Robert Crais - Suspect

“She was in Afghanistan?”

Scott said, “Dual purpose. Patrol and explosives detection.”

Budress was wiry, but Scott felt a super-calm vibe, and knew Maggie sensed it, too. Her ears were back, her tongue hung out, and she was comfortable letting Budress scratch her. Budress opened her left ear and looked at her tattoo as Leland went on. Both Scott and Leland might as well have been invisible. Budress was all about the dog.

Leland went on to Scott.

“As you know, here in the city of Los Angeles, we train our beautiful animals to hold a suspect in place by barking. Heaven help us she bites some shitbird unless he’s trying to kill you, coz our spaghetti-spined, unworthy city council is only too willing to pay liability blackmail to any shyster lawyer who oozes out a shitbird’s ass. Is that not correct, Officer Budress?”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

Budress wasn’t paying attention, but Scott knew the Sergeant was describing the find-and-bark method that more and more police agencies had adopted to stem the tide of liability lawsuits. So long as the suspect stood perfectly still and showed no aggression, the dogs were trained to stand off and bark. They were trained to bite only if the suspect made an aggressive move or fled, which Leland believed risky to both his dogs and their handlers, and which was one of his unending lecture topics.

“Your military patrol dog, however, is taught to hit her target like a runaway truck, and will take his un-American ass down like a bat out of hell on steroids. You put your military dog on a shitbird, she’ll rip him a new asshole, and eat his liver when it slides out. Dogs like our Maggie here are trained to mean business. Is this not correct, Officer Budress?”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

Leland nodded toward Budress, who was running his hands down Maggie’s legs and tracing the scars on her hips.

“The voice of experience, Officer James. So the first thing you have to do is teach this heroic animal not to bite the murderous, genetically inferior shitbags you will ask her to face. Is that clear?”

Scott mimicked Budress.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

“As it should be. I will leave you now with Officer Budress, who knows the military command set, and will help you retrain her to work in our sissified civilian city.”

Leland walked away without another word. Budress stood, and painted Scott with a big smile.

“Don’t sweat it. She was retrained at Lackland to make her less aggressive, and more people-friendly. It’s SOP for dogs they adopt out to civilians. The Sarge there thinks her problem will be the opposite—not aggressive enough.”

Scott remembered how Maggie lunged at Marley, but decided not to mention it.

Scott said, “She’s smart. She’ll have find-and-bark in two days.”

Budress smiled even wider.

“You’ve had her now how long? A day?”

“She was smart enough to soak up everything the Marine Corps wanted her to know. She didn’t get shot in the head.”

“And how is it you know what the Marines wanted her to know?”

Scott felt himself flush.

“I guess that’s why you’re here.”

“I guess it is. Let’s get started.”

Budress nodded toward the kennel building.

“Go get an arm protector, a twenty-foot lead, a six-foot lead, and whatever you use to reward her. I’ll wait.”

Scott started to the kennel, and Maggie fell in on his left side. He had cut and bagged half a pound of baloney, but now worried if it would be enough, and if Budress would object to his using food as a reward. Then he checked his watch, and wondered how much they could accomplish before he left to see Orso. He wanted to share what he learned about the neighborhood burglaries from Marley, and believed Orso would see the potential. Maybe after nine months of nothing, a new lead was beginning to develop.

Scott picked up his pace, and was thinking about Orso when the gunshot cracked the air behind him. Scott ducked into a crouch, and Maggie almost upended him. She tried to wedge herself beneath him, and was wrapped so tightly between his legs he felt her trembling.

Scott’s heart hammered and his breathing was fast and shallow, but he knew what had happened even before he looked back at Budress.

Budress was holding the starter pistol loose at his leg. The smile was gone from his peeling face, and now he looked sad.

He said, “Sorry, man. It’s a shame. That poor dog has a problem.”

Scott’s heart slowed. He laid a hand on Maggie’s trembling back, and spoke to her softly.

“Hey, baby girl. That’s just a noise. You can stay under me long as you like.”

He stroked her back and sides, kneaded her ears, and kept talking in the calm voice. He took out the bag of baloney, stroking her the whole time.

“Check it out, Maggie girl. Look what I have.”

She raised her head when he offered the square of baloney, and licked it from his fingers.

Scott made the high-pitched squeaky voice, told her what a good girl she was, and offered another piece. She sat up to eat it.

Budress said, “I’ve seen this before, y’know, with war dogs. It’s a long road back.”

Scott stood, and teased her by holding another piece high above her head.

“Stand up, girl. Stand tall and get it.”

She raised up onto her hind legs, standing tall for the meat. Scott let her have it, then ruffled her fur as he praised her.

He looked at Budress, and his voice wasn’t squeaky.

“Another twenty minutes or so, shoot it again.”

Budress nodded.

“You won’t know it’s coming.”

“I don’t want to know it’s coming. Neither does she.”

Budress slowly smiled.

“Get the arm protector and the leads. Let’s get this war dog back in business.”

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, Scott kenneled Maggie and drove downtown to see Orso. She whined when he left, and pawed at the gate.

Twenty minutes later, Orso and a short, attractive brunette wearing a black pantsuit were waiting when the elevator doors opened at the Boat. Orso stuck out his hand, and introduced the woman.

“Scott, this is Joyce Cowly. Detective Cowly has been reviewing the file, and probably knows it better than me.”

Scott nodded, but wasn’t sure what to say.

“Okay. Thanks. Good to meet you.”

Cowly’s handshake was firm and strong, but not mannish. She was in her late thirties, with a relaxed manner and the strong build of a woman who might have been one of those sparkplug gymnasts when she was a teenager. She smiled as she shook Scott’s hand, and handed him her card as Orso led them toward the RHD office. Scott wondered if Orso would meet him at the elevator every time he arrived.

Cowly said, “You were at Rampart before Metro, right? I was Rampart Homicide before here.”

Scott checked her face again, but didn’t recall her.

“Sorry, I don’t remember.”

“No reason you should. I’ve been here for three years.”

Orso said, “Three and a half. Joyce spent most of her time here on serial cases with me. I told her about our conversation yesterday, and she has a few questions.”

Scott followed them to the same conference room, where he saw the cardboard box was now on the table with the files and materials back in their hangers. A large blue three-ring binder sat on the table beside it. Scott knew this was the murder book, which homicide detectives used to organize and record their investigations.

Orso and Cowly dropped into chairs, but Scott rounded the table to Orso’s poster-sized diagram of the crime scene.

“Before we get started, I went to Nelson Shin’s store this morning, and met a man who has a business two doors down—here.”