Robert Crais - Suspect

Mr. Marley stayed at the door.

“Leh me do dis, sabe you nice clothes? Come down de stairs. I gib you beach pants an’ a beautiful MarleyWorld shirt, de rayahn so soft it keess your skeen.”

“Thank you, but I’m good like this.”

Cowly determined the direction of the intersection, and picked her way across the roof.

“Watch for de needles. Dey be nahsty tings up here.”

His concern was cute, but annoying as hell. Cowly was glad he stayed by the door.

She climbed over a low wall onto the corner building, and moved to the edge of the roof. A low, wrought-iron safety barrier ran along the parapet just as Scott described. It was dirty, rusted, and eaten by corrosion. Cowly was careful not to touch it when she leaned forward to look between the bars. She saw a perfectly normal street four floors below, bustling with normal activity, but nine months ago, three people were murdered here, Scott James was bleeding to death, and the street glittered with cartridge casings.

Cowly walked along the fence. The little remaining black paint had faded to a soft gray. Most of the metal was scabbed with fine, reddish-brown rust. Cowly touched it, and examined the rust on her finger. More brown than red, but enough red to look like dried blood.

She stood on her toes, trying to see the sidewalk, but wasn’t tall enough. She was directly above the spot where SID collected the watchband, thinking the red smears were blood.

Cowly took the evidence bag from her purse. She unsealed the bag and maneuvered the leather strap until it was exposed, being careful not to touch it with her fingers. She held it using the plastic like a glove.

Cowly pressed her free thumb to the fence, and compared the rust on her thumb to the streaks on the leather. They looked alike. Cowly pressed her thumb to the fence again, and grinded it to pick up more rust. The streaks on the band and on her thumb now looked identical. Cowly was encouraged, but knew their appearance proved little or nothing.

She resealed the evidence bag, tucked it into her purse, and took out a white envelope and pen. Using the pen, she scraped a generous amount of rust into the envelope. When she felt she had enough, she sealed the envelope, thanked Mr. Marley for being so helpful, and took her samples to SID.

Men’s Central Jail was a low, sleek, concrete building wedged between Chinatown and the Los Angeles River. Built stern and foreboding, it could have passed for the science center at a well-endowed university except for the chain-link fence rimming its perimeter and the five thousand inmates between its walls.

Scott parked in a public parking lot across the street, but stayed in his car, his hand on Maggie’s back to keep them both calm. Twenty-five minutes later Maggie sniffed, and her ears went up on alert. Scott clipped her lead and waited. When Paul Budress appeared, they got out.

“She had you forty seconds before I saw you.”

Budress was clearly uncomfortable. His mouth was an unhappy line and his eyes were narrowed to slits.

“The rats left. They decided you weren’t coming in.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Hell, man, I know, else I wouldn’t be here.”

Scott hadn’t been able to figure out what to do with Maggie while he was in jail, so he called Budress from the freeway. Budress thought he was crazy, but here he was.

Scott held out the lead. Budress frowned for a moment, but took it. He let Maggie sniff his hand, and ruffled her head.

“We’ll take a walk. Text me when you’re out.”

“If they take her, find her a good home, okay?”

“She has a home. Go.”

Scott walked quickly away and did not look back. They knew Maggie would try to follow him, and she did. In her world, they were a pack, and the pack stayed together.

Maggie whined and barked, and he heard her claws scrape the tarmac like files. Budress had cautioned him not to look back or wave bye-bye or any of the silly things people did. Dogs weren’t people. Eye contact would make her struggle harder to reach him. A dog could see your heart in your eyes, Budress told him, and dogs were drawn to our hearts.

Scott dodged cars to cross the street, and entered the main entrance. During his seven years as a patrol officer, he had visited MCJ less than two dozen times. Most of these had been to transport suspects or prisoners from his area station, and deliveries were made up a ramp in the back.

Scott took a moment to orient himself, then told a Sheriff’s Deputy he was scheduled to see a prisoner, and gave Marshall’s name. Standing there in his dark navy uniform with his badge pinned to his chest, Scott looked nothing like a Robbery-Homicide detective. He took a breath, and identified himself as Bud Orso.

The dep made a call without comment, and a female deputy appeared a few minutes later.

“You Orso?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’re bringing him up. I’ll take you back.”

Scott felt little relief. He followed her past a security station to a room where she asked for his handcuffs and weapon. She gave him a receipt, locked both in a gun safe, and showed him to an interview room. Scott was pleased with the room. Civilian visitors and attorneys were brought to booths where they talked to prisoners on phones while separated by a heavy glass screen. Law-enforcement personnel required an interview environment with greater flexibility. The room contained an ancient Formica-topped table and three plastic chairs. The table jutted from a wall, and was fitted with a steel rod for securing prisoners. Scott took a chair facing the door.

The deputy said, “Here he comes. You need anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“I’m at the end of the hall when you finish. Out this door, turn right. We’ll get you your things.”

An athletic young dep fresh from the Academy guided Marshall into the room. Marshall wore a bright blue jumpsuit, sneakers, and manacles on his pencil-thin wrists. He appeared even more frail than Scott remembered, which was probably from the withdrawal. Marshall glanced at Scott, and stared at the floor. Same as when he was led from his house.

The young dep seated Marshall in the chair facing Scott, and hooked the manacles to the steel rod.

Scott said, “You don’t need to do that. We’re fine.”

“Got to. Marshall, you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

The deputy closed the door on his way out.

Scott studied Marshall, and realized he didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know anything about Marshall Ishi other than he was a wasted-away tweaker with a brother and a girlfriend who were murdered the day before. Marshall probably learned about it this morning. The red eyes were probably from crying.

“You love your brother?”

Marshall glanced up before glancing away. Scott caught a flash of anger in the red eyes.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what kind of relationship you had. Some brothers, you know how it is, they hate each other. Others . . .”

Scott let it trail. The welling in Marshall’s eyes gave the answer.

“I raised him since he was nine.”

“I’m sorry. About Daryl, and Estelle, too. I know how it hurts.”

Marshall’s eyes flashed angry again.

“Oh, that’s right, for sure. Spare me, partner, how could you? Let’s get down to business here. Who killed my brother?”

Scott pushed his chair back, stood, and unbuttoned his shirt.

Marshall leaned back, clearly surprised. He didn’t understand what was happening, and shook his head.

“No, don’t do that. Stop, dude, I’ll call the sheriffs.”

Scott dropped his shirt on the chair, took off his undershirt, and watched Marshall’s expression change when he saw the gray lines across Scott’s left shoulder and the large, knobby Y that wrapped around his right side.