tacked to the walls, along with sidebar stories about the Bentley victims and Stephanie Anders. The story about Stephanie ran with her official LAPD portrait. Spiral notebooks of different sizes were scattered on the table and couch and the floor around his couch. The notebooks were filled with descriptions and dreams and details he remembered from the night of the shooting. His floor hadn’t been vacuumed in three months. He was behind with his dishes, so he used paper plates. He ate mostly takeout and crap out of cans.
Scott unclipped the lead.
“This is it, dog.
Mi casa, su casa
.”
Maggie glanced up at him, then looked at the closed door, then studied the room as if she was disappointed. Her nose sniffed and twitched.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll get your stuff.”
Getting her stuff took two trips. He brought in her collapsible crate and sleeping pad first, then the metal food and water bowls, and a twenty-pound bag of kibble. These things were provided by the K-9 Platoon, but Scott figured to pick up some toys and treats on his own. When he got back with the first load, she was lying under the dining table as he had seen her in the LAPD run—on her belly, feet out in front, head on the floor between her feet, watching him.
“How’re you doing? You like it under there?”
He was hoping for a tail thump, but all she did was watch him.
Orso called as Scott was heading out the door.
“You want to see what we have, can you get in here tomorrow morning?”
Scott thought about Leland’s scowl.
“I’m working the dog in the morning. How about late morning, just before lunch? Eleven or eleven-thirty.”
“Shoot for eleven. If we get a call-out, I’ll text you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Scott figured he could leave the dog in Glendale when he split for the Boat.
When he got back with the food and bowls, Maggie was still under the table. He put her bowls in the kitchen, filled one with water, the other with food, but she showed no interest in either.
Scott had figured he would set up her crate in his bedroom, but he put it beside the table. She seemed to be comfortable there, and now he wondered if she had bothered to cruise through his bedroom and bath. Maybe her nose told her everything she needed to know.
As soon as he had the crate up, she slinked from under the table and into the crate.
“I have to put the pad in. C’mon, get out.”
Scott stepped back, and gave her the command.
“Come. Come, Maggie. Here.”
She stared at him.
“Come.”
Didn’t move.
Scott knelt at the crate’s mouth, let her smell his hand, and slowly reached for her collar. She growled. Scott pulled back and stepped away.
“Okay. Forget the pad.”
He dropped the pad on the floor beside the crate, then went into his bedroom to change. He took off his uniform, grabbed a quick shower, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt from Henry’s Tacos. Even pulling the T-shirt over his head hurt like a sonofabitch, and made his eyes water.
When he was hanging his uniform in the closet, he noticed his old tennis stuff in a faded gym bag, and found an unopened can of bright green tennis balls. He popped the tab on the can, and took a ball so fresh and bright it almost glowed.
Scott went to the door and tossed it into the living room. It bounced across the floor, hit the far wall, and rolled to a stop. Maggie charged from her crate, scrambled to the ball, and touched her nose to it. Her ears were cocked forward and her tail was straight up. Scott thought he had found a toy for her, but then her ears went down and her tail dropped. She seemed to shrink. She looked left, then right, as if looking for something, then went back into her crate.
Scott walked to the ball, and studied the dog. Belly down, feet out in front, head between her feet. Watching him.
He toed the ball to the wall hard enough to bounce it back.
Her eyes followed it briefly, but returned to him without interest.
“Hungry? We’ll eat, then go for a walk.
Scott unclipped the lead.
“This is it, dog.
Mi casa, su casa
.”
Maggie glanced up at him, then looked at the closed door, then studied the room as if she was disappointed. Her nose sniffed and twitched.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll get your stuff.”
Getting her stuff took two trips. He brought in her collapsible crate and sleeping pad first, then the metal food and water bowls, and a twenty-pound bag of kibble. These things were provided by the K-9 Platoon, but Scott figured to pick up some toys and treats on his own. When he got back with the first load, she was lying under the dining table as he had seen her in the LAPD run—on her belly, feet out in front, head on the floor between her feet, watching him.
“How’re you doing? You like it under there?”
He was hoping for a tail thump, but all she did was watch him.
Orso called as Scott was heading out the door.
“You want to see what we have, can you get in here tomorrow morning?”
Scott thought about Leland’s scowl.
“I’m working the dog in the morning. How about late morning, just before lunch? Eleven or eleven-thirty.”
“Shoot for eleven. If we get a call-out, I’ll text you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Scott figured he could leave the dog in Glendale when he split for the Boat.
When he got back with the food and bowls, Maggie was still under the table. He put her bowls in the kitchen, filled one with water, the other with food, but she showed no interest in either.
Scott had figured he would set up her crate in his bedroom, but he put it beside the table. She seemed to be comfortable there, and now he wondered if she had bothered to cruise through his bedroom and bath. Maybe her nose told her everything she needed to know.
As soon as he had the crate up, she slinked from under the table and into the crate.
“I have to put the pad in. C’mon, get out.”
Scott stepped back, and gave her the command.
“Come. Come, Maggie. Here.”
She stared at him.
“Come.”
Didn’t move.
Scott knelt at the crate’s mouth, let her smell his hand, and slowly reached for her collar. She growled. Scott pulled back and stepped away.
“Okay. Forget the pad.”
He dropped the pad on the floor beside the crate, then went into his bedroom to change. He took off his uniform, grabbed a quick shower, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt from Henry’s Tacos. Even pulling the T-shirt over his head hurt like a sonofabitch, and made his eyes water.
When he was hanging his uniform in the closet, he noticed his old tennis stuff in a faded gym bag, and found an unopened can of bright green tennis balls. He popped the tab on the can, and took a ball so fresh and bright it almost glowed.
Scott went to the door and tossed it into the living room. It bounced across the floor, hit the far wall, and rolled to a stop. Maggie charged from her crate, scrambled to the ball, and touched her nose to it. Her ears were cocked forward and her tail was straight up. Scott thought he had found a toy for her, but then her ears went down and her tail dropped. She seemed to shrink. She looked left, then right, as if looking for something, then went back into her crate.
Scott walked to the ball, and studied the dog. Belly down, feet out in front, head between her feet. Watching him.
He toed the ball to the wall hard enough to bounce it back.
Her eyes followed it briefly, but returned to him without interest.
“Hungry? We’ll eat, then go for a walk.
Similar Books
