Nobody is immune. Cops also develop dark humor to protect themselves. After the probationer period and a rookie year in squad cars, a lot of it spent prying corpses off their steering columns or rolling in on the worst that mankind has to offer, it's hard to see things the way you used to. It says "Protect and Serve" on the door of your patrol car, but after a short time, it's hard to know why you'd want to. After finally making it to detective you're then given the pleasure of walking into a crime scene where some dope-crazed lunatic has stabbed his wife in a fit of jealous rage and spread the remains of his three grade-school children all over the walls of the apartment. The humanity you once felt toward your fellow man slowly starts leaking out of you. Nothing seems outside the bounds of normal behavior.
After I left Vonnie, the memory of her was still with me. Those eyes were still glaring defiantly in the back of my mind. I got into my car and headed farther west. There was one other thing I wanted to check on while I was out here.
I'd looked up Valley towing services in the Yellow Pages earlier and had the name of one in Van Nuys that sounded like it might belong to Mike Church. The quarter-page ad pictured two tow trucks backed up to each other so that the towing arms formed a steeple in the center of the ad. The caption under the picture read:
CHURCH OF DESTRUCTION TOWING AND AUTO BODY WORK
This was followed by a lot of repair jargon: "Bondo Specialists"; "Qualified in Sparkle Paint Jobs"; "We'll Pimp Your Ride"; "Se Habla Espanol."
The address at 6358 Midline Drive was less than two miles from Church's house. I wasn't that far away, so I headed over to take a look.
Ten minutes later I parked across the street from a very shabby-looking auto body shop with church of destruction painted in faded red lettering under the eaves of a tin-roofed concrete block building. There was one paint bay and two body and fender garages, both busy. Hispanic men wielding hammers and metal sanders were creating an symphony of screaming metal. The yard out front was a clutter of automotive junk and rusting Detroit carcasses. There were trashed motorcycles, dirty oil drums, and old lumber scattered in amongst the twisted wrecks. It looked like a backyard in Tijuana. Two heavy tow rigs, big, muscular eight-wheel monsters with rear-end dualies, stout suspension, and long towing arms were parked inside the gate.
I didn't stick around long. I just wanted to get a look. I put the car in gear and pulled away. After seeing the place, one thing troubled me. Why would Wade Wyatt have any work done on his five-hundred-thousand-dollar collector Mercedes in that automotive graveyard? It was a brain stopper.
When I got back to Parker Center there was a note from Captain Calloway on my desk.
6 o'clock --O'Herlihy's?
Cal
O'Herlihy's is an Irish green-beer joint two blocks from the PAB. Cal wasn't in his office, but the rumor about me getting beefed by Internal Affairs had spread to the fifth floor, and people were avoiding me like I had a flesh eating virus, so I left and walked two blocks east to the bar/restaurant.
Cal was in a back booth with his feet up on the bench and his back against the side wall. His shaved black head glistened while his Mighty Mouse muscles bulged the short sleeves on his shirt. The Hickman file was open on the table in front of him.
"Sit down," he said.
I slid in. There was a half-empty pitcher of green beer already on the table with a spare glass, so I helped myself.
"This is fucking amazing," Cal said, still looking down at the pages in the file.
"Isn't it?" I agreed, sipping some beer.
For the life of me, I can't get into green beer. It always looked like lizard piss to me. Beyond that, O'Herlihy's was an Irish cliche. Green walls, wood booths, sawdust on the floor, and "Danny Boy" coming out of the speakers at least five times an hour.
"Why did Sasso close this?" Cal asked, as he read. "If ever a case needed to be looked at, this is it."
"Somebody told her to."
"You think?"
"Whatta you think?"
"I think there's so much wrong here it's hard to know where to start," Cal said.
"And you didn't even have the pleasure of hearing Tru Hickman whine about getting his asshole ripped."
Cal turned to me and pitched the file onto the table between us. "Your charge sheet came over from PSB today."
"I didn't see it."
"It was missing a signature on the write-up page, so I sent it back. Buys a few hours, maybe a day."
"To do what?"
"I don't know. You tell Alexa about this?"
"She's got her hands full with her performance review," I lied. I didn't want to tell him that even my wife wouldn't help me.
"These due-process things are all I. A. cases," he mused. "I've just been sitting here trying to come up with a way to get it over to us, but I can't think of one. Jane is territorial as all hell. We try to hijack and work one of her cases, especially one she just trash-canned, we're gonna learn the full and complete meaning of the words, 'extreme departmental reprimand.' "
"Detective Llevar and I gave a copy of the file to Tito Morales this afternoon."
"And you did this after I told you in no uncertain terms to drop the case? Man, I love being your supervisor."
"Whatta you want from me, Cal? I can't control myself. It's in my DNA."
He waved this away with a muscled hand.
"What the hell did you go to him for? He pled it. He's not gonna help you."
"That's not what he says. He listened. Thought the case sounded bad. Promised to get into it. He was doing his Hispanic
Crusader thing. All that was missing was a camera crew and a maroon tie."
"You believe him?"
"Secada does. She thinks he's neat."
"What's your take? I'd rather trust that."
"I think it can't get much worse than it is, so I'm hoping he's exactly what he says he is."
Cal sat there for a long moment. Then he said, "You should tell Alexa. I know she doesn't outrank Sasso, but she was the one who appointed Jane to head the rat squad, and at least they're on the same level of the department flow chart."
"Alexa reports to an A-Chief. Jane reports to the Super Chief. She'll lose in a shootout."
"Yeah, maybe, but still . . ."
"Let's lay low and see what Tito Morales comes up with," I said.
After a moment, Cal sighed. "Want me to get us another pitcher of beer?"
"Sure. I'll drink another beer with you, but it's got to be the right color this time."
It was after eight and I'd had one or two beers too many when I finally left O'Herlihy's, so, to burn it off, I jogged back to the PAB garage. I got into the Acura and headed home. I didn't know where Alexa was. She wasn't in her office and she wasn't picking up at home. I was tired of worrying about her and me. Us. Tired of the Hickman case, tired of this stupid black outfit I was wearing.
Twenty minutes later, I was driving down Abbot Kinney Boulevard a few blocks from my house when I heard a siren wail behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a black and white with its red lights flashing. How did the saying go? I only had two beers, Officer.
I pulled over and was getting my badge ready when my door was yanked open. Without warning, I was pulled forcibly from the car by my suit coat and slammed up against the fender. When I got my bearings I was looking into the meaty face and glinting eyes of Lieutenant Brian Devine. He'd gained some weight since I saw him last, but that crazy, out-of-control look was still there, buzzing maniacally.
"How you been, Scully?" he asked, not at all interested in the answer.
"Lieutenant." A nonconfrontational reply. Waiting him out. Trying to judge his intensity.
"Understand you've taken an interest in one of my old homicide investigations," he growled.
"Wasn't an investigation, Loo, it was a pinata party. You broke that kid on bad facts."
"Really?"
"You wanta back off? You're in my space here."
"Fuck you, asshole."
&nbs
p; We stood glaring at each other. Then he said, "Here's the message, cowboy. You leave that case alone. If I find out you're even thinking about it, I'm gonna roll up on you like I did fifteen years ago. Only this time, I won't be threatening. This time, your family pays the full and complete price. I can put some serious hurt on your people, Scully."
I felt my adrenaline surge. I was on the balls of my feet. The beer had burned off. I was up and ready for this. Actually, I'd been thinking about it on and off since '93.
"Hey, Brian," I said coldly. "First off, I'm not the same fucked-up guy I was back then. You may want to bear that in mind. Second, you blew the Hickman case beyond all reason. You're an asshole, but you're not stupid, so I figure something else had to be going on there. Whatever it was, I'm gonna find out. Third, I'm not afraid of your bullshit. I've faced worse than you and I'm still breathing. Matter of fact, you're the one needs to be careful. I'm not always a stable person. Read my file. I'm a rage-filled lunatic who could snap at any moment and turn you into wall-splatter."
He was still more or less leaning on me, but as I spoke this craziness the words managed to distract him just enough so I could raise my arms up without his noticing. I suddenly gave him a hard, two-handed chuck, catching him under the nipples on both sides, and knocking him backwards, onto his ass in the street. He scrambled back to his feet and pulled his weapon. Mine was already out.
"You were always pretty good at blowing guys up when they didn't see it coming. How do you like it this way?"
We stood there, right on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, with traffic streaming past. Two assholes in suits, guns pointed at each other. Drivers were slowing down, scoping us out, registering shock, then powering on.
"You got a family, too," I said. "Don't fuck with me, Lieutenant. If I see you anywhere near my wife or my son, I'm coming after you and yours. You'll never see it coming."
The hatred flared on Devine's face, but he wasn't ready for me in this form or location. I saw all this compute in his eyes before he slowly put his gun away.
"Watch out behind you," he finally growled.
"You, too," I said.
Then, he turned and got into his borrowed squad car. It had a pipe front bumper with vertical bars for pushing stalled cars. After he put the unit in gear, he floored it and slammed into the back of my MDX, bouncing the Acura ten feet up the road. Then he hit reverse, Y-turned out, and powered away.
He'd mashed my back bumper and rear door, and shattered a taillight. It was at least a few thousand dollars worth of damage, maybe more. Even so, I was smiling. I had confronted an old ghost. For fifteen years I'd waited to set that bad decision aside.
For fifteen years I'd regretted not testifying against him. His hitting my car like that told me something. Lt. Devine was feeling exposed. Whatever this corruption was, he was definitely involved and it was much closer to the surface than I'd originally imagined.
As I got in my car and drove away, one thing was very clear in my mind.
In the end, one of us was going down.
Chapter 14.
IT WAS EIGHT-THIRTY WHEN I PULLED INTO MY DRIVEWAY AND
parked my busted Acura in the carport next to Alexa's rented BMW. I knew her car was still at the Venice Auto Body Shop for repair because the fender guy called the house about a parts problem and I happened to pick up the phone.
Alexa still hadn't mentioned that she crashed her car and that really bothered me, but if I brought it up, I knew it would trigger another argument.
Inside I found Alexa at the desk in the alcove closet we'd converted into her home office. She had papers strewn everywhere. I'd never seen her work space in such disarray. The old Alexa was organized. This new one could never seem to find anything.
"Hi," I said as I entered.
"I wish you wouldn't move things on my desk, Shane. I had all this stuff exactly where I needed it. Now I can't find anything."
"Alright," I said. "I'm sorry."
I hadn't touched her desk, but I didn't want to fight about that, either. I went into the bedroom and changed from my black gunfighter's outfit into jeans and an old LAPD sweatshirt.
Then I got a beer and headed outside to the backyard for some perspective.
I was sitting out there trying to sort through everything, when Alexa came out and put a hesitant hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"You didn't move anything on my desk, did you?"
"No, ma'am."
She rubbed my neck for a minute, then came and sat beside me. "I can't organize my thoughts like I used to. I do things, and half an hour later I find myself doing them again."
"Honey, it will get better."
"When? When is it gonna get better? Part of me wants so badly to hold on to this job because I love it, and part of me knows I'm screwing up so badly I don't deserve to be there."
This was the opening I'd been waiting for, but I wanted to come at it another way. For the moment, I changed the subject and said, "I got rear-ended on my way home. Gonna have to get the Acura fixed. I was thinking I should take the MDX to Venice Auto Body on Ninth, then go to that rental car place on the corner of Ocean, and get something to drive until it's fixed."
I saw her stiffen. I already knew the place on Ocean was where she'd rented the replacement BMW. Venice Auto Body was where her car was being repaired. If I went to either of those places, she knew she'd be busted. I held my breath while we sat in silence.
She inhaled deeply. "Shane, I need to tell you something. That car out there in the garage. It's not mine. It's a rental. I crashed my car, too. The first convulsion happened when I was driving home last week. Nobody got hurt. I hit a tree two blocks from here. That's why I've been using a department driver to chauffeur me."
I reached out and took her hand. "I was worried about you driving when you first told me about the convulsions." "And you're not mad?" "Why should I be mad? You couldn't help it." She thought about that, and then turned to face me. "You knew already, didn't you?"
Her blue eyes were so beautiful, I was always amazed at the many ways she could look at me--sometimes with childlike innocence, other times with sexual mischief and sometimes, like now, with razor-sharp understanding.
"You knew. I can't believe you knew," she repeated.
We sat holding hands silently, for a moment.
"And you didn't say anything?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I understood. It wasn't about me, it was about you." "I sure hit the jackpot when I found you," she said, and laid her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her.
We sat like that, feeling a closeness we hadn't felt in a long time.
Then, from out of nowhere, she said, "I'm sorry I haven't wanted to make love in a while. I know that bothers you." "It's okay," I said, still holding her.
"We could go inside. We could do it now," she offered tentatively.
"Is that what you want?" I said.
"Not really." She smiled sadly. "I'm never quite in the mood anymore."
"Then we should wait," I said. "It's more important that we talk."
"I used to be so sexual," she said sadly. "Nothing feels the same anymore. It's not you." "I know."
"I'll find my way back, Shane." "I'll be right here."
We continued to sit like that for almost an hour, feeling close, feeling sad, feeling strangely different.
Chapter 15.
"THERE WERE TWO YEARS, I THINK IT WAS THE FIFTH GRADE and half of the sixth, where I stopped being Secada Llevar and became Sally Levitt. I put blond streaks in my hair and tried to become a Valley Girl." Scout wrinkled her nose and her voice shot up an octave. "I'm like totally amped for those bodacious dudes. They're the bomb." She smiled. "My parents put up with Sally Levitt because they understood how lost I was. I felt so brown. So not part of it. Nobody looked like me. Not my dolls, nobody on my favorite TV shows. I was a bracero"s daughter trying to make it in this mostly white, press-on-nail
middle school, so I understand Miguel Iglesia wanting to be Mike Church. A lot of Hispanic kids go through that. I certainly did."
"Only with him, it's not a stage," I said.
"That's because he's big and mean enough to force a result. I couldn't hold it. I wasn't Sally Levitt. I didn't understand her. My blonde streaks all turned orange in the YWCA pool. It was a cheesy disguise, and I knew it. Worse still, I saw the disappointment in my parents' eyes, so I moved on. I had to discover who I was and eventually I came to love that person. A happy ending."
I sat there listening to Secada, thinking about how fragile identities really were. I was forged by loneliness and anger as a boy and then transformed as an adult by a family who loved me. In a millisecond, a bullet had altered Alexa's core, changed who she was and how she thought. It sliced through her mood center, setting in play new thoughts and emotions.
Secada looked over at me and seemed to sense my dark mood. "What about you? Didn't you ever have an identity crisis as a kid?"
We were parked across the street from Aubrey Wyatt's Bel Air estate, sitting in the front seat of a new maroon Cadillac I'd borrowed from the drug enforcement motor pool. The leather smelled sweet. The gelled paint and polished chrome fit this ritzy neighborhood. It was ten-thirty the same evening. I had left Alexa working at her desk, and Scout and I were half an hour into an unauthorized stakeout.
"My whole upbringing was an identity crisis," I told her.
"Come on. It couldn't have been that bad."
"It was what it was. It doesn't help to talk about it."
We sat in silence. I felt her gaze fix on me.
"I don't blackmail or bite," she said.
I don't know why I was hesitant to take this next step with her; why I was reluctant to share my personal backstory and feelings. Maybe it was because I knew there was a strong attraction between us. Talking about my childhood, my early fears, was like letting down a fence, and allowing her to come closer. Close enough to see my shortcomings. That act of trust would put her in another category, and it was one I wasn't sure I knew how to deal with. It felt dangerous, yet at the same time, exciting.
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