The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (19 page)

Scott James

S
COTT KENNELED
M
AGGIE
in Glendale, returned to the Boat, and spent the rest of the day at Major Crimes. He phoned Cowly to tell her what happened, but she’d already heard. She was annoyed, but not as angry as Scott expected. Cowly called him a knucklehead, and they made plans for dinner. Scott was relieved.

Stiles brought him up to speed on the investigation, introduced him to several detectives, and tried to answer his questions. She didn’t have much to report, but Scott found himself liking her.

The size of the task force was impressive, but they were in the third day of the investigation and didn’t have a line on the man in the sport coat, how Carlos Etana was involved, or who had been using the Echo Park house in the name of a dead man.

Scott told himself to be patient, but wondered what Cole knew. Cole’s offer to help was like a worrisome terrier that wouldn’t let go of his ankle. Cole might be one of those people who colored outside
the lines, but people who hung it over the edge weren’t always wrong. Cole might be able to use his secret knowledge and shady connections to break the case faster than Carter.

Scott took out the card with Cole’s number, but didn’t show it to Stiles. He flexed the card under the table, thinking.

“Why do you think Cole was there?”

“Up to no good, most likely.”

Stiles was on her computer in the conference room. Scott was at the far end of the table, flipping through reports.

Scott said, “He told me he was looking for someone named Thomas Lerner.”

Stiles glanced up, frowning at his interest.

“It’s true a resident confirmed that Mr. Cole asked about Lerner, but neither that resident, nor any other neighbor, including the old-timers, remembers a Lerner having lived on their street. And we haven’t been able to find any evidence—none—that the Lerner Mr. Cole described even exists.”

“You think he’s lying?”

She stared at Scott as if she were trying to figure out why he was asking.

“Yes. I believe he is lying.”

Stiles returned to her computer, but Scott didn’t want to let it go.

“Maybe he can’t tell us. Maybe he isn’t so much lying as withholding.”

Stiles didn’t look up this time.

“You’re thinking about Mr. Cole too much.”

Scott flexed Cole’s card again, and put it away.

“Yeah, you’re right. He seemed legit, is all. I can’t help thinking he might be able to help.”

Stiles pushed back from her computer, and crossed her arms.

“Do yourself a favor, stop thinking.”

Carter returned a half hour later, and continued to ignore him. Scott felt uncomfortable, and finally left. He picked up Maggie from Glendale, and bought a case of bottled water and two giant bags of chocolate chip cookies on his way home. Guilt snacks for the officers stuck pulling guard duty.

They reached home early in the evening. Scott introduced himself to the latest set of officers, gave them some water and cookies, then changed into shorts, and took Maggie to the park. They jogged for thirty minutes, which was exercise more for Scott than Maggie. Scott jogged with a gimpy lurch. Maggie kept up by walking quickly. They played with a tug toy after the run. The heavy rubber toy was made for large dogs, but dogs selected as police patrol K-9s went through them quickly. Maggie’s jaws and neck were so strong, and her drive to hold so fierce, Scott could swing her in circles once she clamped onto the toy. Despite her high drive, Maggie wouldn’t chase balls. Scott had tried dozens of times. He could catch her off guard with the sudden motion sometimes, and Maggie would take off, but once she realized she was chasing a ball, she’d break off the chase. No one knew why, not even Leland, but Scott had discovered a substitute.

Scott had brought along three large chunks of baloney, each about the size of a golf ball. He dug the treat bag out of his pack.

“Treat.”

Maggie jumped to a full alert, her eyes locked on the greasy cube.

Scott threw it hard, and Maggie sprinted after it.

The chunk bounced and skipped through the grass thirty yards away. Scott didn’t know if she could see it, but canine eyes were far more sensitive to motion than human eyes, and her nose would do the rest.

Maggie’s momentum carried her past. She clawed up divots of
grass as she turned around, pounced on the meat, and devoured it. They played chase-the-baloney twice more, and headed for home.

Scott put out fresh food and water for Maggie, then showered and dressed. He was tying his shoes when Maggie let him know Joyce had arrived. Every time an officer walked up the drive or the cars changed, Maggie erupted in a frenzy of barking and charged to the door.

“It’s Joyce, Maggie. Stop.”

One of the uni’s had accompanied Joyce to the gate. Today was the black suit.

Scott pulled Maggie out of the way, and let Cowly in. She gave him a quick kiss, and carried a white plastic bag to the table.

“Tostadas. One
pollo
, one
carne asada
. Extra sides of rice and beans. We can share. Guac and chips. The chips are mine.”

Scott laughed.

“I can work with that. Thanks.”

Cowly slipped off her jacket, and began taking plastic containers and cartons from the bag.

“
Cerveza, por favor
? Lime, if you have one.”

“Coming up. Man, look at all this. You are definitely a woman with a plan.”

Scott went to his fridge for the beer as Cowly continued.

“I am! After dinner, I’ll help pack, and you and Maggie will come to my place.”

Scott hesitated at the fridge. Maybe Cowly was such a good detective because she was stubborn. He twisted the caps off two beers, and brought them into the living room.

“Thank you, babe, really, but I’m staying. He isn’t running us out of our home.”

Cowly smiled as patiently as a mother speaking to a reluctant child.

“Oh, but sweetie, you aren’t coming to avoid the man who’s trying to murder you. You’ll be with me so I can make sure you don’t do something stupid again, like flush your career down the toilet.”

Scott joined her, and offered a beer, but she didn’t take it. Her patient smile faded, and she painted him with the homicide eyes.

“Ignacio won’t cut you another break. You got a pass today.”

“I know.”

“I hope so. For your own good.”

She finally took the bottle. She sipped, but Scott didn’t.

“Cole knows something that can help us. I think he’d like to help.”

“Did he say that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“If he wants to help, he should tell Carter and Stiles. Not you. You’re a front-line Metro cop, not a detective.”

“Carter and Stiles are hitting him like a suspect.”

“That’s kinda their job, buddy. And ours.”

She tipped her bottle toward him.

“You can play, but you have to play by the rules. Okay?”

Scott clinked his bottle to hers.

“I hear you.”

Maggie suddenly broke into more barking and charged to the door. Her barking was thunderous. Cowly winced, and Scott hurried to pull Maggie from the door.

“That girl is loud.”

“It’s all night long. Every time they come back to check. Maggie, down. Quiet!”

Someone knocked as Scott reached the door. He pushed open the drape and saw Glory Stiles. She smiled, and held up a binder.

Scott was surprised, and quickly opened the door.

“Detective. Come in.”

He glanced at Cowly to indicate his surprise, but Cowly was staring at Stiles.

Stiles bent from the hips and beamed at Maggie.

“Hi, pretty girl! What’s all that barking about?”

Stiles stepped inside, and thrust out her hand to Cowly.

“Sorry to interrupt. Glory Stiles. Detective-Three at Major Crimes.”

Cowly took the hand, and offered a perfunctory smile.

“Joyce Cowly. Detective-Three, Homicide Special.”

Stiles nodded, and took back her hand.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we’ll cross on a case one day.”

“Maybe we will.”

Stiles gave Scott the binder.

“More mug shots. I changed the parameters based on your comments. Hopefully, these will look more like our suspect.”

Cowly said, “How thoughtful. I usually email a photo-file.”

Stiles considered Scott for a moment.

“Truth is, I felt bad about how certain people carried on today. I don’t think it was so bad, you going to see Mr. Cole. We learned something useful.”

Scott glanced at Cowly. Surprised and pleased.

“Great. I’m glad I could help.”

“The man you named, the one you thought was a veteran.”

“Jon Stone.”

“Turns out, he is, only the government won’t tell us about him. Our request for information was denied.”

“I don’t understand, denied? We’re the police.”

Cowly moved closer, and now she seemed interested.

“The Department of Defense sealed his records?”

“Locked’m up tight, and threw away the key.”

Stiles seemed thoughtful.

“You know what the gentleman told me? He was very nice, by the way. Latin, of all things. ‘
Si Ego
Certiorem Faciam
’—I don’t recall the rest.”

Stiles focused on Scott. Her voice didn’t change, but her gaze was pointed.

“‘I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’”

Stiles cocked her head, and stared even harder.

“Your Mr. Cole has interesting friends.”

Stiles took a quick step back, once again warm.

“I apologize again. I’ll let y’all get back to what you were doing. Maggie, you’re such a sweetie.”

She touched the binder Scott held.

“Look through, and let me know. Y’all have a good night.”

Stiles opened the door, and disappeared into darkness. A few seconds later, Scott heard the gate.

Cowly said, “Bitch.”

Three minutes later, Maggie charged to the window, and filled the guest house with thunder.

Maggie

M
AGGIE PACED THROUGH
their crate with her head down. She paused in the bathroom, whined, and rounded Scott’s bed to the window. The window was closed, but outside air seeped in through hairline gaps in the window’s frame. The tiny drafts were too small to be noticed by Scott, but were as obvious to Maggie as plumes of colored smoke. She pushed her nose under the drapes, found nothing alarming, and returned to the living room. Maggie whined at Scott, but Scott ignored her. She pawed the floor, turned in a circle, and lowered herself.

Scott’s scent was rich with the rancid oils of tension. Their crate was alive with unexpected sounds and unfamiliar scents. Each time Maggie heard the gate, she barked and charged to the door.

“Maggie, shut up! They’re friends!”

Scott’s manner with the uniformed strangers told Maggie they weren’t a threat, but Maggie remained alert. Each time a visitor left,
her ears swiveled, tipped, and followed their footsteps through the gate.

Scott safe.

Pack safe.

Most dogs could hear four times better than a person, but Maggie’s enormous, upright ears evolved to detect quiet predators and distant prey. She could control each ear independently of the other. Eighteen muscles articulated each ear, shaping and sculpting her sail-like pinna to gather and concentrate sounds at frequencies far beyond any a human could hear. This allowed Maggie to hear seven times better than Scott. She could hear the whine of a jet at thirty thousand feet, termites chewing through wood, the crystal in Scott’s watch hum, and thousands of sounds as invisible to Scott as the scents he could not smell.

When sounds and scents were normal, Maggie lay on her belly with her head between her paws.

She listened.

She sniffed.

She watched Scott.

Not long after they returned from the park, Maggie heard an approaching intruder and raced to the door, but this time the intruder was Joyce. Maggie wagged her tail.

Scott happy.

Maggie happy.

Maggie went to the kitchen, drank, roamed through Scott’s bedroom, and returned to the living room. Scott and Joyce were talking. Maggie lowered herself, sighed, and closed her eyes, but did not sleep. She listened to Scott and Joyce, and the world beyond their crate, and heard the gate open as loud as a gunshot.

Maggie scrambled to the door, barking.

“Maggie, down! Quiet!”

Maggie recognized the intruder’s scent, and remembered the tall, human woman as friendly and nonthreatening.

“Hi, pretty girl! What’s all that barking about?”

Scott allowed the woman to enter.

Maggie picked a new spot on the floor, settled, and listened. The tall woman left a few minutes later.

Scott and Joyce ate their chow. Joyce sometimes stayed, and slept with Scott in the bed, but this didn’t happen tonight. They sat on the couch, and talked. Maggie heard strange sounds. The first time, she rushed to the door. The second, she raged into the bedroom. Joyce soon left, and Scott took Maggie to do her business.

When they returned to the crate, Maggie followed Scott to the bathroom where he urinated, showered, and made the blue foam in his mouth. Maggie stayed close.

She followed him through the crate as he turned off the lights and stretched on the couch. Maggie knew patterns. This was their time for sleep. She sniffed a spot near the couch, turned in a circle, and lay.

“Night, dog.”

Thump thump.

Maggie’s nose crinkled as she tested the air.

Her ears swiveled to listen.

She heard cheeps and chirps from the police car on the street and the mumble of the old woman’s television. She heard Scott’s heartbeat slow as he fell asleep.

Maggie sniffed.

She listened, and raised her head.

The high-pitched squeak of branches rubbing together was unusual. A board in the fence behind their crate popped. Leaves rustled, and rustled again, closer.

Maggie charged to the door, raging and fierce.

“Maggie, please. I’m begging you.”

Her bark was deep-chested, and furious. She ran to the bedroom, reared up, and hit the windowsill with her paws.

“SHUT UP!”

Maggie listened.

The pops and rustle had stopped. Nothing was approaching, but she heard nothing move away.

Maggie sniffed the plumes of outside air—sniff sniff sniff, sniff sniff sniff. She smelled nothing out of the ordinary, but she growled low and deep in her chest.

The air was still. Scent would spread slowly. She sniffed again, and waited.