“It’s Scott. Joyce, what’s happening? What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer.
“Joyce?”
“Where are you?”
“Home. Two Rampart detectives just left. They made it sound like Daryl Ishi was dead, and I was the suspect.”
She hesitated again as if she was deciding whether to answer, and he grew frightened she would hang up. She didn’t.
“The Parkers went to pick him up for a swab last night. They found him shot to death. Daryl, Estelle Rolley, and one of the roommates.”
Scott lowered himself to the couch.
“They think I killed three people?”
“Scott—”
“It sounds like a drug killing. These people deal drugs. They’re addicts.”
“Ruled out. They had a new stash, and they hadn’t been robbed.”
She paused again.
“There’s this talk about you being unstable—”
“Bullshit.”
“—the way you blew up at Melon and Stengler, the stress you’ve been under, all these medications you take.”
“The Rampart dicks knew my prescriptions. They specifically knew which meds I take. How could they know, Joyce?”
“I don’t know. No one here should know.”
“Who’s saying this stuff?”
“Everyone’s talking about you. Top floor. Division brass. It could have come from anyone.”
“But how can they know?”
“It’s a big deal. They don’t like the way you inserted yourself into the case.”
“I didn’t kill these people.”
“I’m just telling you what’s being said. You’re a suspect. Lawyer up. I can give you some names.”
He went back to the beach. Slow deep breaths in, slow exhales out.
Maggie rested her chin on his knee. He stroked her seal-sleek head and wondered if she would like to run on the beach.
“Why would I kill him? I wanted to know if he saw something. Maybe he didn’t. Now we won’t know.”
“Maybe you tried to make him talk, and got carried away.”
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“It’s been mentioned. I have to go.”
“You think I did this?”
Cowly was silent.
“Do you think I killed them?”
“No.”
Joyce Cowly was gone.
Scott lowered his phone.
Maggie’s soft brown eyes watched him.
He stroked her head, wondering if Daryl had died with anything worth knowing.
“Now we’ll never know.”
Nine months was a long time to keep secrets. If Daryl saw something, Scott doubted he could keep quiet, and wondered who Daryl would tell. Marshall might know, but Marshall was currently in Men’s Central Jail.
Scott thought for a moment, then went to his computer. He opened the Sheriff’s Department website for Marshall’s booking number and the phone for the MCJ Liaison Desk.
“This is Detective Bud Orso, LAPD Robbery-Homicide. I need to see a prisoner named Marshall—M, A, R, S, H, A, double-L—Ishi, I, S, H, I.”
Scott read off Marshall’s booking number, and continued his request.
“I’m coming with information regarding his brother, so this is a courtesy visit. He won’t need his attorney.”
When the meeting was arranged, Scott clipped up Maggie and left the guest house as quickly as possible. He needed to move, and keep moving, or he wouldn’t go through with it.
Scott picked up the freeway in Studio City, and made for downtown Los Angeles and Men’s Central Jail. He rolled down the windows. Maggie straddled the console in her usual spot, watching the scenery and enjoying the wind. She looked awkward with the poor footing, but happy and content. Scott leaned into her the way he did when he tried to move her. He felt better when she leaned back.
Once he walked into jail, he hoped they would let him out.
PART IV
PACK
29.
Scott was passing Universal Studios at the Hollywood split when his phone rang. He hoped it was Cowly or Budress, with more information, but it was Goodman. The last person he wanted to speak with, but he answered the call.
“This is Charles Goodman, Scott. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I was going to call. I have to cancel our session tomorrow.”
Scott’s regular appointment was the following day.
“I was phoning to cancel, as well. Something happened here at the office. Personally embarrassing for me, and I’m afraid this will be upsetting for you.”
Scott had never heard Goodman so strained.
“Are you okay, Doc?”
“The privacy of my clients and their trust is of paramount importance to me—”
“I trust you. What happened?”
“My office was broken into two nights ago. Scott, some things were stolen, your file among them. I’m terribly sorry—”
Scott flashed on Shankman and Anson, and the top-floor brass knowing things about him they had no way to know.
“Doc, wait. My file was stolen?
“Not only yours, but yours was among them. Apparently they grabbed a handful of files at random—current and past clients whose last names begin with the letters G through K. I’ve been calling to—”
“Did you call the police?”
“Two detectives came out. They sent a man to look for fingerprints. He left black powder on the door and the windows and my cabinet. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to leave it or if I can clean it.”
“You can clean up, Doc. They’re finished. What did the detectives say?”
“They didn’t tell me whether to leave it or clean it.”
“Not about the fingerprint powder. What about the burglary?”
“Scott, I want you to know I did not give them your name. They asked for a list of the clients whose files were stolen, but that would violate our confidence. The State of California protects you in this. I did not and will not
