less.
Club Red was also on the ground floor of an older building. It sat next to a parking lot, and its exposed side bore a faded sign advertising custom machine parts. Jutting from the side of the building into the parking lot was a small vertical neon sign spelling out RED. A red door was cut into the building beneath the sign. Patrons probably passed a couple of oversized bouncers as if entering a clandestine world.
Scott checked his map again. Ignoring Tyler’s, the remaining four dots formed a capital Y, with Club Red at the bottom, the kill zone directly above it at the fork, and the two properties Pahlasian wanted to show Beloit at the tips of the arms.
Scott looked at Maggie.
“Everything’s wrong.”
Maggie sniffed his ear, and blew dog breath in his face. Scott tried to push her off the console, but she held firm.
Two attendants were on duty in the parking lot. Scott parked across their entrance, and got out. The older attendant was a Latin man in his fifties with short black hair and a red vest. He hurried over when he saw Scott block their drive, but pulled up short when he saw Scott’s uniform. This was the cop effect.
He said, “You wan’ to park?”
Scott let Maggie out. The man saw her, and took a step back. This was the German shepherd effect.
Scott pointed at the building.
“The club here, Club Red? What time do they close?”
“Really late, man. They don’t open ’til nine. They close at four.”
“Four in the morning.”
“Yeah, four in the morning.”
Scott thanked the man, let Maggie back into the car, and climbed in behind the wheel. He thought he had it figured.
“There’s no mystery here. They were coming back. They saw the buildings, and decided they wanted another drink. That’s all there is to it.”
Maggie panted, but this time Scott was out of range. Then he glanced at the map again and realized his latest theory was also wrong.
“Shit.”
The Bentley’s direction.
The Bentley wasn’t driving toward Club Red when it passed in front of his radio car. Pahlasian was driving in the opposite direction. Toward the freeway.
Scott was still staring at the map when Cowly texted him.
WE’RE ROLLING. CALL ME
Scott immediately called.
“I’m only a few blocks away. Give me five minutes.”
“Take ten, but don’t come to the Boat. We’re staging at MacArthur Park. Can you be there in ten?”
“Absolutely.”
“On the east side between Seventh and Wilshire. You’ll see us.”
Scott put down his phone, wondering why Pahlasian was going to the freeway when he entered the kill zone. Time was still missing, and it hadn’t been filled by looking at buildings.
19.
MacArthur Park was four square blocks split down the middle by Wilshire Boulevard. A soccer field, playgrounds, and a concert pavilion occupied the area north of Wilshire. MacArthur Park Lake took up the south side. The lake was once known for paddleboats until gang violence, drug dealing, and murders drove away the people who rented the boats. Then LAPD and the local business community rolled in, the lake and the park were rebuilt, serious surveillance systems were installed, and the gangbanging drug dealers were rolled out. The paddleboats tried to make a comeback, but the lake’s reputation for ’bangers and violence had polluted the water. So had the tools of their trade. When the lake was drained for repair, more than a hundred handguns were found on the bottom.
Scott followed Wilshire to the park, and saw the staging area. Six LAPD radio cars, a SWAT van, and three unmarked but obvious police sedans were parked near the old paddleboat concession. A uniformed police officer blocked the entrance when he saw a Trans Am turning in, but he stepped aside when he saw Scott’s uniform. Scott rolled down the window.
“I’m looking for Detective Cowly.”
The officer leaned closer to grin at Maggie.
“With the SWAT team. Man, I love having these dogs with us. He’s a beauty.”
Maybe the officer leaned too close or spoke too loudly. Maggie’s ears spiked forward, and Scott knew what was coming even before she growled.
The officer stepped back and laughed.
“Jesus, I love these dogs. Good luck finding a place to park. Maybe put it on the grass over there.”
Scott raised the window, and ruffled Maggie’s fur as he pushed her out of the way.
“He, my ass. How can he think a beautiful girl like you is a he?”
Maggie licked Scott’s ear, and watched the officer until they were parked.
Scott clipped her lead, got out, and watered her with a squirt bottle. After she drank, he let her pee, and spotted Cowly beside the SWAT unit’s tactical van. She was huddled with the SWAT commander, a uniformed lieutenant, and three detectives, none of whom Scott recognized. The SWAT team was lounging by the boathouse, as relaxed as if they were on a fishing trip. Scott felt the kiss of a passing dream, then looked down at Maggie, and found her watching him, tongue hanging loose, ears back and happy. He petted her head.
“No limping. Either of us.”
Maggie wagged her tail and fell in beside him.
Cowly saw him approaching, and held up a finger, signaling him to wait. She spoke with her group a few minutes longer, then they broke up and went in different directions, and Cowly came over to meet him.
“We’ll take my car. Ishi is only five minutes away.”
Scott was doubtful.
“You don’t mind? She’s going to leave hair.”
“All I care is she doesn’t throw up. She gets carsick, you have to clean it.”
“She doesn’t get carsick.”
“She’s never ridden with me.”
Cowly led them to an unmarked tan Impala that wasn’t in much better shape than Scott’s ratty Trans Am. He loaded Maggie in back, and climbed into the shotgun seat as Cowly fired the engine. She popped it in gear, and backed up to leave.
“This won’t take long. You see the manpower we got? The I-Man wanted to roll the Bomb Squad, forchrissake. Orso said, these idiots
Scott nodded, not knowing how to respond.
“Thanks again for asking me along. I appreciate it.”
“You’re doing your part.”
“By keeping you company?”
Cowly gave him a glance he couldn’t read.
“By eyeballing Ishi. If you see him, maybe you’ll remember him.”
Scott immediately tensed. Maggie paced from side to side in the back seat, whining. Scott reached back to touch her.
“I didn’t see him.”
“You don’t remember seeing him.”
