Robert Crais - Suspect

“Absolutely.”

“On the east side between Seventh and Wilshire. You’ll see us.”

Scott put down his phone, wondering why Pahlasian was going to the freeway when he entered the kill zone. Time was still missing, and it hadn’t been filled by looking at buildings.

MacArthur Park was four square blocks split down the middle by Wilshire Boulevard. A soccer field, playgrounds, and a concert pavilion occupied the area north of Wilshire. MacArthur Park Lake took up the south side. The lake was once known for paddleboats until gang violence, drug dealing, and murders drove away the people who rented the boats. Then LAPD and the local business community rolled in, the lake and the park were rebuilt, serious surveillance systems were installed, and the gangbanging drug dealers were rolled out. The paddleboats tried to make a comeback, but the lake’s reputation for ’bangers and violence had polluted the water. So had the tools of their trade. When the lake was drained for repair, more than a hundred handguns were found on the bottom.

Scott followed Wilshire to the park, and saw the staging area. Six LAPD radio cars, a SWAT van, and three unmarked but obvious police sedans were parked near the old paddleboat concession. A uniformed police officer blocked the entrance when he saw a Trans Am turning in, but he stepped aside when he saw Scott’s uniform. Scott rolled down the window.

“I’m looking for Detective Cowly.”

The officer leaned closer to grin at Maggie.

“With the SWAT team. Man, I love having these dogs with us. He’s a beauty.”

Maybe the officer leaned too close or spoke too loudly. Maggie’s ears spiked forward, and Scott knew what was coming even before she growled.

The officer stepped back and laughed.

“Jesus, I love these dogs. Good luck finding a place to park. Maybe put it on the grass over there.”

Scott raised the window, and ruffled Maggie’s fur as he pushed her out of the way.

“He, my ass. How can he think a beautiful girl like you is a he?”

Maggie licked Scott’s ear, and watched the officer until they were parked.

Scott clipped her lead, got out, and watered her with a squirt bottle. After she drank, he let her pee, and spotted Cowly beside the SWAT unit’s tactical van. She was huddled with the SWAT commander, a uniformed lieutenant, and three detectives, none of whom Scott recognized. The SWAT team was lounging by the boathouse, as relaxed as if they were on a fishing trip. Scott felt the kiss of a passing dream, then looked down at Maggie, and found her watching him, tongue hanging loose, ears back and happy. He petted her head.

“No limping. Either of us.”

Maggie wagged her tail and fell in beside him.

Cowly saw him approaching, and held up a finger, signaling him to wait. She spoke with her group a few minutes longer, then they broke up and went in different directions, and Cowly came over to meet him.

“We’ll take my car. Ishi is only five minutes away.”

Scott was doubtful.

“You don’t mind? She’s going to leave hair.”

“All I care is she doesn’t throw up. She gets carsick, you have to clean it.”

“She doesn’t get carsick.”

“She’s never ridden with me.”

Cowly led them to an unmarked tan Impala that wasn’t in much better shape than Scott’s ratty Trans Am. He loaded Maggie in back, and climbed into the shotgun seat as Cowly fired the engine. She popped it in gear, and backed up to leave.

“This won’t take long. You see the manpower we got? The I-Man wanted to roll the Bomb Squad, forchrissake. Orso said, these idiots use meth, they don’t cook it.”

Scott nodded, not knowing how to respond.

“Thanks again for asking me along. I appreciate it.”

“You’re doing your part.”

“By keeping you company?”

Cowly gave him a glance he couldn’t read.

“By eyeballing Ishi. If you see him, maybe you’ll remember him.”

Scott immediately tensed. Maggie paced from side to side in the back seat, whining. Scott reached back to touch her.

“I didn’t see him.”

“You don’t remember seeing him.”

Scott felt as if he was being tested again, and didn’t like it. His stomach knotted, and he flashed on the shooting—bright yellow bursts from the rifle, the big man walking closer, the impact as the bullet slammed through his shoulder. Scott closed his eyes, and visualized himself on a beach. Then Cowly and her boyfriend appeared on the sand, and he opened his eyes.

“This is bullshit. I’m not a lab monkey.”

“You’re what we have. You don’t want to be here, I’ll let you out.”

“We don’t even know if this is the guy.”

“He laid off Chinese goods three different occasions before Shin closed. He lives fourteen blocks from the kill zone. You see him up close, maybe something will come back to you.”

Scott fell silent and stared out the window. He desperately hoped Ishi had witnessed the shootings, but didn’t want to believe he had seen the man and forgotten. That was too crazy. Seeing a man and forgetting you’ve seen him was way more screwed up than recalling white hair. Cowly and Orso seemed to think this was possible, which left Scott feeling they doubted his sanity.

Cowly guided the D-ride onto a narrow residential street past two idling black-and-whites, turned at the first cross street, and stopped in the center of the street. A pale green unmarked sedan exactly like hers faced them at the next cross street. Scott saw no other police presence.

Cowly said, “Fourth house from the corner, left side. See the van covered with graffiti? It’s parked in front.”

A battered Econoline van covered with Krylon graffiti was parked in front of a pale green house. A broken sidewalk led up a withered yard to a narrow cinder-block porch.

Scott said, “Who’s inside?”

Ishi shared the house with two male friends who were also meth addicts, a girlfriend named Estelle “Ganj” Rolley, who worked as a part-time prostitute to support their meth addiction, and his younger brother, Daryl, a nineteen-year-old dropout with several misdemeanor arrests to his credit.

Cowly said, “Ishi, the girl, and one of the males. The other guy left earlier, so we picked him up. The brother hasn’t been home since yesterday. You see our guys?”

The street and the houses appeared deserted.

“Nobody.”

Cowly nodded.

“A team from Fugitive Section will make the pop. Two guys are on either side of the house right now, and two more have the rear. Plus, we have people from Rampart Robbery to handle the evidence. Watch close. These people are the best.”

Cowly lifted her phone and spoke softly.

“Showtime, my lovelies.”

The van’s driver’s-side door popped open. A thin African-American woman slipped out, rounded the van to the sidewalk, and walked toward the house. She wore frayed jean shorts, a white halter top, and cheap flip-flop sandals. Her hair hung in braids dotted with beads.

Cowly said, “Angela Sims. Fugitive detective.”

The woman knocked when she reached the door. She waited with the nervous anxiety of an impatient tweaker. When no one opened the door, she knocked again. This time the door opened, but Scott did not see who opened it. Angela Sims stepped into the doorway, and stopped, preventing the door from being closed. Two male Fugitive dicks charged from each side of the house at a dead sprint, converging on the door as Angela Sims shoved her way into the house. The four male officers slammed inside behind her. As the Fugitive detectives made their entry, a male and a female detective jumped from the van and raced up the sidewalk.

Cowly said, “Wallace and Isbecki. Rampart Robbery.”