Robert Crais - Suspect

Scott rolled the last tent, and was carrying them toward the kennel when he glanced down and saw Maggie limping. Same as before, her right rear leg dragged half a heartbeat behind the left.

Scott stopped so Maggie would stop, and looked at the kennel. Leland’s window was empty. The door was closed. No one was watching.

Scott put down the tents, clipped Maggie’s lead, and hoisted the tents. He made her walk behind him so he was between Maggie and the building.

No one was inside when he stowed the tents. Budress, Downing, and the others were probably in the offices, or gone. Scott made sure the parking lot was empty before he led her to his car. Her limp had grown more and more obvious.

Scott fired the engine and backed away.

Maggie stepped forward on the console. Her tongue was out, her ears were folded, and she looked like the happiest dog in the world.

Scott laced his fingers in her fur. She looked at him and panted, content.

Scott said, “You bet your blue ass.”

He pulled out of the lot and headed for home.

An overturned big rig on the northbound 5 turned the freeway into a parking lot. Scott worked his way to an exit when they reached North Hollywood, and found a condo complex being framed in Valley Village. Feeding Maggie at construction sites had become their pattern. He watched her carefully when they left the car. Her leg dragged so slightly now, Scott wasn’t sure if she was limping or this was her natural gait, but he was relieved by the improvement.

He bought roast chicken and hot dogs for Maggie, a pork carnitas burrito for himself, and sat with her among snapping nail guns and curious construction workers. Maggie cringed when the first bang surprised her, but Scott decided her startle response was less exaggerated than at the beginning. Once she accepted a piece of hot dog, she focused on Scott and ignored the unpredictable sounds.

They ate and socialized with the construction crew for almost an hour. Scott saved the remains of his baloney stash for a treat, and gave it to her when they returned to the car. By then, her limp was gone.

Twenty minutes later, the sun was behind trees and the sky was purple when Scott parked in MaryTru Earle’s front yard. Her shades were down as always, keeping her safe from the outside world.

Scott took Maggie for a short walk to do her business, then through the gate, and along the side of Mrs. Earle’s house toward his guest house. The light was gloomy fading to dark, and Mrs. Earle’s television provided its usual sound track. Scott had made this same walk hundreds of times, and this time was no different until Maggie stopped. There was no mistaking her expression. She lowered her head, spiked her ears, and stared into the darkness. Her nostrils flickered as she sampled the air.

Scott looked from Maggie to the guest house to the surrounding shrubs and fruit trees.

“Really?”

The light above his side door had been out for months. The drapes covering the French doors were partially open as he had left them, and the kitchen lights were on. He saw Maggie’s crate, the dining table, and part of the kitchen. His guest house looked fine, and nothing appeared different. Scott had never felt unsafe in this neighborhood, but he trusted his dog, and Maggie clearly whiffed something she didn’t like. Scott wondered if a cat or a raccoon was in the bushes.

“What do you smell?”

He realized after the fact he had whispered.

Scott considered letting her off the leash, but thought better of it. He didn’t want an eighty-five-pound attack dog blindsiding a cat or a kid in the agapanthus. He gave her six feet of lead instead.

“’kay, baby, let’s see what you have.”

Maggie hoovered up ground scent as she pulled him forward. She led him directly to the side door, then to the French doors. She returned to the side door, sniffed hard at the lock, then once more rounded the guest house to the French doors, where she pawed at the glass.

Scott opened the French doors, but did not enter. He listened for a moment, heard nothing, then unclipped Maggie and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“Police. I’m going to release this German shepherd. Speak up, or this dog will rip you open.”

No one answered.

Scott released her.

Maggie did not charge inside, so Scott knew if anyone had been in his home, they were now gone.

Instead, Maggie quickly circled the living room, cruised through the kitchen, then trotted into the bedroom and returned. She crisscrossed the living room, checked her crate and the table and the couch, and again disappeared into the bedroom. When she returned, her anxiety was gone. She wagged her tail, went into the kitchen, and Scott heard her drinking. He stepped inside, and pulled the door closed.

“My turn.”

Scott walked through the guest house. He checked the windows and doors first, and found them secure. None were broken or jimmied. His computer, printer, and papers on the table were fine, as were his TV equipment and cordless phone. Its red message light was blinking. The papers on the floor by his couch and the maps and diagrams pinned to his wall seemed undisturbed. His checkbook, his dad’s old watch, and the three hundred in cash he kept in an envelope under the clock radio beside his bed were untouched. His gun cleaning kit, two boxes of ammo, and an old .32 snub-nose were still in the LAPD gym bag stowed in his closet. His anxiety meds and pain pills were in their usual places on the bathroom counter.

Scott returned to the living room. Maggie was on the floor beside her crate. She rolled onto her side when she saw him, and lifted her hind leg. Scott smiled.

“Good girl.”

Everything appeared normal, but Scott trusted Maggie’s nose, and Maggie had smelled something. Mrs. Earle had a key, and would open the guest house for repairmen and the pest service that sprayed for ants. She always warned Scott in advance, but she might have forgotten.

“I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Earle answered the door wearing a sweatshirt, shorts, and fluffy pink slippers. The roar of the television was behind her.

“Hey, Mrs. Earle. Did you let anyone in the guest house today?”

She glanced past Scott as if she expected to see the guest house in ruins.

“I didn’t let anyone in. You know I always tell you.”

“I know, but Maggie smelled something that kinda upset her. I thought maybe you let the plumber or pest people in.”

She looked past him again.

“Are you having a problem with that toilet again?”

“No, ma’am. That was just an example.”

“Well, I didn’t let anyone in. I hope you weren’t robbed.”

“It’s just the way Maggie acted. The windows and doors look okay, so I thought you might have opened the door. She smelled something new. She doesn’t like new smells.”

Mrs. Earle frowned past him again.

“I hope she didn’t smell a rat. You might have a rat in there. I hear them in these trees at night, eating all my fruit. Those nasty things can chew right through a wall.”

Scott glanced at the guest house.

Mrs. Earle said, “If you hear it or see poop, you let me know. I’ll have the pest people come out.”

Scott wondered if she was right, but wasn’t convinced.

“I will. Thanks, Mrs. Earle.”

“Don’t let her pee-pee on the grass. These girl dogs kill a lawn faster than gasoline.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know.”

Scott went back to the guest house. He locked the French doors, and drew the curtains. Maggie was on her side in front of her crate, halfway to dreamland.

“She thinks we have rats.”

Maggie’s tail thumped the floor. Thump.

Scott went to his phone, and found a message from Joyce Cowly.