Suspect (18 page)

“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.

PART IV

PACK

29.

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.

“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.

30.

Joyce Cowly

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.

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.

31.

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.

Scott let him take a good look.

“This is how I know.”

Marshall glanced at Scott, then went back to the scars. He couldn’t stop looking at the scars.

“What happened?”

Scott pulled on the undershirt, and buttoned his shirt.

“When you cut your plea, you told detectives about a Chinese import store you hit nine months ago. They asked if you saw a shooting. Three people were murdered. One left for dead.”

Marshall nodded as he answered.

“Yes, sir, they asked. I did commit that burglary, but I didn’t see the shooting. My understanding is all that happened after I left.”

He glanced at Scott’s shoulder, but the scars were hidden.

“Was that you, left for dead?”

Marshall was so genuine and natural, Scott knew he was telling the truth. The poly wasn’t necessary.

“I lost someone close that night. Last night, you lost your brother. The same people who did this to me killed Daryl.”

Marshall sat there, staring, his face pinched as he struggled to get his head around it. His eyes shimmered, and Scott thought, if Budress was right, if a dog saw a person’s heart through their eyes, Maggie would see a heart broken in Marshall.

“Help me out here, ’cause—”

“Was Daryl with you that night?”

Marshall leaned back again, and seemed irritated.

“What the fuck? I don’t take Daryl with me to do burglary. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Up on the roof. Your lookout.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

He meant it. Marshall was telling the truth.

“Daryl was there.”

“Bullshit. I’m telling you, he wasn’t.”

“What if I told you I could prove it?”

“I’d call you a liar.”

Scott decided to leave Maggie out of it, and tell Marshall they had a DNA match. But as he took out his phone for a picture of the watchband, it occurred to him Marshall might remember his brother’s watch.

He held out his phone so Marshall could see.

“Did Daryl have a watch with a band like this?”

Marshall slowly sat taller. He reached for the phone, but the manacles stopped him.

“I got that watch for him. I gave it to him.”

Scott thought carefully. Marshall was with him now, and Marshall would help. Luck was better than DNA.

“This was found on the sidewalk the morning I was shot. These little smears are from a fence on the roof. I don’t know when he was up there that night, or why, or what he saw, but Daryl was there.”

Marshall shook his head slow, trying to remember and asking himself questions.

“Are you saying he saw those murders?”

“I don’t know. He never mentioned it to you?”

“No, ’course not. Not ever. Jesus, don’t you think I’d remember?”

“I don’t know if he saw them or not, but I think the shooters were scared he had seen them.”

Marshall’s gaze shifted, searching the little room for answers.

“Y’all thought I saw the shootings, and I didn’t. Maybe Daryl was long gone like me, and didn’t see shit.”

“Then they killed him for nothing, and he’s still dead.”

Marshall wiped his eyes on his shoulders, leaving dark spots on the blue.

“Goddamnit, this is bullshit. Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“I want them, Marshall. For me and my friend, and for Daryl. I need your help to get this done.”

“What the fuck, if he saw something, he didn’t tell me. Shit, even if he
didn’t
see anything, he didn’t tell me. Probably scared I’d kick his ass!”

“Something crazy and exciting like this? Let’s say he saw it. Let’s pretend.”

Because if Daryl left the roof having seen nothing, Scott had no place to go.

“It’s a big thing to hold. Who would he tell? His best friend. A person he might tell even if he was too scared to tell anyone else.”

Marshall’s head bobbed.

“Amelia. His baby mama.”

“Daryl has a child?”

Marshall’s gaze flicked around the room as he sorted through memories.

“Be about two, a girl. Don’t
really
know it’s Daryl’s, but she says it is. He loves her.”

Then Marshall realized what he’d said.

“Loved.”

Her name was Amelia Goyta. The baby’s name was Gina. Marshall didn’t know the address, but told Scott where to find her building. Marshall hadn’t seen the baby in almost a year, and wanted to know if she looked like Daryl.

Scott promised to let Marshall know, and was leaving to find the deputy when Marshall twisted around in his chair and asked a question Scott had been asking himself.

“All this time later, why they all of a sudden get scared Daryl seen’m? How’d they know Daryl was up there?”

Scott thought he knew, but didn’t share the answer.

“Marshall, the detectives will probably come see you. Don’t tell them about this. Don’t tell anyone unless you hear that I’m dead.”

Marshall’s red eyes grew scared.

“I won’t.”

“Not even the detectives. Especially not the detectives.”

Scott took a right turn out the door, collected his handcuffs and gun, and left the jail as quickly as he could.

He waited on the sidewalk by the parking lot for almost ten minutes before Budress and Maggie rounded the corner. Maggie bounced and yelped and strained at her lead, so Budress let her go. She raced toward Scott with her ears back and tongue out, looking like the happiest dog in the world. Scott opened his arms, and caught her when she plowed into him. Eighty-five pounds of black-and-tan love.

Budress didn’t look as happy as Maggie.

“What happened in there?”

“I’m still in the game.”

Budress grunted.

“Okay, then. Okay. I’ll see you later.”

Budress turned to leave.

“Paul. Marshall recognized the watchband. It was Daryl’s. Maggie pinned him, man.”

Budress glanced at the dog, then the man.

“Never doubt.”

“I didn’t.”

Scott and Maggie climbed into their car.