nerve trauma, but the loss was temporary. They prescribed drops. One drop in the morning, one every night.

Leland and Budress decided it happened when she ran down George Evers in the parking lot. He tried to shoot her at point-blank range. He missed, but she was only inches from the gun when he fired. Evers survived, and was currently serving three consecutive life sentences, as were Ian Mills, David Snell, and the fifth member of their crew, Michael Barson. These were the terms of a sentencing agreement they accepted to avoid the needle. Scott was disappointed. He wanted to testify at their trials. Stan Evers died at the warehouse.

Scott touched Maggie’s head. It was a close call.

“She hears fine, Sergeant. Comes when I call her.”

“She gettin’ those drops?”

“One in the morning, one at night. We never miss.”

Leland grunted approvingly.

“As it should be. Now, they tell me you are still refusing to accept a medical retirement.”

“Yes, sir. That would be true.”

“Good. You stay stubborn and tough, Officer James, and I will be with you every step of the way. I will back you one hundred percent.”

“Gettin’ my back?”

“If you choose to see it that way. And when all the back-gettin’ is done, and you can move faster than an old man like me, you and this beautiful dog will still be here. You are a dog man. This is where you belong.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Maggie thanks you, too.”

“No thanks are necessary, son.”

Scott offered his hand, and Leland shook.

Maggie made the growl again, and Leland broke into a wide, beaming smile.

“Would you look at yourself, growling like that? You lived in my house for damn near two months, and you were my lapdog! Now you are back with our friend here, and you got nothin’ but growls!”

Maggie growled again.

Leland burst into a great booming laugh, and headed back to his office.

“My God, I love these dogs. I do so love these fine animals.”

“Sergeant—”

Leland kept walking.

“Thanks for pretending. And everything else.”

Leland raised a hand, and called over his shoulder.

“No thanks are necessary.”

Scott watched him walk away, and bent to stroke Maggie’s head. Bending hurt, but Scott didn’t mind. The hurt was part of the healing.

“Want to jog a little more?”

Maggie wagged her tail.

Scott set off at a slow lurch. He jogged so slowly, Maggie kept up fine by walking.

“You like Joyce?”

Maggie wagged her tail.

“Me, too, but I want you to remember, you’re my best girl. You always will be.”

Scott smiled when she nuzzled his hand.

They were pack, and both of them knew it.