Scent of Murder (26 page)

Rocky let out a nervous bark.

Hallett rubbed the dog's head and said, “I'm with you, buddy. Let's get this show on the road.”

*   *   *

This was the closest Darren Mori had ever gotten to an actual criminal investigation. He'd had to investigate a few incidents when he was a road patrolman, write reports and interview witnesses to a traffic accident or take a homeowner's report of a burglary, but he really didn't have much experience interviewing hardened criminals.

The two probation officers—funny-looking guys who didn't seem very happy about helping the police—knocked on the door with John Fusco directly behind them. Darren and Brutus were on the walkway to the front door, close enough to hear and see everything that went on. Ruben Vasquez had taught him to listen to Brutus, but he also learned to listen to everyone else around him. He'd probably learned more in the last year just by keeping his mouth shut and his mind focused than he had in his entire life leading up to his assignment on the Canine Assist Team.

The door opened and the younger of the Ludner brothers stood staring at all four men. He was in his early thirties and almost six feet tall. One of the probation officers was at least four inches taller than Neil Ludner, and the other was a couple of inches shorter. But Darren noticed how the drug dealer's attention was focused on Fusco, Brutus, and him, instead of the two probation officers.

After a moment the drug dealer said, “What the hell is this all about?”

The tall probation officer said, “Hi, Neil, we're just doing a check. Mind if we come in and look around?” He made a slight movement to step into the house but was blocked by the drug dealer.

Slaton was much more aggressive. “Step out of the way, we're coming inside.”

Darren could see the drug dealer dig his heels into the floor as he said, “Why're the cops here?”

The tall probation officer said, “Per our policy, for safety reasons.”

Neil Ludner said, “Let me call my brother.”

Slaton pointed past his shoulder and said, “He's sitting on the couch behind you.”

“No, my other brother. My attorney.” The way he enunciated the word “attorney” made it sound like a threat.

Darren was getting sucked into the staccato bantering and enjoying the show. Brutus sat quietly at his side, showing little interest. If there wasn't something to find, Brutus wasn't engaged in a situation. Smarty would've been barking and snarling as he sensed the aggression and tension growing.

John Fusco pushed his way past the probation officers, saying, “You can call anyone you want, but we're coming in right now.” He edged an arm past the drug dealer and shoved him to the side, stepping into the house.

The surly probation officer, Bill Slaton, obviously didn't like being pushed aside. He tried to regain his composure, wiping his boots on the doormat and stepping into the house like an invited guest. Then he turned around and motioned to Darren and said, “Stay right there.”

Darren resented being told to stay like a pet, so he ignored the probation officer and eased up next to Fusco. Brutus turned sheepish in the darkened room. Darren didn't like it much either.

Once inside the house, Darren flashed back to his brief stint in narcotics three years ago and instantly recalled why he preferred patrol. These guys were dirt bags. The dark, dank living room had a haze of cigarette smoke and other smells emanating from God knew where. It made his skin crawl. He'd never be able to get this stench out of his uniform or Brutus's coat. He at least knew to stand still for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

These two shitheads were raised in a middle-class home and their brother was an attorney. What went wrong? How could anyone accept living in conditions like this?

The taller man, Neil, said, “I'm calling my brother.”

Fusco said, “So?” He turned toward the hallway at the far end of the living room and started to step that way when the heavier brother, Arnold Junior, bounded off the couch with surprising speed, shouting for Fusco to stop and blocking his way.

Fusco raised his voice to match the shithead's. “Step out of the way and don't do anything stupid. We're just here to look around as part of your brother's probation.”

An adult male stepped out from the hallway, but in the dark and haze of smoke, it took a moment for Darren to realize it was Arnold Ludner. The whole reason they were going through this farce was to talk to the father of these two idiots.

The senior Ludner called out, “What's all the racket about?”

The beefy younger Arnold Ludner got in Fusco's face. It looked like Fusco was prepared to let the thuggish drug dealer run his mouth. Most cops are good about letting people blow off steam. They take abuse all day long in uniform, and if they fought everyone who made a smart remark, they'd be nothing but a mass of black eyes and cut knuckles.

Then the drug dealer went too far. He touched Fusco on the chest. It was really more of a poke with his index finger. Once someone touches a cop, all bets are off. When a cop is assaulted, no matter how minor, he or she has to respond with overwhelming force.

Fusco lifted his left hand quickly in a feint, which worked. When Arnold Junior raised his eyes to Fusco's left hand, he drove his right fist hard into the drug dealer's gut.

Darren could smell the man's nasty breath as he exhaled involuntarily in response to the blow. But the guy was tough. He absorbed the shot in the stomach, wrapped his arms around Fusco, and pushed back like a lineman.

Fusco stumbled backward into the probation officers with the drug dealer on top of him. Darren's first instinct was to reach down and grab his pistol on his right hip. That was from the first day of the police academy. Always protect your weapon. For some reason the statistic that 25 percent of all cops killed in line of duty were killed with their own pistol flickered through his mind. Fusco fell on the soft padding of Bill Slaton underneath him, breaking his fall.

Darren moved toward the other brother to block any possible attack.

The drug dealer was still on top of him when Fusco yelled out, “Kato, help.”

Darren turned, threw a kick into the heavy drug dealer's ribs, and grabbed his radio quickly, calling out, “I need backup. We've got a fight in the house.” He was on the local dedicated CAT channel and knew that only Hallett and Claire would hear his call. They could make the decision if more help was needed from the district.

Darren didn't hesitate to jerk his pepper spray from his tactical vest and give it a quick shake with his left hand. Just as he was ready to let loose with the spray, Fusco yelled, “Not yet, not yet. We're too close to each other.”

It was like magic. Brutus barked and all three suspects froze, then looked his way. It wasn't Darren in his uniform, holding pepper spray, that startled them. It was the sight of Brutus. It was obvious none of them realized the biggest threat they had from the Golden Retriever was being beaten in a game of ultimate Frisbee. But it still had the desired effect as the brother and father pulled Arnold Junior off the law enforcement pile and all three spurted through the kitchen and out the back door.

Darren knew exactly what he needed to put out over the radio. “We've got three suspects running out the back door. All three are involved in a felony battery.” That was justification to use the dogs if these idiots kept running.

Darren sprinted to the rear door and watched as the three men spread out in the backyard. He knew not to run, in case the dogs were released from each side of the compound. It physically hurt him not to be part of the chase.

 

30

Tim Hallett heard the transmission about the fleeing suspects just as he saw all the men stumble out of the rear door of the house. He could tell they had experience with K-9s because they were smart enough to split up and run three separate directions. It was obvious to him which one was the father. He seemed to be in more of a relaxed jog than an all-out sprint and slowed to a walk before getting too far from the house.

The toughest of the brothers, Arnold Junior, was running closest to Hallett, who was praying the drug dealer wouldn't stop. Hallett gave the warning just the same. “Stop, police. Stop running or I will release my dog.” He waited a few more seconds, then gave the fleeing man a second chance, saying, “You better stop. You're gonna get bitten.” Now he was jogging in the direction of the running man and Rocky was straining at his lead. It was
go
time. Hallett had the quick release on the lead and said,
“Krijg hem,”
which meant “get him” in Dutch.

Rocky launched like a missile, sailing through the uncut grass-and-weed mixture that filled most of the wide backyard. He didn't bother to bark and warn the man he was closing on him; he just galloped closer and closer to his prey.

The drug dealer—who was moving much faster than Hallett would've thought such a chubby man would—glanced over his shoulder and, instead of freezing in place the way he should have, tried to turn on the speed. It was futile against the sleek Belgian Malinois.

Hallett anticipated the strike and was afraid Ludner would stop fleeing. Hallett mumbled quietly, “Run, asshole, run.” He'd never taken such pleasure in watching his partner run down a bolting suspect. A dozen yards before the edge of the property Rocky launched himself into the air, opened his mouth, and latched on to Ludner's upper arm in one fluid motion.

Rocky twisted his body and brought the big man down with a thud. He never released his grip on the man's arm as Hallett jogged over to them.

Before he even reached the flailing drug dealer, Hallett had a set of handcuffs in his left hand and shouted to the man, “Put your free hand behind your back. Do it now.” As he got closer he said to Rocky in a softer voice, “
Loslaten,”
which was Dutch for “let go” or “release.” Rocky dropped the man's bloody arm, took a few paces off to the side, and sat quietly like a sentinel while Hallett handcuffed Ludner firmly behind his back, not showing any concern for the man's wound.

Hallett looked up at Rocky and said, “Good boy, Rocky. Good boy.”

Ludner moaned and said, “Why did he try to yank my arm off?”

“Because you kept running when you shouldn't have, dumbass.”

*   *   *

Rocky felt a surge of excitement as he saw three men come out of the house in the distance. He could tell by the way Tim was turned and his body language which man Tim wanted him to chase as part of their game. He was a big, slow man. Good. This was going to be fun. Then Rocky heard Tim say,
“Krijg hem,”
which meant “chase the man and bite him hard.” It was one of those phrases Rocky had come to know, and it was the one that made him happiest when they played these games. He knew he had to run the man down and bite him hard so Tim wouldn't be in danger and it might teach the man a lesson.

He felt the release on his lead open and it was like he had no control. Instinct took over, and his paws seemed to barely touch the dew covering the grass as he raced across the open field.

The man looked over his shoulders with wide eyes and sweat pouring off in every direction. Rocky always liked when people looked behind at him. This bad man was scared. Rocky could see it and smell it.

Rocky could've caught up with the man easily, but instead hung back to let him tire himself out more, then paused as he timed his leap. He sprang off the ground and aimed for the man's upper arm. It was easy and fun. Rocky turned in midair and felt the man twist and his feet lift off the ground. He made a funny sound,
“Umph!”
Rocky didn't think it was a real word, but wasn't certain. He could hear the man gasping for air.

Rocky held on to the man's arm the way he had been taught during their other games. Until he heard Tim say,
“Loslaten,”
which meant the game was over and it wasn't fun anymore.

Rocky sat back and kept watch while Tim played his own game with the big man.

*   *   *

Claire Perkins enjoyed the excitement of a chase and arrest. The brother that ran toward her was smart enough to freeze the moment he saw Smarty. She took him into custody without having to say a word. Hallett and Rocky had captured the other brother, who was currently getting stitched up at Palms West Hospital. Hallett told her it was mainly superficial, with no arteries or veins severed. The suspect was whining just the same.

The man they were looking to capture in the first place, Arnold Ludner, had run out of gas and sat on a stack of fencing material until someone walked back and took him into custody as well.

It didn't take long for the probation officers to figure out why the three men had run. The rear bathroom of the front house was being used as a small but efficient meth lab. Based on the stack of twenty-dollar bills it appeared to be a profitable operation.

All three of the Ludners were now in custody, and the older, heavyset probation officer was on his way to the emergency room complaining about back pain brought on by having two grown men plop on top of him.

Now Claire stood in front of the house with Darren Mori and Brutus, watching the crime scene technicians and evidence custodians as well as the narcotics agents do their job. Lori Tate smiled and waved as she carried out a small box of cash sealed in clear plastic envelopes.

Lori said, “You guys did a great job.”

Claire gave her a smile and was about to say something when Fusco walked past and winked at her. It broke her train of thought. Claire realized that Fusco was about to fight a battle with homicide about who would run the case, but even in this most basic of police investigator activities he had time to acknowledge her. She liked that.

Darren moved closer to the house as Brutus took a sniff of the walkway and stepped into the house. He started circling the area near the front door.