Scott felt as if he was being tested again, and didn’t like it. His stomach knotted, and he flashed on the shooting—bright yellow bursts from the rifle, the big man walking closer, the impact as the bullet slammed through his shoulder. Scott closed his eyes, and visualized himself on a beach. Then Cowly and her boyfriend appeared on the sand, and he opened his eyes.
“This is bullshit. I’m not a lab monkey.”
“You’re what we have. You don’t want to be here, I’ll let you out.”
“We don’t even know if this is the guy.”
“He laid off Chinese goods three different occasions before Shin closed. He lives fourteen blocks from the kill zone. You see him up close, maybe something will come back to you.”
Scott fell silent and stared out the window. He desperately hoped Ishi had witnessed the shootings, but didn’t want to believe he had seen the man and forgotten. That was too crazy. Seeing a man and forgetting you’ve seen him was way more screwed up than recalling white hair. Cowly and Orso seemed to think this was possible, which left Scott feeling they doubted his sanity.
Cowly guided the D-ride onto a narrow residential street past two idling black-and-whites, turned at the first cross street, and stopped in the center of the street. A pale green unmarked sedan exactly like hers faced them at the next cross street. Scott saw no other police presence.
Cowly said, “Fourth house from the corner, left side. See the van covered with graffiti? It’s parked in front.”
A battered Econoline van covered with Krylon graffiti was parked in front of a pale green house. A broken sidewalk led up a withered yard to a narrow cinder-block porch.
Scott said, “Who’s inside?”
Ishi shared the house with two male friends who were also meth addicts, a girlfriend named Estelle “Ganj” Rolley, who worked as a part-time prostitute to support their meth addiction, and his younger brother, Daryl, a nineteen-year-old dropout with several misdemeanor arrests to his credit.
Cowly said, “Ishi, the girl, and one of the males. The other guy left earlier, so we picked him up. The brother hasn’t been home since yesterday. You see our guys?”
The street and the houses appeared deserted.
“Nobody.”
Cowly nodded.
“A team from Fugitive Section will make the pop. Two guys are on either side of the house right now, and two more have the rear. Plus, we have people from Rampart Robbery to handle the evidence. Watch close. These people are the best.”
Cowly lifted her phone and spoke softly.
“Showtime, my lovelies.”
The van’s driver’s-side door popped open. A thin African-American woman slipped out, rounded the van to the sidewalk, and walked toward the house. She wore frayed jean shorts, a white halter top, and cheap flip-flop sandals. Her hair hung in braids dotted with beads.
Cowly said, “Angela Sims. Fugitive detective.”
The woman knocked when she reached the door. She waited with the nervous anxiety of an impatient tweaker. When no one opened the door, she knocked again. This time the door opened, but Scott did not see who opened it. Angela Sims stepped into the doorway, and stopped, preventing the door from being closed. Two male Fugitive dicks charged from each side of the house at a dead sprint, converging on the door as Angela Sims shoved her way into the house. The four male officers slammed inside behind her. As the Fugitive detectives made their entry, a male and a female detective jumped from the van and raced up the sidewalk.
Cowly said, “Wallace and Isbecki. Rampart Robbery.”
Wallace and Isbecki were still on the sidewalk when two radio cars screeched to a stop behind Cowly’s sedan and two more stopped behind the sedan at the far end of the street. Four uniformed officers deployed from each car to seal the street.
Ishi’s house was quiet and still, but Scott knew all hell was breaking loose inside. Maggie fidgeted from his anxiety.
Five seconds later, two of the male Fugitive detectives emerged with an Anglo male handcuffed between them. Cowly visibly relaxed.
“That’s it, baby. Done deal.”
Cowly drove forward, parked alongside the van, and shoved open her door.
“C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Scott let Maggie out the rear, clipped her lead, and hurried to catch up as Sims and another Fugitive dick brought out Estelle Rolley. Rolley looked like a walking skeleton. Street officers called this “the meth diet.”
Cowly motioned Scott to join her in the yard.
The remaining Fugitive Section detective brought out Marshall Ishi last. Ishi’s hands were cuffed behind his back. He was maybe five eleven, and had the same hollow eyes and cheeks as in his booking photo. He stared at the ground, and wore baggy cargo shorts, sneakers without socks, and a discolored T-shirt that draped him like a parachute.
Scott studied the man. Nothing about him was familiar, but Scott couldn’t turn away. He felt as if he was falling into the man.
Cowly nudged close.
“What do you think?”
She sounded lost in a tunnel.
The arresting detective steered Ishi off the porch down two short steps to the sidewalk.
Scott saw the Kenworth slam into the Bentley. He saw the Bentley roll, and the flare of the AK-47. He saw Marshall Ishi on the roof, peering down at the carnage, and running away. Scott saw these things as if they were happening in front of him, but he knew this was only a fantasy. He saw Stephanie die, and heard her beg him to come back.
Ishi glanced up, met Scott’s eyes, and Maggie growled deep in her chest.
Scott turned away, hating Cowly for dragging him here.
“This was stupid.”
“Man, you should’ve seen your face. Are you okay?”
“I was thinking about that night, is all. Like a flashback. I’m fine.”
“Did seeing him help?”
“Does it look like it helped?”
Scott’s voice was sharp, and he immediately regretted it.
Cowly showed her palms and took a step back.
“Okay. Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could be our guy. We just have to roll with it.”
Scott thought
Scott followed her into a small, dirty house permeated with a burnt-plastic and chemical odor so strong it made his eyes water. Cowly fanned the air, making a face.
“That’s the crystal. Soaks into the paint, the floors, everything.”
The living room contained a futon piled with rumpled sheets, a threadbare couch, and an elaborate blue glass bong almost three feet tall. Rock pipes dotted the futon and couch, and a square mirror smeared with powder sat on the floor. Maggie strained against her lead. Her nostrils flickered independently as she tested the air, then the floor, then the air again, and her anxiety flowed up the leash. She glanced at Scott as if checking his reaction, and barked.
“Take it easy. We’re not here for that.”
Scott tightened her lead to keep her close. Maggie had been trained to detect explosives, and explosives- detection dogs were never trained to alert to drugs. Scott decided the combined chemical smells of crystal and rock were confusing her. He tightened her lead even more, and stroked her flanks.
“Settle, baby. Settle. We don’t want it.”
The male Rampart detective appeared in the hall, and grinned at Cowly.
“We own this dude, boss. Come see.”
