Robert Crais - Suspect

Anson turned, and walked to their car.

Shankman said, “Thanks for your cooperation.”

Shankman followed his boss.

Scott spoke to their backs.

“What happened? Anson, is Daryl dead?”

Anson climbed into the passenger side.

“If we have further questions, we’ll call.”

Shankman trotted around the front end, and dropped in behind the wheel.

Scott called out as the Crown Vic started.

“Am I a suspect? Tell me what happened.”

Anson glanced back as the car rolled away.

“You have a good day.”

Scott watched them leave. His hands trembled. His shirt grew damp with sweat. He told himself to breathe, but he couldn’t make it happen.

Barking.

He heard Maggie barking. Him here, Maggie trapped in the guest house, she didn’t like it and wanted him back.

Scotty, don’t leave me.

“I’m coming.”

Maggie bounced up and down when he opened the door, and spun in happy circles.

“I’m here. Hang on, baby. I’m happy, too.”

Scott wasn’t happy. He was confused and scared, and stood numb by the door as Maggie swirled around him until he noticed the phone’s message light was blinking. The counter showed he had received two calls in the minutes he was outside with Anson and Shankman.

Scott touched the playback button.

“Hello, Scott, this is Doctor Charles Goodman. Something rather important has come up. Please call me as soon as possible. This is very important.”

This is Doctor Charles Goodman.

As if Scott wouldn’t recognize the man’s voice after seeing him for seven months.

Scott deleted the message, and moved on. Paul Budress was next.

“Dude, it’s Paul. Call me before you come in. Call right now, man. Do not come in until we talk.”

Scott didn’t like the strain in Budress’ voice. Paulie Budress was one of the calmest people he’d ever met.

Scott took a deep breath, blew out, and called him.

Budress said, “What the fuck, man? What’s going on?”

Scott prayed he wouldn’t throw up. He could tell Budress knew something from his tone.

“What are you talking about?”

“Some IAG rats are here waiting for you. Fucking Leland is gonna explode.”

Scott took deep breaths, one after another. First Anson and Shankman, and now Internal Affairs.

“What do they want with me?”

“Shit, man, you don’t know?”

Fake it ’til you make it.

“Paul, c’mon. What did they say?”

“Mace heard them in there with Leland. They’re hauling you downtown, and you won’t be coming back here.”

Scott felt as if Budress was talking about someone else.

“I’m being suspended?”

“Full on. No badge. No pay. You’re going home, pending whatever the fuck investigation.”

“This is crazy.”

“Call the union. Hook up with a rep and a lawyer before you come in. And for Christ’s sake, don’t tell them I called you.”

“What about Maggie?”

“Dude, you don’t own her. I’ll find out what I can. I’ll call you back.”

Budress hung up.

Scott felt woozy and off balance. He clenched his eyes, and imagined himself alone on a beach the way Goodman taught him. Distraction came with focusing on the details. The sand was hot from the sun, and gritty, and smelled of dead seaweed and fish and salt. The sun beat down until his skin crinkled with its terrible heat. Scott’s heart slowed as he calmed, and his head cleared. He had to be calm to think clearly. Clarity was everything.

Internal Affairs was investigating, but Anson and Shankman hadn’t arrested him. This meant no arrest warrant had been issued. Scott had room to move, but he needed more facts.

He called Joyce Cowly’s cell, and prayed his call wouldn’t go to her voice mail.

She answered on the third ring.

“It’s Scott. Joyce, what’s happening? What’s going on?”

She didn’t answer.

“Joyce?”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Two Rampart detectives just left. They made it sound like Daryl Ishi was dead, and I was the suspect.”

She hesitated again as if she was deciding whether to answer, and he grew frightened she would hang up. She didn’t.

“The Parkers went to pick him up for a swab last night. They found him shot to death. Daryl, Estelle Rolley, and one of the roommates.”

Scott lowered himself to the couch.

“They think I killed three people?”

“Scott—”

“It sounds like a drug killing. These people deal drugs. They’re addicts.”

“Ruled out. They had a new stash, and they hadn’t been robbed.”

She paused again.

“There’s this talk about you being unstable—”

“Bullshit.”

“—the way you blew up at Melon and Stengler, the stress you’ve been under, all these medications you take.”

“The Rampart dicks knew my prescriptions. They specifically knew which meds I take. How could they know, Joyce?”

“I don’t know. No one here should know.”

“Who’s saying this stuff?”

“Everyone’s talking about you. Top floor. Division brass. It could have come from anyone.”

“But how can they know?”

“It’s a big deal. They don’t like the way you inserted yourself into the case.”

“I didn’t kill these people.”

“I’m just telling you what’s being said. You’re a suspect. Lawyer up. I can give you some names.”

He went back to the beach. Slow deep breaths in, slow exhales out.

Maggie rested her chin on his knee. He stroked her seal-sleek head and wondered if she would like to run on the beach.

“Why would I kill him? I wanted to know if he saw something. Maybe he didn’t. Now we won’t know.”

“Maybe you tried to make him talk, and got carried away.”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“It’s been mentioned. I have to go.”

“You think I did this?”

Cowly was silent.

“Do you think I killed them?”

“No.”

Joyce Cowly was gone.

Scott lowered his phone.

Maggie’s soft brown eyes watched him.

He stroked her head, wondering if Daryl had died with anything worth knowing.

“Now we’ll never know.”

Nine months was a long time to keep secrets. If Daryl saw something, Scott doubted he could keep quiet, and wondered who Daryl would tell. Marshall might know, but Marshall was currently in Men’s Central Jail.

Scott thought for a moment, then went to his computer. He opened the Sheriff’s Department website for Marshall’s booking number and the phone for the MCJ Liaison Desk.

“This is Detective Bud Orso, LAPD Robbery-Homicide. I need to see a prisoner named Marshall—M, A, R, S, H, A, double-L—Ishi, I, S, H, I.”

Scott read off Marshall’s booking number, and continued his request.

“I’m coming with information regarding his brother, so this is a courtesy visit. He won’t need his attorney.”

When the meeting was arranged, Scott clipped up Maggie and left the guest house as quickly as possible. He needed to move, and keep moving, or he wouldn’t go through with it.

Scott picked up the freeway in Studio City, and made for downtown Los Angeles and Men’s Central Jail. He rolled down the windows. Maggie straddled the console in her usual spot, watching the scenery and enjoying the wind. She looked awkward with the poor footing, but happy and content. Scott leaned into her the way he did when he tried to move her. He felt better when she leaned back.

Once he walked into jail, he hoped they would let him out.

Scott was passing Universal Studios at the Hollywood split when his phone rang. He hoped it was Cowly or Budress, with more information, but it was Goodman. The last person he wanted to speak with, but he answered the call.