The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (25 page)

Dominick Leland

S
ERGEANT
D
OMINICK
L
ELAND
sat in his office at the Glendale training facility, remembering Dakota. The rest of the Platoon was up at the Mesa, so Leland had the place to himself. Chewing tobacco was forbidden by regulations, but Leland didn’t give a damn. He spit the juice into a Styrofoam cup, and sipped an orange soda. The soda tasted worse than the Red Plug, but wasn’t against the rules.

Over his thirty-two years as a handler, what with his time spread between the military, the Sheriffs, and the Los Angeles Police Department, Leland was blessed with nine certified K-9 partners. Five German shepherds, three Belgian Malinois, and a Dutch shepherd. Two were killed during service, two died of unexpected illness, two wore out their hips, and three gave the full measure until they were too damned old, at which time Leland adopted them. At home, which he shared with his wife of thirty-six years, whom he called the Missus, the walls of his study were hung with pictures of his
children, his grandchildren, and portraits of himself and each of his nine K-9 partners.

Dakota was his favorite. She was a slender, black German shepherd, right at seventy pounds. This put her on the small side for a GSD, but with that jet shep face and ears like horns, the bad guys must’ve thought she was Satan’s own hound. Truth was, she was a sweetheart. Smart as a whip, no quit in her, and superb with the kids and the Missus.

So, anyway, the day she was retired, Leland brought her home, same as any other day, let her hop out of the car, and gave her a good scratch.

“Welcome home, dog. From this day forward, you’re on vacation.”

Hopping out when they got home that night was normal, but when Leland went to his black-and-white K-9 car the next day, leaving her behind was a nightmare. Dakota expected to go with him, just as she had every morning for the past eight years. She whined, cried, barked, shivered like a Chihuahua, and tried to chew through the fence. Leland had never seen a more pathetic face, like an abandoned child pleading with her best friend and daddy not to leave her behind. This went on every morning. Leland felt a terrible guilt, and an even more terrible shame. Truth was, Dominick Leland could have trained that behavior out of her, but he didn’t want to lose the fierce love and true loyalty that burned in his partner’s heart.

Leland left the house earlier the next day, and took Dakota for a ride. He did this most mornings thereafter, and, when he got home after work, if he wasn’t too beat, and on his days off, he took her out in the car. And sometimes, for a treat, he’d pop the siren and lights, and rip down the highway rolling Code Three. She loved to go fast.

A few years back, Dakota went End of Watch. Leland missed her,
and their rides, and thought of her often, especially when he was reminded of the pain a man can visit upon the delicate heart of a dog.

Sitting there in the quiet, Leland heard a car pull up, and the kennel door open. He thought about Dakota, and the way she carried on that morning. He gave them a few minutes before he got up, blew his nose, and went to the kennel.

He opened the door, but didn’t go in. Scott was sitting in the run with his dog.

“Officer James, go on home. She’s mine.”

Leland closed the door, and went back to his office. He heard the kennel door a few minutes later. When Scott’s car left the parking lot, the dog cried. She carried on, and it was terrible.

Leland broke off a bite of the Red Plug. He chewed, and listened to the dog, and thought about the rides with Dakota, each and every one precious. He got to wondering if a ride would make Maggie feel better. Might not, but Leland gave it a try.

Elvis Cole

P
IKE STAYED IN
S
ILVER
L
AKE
to wait for Amy and Jon, and I drove home with the putty explosives and Amy’s terrible jacket. Jon called as I climbed the hill.

“We’re home.”

“She stop anywhere the explosives could be?”

“She stopped for Italian. Looks like we’re in for the evening.”

“I’ll come up later. Can I bring anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. I heard back from my guy. He stands by what he told me.”

“C’mon, Jon. They’re on it.”

“I asked him to check again, and got the same answer. Unresolved, pending future developments. HSI kicked the case.”

“He’s lying.”

“Lying to someone who does what I do isn’t smart, and this dude
is smart. He’s so smart, he crunched a few numbers, and decided the L.A. office has too many quality cases that go nowhere.”

A quality case was a case with a high probability of success.

“How many is too many?”

“Three this past year, and four the year before. All involved explosives, munitions, or computer technology.”

“Cases derived from the Internet?”

“No, not all. What they had in common was the quality of the intel. The leads were solid, he says, but L.A. kicked them back. My guy finds this suspicious.”

I was finding it suspicious, too.

The A-frame was peaceful and calm when I pulled into the carport. I let myself in and drank a bottle of water, then brought the jacket and the bags inside. I didn’t like having forty pounds of high explosives in my home, so I carried them outside, and down the slope, and hid them under my deck. I didn’t like having them under my deck, either, but it was better than keeping them in the kitchen.

Colinski’s rap sheet described a hard-core professional criminal with a history of violent crime, but nothing in his record linked him to explosives or extremist political groups. With the most recent entry dating from sixteen years ago, nothing in his sheet gave me a likely way to find him. I called Eddie Ditko, and asked him to help.

Eddie hacked up a phlegm ball.

“Sixteen years doesn’t mean shit. A guy like this, they’re keeping tabs. Whadaya wanna know?”

“The tabs. I want to put eyes on him.”

Eddie thought for a moment.

“Hijacking, armed robbery, all the stuff with the guns. Got a friend at Robbery Special I can tap.”

“Great. And see if anything ties him to explosives or radical extremists.”

“Radical extremists?”

“Al-Qaeda.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me. A crook from East L.A.?”

“A lot can happen in sixteen years.”

I scrambled three eggs with jalapeños, ate at the sink, and went up for a shower. I let the hot water beat my shoulders and neck, and wondered if Colinski and Charles were worried, or confident, or setting the stage for tomorrow. I wondered if Hess was one of the good guys, or a bad guy. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Amy.

When the shower ran cold, I toweled off and put on fresh clothes. I was walking downstairs when the phone rang. Eddie.

“Pucker up, baby. You’re gonna want to kiss me on the lips.”

“Don’t toy with me.”

“Colinski dropped off the world six or seven years ago. Nobody knows where he is.”

“He was in Echo Park.”

“No one’s saying he isn’t here, only that he dropped off the grid. If we can find him, my guy wants to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“A couple of armored-car capers up near Palmdale, and another out in Palm Springs.”

“They think Colinski pulled the scores?”

“Nah, nah, nah. They want a thief named Eli Sturges for the scores. They’re thinking Colinski got into the fencing side. The big sixteen-year absence, the way he vanished? Here’s a guy who’s playing it smarter. He puts the scores together, and lets other people take the risks. Here’s the part where you pucker.”

“Can’t wait.”

“If the guards don’t open the armored car, Sturges blows’m open. Military stuff. He’s used RPGs to stop’m or knock’m over. He cracked a car with an IED that left a crater the size of a swimming pool. If Colinski was selling that stuff in Echo Park, who do you think he’s selling it to?”

I wasn’t sure what to think.

“I have reason to believe the explosives were intended for radical Islamist terrorists.”

Eddie laughed.

“Eli Sturges is a stickup hood from the Valley. He doesn’t have time to be a terrorist. He’s too busy taking scores.”

“Can you get me a picture?”

“I’ll get one. I’ll email it.”

I lowered the phone and stared across the canyon. I went outside, and stood ten feet above the explosives. I tried to see them through the cracks in my deck, but couldn’t. Just as well.

Amy reached out, and Charles reached back. Charles knew he could sell the explosives to Colinski, only Amy was adamant about dealing with al-Qaeda, so Charles told her what she wanted to hear. Maybe Colinski was playing along, or maybe Charles was lying to everyone, but the end result was the same. They needed Amy to believe the buyers were al-Qaeda terrorists only until they had her explosives. Then Amy Breslyn didn’t matter.

“They’re ripping you off.”

I went back inside, drank a beer, and was still thinking about it when the sun went down and a car stopped outside my house. When I went to the door, I was surprised to see Scott James.

“Aren’t you worried Carter will see you?”

“Doesn’t matter. He saw me with you at the storage. They followed me.”

Officer James looked pale and lifeless, as if he’d just checked out of a hospital.

“Did you tell him what we were doing?”

His eyes flashed with an angry life that quickly faded.

“I kept my word to you, Cole. I told him nothing.”

I looked past him to his car, and saw the front seat was empty.

“Where’s your dog?”

“They took her. I’m suspended, pending a review board.”

I let him in, and locked the door. He drifted into the living room like a man in a fog.

I said, “So what happens?”

“About what?”

“You and the dog.”

“Her name is Maggie.”

“Maggie.”

“You have a nice place up here.”

He didn’t want to talk about the dog.

I grabbed two Falstaffs from the fridge. He was still where I’d left him when I got back, staring into the great black empty beyond my deck.

“Here. Try this.”

He studied the can.

“Falstaff. Never heard of it.”

“They haven’t made it in years. Snagged a case off eBay.”

Scott held the beer, but didn’t drink.

“It was Hess. Hess pulled the surveillance. Carter wanted it, but Hess made him pull it.”

“You sure it was Hess?”

“Stiles told me.”

“Did Hess say why?”

He smiled, but he wasn’t smiling at me.

“Whatever Hess told them was a lie. She pulled the crew to hide whatever it is she’s hoping you’ll find.”

“Amy.”

He smiled again, and shook his head.

“Not Amy. This doesn’t have anything to do with Amy. If Carter tripped over Amy Breslyn right now, he wouldn’t know who she was, so who cares if the surveillance team saw you asking about Amy Breslyn? It wouldn’t have meant anything.”

I began to see where he was going, and wondered where it would lead.

“Not to Carter or Stiles or the task force.”

He considered the Falstaff again, and took a sip.

“Nope, not them. No one on the task force knows about Amy Breslyn, so there has to be someone else, right? Hess didn’t want that person to know you were looking for Amy. She wanted to keep that person in the dark, so she turned out the lights.”

Everything about what he said felt right.

“This is making sense.”

The burner chirped again. I knew who was calling even before I checked the window.

“Hess.”

He smiled even wider, but he didn’t look happy.

“Answer. I have a few questions. It’ll be fun.”

I sent her to voice mail.

“Later. Talk to me. You’re onto something.”

I sat in the chair, and Scott took a seat on the couch.

“Hess is crapping on the task force, and Carter, and the department. She’s withholding something, which means she’s hiding something. Kinda like you.”

I shrugged, and had more Falstaff as he continued.

“And if she’s hiding something, she has something to lose. We can use that. We can get my dog back.”

He suddenly stared at me.

“I’m not going to break my word to you, but later, after, I’m going to give them Hess. Maybe they’ll let me stay.”

He blinked, and blinked harder, then turned to face the black. I got up. I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed.

“I’m gonna cook some dinner. Make yourself at home.”

The burner chirped again when I was in the kitchen. I thought it was Hess, but it was Jon Stone.

He said, “Are you ready?”

“What? Is everything okay?”

“Charles is here. The sonofabitch brought flowers.”

I went back to the living room, and motioned to Scott.

“Charles. Where’s Pike?”

“Backyard. He’s set to enter the dining room if something gets weird, but it won’t. Charles is all laid-back. They’re talking.”

“She called him by name?”

“Yeah. Charles. I’ll send you a screen grab.”

Scott spoke loudly so Jon would hear.

“Are they talking about Colinski?”

“Who’s that?”

“Scott James.”

“No one’s mentioned that name. He’s prepping her for tomorrow.”

“If they leave before I get there, follow them.”

“If he leaves, but she stays, I’m staying with her.”

“Then tell Pike to follow him.”

My cell phone dinged as we talked, and Jon heard.

“That’s me. The screen grab.”

“Hang on.”

The screen grab showed Amy on one end of the couch, and a man in a blue business suit on the opposite end. The picture was so small I had to expand it to see their faces, but when I saw Charles, I smiled. We hadn’t found the missing explosives, but finding Charles was better.

“Jon? Pike doesn’t have to follow Charles.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Uh-uh.”

I showed the picture to Scott.

“Want Hess? Meet Charles.”

Scott studied the picture, and wet his lips. He reminded me of a hungry dog.

We didn’t need to follow Charles because we knew where to find him. Charles had visited my home with Carter and Stiles. His true name was Special Agent Russ Mitchell.

The pieces snapped together with audible clicks, building a perfect picture. I understood what Hess was doing, and how to help Amy. I might even be able to help Scott.

The world was suddenly simple. Janet Hess would help me, or she would arrest me.