The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (8 page)

Scott James

S
COTT BELIEVED THE SEARCH
had gone well. Budress, Evanski, and Peters had all congratulated him, but he couldn’t fault Stiles for her question. Scott had seen the suspect disappear between the houses, he had been closer to the suspect than anyone else, and Maggie could cover forty yards in two-point-eight seconds. But Scott hadn’t known whether Carlos Etana was dead or alive, or if other individuals were in the house. Chasing the suspect would have meant letting his partners face the unknown without Maggie’s help. Scott chose to back up his teammates. He didn’t think twice about it, and no one had mentioned it until Stiles. Scott was still brooding about it when he reached Glendale.

The Platoon’s training facility was a low cinder-block building at the edge of a fenced grass field. The building was divided into two small offices and a makeshift kennel, where dogs could be penned between sessions. The Platoon’s daily shift didn’t begin until
mid-afternoon, but several black-and-white K-9 cars already dotted the parking lot. A lone Bomb Detection K-9 truck stood out among them like a rhino among cattle.

Scott parked quickly, and hurried inside. He expected to be greeted by barking, but found only silence. The kennel appeared to be empty until he heard a familiar whimper.

Maggie was asleep in the last run. She whimpered and huffed, and her paws twitched as if she were running. Like Scott, Maggie had nightmares two or three times a week. PTSD. Her nightmares probably weren’t much different from his.

Scott eased open the gate, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Mags.”

Maggie lurched awake, heaved to her feet, and wobbled sideways. A shaky start, like nightmares, was something they had in common.

“I’m here, baby girl. You doin’ okay? How’s my girl?”

Maggie swirled around him, ears back, happily wagging her tail. The outside door opened, and Budress called out.

“Yo, dude. Leland’s here. He wants you and Maggie outside.”

Scott creaked to his feet.

“Hang on, Paul. I want to ask you something.”

Budress seemed irritated.

“I checked her, man. She’s fine.”

“Not that. About last night. Maggie could’ve bagged that guy. Did I make a mistake, not going after him?”

Budress made as if to spit, then realized he was indoors, and stopped.

“Coulda isn’t the same as woulda. The guy hops a fence, and she’s skunked, over and out.”

“Has Leland said anything?”

“Fuck that. You made the right decision, knowing what you knew at the time. Now clip up, and get out here. Leland’s gonna test her.”

Scott felt a renewed concern.

“You said she’s fine.”

“We’re testing her scent memory. Now c’mon. It’ll be fun. We gotta finish before the LT gets here.”

Budress waved him toward the door, but Scott didn’t move. Their lieutenant didn’t roll out early unless he had a problem.

“Why’s the LT coming?”

Budress hesitated, and seemed awkward for the first time.

“Something about last night. We probably won’t like that part as much.”

Budress turned away.

“Paul! What’s wrong? Why’s he upset?”

“C’mon, Scott. Let’s do this.”

“Paul!”

Budress kept walking.

Scott’s heart was pounding, and his face felt flushed. He took a breath, and gazed at his dog.

“Today is really starting to suck the big one.”

Maggie gazed back, and happily wagged her tail.

Scott clipped her lead, and hurried out to the field.

Sergeant Dominick Leland was tall, thin as barbed wire, and peered at the world through a permanent scowl. A rim of steel-colored fuzz circled his mocha pate, and two fingers were missing from his left hand, lost to a monstrous Rottweiler-mastiff attack dog he fought to protect a K-9 partner. With thirty-two years on the job as a K-9 officer, Dominick Leland had served as the Platoon’s Chief Trainer longer than anyone in the history of the Los Angeles Police
Department, and was an undisputed, three-fingered legend. The Officer-in-Charge ran the Platoon, but Leland was the final authority and absolute master in all matters regarding dogs, dog handlers, and their place within the Platoon.

When Scott stepped out, he saw Leland with a burly older man who wore faded black utilities sporting a BOMB K-9 patch and sergeant’s stripes.

Leland scowled as Scott approached.

“Sergeant Budress believes our Miss Maggie alerted to the explosives you found. Sergeant Johnson here thinks this unlikely. Do you believe her behavior was an alert?”

Straight to business. No greeting; no acknowledgment, comments, or questions about the search.

Scott offered his hand to Johnson.

“Scott James.”

The burly sergeant shook.

“Fritz Johnson. Bomb dogs.”

LAPD’s Bomb Detection K-9 Section was based at Los Angeles International Airport, and worked in conjunction with the TSA and the Bomb Squad. They provided explosives-detection service at high-profile events like the Rose Bowl Parade, the Oscars, and presidential visits.

Scott tried to read through Leland’s scowl, but found nothing.

“I don’t know, Sergeant. She didn’t bark. She laid down, and kept quiet.”

The Platoon taught its dogs to bark when they found a sought object. This was because patrol dogs often worked off leash, and out of the handler’s sight. Barking told the handler they’d found something.

Budress spit a squirt of tobacco juice.

“She alerted. Guaranteed, and I’ll put a hundred on it.”

Johnson eyed the rivulets of scars that laced Maggie’s hips.

“Military Working Dog?”

“Marines. She was trained up dual-purpose. Explosives and patrol.”

Johnson looked over Maggie as if he wanted to buy her, but didn’t have enough cash.

“Uh-huh. How long ago?”

“Two years or so. She’s been with us for a year.”

Johnson shrugged at Leland.

“Two years is a long time. We train up our dogs every day to keep’m sharp. These dogs won’t forget a scent, but they forget what they’re supposed to do when they smell it.”

Budress spit again.

“She dropped, and didn’t make a sound. Didn’t paw the door, or try to get in. That’s a bomb alert. A dog doesn’t bark, it’s been trained not to bark.”

Leland stepped back and crossed his arms.

“Get started, Fritz. The boss is coming, and he’s already pissed off.”

Scott tried to read Leland again, but Leland turned away.

Johnson pointed out five blue cans lined up in the grass against the kennel. Scott hadn’t noticed them earlier, and wasn’t interested now. He watched the parking lot for the LT’s car.

“Those cans are scent cans. We use’m to train our dogs. Got cat food in one, beef jerky in another, a cotton ball wet with gasoline, and liver treats. The fifth can has a little RDX, the stuff they use to make plastic explosives.”

Scott nodded, but paid little attention.

“Which one?”

“Won’t say. What you know can affect her hunt, so it’s best you don’t know.”

Scott knew this was true. Handlers unwittingly directed their dogs to finds through subconscious changes in body language, tone, and expressions. Dogs noticed everything, and constantly read their handlers for behavioral cues.

“Work her off leash, and direct her to the cans. Doesn’t matter where you start, left to right or right to left. Let’s see what she does.”

Scott glanced at the parking lot.

“You listening?”

Scott unclipped Maggie’s lead and forced himself to stop thinking about Stiles. He slapped his thighs, and spoke in a high, excited voice.

“Let’s find something, Maggie-girl! Wanna find it for me?”

Maggie dropped into the play position, and Scott instantly walked toward the building. He pointed at the far left can.

“Find it, baby. Seek.
Seek!
”

Maggie trotted toward the left can, but abruptly veered to the right. Her ears pricked and her speed increased, which told Scott she whiffed a scent much more compelling than liver. She sniffed quickly from can to can, and pulled up short when she reached the far right can.

Behind them, Budress spoke, but Scott ignored him.

“I still have that hundred.”

Scott was watching his dog.

Maggie took a careful step closer, lifted her nose, and abruptly circled around the last can to a downspout. She dropped to her belly just as she had in the Echo Park hall, glanced proudly at Scott, and stared at the downspout.

Budress hooted.

“Alert!”

Scott moved closer, and found a small black box hidden behind the spout. He turned to show the others, and that’s when he saw the
Platoon’s Officer-in-Charge watching from the kennel. The LT’s eyes were unusually grim, and Scott quickly looked away. He hurried back to the others, and tossed the box to Johnson.

“You tried to trick her.”

“Not her, you. Like I said, best you know nothing. Better, if what you know is wrong.”

Johnson smiled at Leland.

“Smart gal, here. She gets too old for patrol, I might be able to use her.”

Scott felt a touch, and Leland nodded toward the lieutenant. He was coming toward them.

“He wants to talk about last night. Stay calm, and let’s hear the man out.”

Scott wanted to go to the bathroom.

As Johnson retrieved the cans, Lieutenant Jim Kemp joined them. Kemp had never been a handler and wasn’t a dog man, but he was an excellent commanding officer. He was on the short list for a captaincy, and Scott would be sorry to see him go, but the man’s grim expression had him worried.

“Thanks for keeping him here, Dom. I know you all must be tired.”

Kemp considered Scott.

“Especially you.”

“I’m fine, LT. Is there a problem?”

Kemp glanced at Leland.

“Sergeant, have you found out what in hell happened last night?”

“Haven’t spoken with Officer James yet, but I discussed the matter with Sergeant Budress here, and Evanski and Peters. I have a pretty good idea what happened.”

“Then please clue me in so I can return all these damned calls.”

Leland scowled so hard, Scott thought he looked like he was passing a stone.

“Seems to me, and after careful consideration, Officer James did a damned fine job. Superb, in fact. So I’ll be submitting a letter of commendation for your approval.”

Leland glared at Scott.

“Well done.”

Budress burst out laughing, and Leland couldn’t hold the scowl. Kemp flashed an ear-to-ear grin.

Scott stared from one to another, and realized what they had done. The tension drained away with an enormous sense of relief, and Scott found himself smiling. This would be his first commendation letter as a K-9 officer.

“You guys had me worried.”

Kemp slapped his shoulder.

“Congratulations, Scott. A good job last night, and important. No telling what those munitions would have been used for. You saved lives.”

Scott glanced at Budress.

“We. It was a team effort.”

Budress winked, and Kemp slapped Scott’s shoulder again.

“Say it on camera. PIO phoned. The press wants an interview. They want video of what we do, so we’re making the arrangements.”

PIO was the LAPD Public Information Office. Scott had never been interviewed or seen himself on television.

“Sounds good. Kind of exciting.”

Kemp nodded.

“A gold star for the Platoon, and an opportunity to show the public what we do. Now go home, and get some sleep. You’ll want to look pretty on camera.”

Leland scowled again.

“You heard the boss. Go.”

Scott shook hands again, and led Maggie out to his car. He fired the engine to start the AC, but he didn’t intend to go home. He wanted to share the good news.

Scott had been shot on two different occasions in the space of a year, and both times, his injuries were bad. The first was when Stephanie Anders was murdered. The second, not quite a year later, when he and a Robbery-Homicide detective named Joyce Cowly found the men who killed Stephanie. Cowly visited him at the hospital often, and even more often once he was home.

Cowly answered in her deadpan homicide voice, which told Scott she was at a crime scene.

He said, “It’s me, babe. Can you talk?”

“Stand by.”

When she returned to the line a few seconds later, her voice was light and cheerful.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up? You caught me at a crime scene.”

“Maggie and I found a DB and a stash of military munitions in Echo Park.”

“Wait. That was you? Oh, baby, that’s so great! I heard something on the news. The Bomb Squad rolled out, right? They evacuated the neighborhood?”

Scott loved the delight in her voice, and was pleased she’d heard about the recovery.

“I’ll tell you everything. What’s your schedule?”

Cowly spoke to someone in the background, then returned.

“I’m in Laurel Canyon. Where are you?”

“Glendale.”

“We’re clearing the scene in ten. I have to go downtown, but I’ll
have a few minutes. Want to meet at the top of Runyon Canyon, up on Mulholland?”

“The top gate. Sure.”

“Twenty-five minutes. Prepare to be kissed.”

Scott tucked away his phone, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned toward Laurel Canyon. He was too excited to sleep, and anxious to see Cowly. Stiles and her depressing question were in the past, and falling farther behind.

Scott grinned at Maggie in the rearview.

“I was wrong. Today doesn’t suck.”

Maggie licked the partition, and panted hot breath.

Scott didn’t see the nondescript white car parked next to a building across from the training field. He didn’t see the man in the white car watching.

Mr. Rollins

M
R
. R
OLLINS
peered through Nikon binoculars at the dump where cops trained their mutts. He was parked alongside a brake shop, pretty well hidden behind a tree, a telephone pole, and a chain-link fence, checking out the cops who arrived. So far that morning, three K-9 cars and a Bomb Detection K-9 truck had arrived. No sign of the clown.

Mr. Rollins had a lousy night. He dreamed that the police had connected him to the house. Between dreams, he raged about the loss of the house, and worried Charles would bail on the deal.

Mr. Rollins finally gave up on bed, popped a couple of Adderall, and hooked up with Eli.

So here they were, watching.

A fourth K-9 car arrived. A cop got out and headed into the building. Rollins focused the Nikons, but only saw the back of the cop’s head.

Mr. Rollins popped another Adderall and decided to call Charles.
Keeping Charles in the game could prove difficult, but Rollins wanted the money. Charles wanted the money, too. He didn’t know what the woman wanted.

Charles answered with a mumble like his mouth was covered.

“Hullo.”

Mr. Rollins launched into his pitch.

“I had a situation after you left. If you haven’t seen the news, you will, so I wanted to reach out. Everything’s fine. What happened last night, it absolutely will not affect me, or you, or us doing business.”

Charles said, “Hang on.”

Mr. Rollins readied himself for the battle, but Charles surprised him.

“Did your buyer test the product?”

Just like that, and the deal was on. Mr. Rollins didn’t rock the boat by saying Eli had other plans for the sample.

“Absolutely. He was impressed, and wants to proceed.”

“Right? I told you, man. There’s nothing else like it on the market.”

What a turd. A part-time hustler who sounded hungry.

“Then let’s make the arrangements.”

“How much does he want?”

Charles had offered two hundred kilograms. Two hundred kilos was just shy of four hundred forty-one pounds.

“All of it.”

“No shit?”

“I wouldn’t shit you, Charles. All two hundred kilos.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure my seller wants to sell all of it to a single buyer.”

Chiseler.

“Talk to her. We’re not looking for a discount. My guy will pay the same amount per pound whether we get forty or four hundred. If she lets him have everything, you’ll make your commission faster.”

“I hear you. Just remember, she has to meet with the buyer. It’s a deal point.”

“I understand. Not a problem.”

“The buyer’s okay with it?”

“I convinced him. It’s a deal point.”

In fact, Mr. Rollins had not mentioned this point to Eli. Better to lie. Rollins lied to the people he dealt with ninety percent of the time. He was also not going to tell Eli the deal was still on until Eli got rid of the clown.

“Charles, one thing—wait.”

A fifth K-9 vehicle pulled in, and parked. A shiny SUV that looked newer than the others. Mr. Rollins scoped the tall man who got out and entered the building. Wrong clown.

“What she said last night, was it true?”

“What did she say?”

“That she can make more. You and I can bank a lot of cash with this material. Know what I’m saying?”

“I hear you.”

“Think about it.”

“I think about it twenty-four seven.”

Charles hung up.

Mr. Rollins scanned the parking lot, and thought about Charles. Charles didn’t seem concerned about what happened at the house. Mr. Rollins wondered if Charles was too stupid to understand his exposure, or too greedy to care. Their three prior dealings had gone well, but stupid, greedy people eventually got arrested. Fortunately,
Charles knew nothing about Mr. Rollins except an alias, a disposable phone number, and the dates they met at the Echo Park house. Charles and the false things he knew couldn’t hurt Mr. Rollins.

The clown could hurt him.

Fourteen minutes later, Mr. Rollins was stretching his back when a cop with a dog came out of the building. He raised the Nikons.

The dog was a German shepherd, and the cop kinda looked like he could be the one, but Mr. Rollins couldn’t see him well enough to be certain. He had to be certain. This was a rule.

The cop and the dog went to the fourth car, which Mr. Rollins remembered. The cop opened the back door, and the dog jumped in. Mr. Rollins squinted through the Nikons, and adjusted the focus, but he still couldn’t see the cop’s face.

Then the cop went to the driver’s door, and turned as he got in. Mr. Rollins saw him clearly, and was certain.

Rollins copied the K-9 car’s number and quickly called Eli.

“The guy who just got into the car. You see him?”

“Yes. The K-9 car.”

“He just got in, him and the dog. A sedan. Not the SUV.”

“The sedan. Yes, we see him get in.”

“That’s him.”

Mr. Rollins lowered the phone, and finally relaxed.

The clown had to go.

Now he was gone.