Robert Crais - Suspect

The next morning, after he walked Maggie and showered, Scott decided to check on the missing disc himself. Richard Levin’s contact information was on the first page of his interview.

Club Red would be deserted at this hour, so he phoned Levin’s personal number. The voice mail message was male, but offered no identifying information. Scott identified himself as a detective working on the Pahlasian murder, said he had questions regarding the discs, and asked Levin to phone as soon as possible.

At seven-twenty, Scott was tying his boots while Maggie bounced between the door and her lead. He got a kick out of how she knew the signs. Whenever he tied his boots, she knew they were going out.

Scott said, “You one smart dog.”

His phone rang at seven twenty-one. Scott thought he had lucked out, and Levin was returning his call. Then he saw LAPD in the incoming-call window.

“Morning. Scott James.”

He tucked the phone under his chin, and finished tying as he listened.

“Detective Anson, Rampart Detectives. I’m in front of your house with my partner, Detective Shankman. We’d like to speak with you.”

Scott went to the French doors, wondering why two Rampart detectives had come to his home.

“I’m in the guest house. See the wood gate in front of you? It’s not locked. Come through the gate.”

“We understand you have a K-9 police dog on the premises. We don’t want a problem with the dog. Will you secure her?”

“She won’t be a problem.”

“Will you secure the dog?”

Scott didn’t want to lock her in her crate, and if he put her in the bedroom, she would shred the door trying to get out.

“Hang on. I’ll come out.”

Scott nudged Maggie aside, and opened the door.

“Do not come out. Please secure the dog.”

“Listen, man, I don’t have anywhere to secure her. So come meet the dog or I’ll come to you. Your choice.”

“Secure the dog.”

Scott tossed the phone onto the couch, slipped past Maggie, and went out to meet them.

A gray Crown Vic was parked in the street across the mouth of the drive. Two men in sport coats and ties had come up partway, and stood in the drive. The taller was in his early fifties, with dusty blond hair and too many lines. The shorter detective was in his late thirties, and broader, with a shiny face and a bald head ringed with brown hair. Neither looked friendly, and neither pretended.

The older man flashed a badge case showing his ID card and gold detective shield.

“Bob Anson. This is Kurt Shankman.”

Anson put away the badge.

“I asked you to secure the dog.”

“I don’t have a place to secure her. So it’s out here or inside with the dog. She’s harmless. She’ll sniff your hands, you’ll love her.”

Shankman looked at the gate as if he was worried.

“You latch the gate? She can’t get out, can she?”

“She’s not in the yard. She’s in my house. It’s fine, Shankman. Really.”

Shankman hooked his thumbs in his belt, opening the sport coat enough to flash a holster.

“You’ve been warned. That dog comes charging out here, I’ll put her down.”

The hair on Scott’s neck prickled.

“What’s wrong with you, man? You pull on my dog, you better pop me first.”

Anson calmly interrupted.

“Do you know a Daryl Ishi?”

There it was. Daryl had probably filed a complaint, and these two were here to investigate.

“I know who he is, yes.”

“Would Mr. Ishi think your dog is harmless?”

“Ask him.”

Shankman smiled without humor.

“We’re asking you. When was the last time you saw him?”

Scott hesitated. If Daryl filed a complaint, he would have been asked if there were witnesses. Anson and Shankman might have spoken with Estelle Rolley and Daryl’s friends from the park. Scott answered carefully. He wasn’t sure where they would take this, but he did not want to be caught in a lie.

“I saw him yesterday. What is this, Anson? You guys work for IAG? Should I call a PPL rep?”

“Rampart Detectives. We’re not with Internal Affairs.”

Shankman didn’t wait for Scott to respond.

“How’d that come about, you seeing him yesterday?”

“Daryl’s brother was recently arrested on multiple burglary counts—”

Shankman interrupted.

“His brother being?”

“Marshall Ishi. Marshall copped to four burglaries, but there’s evidence Daryl worked with him. I went to his home to speak with him. I was told he was meeting friends at MacArthur Park.”

Shankman interrupted again.

“By who?”

“Marshall’s girlfriend, a woman named Estelle Rolley. She’s a tweaker, hard-core like Marshall. She lives in their house.”

Anson gave a vague nod, which seemed to confirm he had gotten a full report, and was now considering the differences between what he had been told and what Scott was telling him.

“Okay. So you went to MacArthur Park.”

“Daryl ran when he saw me approaching. My dog stopped him. Neither my dog nor myself touched him at any time, nor was he placed under arrest. I asked for his cooperation. He refused. I told him he was free to leave.”

Shankman arched his eyebrows at Anson.

“Listen to this dude, Bobby, out questioning people. When did K-9 officers start carrying detective shields?”

Anson never looked at his partner, nor changed his expression.

“Scott, let me ask you—did Daryl threaten you during this conversation?”

Scott found Anson’s question odd, and wondered where he was going.

“No, sir. He didn’t threaten me. We talked.”

“Did you see Daryl a second time yesterday, after the park?”

Scott found this question even more odd.

“No. Did he say I did?”

Shankman interrupted again.

“You buy drugs from Daryl?”

The drug question came out of nowhere, and caused a sick chill to flash up Scott’s spine.

“Oxy? Vicodin?”

Shankman made jazz hands, as if taunting Scott for an answer he already knew.

“No? Yes? Both?”

Both painkillers had been prescribed by Scott’s surgeon, and legally purchased from a pharmacy two blocks away. Shankman had used brand names, not generic names. He specifically named the two painkillers prescribed for Scott.

Shankman dropped the hands, and turned serious as death.

“No answer? Are you medicated now, Scott? Do the anxiety meds make it difficult to think?”

The chill spread across his shoulders and out to his fingers. Scott flashed on Maggie’s intruder alert when they returned home the other night.

Scott took a step back.

“Until and unless I’m ordered otherwise by my boss, this Q&A is over. You assholes can fuck off.”

Anson remained calm and casual, and made no move to leave.

“Do you blame Marshall Ishi for Stephanie’s murder?”

The question froze Scott like the click of a shutter.

Anson kept going, voice reasonable and understanding.

“You got shot up, your partner was murdered, these two assholes maybe saw it, and never came forward. You must carry a lot of anger, man. Who could blame you, with the shooters still running around? Marshall and Daryl are letting them skate. I can see how a man would be angry.”

Shankman nodded agreeably, his unblinking eyes like tarnished dimes.

“Me, too, Bobby. I’d want to punish them. Oh, yeah. I’d want to get mine.”

The two detectives stared at him. Waiting.

Scott’s head throbbed. He now understood they were investigating something worse than a harassment complaint.

“Why are you people here?”

Anson seemed genuinely friendly for the first time.

“To ask about Daryl. We did.”