“Sit. Stay.”
He opened the kitchen door, called, and Maggie trotted inside. Scott knew she was alerting by her expression. Her head was high, her ears were forward, and her face was furrowed in concentration. She went into a high-speed search, trotting wavy patterns throughout the house as if a scent here concerned her and she was seeking its source.
Scott realized it could only be one thing.
“You got him, don’t you? This prick came into our house.”
The kitchen, dining room, and family room contained nothing out of the ordinary. Worn, mismatched furniture and paper plates speckled with crumbs. Two framed photos of LAPD officers from the thirties and forties, and a poster from the old TV series
Maggie was calmer when she rejoined him in the family room.
A short hall off the living room led to the bedrooms, but the first room they reached was part storage and part Evers’ I-love-me room. Framed photographs of Evers and his LAPD friends dotted the wall. A young, uniformed Evers at his Academy graduation. Evers and another officer posed beside their patrol car. Evers and a blond, sad- eyed woman showing off the gold detective shield he had just received. Evers and a younger Ian Mills at a Hollenbeck crime scene. Scott recognized Evers because Evers appeared in all of the pictures, and as he changed through the years, Scott felt the floor drop from beneath him.
George Evers was bigger than anyone else in the photos. He was a large, thick man with a big belly over his belt, not a soft, flabby belly, but hard.
Scott had no doubt. He knew it in his soul.
George Evers was the big man with the AK-47, and in the moment he realized this he saw the rifle flashing, flashing, flashing.
“Stop.”
Scott made himself breathe. Maggie was beside him, whining. He touched her head, and the flashing disappeared.
Nothing on the wall would connect Evers with the crime scene or the diamonds, but Scott couldn’t turn away. He glanced from photo to photo until one photo held him. A color shot of Evers and another man on a deep- sea fishing boat. They were smiling, and had their arms across each other’s shoulders. The other man was a few years older, and smaller. He was crowned by white hair, and had vivid blue eyes.
Seeing him triggered Scott’s memory, which unfolded like a film: The getaway driver lifted his mask as he shouted at the shooters, exposing his white sideburns. The driver faced forward again as the shooters piled into his car, pulled off his mask, and Scott saw his face—this man’s face—as the Gran Torino roared away.
Scott was still in the memory when the vibration in his pocket broke the spell. He checked his phone, and found a text message from Cowly.
I FOUND IT
A second message quickly followed the first.
MEET ME
Scott texted back.
FOUND WHAT?
It took several seconds for her answer to arrive.
DIAMONDS. COME
Scott typed back his answer.
WHERE?
He ran to his car, and Maggie ran with him.
42.
Maggie rode on the console, watching Scott. She noted the nuance of his movements and posture and facial expressions as completely as she noted his scent. She watched his eyes, noting where he looked and for how long and how quickly. She listened to his sounds even when he was not speaking to her. Every gesture and glance and tone was a message, and her way was to read him.
She sipped his changing scent, and tasted a familiar stew—the sour of fear, the bright sweetness of joy, the bitter rose of anger, the burning leaves of tension.
Maggie felt her own anticipation growing. She recalled similar signs in the moments before she and Pete walked the long roads, Pete strapping up, gathering himself, the other Marines doing the same. She remembered their words. Strap up. Strap up. Strap up.
Maggie whined with excitement.
Scott touched her, filling her heart with joy.
They would walk the long road.
Scott was strapped up.
Maggie danced from paw to paw, anxious and ready. The fur on her spine rippled from tail to shoulders as the taste of blood filled her mouth.
Pack would seek.
Pack would hunt.
Maggie and Scott.
War dogs.
43.
Scott left the Hollywood Freeway only a few blocks from the Boat, and crossed the First Street Bridge to the east side of the Los Angeles River. The east side was lined with warehouses, small factories, and processing plants. He drove south between lines of big rig trucks, searching for Cowly’s location.
“Take it easy, baby. Settle. Settle.”
Maggie was on her feet, nervously moving back and forth between the console and back seat. When she was on the console, she peered through the windshield as if she were searching for something. Scott wondered what.
He turned between two bustling warehouses, and spotted the empty building behind them, the remains of a bankrupt shipping company set well back from the street. It was lined with loading docks built for eighteen-wheel trucks, and marked by a big FOR SALE OR LEASE sign by the entrance.
“There she is.”
A light tan D-ride was parked by the loading dock. The big loading door was closed, but a people-sized door beside it was open.
