Suspect (12 page)

When she mentioned the files, Scott remembered the notes in his pocket. He took out his map, showed them the four dots, and pointed out the discrepancy he’d found with Pahlasian’s driving time.

“Even if they stopped at both buildings to talk about them, there’s no way it should take an hour and ten minutes to get from the restaurant to the kill zone. Seems like there’s twenty or thirty minutes missing.”

Scott looked up from the map, waiting for their reaction, but Orso only nodded.

“You’re missing a stop. Club Red. It’s in the files.”

Scott had no idea what Orso was talking about.

“I read the interviews with Pahlasian’s wife and his office assistant. They didn’t mention another stop.”

Cowly stepped in with the answer.

“They didn’t know about it. Club Red is like a strip club. Melon didn’t learn about it until Beloit’s credit card charges posted. Beloit picked up the tab.”

Scott felt deflated and stupid, and even more stupid when Cowly waved at the heavy stack of files.

“It’s in there. Melon interviewed the manager and a couple of waitresses. Use my desk or go to the park. I’ll text when we have to roll.”

Scott tucked the files under his arm, and looked from Cowly to Orso. He wanted to see the security video, but now felt too embarrassed to ask.

“Thanks for letting me tag along. It means a lot.”

Orso smiled the scoutmaster smile.

“Sure.”

Scott turned away with Maggie at his side. He felt like an idiot for believing he had discovered a glaring discrepancy when top-cop detectives like Orso and Cowly knew the case inside and out.

Scott wasn’t an idiot, but three more days would pass before he understood.

18.

Scott took the files to Cowly’s cubicle, saw her tiny, cramped space, and decided Maggie would be happier at the park. Then he noticed the framed pictures beside Cowly’s computer, and eased into her chair. Maggie wedged herself under the desk.

The first picture showed a younger, uniformed Cowly at her Police Academy graduation with an older man and woman who were probably her parents. The picture next to it showed Cowly and three other young women all glammed up in satin and sequins for a night on the town. Scott studied the four, and decided Cowly was the only one who looked like a cop. This made Scott smile. Stephanie had looked like a cop, too. The next picture showed Cowly and a good-looking young guy on a beach. Cowly was wearing a red one-piece and her friend was wearing baggy swim trunks that hung to his knees. Scott tried to recall if Cowly wore a wedding ring, but couldn’t. The last picture showed Cowly on a couch with three little kids. Christmas decorations were on a table behind them, and the oldest kid was wearing a Santa hat. Scott glanced at the pic of Cowly and the man on the beach, and wondered if these were their kids.

“C’mon, Mags. Let’s see the park.”

Maggie was too big to turn around in the cramped space, so she backed out from under the desk like a horse backing out of a stall.

Scott led her downstairs and across First Street to the City Hall park. The park was small, but a surrounding grove of California Oaks made the space pleasant and shady.

Scott found an unoccupied bench in the shade, and searched through the file for the Club Red interviews. They were short, and mistakenly attached to a document about Georges Beloit.

The three interviews had been conducted twenty-two days after the shooting. Melon described Club Red as “an upscale after-hours lounge featuring what the management calls ‘performance erotica,’ where semi-nude models pose on small stages above the bar.” Melon and Stengler interviewed Richard Levin, the manager on the night of the shooting, and two bartenders. None of them remembered Pahlasian or Beloit, or recognized their pictures, but Levin provided the times their tab opened and closed from his electronic transaction records. As he did on the interview with Emile Tanager, Melon had handwritten a note on Levin’s interview:

R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B

Levin had delivered the Club Red security video on two discs, which were logged into the case file.

When Scott finished the interviews, he entered Club Red’s address into his phone’s map app to find its location, and added a fifth dot to his map. He stared at the fifth dot for a moment, then checked to be sure he entered the correct address. The address was correct, but now the times and routes seemed even more wrong.

Leaving Club Red, both commercial properties were now several blocks beyond the kill zone. If Pahlasian had driven to either property, he would have passed the kill zone and had no reason to turn back. The freeway was in the other direction.

Scott grew frustrated, and decided to see for himself. The kill zone was less than twenty blocks away, and Tyler’s and Club Red were closer.

“C’mon, let’s take a ride.”

They hurried back to the Boat for his car.

Tyler’s had been Pahlasian’s starting point, so Scott drove to Tyler’s.

The restaurant occupied the corner of an older, ornate building at an intersection not far from Bunker Hill. The front was paneled in black glass with its name mounted on the glass in brass letters. Tyler’s was closed, but Scott stopped to consider the area. He saw no nearby parking lots, so he assumed valets waited at the corner during business hours. He wondered if the Gran Torino was watching the valet station when Pahlasian arrived, or if it followed him from LAX.

Club Red was only nine blocks away. Scott made the daytime drive in twelve minutes, most of which was spent waiting for pedestrians. At one-thirty in the morning, the travel time would have been four minutes or less.

Club Red was also on the ground floor of an older building. It sat next to a parking lot, and its exposed side bore a faded sign advertising custom machine parts. Jutting from the side of the building into the parking lot was a small vertical neon sign spelling out RED. A red door was cut into the building beneath the sign. Patrons probably passed a couple of oversized bouncers as if entering a clandestine world.

Scott checked his map again. Ignoring Tyler’s, the remaining four dots formed a capital Y, with Club Red at the bottom, the kill zone directly above it at the fork, and the two properties Pahlasian wanted to show Beloit at the tips of the arms.

Scott looked at Maggie.

“Everything’s wrong.”

Maggie sniffed his ear, and blew dog breath in his face. Scott tried to push her off the console, but she held firm.

Two attendants were on duty in the parking lot. Scott parked across their entrance, and got out. The older attendant was a Latin man in his fifties with short black hair and a red vest. He hurried over when he saw Scott block their drive, but pulled up short when he saw Scott’s uniform. This was the cop effect.

He said, “You wan’ to park?”

Scott let Maggie out. The man saw her, and took a step back. This was the German shepherd effect.

Scott pointed at the building.

“The club here, Club Red? What time do they close?”

“Really late, man. They don’t open ’til nine. They close at four.”

“Four in the morning.”

“Yeah, four in the morning.”

Scott thanked the man, let Maggie back into the car, and climbed in behind the wheel. He thought he had it figured.

“There’s no mystery here. They were coming back. They saw the buildings, and decided they wanted another drink. That’s all there is to it.”

Maggie panted, but this time Scott was out of range. Then he glanced at the map again and realized his latest theory was also wrong.

“Shit.”

The Bentley’s direction.

The Bentley wasn’t driving toward Club Red when it passed in front of his radio car. Pahlasian was driving in the opposite direction. Toward the freeway.

Scott was still staring at the map when Cowly texted him.

WE’RE ROLLING. CALL ME

Scott immediately called.

“I’m only a few blocks away. Give me five minutes.”

“Take ten, but don’t come to the Boat. We’re staging at MacArthur Park. Can you be there in ten?”

“Absolutely.”

“On the east side between Seventh and Wilshire. You’ll see us.”

Scott put down his phone, wondering why Pahlasian was going to the freeway when he entered the kill zone. Time was still missing, and it hadn’t been filled by looking at buildings.

19.

MacArthur Park was four square blocks split down the middle by Wilshire Boulevard. A soccer field, playgrounds, and a concert pavilion occupied the area north of Wilshire. MacArthur Park Lake took up the south side. The lake was once known for paddleboats until gang violence, drug dealing, and murders drove away the people who rented the boats. Then LAPD and the local business community rolled in, the lake and the park were rebuilt, serious surveillance systems were installed, and the gangbanging drug dealers were rolled out. The paddleboats tried to make a comeback, but the lake’s reputation for ’bangers and violence had polluted the water. So had the tools of their trade. When the lake was drained for repair, more than a hundred handguns were found on the bottom.

Scott followed Wilshire to the park, and saw the staging area. Six LAPD radio cars, a SWAT van, and three unmarked but obvious police sedans were parked near the old paddleboat concession. A uniformed police officer blocked the entrance when he saw a Trans Am turning in, but he stepped aside when he saw Scott’s uniform. Scott rolled down the window.

“I’m looking for Detective Cowly.”

The officer leaned closer to grin at Maggie.

“With the SWAT team. Man, I love having these dogs with us. He’s a beauty.”

Maybe the officer leaned too close or spoke too loudly. Maggie’s ears spiked forward, and Scott knew what was coming even before she growled.

The officer stepped back and laughed.

“Jesus, I love these dogs. Good luck finding a place to park. Maybe put it on the grass over there.”

Scott raised the window, and ruffled Maggie’s fur as he pushed her out of the way.

“He, my ass. How can he think a beautiful girl like you is a he?”

Maggie licked Scott’s ear, and watched the officer until they were parked.

Scott clipped her lead, got out, and watered her with a squirt bottle. After she drank, he let her pee, and spotted Cowly beside the SWAT unit’s tactical van. She was huddled with the SWAT commander, a uniformed lieutenant, and three detectives, none of whom Scott recognized. The SWAT team was lounging by the boathouse, as relaxed as if they were on a fishing trip. Scott felt the kiss of a passing dream, then looked down at Maggie, and found her watching him, tongue hanging loose, ears back and happy. He petted her head.

“No limping. Either of us.”

Maggie wagged her tail and fell in beside him.

Cowly saw him approaching, and held up a finger, signaling him to wait. She spoke with her group a few minutes longer, then they broke up and went in different directions, and Cowly came over to meet him.

“We’ll take my car. Ishi is only five minutes away.”

Scott was doubtful.

“You don’t mind? She’s going to leave hair.”

“All I care is she doesn’t throw up. She gets carsick, you have to clean it.”

“She doesn’t get carsick.”

“She’s never ridden with me.”

Cowly led them to an unmarked tan Impala that wasn’t in much better shape than Scott’s ratty Trans Am. He loaded Maggie in back, and climbed into the shotgun seat as Cowly fired the engine. She popped it in gear, and backed up to leave.

“This won’t take long. You see the manpower we got? The I-Man wanted to roll the Bomb Squad, forchrissake. Orso said, these idiots
use
meth, they don’t
cook
it.”

Scott nodded, not knowing how to respond.

“Thanks again for asking me along. I appreciate it.”

“You’re doing your part.”

“By keeping you company?”

Cowly gave him a glance he couldn’t read.

“By eyeballing Ishi. If you see him, maybe you’ll remember him.”

Scott immediately tensed. Maggie paced from side to side in the back seat, whining. Scott reached back to touch her.

“I didn’t see him.”

“You don’t remember seeing him.”

Scott felt as if he was being tested again, and didn’t like it. His stomach knotted, and he flashed on the shooting—bright yellow bursts from the rifle, the big man walking closer, the impact as the bullet slammed through his shoulder. Scott closed his eyes, and visualized himself on a beach. Then Cowly and her boyfriend appeared on the sand, and he opened his eyes.

“This is bullshit. I’m not a lab monkey.”

“You’re what we have. You don’t want to be here, I’ll let you out.”

“We don’t even know if this is the guy.”

“He laid off Chinese goods three different occasions before Shin closed. He lives fourteen blocks from the kill zone. You see him up close, maybe something will come back to you.”

Scott fell silent and stared out the window. He desperately hoped Ishi had witnessed the shootings, but didn’t want to believe he had seen the man and forgotten. That was too crazy. Seeing a man and forgetting you’ve seen him was way more screwed up than recalling white hair. Cowly and Orso seemed to think this was possible, which left Scott feeling they doubted his sanity.

Cowly guided the D-ride onto a narrow residential street past two idling black-and-whites, turned at the first cross street, and stopped in the center of the street. A pale green unmarked sedan exactly like hers faced them at the next cross street. Scott saw no other police presence.

Cowly said, “Fourth house from the corner, left side. See the van covered with graffiti? It’s parked in front.”

A battered Econoline van covered with Krylon graffiti was parked in front of a pale green house. A broken sidewalk led up a withered yard to a narrow cinder-block porch.

Scott said, “Who’s inside?”

Ishi shared the house with two male friends who were also meth addicts, a girlfriend named Estelle “Ganj” Rolley, who worked as a part-time prostitute to support their meth addiction, and his younger brother, Daryl, a nineteen-year-old dropout with several misdemeanor arrests to his credit.

Cowly said, “Ishi, the girl, and one of the males. The other guy left earlier, so we picked him up. The brother hasn’t been home since yesterday. You see our guys?”

The street and the houses appeared deserted.

“Nobody.”

Cowly nodded.

“A team from Fugitive Section will make the pop. Two guys are on either side of the house right now, and two more have the rear. Plus, we have people from Rampart Robbery to handle the evidence. Watch close. These people are the best.”

Cowly lifted her phone and spoke softly.

“Showtime, my lovelies.”

The van’s driver’s-side door popped open. A thin African-American woman slipped out, rounded the van to the sidewalk, and walked toward the house. She wore frayed jean shorts, a white halter top, and cheap flip-flop sandals. Her hair hung in braids dotted with beads.

Cowly said, “Angela Sims. Fugitive detective.”

The woman knocked when she reached the door. She waited with the nervous anxiety of an impatient tweaker. When no one opened the door, she knocked again. This time the door opened, but Scott did not see who opened it. Angela Sims stepped into the doorway, and stopped, preventing the door from being closed. Two male Fugitive dicks charged from each side of the house at a dead sprint, converging on the door as Angela Sims shoved her way into the house. The four male officers slammed inside behind her. As the Fugitive detectives made their entry, a male and a female detective jumped from the van and raced up the sidewalk.

Cowly said, “Wallace and Isbecki. Rampart Robbery.”

Wallace and Isbecki were still on the sidewalk when two radio cars screeched to a stop behind Cowly’s sedan and two more stopped behind the sedan at the far end of the street. Four uniformed officers deployed from each car to seal the street.

Ishi’s house was quiet and still, but Scott knew all hell was breaking loose inside. Maggie fidgeted from his anxiety.

Five seconds later, two of the male Fugitive detectives emerged with an Anglo male handcuffed between them. Cowly visibly relaxed.

“That’s it, baby. Done deal.”

Cowly drove forward, parked alongside the van, and shoved open her door.

“C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Scott let Maggie out the rear, clipped her lead, and hurried to catch up as Sims and another Fugitive dick brought out Estelle Rolley. Rolley looked like a walking skeleton. Street officers called this “the meth diet.”

Cowly motioned Scott to join her in the yard.

The remaining Fugitive Section detective brought out Marshall Ishi last. Ishi’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He was maybe five eleven, and had the same hollow eyes and cheeks as in his booking photo. He stared at the ground, and wore baggy cargo shorts, sneakers without socks, and a discolored T-shirt that draped him like a parachute.

Scott studied the man. Nothing about him was familiar, but Scott couldn’t turn away. He felt as if he was falling into the man.

Cowly nudged close.

“What do you think?”

She sounded lost in a tunnel.

The arresting detective steered Ishi off the porch down two short steps to the sidewalk.

Scott saw the Kenworth slam into the Bentley. He saw the Bentley roll, and the flare of the AK-47. He saw Marshall Ishi on the roof, peering down at the carnage, and running away. Scott saw these things as if they were happening in front of him, but he knew this was only a fantasy. He saw Stephanie die, and heard her beg him to come back.

Ishi glanced up, met Scott’s eyes, and Maggie growled deep in her chest.

Scott turned away, hating Cowly for dragging him here.

“This was stupid.”

“Man, you should’ve seen your face. Are you okay?”

“I was thinking about that night, is all. Like a flashback. I’m fine.”

“Did seeing him help?”

“Does it look like it helped?”

Scott’s voice was sharp, and he immediately regretted it.

Cowly showed her palms and took a step back.

“Okay. Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could be our guy. We just have to roll with it.”

Scott thought
, Fuck you and your roll with it.

Scott followed her into a small, dirty house permeated with a burnt-plastic and chemical odor so strong it made his eyes water. Cowly fanned the air, making a face.

“That’s the crystal. Soaks into the paint, the floors, everything.”

The living room contained a futon piled with rumpled sheets, a threadbare couch, and an elaborate blue glass bong almost three feet tall. Rock pipes dotted the futon and couch, and a square mirror smeared with powder sat on the floor. Maggie strained against her lead. Her nostrils flickered independently as she tested the air, then the floor, then the air again, and her anxiety flowed up the leash. She glanced at Scott as if checking his reaction, and barked.

“Take it easy. We’re not here for that.”

Scott tightened her lead to keep her close. Maggie had been trained to detect explosives, and explosives-detection dogs were never trained to alert to drugs. Scott decided the combined chemical smells of crystal and rock were confusing her. He tightened her lead even more, and stroked her flanks.

“Settle, baby. Settle. We don’t want it.”

The male Rampart detective appeared in the hall, and grinned at Cowly.

“We own this dude, boss. Come see.”

Cowly introduced Scott to Bill Wallace, who worked Rampart Robbery. Claudia Isbecki was in the first of two tiny bedrooms, photographing dime bags of rock cocaine, a large pill bottle filled with crystal meth, a glass jar filled with weed, and assorted plastic bags containing Adderall, Vyvanse, Dexedrine, and other amphetamines. Wallace then led them to a second bedroom, where he pointed out a tattered black gym bag, and grinned like a man who won the lottery.

“Found this under the bed. Check it out.”

The bag contained a pry bar, two screwdrivers, a bolt cutter, a hacksaw, a lock pick set with tension wrenches, a bottle of graphite, and a battery-powered lock pick gun.

Wallace stepped back, beaming.

“We call this a do-it-yourself burglary kit as defined under Penal Code four-forty-six. Also known as a one-way ticket to conviction.”

Cowly nodded.

“Pictures. Log everything, and email the pix to me asap. They’ll save time with his lawyer.”

Cowly glanced at Scott, then turned away.

“Let’s go. We’re finished here.”

“What happens now?”

“I’ll bring you to your car. Then I’m going back to the Boat, and you should probably go wherever you dog guys go.”

“I meant with Ishi.”

“We’ll question him. We’ll use the charges we have to press him about Shin. If he didn’t rob Shin, maybe he knows who did. We work the case.”

Her phone rang when they reached the living room. She glanced at the Caller ID.

“That’s Orso. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She moved away to take the call. Scott wondered if he should wait, then decided to get Maggie out of the stink, and took her outside.

A small crowd of neighborhood residents was gathered across the street and in the surrounding yards to watch the action. Scott was watching them when two senior officers came up the walk with a thin young male in his early twenties. He sported a mop of curly black hair, gaunt cheeks, and nervous eyes. Then Scott saw the resemblance, and realized this was Marshall Ishi’s younger brother, Daryl. He was not handcuffed, which meant he was not under arrest.

Scott was stepping off the sidewalk to let them pass when Maggie alerted, and lunged toward Daryl. She caught Scott by surprise, and almost pulled him off his feet. She pulled so hard, she raised up onto her hind legs.

Daryl and the closest officer both lurched sideways, and the officer shouted.

“Jesus Christ!”

Scott reacted immediately.

“Out, Maggie. Out!”

Maggie retreated, but kept barking.

The officer who shouted was bright red with anger.

“Christ, man, control your dog. That thing almost bit me!”

“Maggie, out! Out! Come!”

Maggie followed Scott away. She didn’t seem frightened or angry. Her tail wagged, and she glanced from Daryl Ishi to the pocket with the hidden baloney to Daryl Ishi again.

Daryl said, “That dog bites me, I’ll sue your ass.”

Cowly stepped from the house and came down the steps. The flushed uniform introduced Daryl as Marshall’s brother.