“Though we only expected one of you.”
Cowly said, “He can bring the dog. He’s not going to participate.”
She grinned at Scott.
“We’re management. We watch other people do the work.”
Orso stood, ending the meeting, and the other detectives pushed back their chairs and stood with him. Maggie scrambled to her feet, and the two Parkers both stared at her, frowning.
Lonnie said, “What happened to her?”
Scott realized they had not been able to see her hindquarters when they were seated on the other side of the table. Now they saw her scars.
“A sniper shot her. Afghanistan.”
“No shit?”
“Twice.”
Now Orso and Cowly stared at her, too, and Cowly looked sad.
“You poor baby.”
Lonnie’s face folded into a grim stack of black plates, and he nudged around the table toward the door.
“I don’t wanna hear nuthin’ sad ’bout no dog. C’mon. Let’s go see the I-Man. We got work to do.”
Grace arched her eyebrows at Scott.
“The man has a master’s in political science from S.C., and speaks three languages. He puts on the ghetto accent when he gets emotional.”
Lonnie looked insulted.
“That’s racist and offensive. You know that is not true.”
They continued bickering as they left. Scott turned to Orso and Cowly.
“What do you want me to do?”
Cowly answered.
“Stay here or close by. There’s a park across the street, if it’s easier with Maggie. I’ll text you. We have plenty of time. Take the files with you.”
When she mentioned the files, Scott remembered the notes in his pocket. He took out his map, showed them the four dots, and pointed out the discrepancy he’d found with Pahlasian’s driving time.
“Even if they stopped at both buildings to talk about them, there’s no way it should take an hour and ten minutes to get from the restaurant to the kill zone. Seems like there’s twenty or thirty minutes missing.”
Scott looked up from the map, waiting for their reaction, but Orso only nodded.
“You’re missing a stop. Club Red. It’s in the files.”
Scott had no idea what Orso was talking about.
“I read the interviews with Pahlasian’s wife and his office assistant. They didn’t mention another stop.”
Cowly stepped in with the answer.
“They didn’t know about it. Club Red is like a strip club. Melon didn’t learn about it until Beloit’s credit card charges posted. Beloit picked up the tab.”
Scott felt deflated and stupid, and even more stupid when Cowly waved at the heavy stack of files.
“It’s in there. Melon interviewed the manager and a couple of waitresses. Use my desk or go to the park. I’ll text when we have to roll.”
Scott tucked the files under his arm, and looked from Cowly to Orso. He wanted to see the security video, but now felt too embarrassed to ask.
“Thanks for letting me tag along. It means a lot.”
Orso smiled the scoutmaster smile.
“Sure.”
Scott turned away with Maggie at his side. He felt like an idiot for believing he had discovered a glaring discrepancy when top-cop detectives like Orso and Cowly knew the case inside and out.
Scott wasn’t an idiot, but three more days would pass before he understood.
18.
Scott took the files to Cowly’s cubicle, saw her tiny, cramped space, and decided Maggie would be happier at the park. Then he noticed the framed pictures beside Cowly’s computer, and eased into her chair. Maggie wedged herself under the desk.
The first picture showed a younger, uniformed Cowly at her Police Academy graduation with an older man and woman who were probably her parents. The picture next to it showed Cowly and three other young women all glammed up in satin and sequins for a night on the town. Scott studied the four, and decided Cowly was the only one who looked like a cop. This made Scott smile. Stephanie had looked like a cop, too. The next picture showed Cowly and a good-looking young guy on a beach. Cowly was wearing a red one-piece and her friend was wearing baggy swim trunks that hung to his knees. Scott tried to recall if Cowly wore a wedding ring, but couldn’t. The last picture showed Cowly on a couch with three little kids. Christmas decorations were on a table behind them, and the oldest kid was wearing a Santa hat. Scott glanced at the pic of Cowly and the man on the beach, and wondered if these were their kids.
“C’mon, Mags. Let’s see the park.”
Maggie was too big to turn around in the cramped space, so she backed out from under the desk like a horse backing out of a stall.
Scott led her downstairs and across First Street to the City Hall park. The park was small, but a surrounding grove of California Oaks made the space pleasant and shady.
Scott found an unoccupied bench in the shade, and searched through the file for the Club Red interviews. They were short, and mistakenly attached to a document about Georges Beloit.
The three interviews had been conducted twenty-two days after the shooting. Melon described Club Red as “an upscale after-hours lounge featuring what the management calls ‘performance erotica,’ where semi-nude models pose on small stages above the bar.” Melon and Stengler interviewed Richard Levin, the manager on the night of the shooting, and two bartenders. None of them remembered Pahlasian or Beloit, or recognized their pictures, but Levin provided the times their tab opened and closed from his electronic transaction records. As he did on the interview with Emile Tanager, Melon had handwritten a note on Levin’s interview:
Levin had delivered the Club Red security video on two discs, which were logged into the case file.
When Scott finished the interviews, he entered Club Red’s address into his phone’s map app to find its location, and added a fifth dot to his map. He stared at the fifth dot for a moment, then checked to be sure he entered the correct address. The address was correct, but now the times and routes seemed even more wrong.
Leaving Club Red, both commercial properties were now several blocks beyond the kill zone. If Pahlasian had driven to either property, he would have passed the kill zone and had no reason to turn back. The freeway was in the other direction.
Scott grew frustrated, and decided to see for himself. The kill zone was less than twenty blocks away, and Tyler’s and Club Red were closer.
“C’mon, let’s take a ride.”
They hurried back to the Boat for his car.
Tyler’s had been Pahlasian’s starting point, so Scott drove to Tyler’s.
The restaurant occupied the corner of an older, ornate building at an intersection not far from Bunker Hill. The front was paneled in black glass with its name mounted on the glass in brass letters. Tyler’s was closed, but Scott stopped to consider the area. He saw no nearby parking lots, so he assumed valets waited at the corner during business hours. He wondered if the Gran Torino was watching the valet station when Pahlasian arrived, or if it followed him from LAX.
Club Red was only nine blocks away. Scott made the daytime drive in twelve minutes, most of which was spent waiting for pedestrians. At one-thirty in the morning, the travel time would have been four minutes or
