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  “Did Melon tell you what happened?”

  “Yes, he told me. He said you were an ungrateful prick.”

  “I am.”

  Fuckit. Scott hadn’t cared what Melon thought of him, and didn’t care what the new guy thought, either, but he was surprised when Orso laughed.

  “Look, I know you had a problem with him, but I’m the new guy. I’d like to meet you, and go over a couple of things in the file.”

  Scott felt a flare of hope.

  “Did Melon turn any new leads?”

  “No, I can’t say that. This is just me, trying to get up to speed on what happened that night. Could you roll by sometime today?”

  The flare of hope faded to a bitter ember. Orso sounded like a nice guy, but Scott had just relived what happened that night, and was fed up with talking about it.

  “I’m on shift, then I have plans.”

  Orso paused. This told Scott Orso knew Scott was giving him the brush.

  Orso said, “How about tomorrow, or whenever is convenient?”

  “Can I give you a call?”

  Orso gave him his direct-dial number, and hung up.

  Scott dropped his phone on the seat between his legs. The numbness he felt only moments earlier had been replaced with irritation. Scott wondered what Orso wanted to ask about, and if he should have mentioned the sideburns even though he didn’t know if they were real.

  Scott cut across lanes and veered toward the city. He punched in Orso’s number as he passed Griffith Park.

  “Detective Orso, it’s Scott James again. If you’re there now, I can swing by.”

  “I’m here. You remember where we are?”

  Scott smiled at that, and wondered if this was Orso’s idea of a joke.

  “I remember.”

  “Try not to hit anyone when you get here.”

  Scott didn’t laugh, and neither did Orso.

  Scott phoned Dominick Leland next, and told him he wouldn’t be in to see the new dogs. Leland growled like a German shepherd.

  “Why in hell not?”

  “I’m on my way to the Boat.”

  “Fuck the Boat. There is nothing and no one in that damned building more important than these dogs. I did not let you into my K-9 platoon to waste time with those people down there.”

  Robbery-Homicide housed their special units on the fifth floor of the Police Administration Building. The PAB was a ten-story structure across from City Hall. The side of the PAB facing City Hall was a thin, pointy, triangular glass wedge. This made the PAB look like the prow of a ship, so rank-and-file officers dubbed it the Boat.

  “They want me at Robbery-Homicide. It’s about the case.”

  Leland’s growl softened.

  “Your case?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on my way now.”

  Leland’s voice turned gruff again.

  “All right, then, get your ass here as soon as you can.”

  Scott never wore his uniform to Goodman’s office. He kept his uniform in a gym bag and his handgun in a lockbox in the trunk. He dropped off the freeway on First Street, and changed in the Boat’s parking garage. He expected more than a few detectives to give him the glare because of his scene with Melon. Scott didn’t give a rat’s ass, either way. He wanted to remind them he was a police officer.

  Scott showed his badge and LAPD ID card to the lobby receptionist, and told her he was there to see Orso. She made a brief call, then gave Scott a different ID card to clip to his shirt.

  “He’s expecting you. You know where they are?”

  “I know.”

  Scott tried not to limp as he crossed the lobby, which wasn’t so easy with all the steel in his leg. The night they wheeled him into the Good Samaritan emergency room, Scott had surgeries on his thigh, shoulder, and lower chest. Three more surgeries followed later that same week, with two additional surgeries six weeks later. The leg wound cost him three pounds of muscle tissue, needed a steel rod and six screws to rebuild his femur, and left him with nerve damage. The shoulder reconstruction required three plates, eight screws, and also left him with nerve damage. The PT after the multiple surgeries had been painful, but he was doing okay. You just had to be tougher than the pain, and eat a few painkillers.

  Bud Orso was in his early forties, with a chubby scoutmaster’s face topped by a crown of short black hair. He was waiting when Scott stepped off the elevator, which Scott had not expected.

  “Bud Orso. Pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  Orso had a surprisingly strong grip, but released Scott quickly and led him toward the Homicide Special offices.

  “I’ve been living with this file since they handed me the case. Horrible, what happened that night. How long have you been back on the job?”

  “Eleven weeks.”

  Polite conversation. Scott was already irritated, and wondered what was waiting for him in the Homicide Special squad room.

  “I’m surprised they let you.”

  “Let me what?”

  “Come back. You were squared up for a medical.”

  Scott didn’t respond. He was already tired of talking, and sorry he came.

  Orso noted the K-9 patch on Scott’s shoulder as they walked.

  “K-9. That should be interesting.”

  “Better. They do what you say, don’t talk back, and it’s only a dog.”

  Orso finally took the hint and fell silent as he led Scott into Homicide Special. Scott felt himself tense when he stepped through the door, but only five detectives were scattered about the room, and none glanced over or acknowledged him in any way. He followed Orso into a small conference room with a rectangular table and five chairs. A large black file box was on the floor at the head of the table. Scott saw his transcribed statements spread across the table, and statements made by the friends and families of the two men who had been inside the Bentley, a real estate developer named Eric Pahlasian, the driver, who had been shot sixteen times, and his cousin from France, a real estate attorney named Georges Beloit, who had been shot eleven times.

  Orso went to the head of the table, and told Scott to sit wherever he liked.

  Scott braced himself, then averted his face when he sat so Orso couldn’t see his grimace. Taking a seat always caused a painful jolt in his side.

  “Want a coffee or some water?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  A large drawing of the crime scene leaned against the wall on the floor. Someone had sketched in the Kenworth, the Bentley, the Gran Torino, and the Adam car. Someone had sketched in Stephanie and Scott. A manila envelope lay on the floor by the poster board. Scott guessed crime scene photos were in the envelope, and glanced away. When he looked up, Orso was watching, and now Orso didn’t look like a scoutmaster. There was a focus to his eyes that hardened them to points.

  “I understand talking about this might be difficult.”

  “No sweat. What did you want to know?”

  Orso studied him for a moment, then gave him the question.

  “Why didn’t the big man finish you?”

  Scott had asked himself this ten thousand times, but could only guess at the answer.

  “Paramedics, is my guess. The sirens were getting closer.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  If Orso read the interviews, he already knew the answer.

  “No. I saw him lift the rifle. The gun came up, I laid back, and maybe I passed out. I don’t know.”

  Later, in the hospital, they told him he had passed out from blood loss.

  “Did you hear them leave?”

  “No.”

  “Doors closing?”

  “No.”

  “Were you awake when the paramedics arr
ived?”

  “What did they say?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “The rifle came up, I put my head back, and then I was in the hospital.”

  Scott’s shoulder was killing him. A deep ache, as if his muscles were turning to stone. The ache spread across his back as if the scar tissue was splitting apart.

  Orso slowly nodded, then made a crooked shrug.

  “The sirens are a good bet, but you never know. When you slumped back, maybe he thought you were dead. Maybe he was out of ammo. Gun might have jammed. One day we’ll ask him.”

  Orso picked up a slender report, and leaned back.

  “Point is, you were hearing just fine until you passed out. Here in your statements, you mentioned you and Officer Anders were talking about how quiet it was. You stated she turned off the car so you could hear the silence.”

  Scott felt his face flush, and a stab of guilt up through the center of his chest.

  “Yes, sir. That was on me. I asked her to turn off the vehicle.”

  “You hear anything?”

  “It was quiet.”

  “I get it was quiet, but how quiet? Were there background sounds?”

  “I dunno. Maybe the freeway.”

  “Don’t guess. Voices on the next block? Barking? A noise that stood out?”

  Scott wondered what Orso was going for. Neither Melon nor Stengler had asked him about background sounds.

  “Nothing I recall.”

  “A door closing? An engine starting?”

  “It was quiet. What are you digging at?”

  Orso swiveled toward the crime scene poster. He leaned toward it and touched the side street from which the Kenworth had come. A blue X had been drawn on a storefront three doors from the intersection.

  “A store here was burglarized the night you were shot. The owner says it happened after eight, which was when he locked up, but before seven the next morning. We have no reason to think the burglary occurred when you and Anders were at the scene, but you never know. I’ve been wondering about it.”

  Scott didn’t recall Melon or Stengler mentioning the burglary, which would have been a major element in their investigation.

  “Melon never asked me about this.”

  “Melon didn’t know. The place is owned by a Nelson Shin. You know that name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He distributes candy and herbs and crap he imports from Asia—some of which isn’t legal to bring into the U.S. He’s been ripped off so many times, he didn’t bother to file a report. He went shopping for a weapon instead, and got named in an ATF sting six weeks ago. He shit out when the ATF scooped him, and claimed he needed a full-auto M4 because he’s been burglarized so many times. He gave the ATF a list of dates to show how many times his store was cracked. Six times in the past year, if you’re curious. One of those dates matched with your shooting.”

  Scott stared at the blue X that marked the store. When Stephanie shut off the engine, they listened to the silence for only ten or fifteen seconds, then began talking. Then the Bentley appeared, but the Bentley was so quiet he remembered thinking it moved like it was floating.

  “I heard the Kenworth rev. Before it came out of the side street, I heard the big diesel rev up.”

  “That’s all?”

  Scott wondered how much to say, and how to explain.

  “It’s a new memory. I only remembered hearing it a couple of weeks ago.”

  Orso frowned, so Scott went on.

  “A lot happened that night in a short period. I remembered the big things, but a lot of small things got lost. They’re beginning to come back. The doctor says it happens like that.”

  “Okay.”

  Scott hesitated, then decided to tell him about the sideburns.

  “I caught a glimpse of the getaway driver. You won’t find this in the interviews because I just remembered.”

  Orso tipped forward.

  “You saw him?”

  “The side of his face. He raised his mask for a second. He had white sideburns.”

  Orso pulled his chair closer.

  “Could you pick him out of a six-pack?”

  A six-pack was a grouping of six photographs of suspects who looked similar.

  “All I saw were the sideburns.”

  “Can I put you together with a sketch artist?”

  “I didn’t see him well enough.”

  Now Orso was looking irritated.

  “Race?”

  “All I remember is the sideburns. I might remember more, but I don’t know. My doctor says the way it works is, one memory can trigger another. I remembered the Kenworth revving, and now the sideburns, so more things might start coming back to me.”

  Orso seemed to consider this, and finally settled back in his chair. Everything about him seemed to soften.

  “You went through hell, man. I’m sorry this happened.”

  Scott didn’t know what to say. He finally shrugged.

  Orso said, “I want you to stay in touch. Anything else you remember, call me. Doesn’t matter if you think it’s important or not. Don’t worry about sounding silly or stupid, okay? I want everything you’ve got.”

  Scott nodded. He glanced at the papers spread over the table and the files in the box. It was a larger box and contained more than Scott would have expected, considering the little Melon shared.

  Scott studied the box for a moment, then looked back at Orso.

  “Could I read through the file?”

  Orso followed Scott’s eyes to the box.

  “You want to go through the file?”

  “One memory triggers another. Maybe I’ll see something that helps me remember other things.”

  Orso considered for a moment, then nodded.

  “Not now, but sure. If that’s what you want. You’ll have to go through it here, but I’m fine with letting you see it. Call in the next couple of days, and we’ll set up a time.”

  Orso stood, and when Scott stood with him, Orso saw his grimace.

  “You doing okay?”

  “That’s scar tissue loosening up. The docs say it’ll take about a year for the stiffness to pass.”

  The same bullshit he told everyone.

  Orso said nothing more until they reached the hall and were heading toward the elevator. Then his eyes hardened again.

  “One other thing. I’m not Melon. He felt bad for you, but he thought you became a crazy pain in the ass who should’ve been pushed out on a psycho. You probably think he was a lousy detective. You were both wrong. Whatever you think, those guys busted their asses, but sometimes you can bust your ass and nothing turns up. It sucks, but sometimes that happens.”

  Scott opened his mouth to say something, but Orso raised a hand, stopping him.

  “No one here quits. I’m not going to quit. I’m going to live out this case one way or another. Are we clear?”

  Scott nodded.

  “My door is open. Call if you want, but if you call sixteen times a day, I’m not going to return sixteen calls. We clear on that, too?”

  “I’m not going to call you sixteen times.”

  “But if I call you sixteen times, you damn well better get back to me asap each and every time, because I will have questions that need answers.”

  “I’ll move in and live with you if it means catching these bastards.”

  Orso smiled, and looked like the scoutmaster again.

  “You won’t have to live with me, but we will catch them.”

  They said their good-byes at the elevator. Scott waited until Orso returned to his office, then gimped to the men’s room. His limp was pronounced when no one was watching.

  The pain was so bad he thought he would vomit.
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  He splashed cold water on his face, and rubbed his temples and eyes. He dried himself, then took two Vicodin from a small plastic bag, swallowed them, then rubbed his face with cold water again.

  He patted himself dry, then studied himself in the mirror while he let the pills work. He was fifteen pounds thinner than the night he was shot, and half an inch shorter because of the leg. He was lined, and looked older, and wondered what Stephanie would think if she saw him.

  He was thinking about Stephanie when a uniformed officer shoved open the door. The officer was young and in a hurry, so he shoved the door hard. Scott lurched sideways, away from the noise, and spun toward the officer. His heart pounded as if trying to beat its way out of his chest, his face tingled as his blood pressure spiked, and his breath caught in his chest. He stood motionless, staring, as his pulse thundered in his ears.

  The young officer said, “Dude, hey, I’m sorry I scared you. I have to pee.”

  He hurried to the urinal.

  Scott stared at his back, then clenched his eyes shut. He clenched his eyes hard, but he could not shut out what he was seeing. He saw the masked man with a large belly coming toward him with the AK-47. He saw the man in his dreams, and when he was awake. He saw the man shoot Stephanie first, then turn his gun toward Scott.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  Scott opened his eyes, and found the young officer staring.

  Scott pushed past him out of the bathroom. He did not limp when he crossed the lobby, or when he reached the training field to claim his first dog.

  4.

  The K-9 Platoon’s primary training facility was a multi-use site located on the east side of the L.A. River only a few minutes northeast of the Boat, in an area where anonymous industrial buildings gave way to small businesses, cheap restaurants, and parks.

  Scott turned through a gate, and parked in a narrow parking lot beside a beige cinder-block building, set at the edge of a large green field big enough for softball games or Knights of Columbus barbeques or training police dogs. An obstacle course for the dogs was set up beside the building. The field was circled by a tall chain-link fence, and hidden from public view by thick green hedges.

  Scott parked by the building, and saw several officers working their dogs as he got out of his car. A K-9 Sergeant named Mace Styrik was trotting a German shepherd with odd marks on her hindquarters around the field. Scott did not recognize the dog, and wondered if she was Styrik’s pet. On the near end of the field, a handler named Cam Francis and his dog, Tony, were approaching a man who wore a thick padded sleeve covering his right arm and hand. The man was a handler named Al Timmons, who was pretending to be a suspect. Tony was a fifty-five-pound Belgian Malinois, a breed that looked like a smaller, slimmer German shepherd. Timmons suddenly turned and ran. Francis waited until Timmons was forty yards away, then released his dog, who sprinted after Timmons like a cheetah running down an antelope. Timmons turned to meet the dog’s charge, waving his padded arm. Tony was still six or eight yards away when he launched himself at Timmons, and clamped onto the padded arm. An unsuspecting man would have gone down with the impact, but Timmons had done this hundreds of times, and knew what to expect. He turned with the impact, and kept spinning, swinging Tony around and around in the air. Tony did not let go, and, Scott knew, was enjoying the ride. The Malinois breed bit so hard and well, and showed such bite commitment, they were jokingly called Maligators. Timmons was still spinning the dog when Scott saw Leland standing against the building, watching the officers work their dogs. Leland was standing with his arms crossed, and a coiled leash clipped to his belt. Scott had never seen the man without the leash at his side.