Robert Crais - Suspect

“This is Charles Goodman, Scott. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I was going to call. I have to cancel our session tomorrow.”

Scott’s regular appointment was the following day.

“I was phoning to cancel, as well. Something happened here at the office. Personally embarrassing for me, and I’m afraid this will be upsetting for you.”

Scott had never heard Goodman so strained.

“Are you okay, Doc?”

“The privacy of my clients and their trust is of paramount importance to me—”

“I trust you. What happened?”

“My office was broken into two nights ago. Scott, some things were stolen, your file among them. I’m terribly sorry—”

Scott flashed on Shankman and Anson, and the top-floor brass knowing things about him they had no way to know.

“Doc, wait. My file was stolen? My file?”

“Not only yours, but yours was among them. Apparently they grabbed a handful of files at random—current and past clients whose last names begin with the letters G through K. I’ve been calling to—”

“Did you call the police?”

“Two detectives came out. They sent a man to look for fingerprints. He left black powder on the door and the windows and my cabinet. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to leave it or if I can clean it.”

“You can clean up, Doc. They’re finished. What did the detectives say?”

“They didn’t tell me whether to leave it or clean it.”

“Not about the fingerprint powder. What about the burglary?”

“Scott, I want you to know I did not give them your name. They asked for a list of the clients whose files were stolen, but that would violate our confidence. The State of California protects you in this. I did not and will not identify you.”

Scott had the sick feeling his confidence had already been violated.

“What did they say about the burglary?”

“The door and the windows weren’t broken, so whoever broke in apparently had a key. The detectives said burglaries like this are usually committed by someone known to the cleaning crew. They have a key made, and grab the first thing they see.”

“What would a janitor want with files?”

“The files have your personal and billing information. The detectives said I should warn you—not you specifically, but all of you—to alert your credit card companies and banks. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. These people are out there with my notes on your sessions, and now you have to deal with this credit card nonsense.”

Scott’s mind raced from Anson and Shankman to Cowly to Goodman’s break-in, all of it coming together.

“When did this happen?”

“Two nights ago. I came to the office yesterday morning, and, well, my heart sank when I saw what had happened.”

Three nights ago, Maggie alerted to an intruder. Scott recalled a powdery substance on his locks, but had written it off.

Scott steered for the next off-ramp, and left the freeway in the Cahuenga Pass. He stopped in the first parking lot he saw.

“Doc? Who were the detectives who came out?”

“Ah, well, I have their—yes, here we are. Detective Warren Broder and a Detective Deborah Kurland.”

Scott jotted the names, told Goodman he would phone in a few days, and immediately called the North Hollywood Community Police Station. When he reached the Detective Bureau, he identified himself, and asked to speak with Broder or Kurland.

“Kurland’s here. Hold on.”

A few seconds later, Kurland picked up. Her smart professional voice reminded him of Cowly.

“Detective Kurland speaking.”

Scott repeated his name, adding his badge number and station.

Kurland said, “Okey-doke, Officer. How can I help?”

“You and Detective Broder are handling the burglary of a Doctor Charles Goodman. His office in Studio City?”

“You bet. May I ask your interest?”

“Doctor Goodman is a friend. This call is unofficial.”

“I get it. Ask whatever you like. I’ll answer or I won’t.”

“How’d the perp get in?”

“Door.”

“Funny. You guys told Goodman the guy used a passkey?”

“No, that was me, and what I said was, you see entries this clean, more often than not the perp bought a key from someone who works at the building. My partner thinks the locks were bump-keyed. Personally, I think the dude used a pick gun. Up on that second-floor walkway with your butt in the air, you want the locks open fast. A pick gun is easier.”

The ache in Scott’s side crept up his back.

“Why either one instead of the passkey?”

“I wanted to check the locks, so I borrowed the doctor’s keys. They felt slippery. I wiped them, worked the locks, the keys were slippery again. Both locks were blown full of graphite.”

The Trans Am’s doors and top bulged toward him, as if the car was being crushed by an outside pressure.

Kurland said, “Anything else?”

Scott started to say no, then remembered.

“The prints?”

“Nothing. Gloves.”

Scott thanked her, and lowered his phone. He stared at the passing traffic, and grew more frightened with each passing car. Someone had invaded his life, and was using his life to frame him for Daryl Ishi’s murder. Someone wanted to know what he knew, and thought, and suspected about Stephanie’s killers. Someone didn’t want Stephanie’s killers found.

Scott turned around and drove back to his guest house. He went to his bedroom, and found his old dive bag in his closet. It was a huge nylon duffel, currently packed with fins, a buoyancy compensator, and other diving gear. Scott dumped the contents while Maggie sniffed from the door. He had not opened the bag in almost three years. He wondered if she smelled the ocean and fish, or if time had killed their scent.

Scott filled the bag with his spare pistol and ammo, his dad’s old watch, the cash under the clock radio, the shoe box filled with credit card receipts and billing statements, two changes of clothes, and his personal items. He cleaned out his meds from the bathroom. Goodman’s name was on the labels, and now Scott had no doubt there was a connection. Three nights ago, someone entered his home, went through his things, and saw Goodman’s name. Two nights ago, someone broke into Goodman’s office, and made off with Scott’s therapeutic history.

Scott carried his bag to the living room. He gathered the material he amassed on the shooting into a single large stack, and packed it into the bag. The empty floor looked larger.

Maggie stuck her head into the bag, looked at Scott as if she was bored, and walked into the kitchen for water.

Scott studied the room, thinking what else should he take? He added his laptop computer, and took down his diagrams and pictures. He considered leaving Stephanie’s picture on the wall, but she had been with him at the beginning, and he wanted her with him at the end. Her picture was the last thing he put in the bag.

He clipped Maggie’s lead, and braced himself as he slung the dive bag over his shoulder. He expected his side to scream, but he felt almost normal.

“C’mon, big girl. Let’s get this done.”

Scott told Mrs. Earle he would be away for a few days, stowed the dive bag in his trunk, and headed back to the freeway.

Going to jail.

Driving fast.

Elton Joshua Marley frowned at their surroundings as she stepped onto the roof.

“Look how fil’ty, all dis mess. You ruin dese nice clothes you hab.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Marley. Thanks.”

The roof was littered with wine bottles, broken rock pipes, and condoms, as she had seen in Scott James’ pictures. She moved away from the stairwell to get her bearings. She was looking for the roof above the kill zone.