Suspect Page 8

  Scott led Maggie around the van to the rear of Shin’s store. The door on this side of the building was as bulletproof as the front, but greasy windows were cut into the back of the four-story building, and a rusted fire escape climbed to the roof. The lowest windows were protected by security bars, but the higher windows were not. The fire escape’s retractable ladder was too high to reach from the ground, but a person standing on top of the van could reach it, and climb to the higher windows or break into the upper-floor doors.

  Scott was wondering how he could reach the roof when a tall thin man with a Jamaican accent came storming around the van.

  “Ahr you de wahn gahnna stop dese crime?”

  The man strode past the van directly toward Scott, shaking his finger, and speaking in a loud, demanding voice.

  Maggie lunged at him so hard Scott almost lost her leash. Her ears were cocked forward like furry black spikes, her tail was straight back, and the fur along her spine bristled with fury as she barked.

  The man stumbled backwards, scrambled into the van, and slammed the door.

  Scott said, “Out.”

  This was the command word to break off the attack, but Maggie ignored him. Her claws raked the asphalt as she snarled and barked, straining against the leash.

  Then Leland’s voice came to Scott, shouting: Say it like you mean it, goddamnit! You’re the alpha here. She will love and protect her alpha, but you are the boss!

  Scott raised and deepened his voice. The command voice. All authority. Alpha.

  “Out, Maggie! Maggie, OUT!”

  It was like flipping a switch. Maggie broke off her attack, returned to his left side, and sat, though her eyes never left the man in the van.

  Scott was shaken by her sudden ferocity. She did not look at Scott, not even a glance. She watched the man in the van, and Scott knew if he released her she would attack the door and try to chew through the metal to reach him.

  Scott scratched her ears.

  “Good dog. Atta girl, Maggie.”

  Leland, screaming again: The praise voice, you goddamned fool! They like it all high and squeaky! Be her. Listen to her. Let her TEACH you!

  Scott made his voice high and squeaky, as if he was talking to a Chihuahua instead of an eighty-five-pound German shepherd who could tear a man’s throat out.

  “That’s my good girl, Maggie. You’re my good girl.”

  Maggie’s tail wagged. She stood when he took out the Ziploc. He gave her another piece of baloney, and told her to sit. She sat.

  Scott looked at the man in the van, and made a roll-down-the-window gesture. The man rolled down the window halfway.

  “Dat dog hab rabies! I not comeeng out.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You scared her. You don’t have to get out.”

  “I abide de law an’ be good ceetysen. She wahn to bite sahm one, let her bite de bahstards who steal frahm my bizzyness.”

  Scott glanced past the van into the man’s shop. The kid with the hand dolly peeked out, then ducked away.

  “Is this your place of business?”

  “Yes. I am Elton Joshua Marley. Doan let dat dog bite my helper. He got deeliveries to make.”

  “She’s not going to bite anyone. What were you asking me?”

  “Have you catched dese people who did dis?”

  “You were robbed?”

  Mr. Marley scowled again, and nervously glanced at the dog.

  “Dat be now two weeks ago. De officers, dey come, but dey never come back. Hab you caught dese people or no?”

  Scott considered this for a moment, then took out his pad.

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’ll find out. How do you spell your name?”

  Scott copied the man’s info, along with the date of the burglary. By the time he finished making notes, he had coaxed Marley from the van. Marley kept a wary eye on Maggie as he led Scott past the kid loading boxes, and into his shop.

  Marley bought cheap Caribbean-style clothes from manufacturers in Mexico, and resold them under his own label in low-end shops throughout Southern California. The shop was filled with boxes of short-sleeved shirts, T-shirts, and cargo shorts. Marley explained that the burglar or burglars had entered and left through a second-floor window, and made off with two desktop computers, a scanner, two telephones, a printer, and a boom box. Not exactly the crime of the century, but Marley’s shop had been burgled four times in the past year.

  Scott said, “No alarm?”

  “De owner, he put in de alarm last year, but dey break, and he no fix, dat cheep bahstard. I put de leetle camerah here, but dey take.”

  Marley had installed a do-it-yourself security camera on the ceiling, but the thief or thieves stole the camera and its hard drive two burglaries ago.

  Scott thought of Shin as they left Marley’s shop. The old building was a burglar’s heaven. A mercury-vapor lamp was mounted overhead, but the little delivery area was hidden from the street. With no security cameras in evidence, a thief would have little fear of being discovered.

  Marley went on, still complaining.

  “I call you two weeks ago. De police, dey cahm, dey go, an’ thas last I heer. Every morneeng I come, I wait for more stealeeng. My insurance, he no pay more. He wahnt charge so much, I cannot pay.”

  Scott glanced at Shin’s again.

  “Have all the shops along here been broken into?”

  “Ehveebody. Dese assholes, dey break in all de time. Dis block, across de street, on de next block.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Two or tree years. I only be heer wahn year, but thees is waht I heer.”

  “Is there a way up to the roof besides the fire escape?”

  Marley led them inside to a common stairwell, and gave Scott a key to the roof. There was no elevator in the old building. Scott’s leg and side ached as he climbed, and the ache grew worse. By the third floor, he stopped, and dry-swallowed a Vicodin. Maggie was engaged and interested as they climbed, but when Scott stopped to let the pain pass, she whimpered. Scott realized she was reading his hurt, and touched her head.

  “How about you? Your hips okay?”

  He smiled, and she seemed to smile back, so they continued up to the roof and out a metal service door fitted with an industrial security lock. The lock could only be locked and unlocked from the inside. There were no keyholes on the outside, but this hadn’t stopped people from trying to break in. The steel frame was scarred with old jimmy marks and dents where people had tried to pry open the door. Most of the marks were painted over or rusted.

  Marley’s and Shin’s building was on the cross street from which the Kenworth appeared. The building next to it overlooked the site of the shooting. The roofs between the two buildings were separated by a low wall.

  Marley’s roof was poorly maintained like the rest of his building. It was cut with withered tar patches and broken asphalt, and littered with cigarette butts, butane lighters, crushed beer cans, shattered beer bottles, broken crack pipes, and the trash of late-night partiers. Scott figured the partiers probably climbed the fire escape, same as the people who tried to force the door. He wondered if the officers who investigated Marley’s burglary had checked out the roof, and what they thought of it.

  Careful to avoid the broken glass, Scott led Maggie across Marley’s roof to the next building. When they reached the low wall, Maggie stopped. Scott patted the top of the wall.

  “Jump. It’s only three feet high. Jump.”

  Maggie looked at him with her tongue hanging out.

  Scott swung his legs over the wall, one at a time, wincing at the stitch in his side. He patted his chest.

  “I can do it, and I’m a mess. C’mon, dog. You’ll have to do better than this for Leland.”

  Maggie licked her lips, but
made no move to follow.

  Scott dug out his Ziploc bag, and showed her the baloney.

  “Come.”

  Maggie launched over the wall without hesitation, cleared it easily, and sat at his feet. She stared at the bag. Scott laughed when he saw how easily she cleared the wall.

  “You smart ass. You made me beg just to sucker me into a treat. Guess what? I’m a smart ass, too.”

  He tucked the bag into his pocket without giving her a reward.

  “Nothing for you until you jump back.”

  This building’s roof was better maintained, but was also littered with party dregs, a large piece of wall-to-wall carpet, and three cast-off folding lawn chairs. A ripped, dirty sleeping bag was bundled by an air duct, along with several used condoms. Some were only a few days old. Urban romance.

  Scott went to the side of the roof that overlooked the kill zone. A short wrought-iron safety fence was bolted to the wall as an extra barrier to keep people from falling. It was so badly rusted, the metal eaten with holes.

  Scott peered over the fence, and found an unobstructed view of the crime scene. It was all so easy to see, then and even now. The Bentley floating by on the street below, passing their radio car as the Kenworth roared, the truck and the Bentley spinning to a stop as the Gran Torino raced after them. If someone was partying up here nine months ago, they could have seen everything.

  Scott began shaking, and realized he was holding the rusted fence so tight, the rotting metal was cutting into his skin.

  “Shit!”

  He jumped back, saw his fingers were streaked with rust and blood, and pulled out his handkerchief.

  Scott led Maggie back to Shin’s building, this time rewarding her when she jumped the wall. He photographed the empties and party debris with his phone, then climbed down the four flights to find Mr. Marley. His helper had finished loading their stock, and the van was now gone. Marley was boxing more shirts in his shop.

  When Mr. Marley saw Maggie, he stepped behind his desk, eyeing her nervously.

  “You lock de door?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott returned the key.

  “One more thing. Do you know Mr. Shin? He has the business two doors down. Asia Exotica.”

  “He out of bizzyness. He geht robbed too many times.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Months. Eet been a long time.”

  “You have any idea who’s breaking into these places?”

  Marley waved a hand in the general direction of everywhere.

  “Drug addeeks and assholes.”

  “Someone you could point out?”

  Marley waved his hand again.

  “De assholes ’roun here. If I could name who, I would not need you.”

  Marley was probably right. The small-time burglaries he described were almost certainly committed by neighborhood regulars who knew when the shops were empty and which had no alarms. It was likely that the same person or persons had committed all the robberies. Scott liked this idea, and found himself nodding. If his theory was right, the thief who broke into Marley’s shop could be the same person who broke into Shin’s.

  Scott said, “I’ll find out what’s going on with your burglary report, and get back to you later this afternoon. That okay?”

  “Daht be good. I tank you. Dese other policemen, dey nevehr call back.”

  Scott checked his watch, and realized he would be late. He copied Marley’s phone number, and trotted back to his car. Maggie trotted along with him, and hopped into his car without effort. This time, she didn’t stretch out on the back seat. She straddled the console between the front seats.

  “You’re too big to stand there. Get in back.”

  She panted, her tongue as long as a necktie.

  “Get in back. You’re blocking my view.”

  Scott tried to push her with his forearm, but she leaned into him and didn’t move. Scott pushed harder, but Maggie leaned harder, and held her ground.

  Scott stopped pushing, and wondered if she thought this was a game. Whatever she thought, she seemed content and comfortable on the console.

  Scott watched her pant, remembering how fiercely she lunged for Marley when she thought they were threatened. Scott roughed the fur on her powerful neck.

  “Forget it. Stand wherever you want.”

  She licked his ear, and Scott drove away. Leland would be furious at the way he indulged her, but Leland didn’t know everything.

  10.

  Maggie whined when they pulled into the training facility’s parking lot. Scott thought she seemed anxious, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t sweat it. You don’t live here anymore. You live with me.”

  They were ten minutes late, but Leland’s Toyota pickup wasn’t in the lot, so Scott took out his phone. He had been brooding since Leland surprised them with the starter pistol.

  Can’t have a police dog that shits out when a gun goes off.

  Or a police officer.

  Scott wondered if Leland noticed Scott had jumped, too, though Scott’s reaction was small compared to the dog’s. Leland would test her again, and reject her again if she reacted the same, and Scott knew Leland was right to do so. She had to be able to do her job, just as Scott had to do his, only Scott could fake it and Maggie couldn’t. Fake it ’til you make it.

  Scott gripped a handful of her fur, and gently pushed her. Maggie’s tongue dripped out, and she leaned into his push.

  Scott said, “Maggie.”

  She glanced at him, and went back to watching the building. He liked the way she responded to him—not like a robot obeying a command, but as if she was trying to figure him out. He liked the warm intelligence in her eyes. He wondered what it was like inside her head, and what she thought about. They had been together for only twenty-four hours, but she seemed more comfortable with him, and he was more comfortable with her. It was weird, but he felt calmer having her with him.

  “You’re my first dog.”

  She glanced at him, and glanced away. Scott pushed again. She pushed back, and seemed content with the contact.

  “I had to interview with these guys when I asked for the job. The LT and Leland asked me all these questions about why I wanted to join K-9, and what kind of dog I had when I was a kid, and all this stuff. I lied my ass off. We had cats.”

  Maggie’s big head swung his way, and she licked his face. Scott let her for a moment, then pushed her away. She went back to watching the building.

  “Before the shooting, I never used to lie, not ever, but I lie to everyone now, pretty much about everything. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Maggie ignored him.

  “Jesus, now I’m talking to a dog.”

  An exaggerated startle response was common in people who suffered from PTSD, particularly combat veterans, police officers, and victims of domestic abuse. Anyone will jump if someone sneaks up behind them and shouts boo!, but PTSD can amp up the startle response to crazy levels. An unexpected loud noise or a sudden movement near the face could trigger an over-the-top reaction that varied from person to person—screaming, raging, ducking for cover, and even throwing punches. Scott had an exaggerated startle response since the shooting, but was seeing improvement with Goodman’s help. He still had a long way to go, but had made enough progress to fool the review board. Scott wondered if Goodman could help with the dog.

  Dr. Goodman often saw clients early before they went to work, so Scott took a chance, and called. Scott expected Goodman’s answering machine, but Goodman answered, which meant he wasn’t busy with a client.

  “Doc, Scott James. You got a fast minute?”

  “As fast or as slow as you like. My seven o’clock canceled. Are you doing okay?”

  “Doin
g good. I want to ask you something about my dog.”

  “Your dog?”

  “I got my dog yesterday. A German shepherd.”

  Goodman sounded uncertain.

  “Congratulations. This must be very exciting.”

  “Yeah. She’s a retired Military Working Dog. She was shot in Afghanistan, and I think she has PTSD.”

  Goodman answered without hesitation.

  “If you’re asking if this is possible, yes, it is. Animals can show the same symptoms as humans. Dogs, in particular. There’s extensive literature on the subject.”

  “A big truck goes by, she gets nervous. She hears a gunshot, she wants to hide.”

  “Mm-hm. The startle response.”

  Scott and Goodman had discussed these things for hours. There were no medicines or “cures” for PTSD, other than talking. Medicines could relieve symptoms like sleeplessness and anxiety, but you killed the PTSD demon by talking it to death. Goodman was the only person with whom Scott had shared his fears and feelings about that night, but there were some things he had not even told Goodman.

  “Yeah, her startle response is off the charts. Is there a fast way to help her?”

  “Help her do what?”

  “Get over it. Is there something I can do, so she won’t jump when a gun goes off?”

  Goodman hesitated for several seconds before he responded in a careful, measured tone.

  “Scott? Are we talking about a dog now, or you? Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

  “My dog. I’m asking about my dog. She can’t come talk it out with you, Doc.”

  “If you’re having trouble, we can increase the anxiety medicine.”

  Scott was wishing he had taken a fistful of anxiety meds that morning when he saw Leland’s dark blue pickup pull into the lot. Leland saw him as he got out of his truck, and scowled, no doubt pissed off because Scott was still in his car.

  Scott said, “I’m asking about my dog. She’s an eighty-five-pound German shepherd named Maggie. I’d let you talk to her, but she doesn’t talk.”