Robert Crais - Suspect

Scott looked up from the map, waiting for their reaction, but Orso only nodded.

“You’re missing a stop. Club Red. It’s in the files.”

Scott had no idea what Orso was talking about.

“I read the interviews with Pahlasian’s wife and his office assistant. They didn’t mention another stop.”

Cowly stepped in with the answer.

“They didn’t know about it. Club Red is like a strip club. Melon didn’t learn about it until Beloit’s credit card charges posted. Beloit picked up the tab.”

Scott felt deflated and stupid, and even more stupid when Cowly waved at the heavy stack of files.

“It’s in there. Melon interviewed the manager and a couple of waitresses. Use my desk or go to the park. I’ll text when we have to roll.”

Scott tucked the files under his arm, and looked from Cowly to Orso. He wanted to see the security video, but now felt too embarrassed to ask.

“Thanks for letting me tag along. It means a lot.”

Orso smiled the scoutmaster smile.

“Sure.”

Scott turned away with Maggie at his side. He felt like an idiot for believing he had discovered a glaring discrepancy when top-cop detectives like Orso and Cowly knew the case inside and out.

Scott wasn’t an idiot, but three more days would pass before he understood.

Scott took the files to Cowly’s cubicle, saw her tiny, cramped space, and decided Maggie would be happier at the park. Then he noticed the framed pictures beside Cowly’s computer, and eased into her chair. Maggie wedged herself under the desk.

The first picture showed a younger, uniformed Cowly at her Police Academy graduation with an older man and woman who were probably her parents. The picture next to it showed Cowly and three other young women all glammed up in satin and sequins for a night on the town. Scott studied the four, and decided Cowly was the only one who looked like a cop. This made Scott smile. Stephanie had looked like a cop, too. The next picture showed Cowly and a good-looking young guy on a beach. Cowly was wearing a red one-piece and her friend was wearing baggy swim trunks that hung to his knees. Scott tried to recall if Cowly wore a wedding ring, but couldn’t. The last picture showed Cowly on a couch with three little kids. Christmas decorations were on a table behind them, and the oldest kid was wearing a Santa hat. Scott glanced at the pic of Cowly and the man on the beach, and wondered if these were their kids.

“C’mon, Mags. Let’s see the park.”

Maggie was too big to turn around in the cramped space, so she backed out from under the desk like a horse backing out of a stall.

Scott led her downstairs and across First Street to the City Hall park. The park was small, but a surrounding grove of California Oaks made the space pleasant and shady.

Scott found an unoccupied bench in the shade, and searched through the file for the Club Red interviews. They were short, and mistakenly attached to a document about Georges Beloit.

The three interviews had been conducted twenty-two days after the shooting. Melon described Club Red as “an upscale after-hours lounge featuring what the management calls ‘performance erotica,’ where semi-nude models pose on small stages above the bar.” Melon and Stengler interviewed Richard Levin, the manager on the night of the shooting, and two bartenders. None of them remembered Pahlasian or Beloit, or recognized their pictures, but Levin provided the times their tab opened and closed from his electronic transaction records. As he did on the interview with Emile Tanager, Melon had handwritten a note on Levin’s interview:

R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B

Levin had delivered the Club Red security video on two discs, which were logged into the case file.

When Scott finished the interviews, he entered Club Red’s address into his phone’s map app to find its location, and added a fifth dot to his map. He stared at the fifth dot for a moment, then checked to be sure he entered the correct address. The address was correct, but now the times and routes seemed even more wrong.

Leaving Club Red, both commercial properties were now several blocks beyond the kill zone. If Pahlasian had driven to either property, he would have passed the kill zone and had no reason to turn back. The freeway was in the other direction.

Scott grew frustrated, and decided to see for himself. The kill zone was less than twenty blocks away, and Tyler’s and Club Red were closer.

“C’mon, let’s take a ride.”

They hurried back to the Boat for his car.

Tyler’s had been Pahlasian’s starting point, so Scott drove to Tyler’s.

The restaurant occupied the corner of an older, ornate building at an intersection not far from Bunker Hill. The front was paneled in black glass with its name mounted on the glass in brass letters. Tyler’s was closed, but Scott stopped to consider the area. He saw no nearby parking lots, so he assumed valets waited at the corner during business hours. He wondered if the Gran Torino was watching the valet station when Pahlasian arrived, or if it followed him from LAX.

Club Red was only nine blocks away. Scott made the daytime drive in twelve minutes, most of which was spent waiting for pedestrians. At one-thirty in the morning, the travel time would have been four minutes or less.

Club Red was also on the ground floor of an older building. It sat next to a parking lot, and its exposed side bore a faded sign advertising custom machine parts. Jutting from the side of the building into the parking lot was a small vertical neon sign spelling out RED. A red door was cut into the building beneath the sign. Patrons probably passed a couple of oversized bouncers as if entering a clandestine world.

Scott checked his map again. Ignoring Tyler’s, the remaining four dots formed a capital Y, with Club Red at the bottom, the kill zone directly above it at the fork, and the two properties Pahlasian wanted to show Beloit at the tips of the arms.

Scott looked at Maggie.

“Everything’s wrong.”

Maggie sniffed his ear, and blew dog breath in his face. Scott tried to push her off the console, but she held firm.

Two attendants were on duty in the parking lot. Scott parked across their entrance, and got out. The older attendant was a Latin man in his fifties with short black hair and a red vest. He hurried over when he saw Scott block their drive, but pulled up short when he saw Scott’s uniform. This was the cop effect.

He said, “You wan’ to park?”

Scott let Maggie out. The man saw her, and took a step back. This was the German shepherd effect.

Scott pointed at the building.

“The club here, Club Red? What time do they close?”

“Really late, man. They don’t open ’til nine. They close at four.”

“Four in the morning.”

“Yeah, four in the morning.”

Scott thanked the man, let Maggie back into the car, and climbed in behind the wheel. He thought he had it figured.

“There’s no mystery here. They were coming back. They saw the buildings, and decided they wanted another drink. That’s all there is to it.”

Maggie panted, but this time Scott was out of range. Then he glanced at the map again and realized his latest theory was also wrong.

“Shit.”

The Bentley’s direction.

The Bentley wasn’t driving toward Club Red when it passed in front of his radio car. Pahlasian was driving in the opposite direction. Toward the freeway.

Scott was still staring at the map when Cowly texted him.

WE’RE ROLLING. CALL ME

Scott immediately called.

“I’m only a few blocks away. Give me five minutes.”

“Take ten, but don’t come to the Boat. We’re staging at MacArthur Park. Can you be there in ten?”