Three shirt deal ss-7

by Stephen Cannell

  "Do you think I'm coming on to you?" she suddenly asked.

  "Are you?"

  "I don't mess with my partners, especially married partners."

  "Good."

  "No, listen. I like you, Shane. I like that you went to bat on this, despite the heat coming from Sasso and PSB. I know why you don't want to tell your wife what we're doing. I've heard the scuttlebutt. I know she's been different since she got back. I knew that before I ever came to see you about this. I just hoped she might be strong enough to lend a hand. But I understand why she can't."

  "She's not different. She's just fallen a little behind," I snapped, rushing to her defense.

  "I'm not being critical. My God, she was shot in the head. You don't think I understand what you're going through? Listen, Shane.. listen-"

  I was staring angrily at the Wyatts' driveway.

  "Look at me," she demanded.

  I turned and looked into her dark eyes.

  "I find you very attractive. I guess I can't hide that, but I'm not a slut. I was raised with values. I've got a way I intend to live my life. I'm not a home wrecker and I'm sure not going to take advantage of you and your wife, especially not now, when she's going through such a tough adjustment. You have my word on that."

  "Thank you."

  After a moment a smile started to play across her face, and in Sally Levitt's voice, she said, "You may be cute, dude, but you're a long way from bodacious ta-ta."

  I smiled at her, but there must have been sadness and pain in my smile because she saw it, and said, "If you ever want to talk, I'm a good listener."

  "I'll get back to you on that."

  Half an hour later, the solenoid on the gate started clicking and the wrought-iron monster swung open. We both ducked down in the front seat as the red Ferrari Enzo flew down the drive and out the gate again. I figured it must have been Wade Wyatt driving because he left his trademark trail of sparks from the leading edge of his left front bumper, and nobody who actually paid a million dollars for a car would treat it that way.

  "What the fuck?" Scout said as she sat back up and watched the car whine away up the street.

  "That's the way he drives. He's a cute kid. Wait till you meet him."

  I hung a U as Scout grabbed a portable Kojak light out of the glove compartment and put it on the seat between us, ready to slam it up on the dash in case we needed it. We began a white-knuckle ride trying to stay up with the Ferrari as it blew through stop signs, heading west down Sunset toward the ocean and a low gray mist of coastal fog. On Sepulveda the Ferrari turned right and headed into the hills. Around eleven-fifteen it pulled to the shoulder up on the top of Mulholland and parked.

  Scout and I were driving without headlights to avoid detection. When the Enzo stopped at the crest of the hill we backed down on Sepulveda and ditched the Caddie a few hundred yards away. Then we covered the last stretch on foot, moving back up the road, and climbed into the hills above Mulholland. I was carrying my Bushnell binoculars. We found a place where we could watch undetected. The foggy coastal marine layer had not crested the mountain and from here we could see across Mulholland, to the million-dollar red sports car and past that to the million-dollar view of the twinkling lights in the Valley below.

  There were now two people standing beside the Ferrari, leaning on the front fender. I put the binoculars to my eyes and focused them. Wade Wyatt was dressed like Field Marshal Rommel in an expensive three-quarter-length, belted black leather trench coat. With him was an expensively dressed girl who looked like she'd just stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. Long blonde hair, high cheekbones, willowy body.

  "You know who she is?" Secada asked.

  "Bodacious ta-ta," I said, and handed her the binoculars.

  "Looks like they're waiting for someone," she said.

  We got comfortable, sitting with our backs against a pine tree. Slowly, over the next half hour, one by one, other expensive sports cars arrived at this spot at the top of Mulholland. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Maseratis were joined by souped-up Corvettes and some muscle cars with racked suspensions. Finally, I saw a silver Mercedes McLaren arrive. License plate ABV-193. It was Wade Wyatt's car but this time a slender, dark-haired guy I'd never seen before was driving. By now, there were over twenty men and women, mostly young and attractive, standing on the shoulder smoking dope or drinking booze from silver flasks.

  "What are they waiting for?" Scout said.

  "I've heard about this, but I thought it was just an urban myth," I told her. "The story is, every now and then, a bunch of these rich assholes bring their expensive sports cars up here and have road races at midnight for high stakes and pink slips. Tens of thousands of dollars and car registrations change hands."

  "You kidding? On Mulholland?"

  "Yeah. The way I heard it, they block off the road. Look. They're doing that now."

  As we watched, two guys in a pickup with yellow construction sawhorses in the back arrived and drove around the corner and down the hill. Scout and I scrambled to the top of the mountain where we could see the streets converging into Bel Air. I looked through the binoculars and sure enough, several miles down Mulholland, barely visible in the coastal fog, the pickup stopped, and the two guys jumped out and blocked off the road with a couple of sawhorses, both of which had flashing amber lights. One of the men triggered a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. Scout and I scrambled back down to our earlier position just as two cars at the top of Mulholland pulled to a makeshift starting line. One was a white Corvette with red racing stripes and an exposed engine. The hood was off to make room for a four-barrel blower. The other car was a blue Lamborghini. Wyatt's beautiful blonde girlfriend stepped out into the center of the road between the two vehicles holding a checkered flag. Wade was booking bets on his computer, his face illuminated by the glow from the laptop.

  "What do you wanta do?" Secada asked.

  "Beats the hell outta me. I wasn't exactly expecting this."

  A minute later, the engines revved high and the girl swung the flag. Both cars squealed away from the starting line toward the sawhorses two miles down the twisting, two-lane road. In less than half a mile, they were going over ninety, engines wrapped tight and whining, the tortured sounds of squealing rubber destroying the quiet Bel Air night.

  "Mamacitar Scout gasped as the Vette almost lost it, missing a deadly plunge into the Valley below, by inches, then righted itself and continued. "We need to get some A-Units up here now," she said.

  Just then, the silver McLaren, with the dark-haired guy I didn't know behind the wheel, pulled to the starting line beside a yellow Maserati. As the drivers strapped in, money began changing hands. Wade Wyatt was punching keys, making book on the laptop.

  "We can't wait for patrol. We gotta shut this down before somebody dies," Scout said.

  We ran back to the Caddie and jumped in. While Scout called for backup, I put the car in gear, and we shot up the road onto Mulholland, and made a left turn. Scout slammed the bubble light up onto the dash and turned it on. I hit the switch on the waiter disguised under the hood and we boiled in, braying the siren.

  The crowd at the top of the hill saw us coming and scattered like tenement house roaches. As this was happening, the McLaren and the Maserati took off from the line and veered away from us, powering down the hill toward the sawhorses two miles away.

  "We gotta stop them before they kill somebody," Scout yelled.

  I floored it, but the Cad was no match for these two race cars and they quickly left us behind, taking corners neatly while I slewed recklessly around the curves. Soon they were out of sight.

  "Faster," Scout yelled.

  I had my foot buried to the floor, and the Caddie was leaning dangerously on every turn, threatening to break loose and pin-wheel over the side. It didn't seem to bother Secada, who was yelling for more speed. We flashed past the sawhorses, which had already been run through, and now lay broken and in ruins all over the road.

  We drove into t
he coastal fog at Sunset Boulevard and I had to make a decision. The two cars were way out of sight but it would do no good to go back up to the top of Mulholland. That party would be long over. I knew the McLaren had come from Church's house in Van Nuys, so I made a right and headed toward the Palisades and the 405, still hoping to catch up. After several minutes of reckless driving on Sunset, I spotted the Mercedes idling at a light, blocked in by a line of traffic coming out of a concert at UCLA.

  "The good guys catch a break," Scout announced as I wailed the siren and squealed to a stop behind the silver sports car.

  I piled out of the Caddie and ran toward the McLaren with my gun drawn. Scout pulled her weapon and took a cover position at the right rear quarter panel of the silver race car just like we'd all been taught to do it at the Academy.

  "Hands in the air. Put 'em out the window!" I yelled at the driver, adrenaline pumping up the volume. He was alone in the car.

  "Okay, okay. Hold your water, dude," the man said. He poked his hands out the window holding the car keys, then dropped the keys to the pavement. He'd done this drill before.

  "Okay, out of the car," I instructed.

  He opened the gull wing door on the expensive Mercedes and stepped out. He was a tall, handsome, Latino-looking guy with a tennis sweater tied around his neck. Senor Suave Bola.

  "What is this, Officer?" He was the very picture of innocence.

  "What's your name?" I barked.

  "Enrico Palomino." No accent; no attitude. He could easily have joined the group of UCLA students driving by, staring at us.

  "Let's see some ID."

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his driver's license, and handed it to me. Enrico Jorge Palomino. He was twenty-six and lived in Van Nuys on Woodman. I knew from two years working patrol in the Valley that Woodman was in a blue-collar neighborhood.

  "Whose car is this?"

  "It belongs to a friend, Wade Wyatt, okay? You can call him. I've got his cell. He lets me borrow it. I had a hot date. UCLA girl. Just dropped her off."

  "Of course, that's total bullshit because I just saw you racing this thing at close to a hundred miles an hour up on Mulholland."

  "I don't think so. Must've been another car that looks like this one."

  "It's a half-million-dollar McLaren," Secada said, still standing in a cover-fire position with her gun drawn. "There aren't ten of those in the entire United States. Come up with something else."

  He held out his hands and smiled.

  "Okay, okay. Look, can you guys put the guns away? It's a little frightening."

  I reholstered my weapon. Secada lowered hers but kept it at the ready.

  "Keep talking," I said. "I wanta hear the real story."

  "Maybe you could cut me some slack, Officer." He smiled again. "Would that be too much to ask?"

  "Why would I do that, Mr. Palomino?"

  "Professional courtesy," he said.

  "Professional what?"

  "Can I reach into my pocket? I want to show you something."

  I glanced at Scout. She looked puzzled, too, but finally nodded.

  "Okay," I said. "Go slow."

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out another wallet. This was thick and black, like the ones detectives carry. Then he opened it and showed me a beautiful gold and porcelain engraved police badge and ID card.

  "What's this?" Scout asked.

  "My credentials. I'm with the North Van Nuys Transit Authority Police," he said. "I work closely with Homeland Security."

  "Transit Authority Police," I said, and looked over again at Scout.

  "Is that anything like the Disneyland Police?" she deadpanned.

  "It's an actual police department," Rico said. "I'm sure, as brother officers, we can work something out."

  "Just a minute. Stand right there," I said.

  I led Scout back to the Caddie and handed her the badge. "Look at this."

  She examined the gold shield. It was expensive and well made. Across the top was inscribed, north van nuys transit authority p. D. The credentials in the glassine pocket read, enrico jorge palomino, commissioner of police.

  "What's with this?" Secada said. "This weasel's only twenty-six and he's already a P. C.? I wasn't figuring to make commissioner until I was at least fifty."

  "You ever hear of these guys?"

  She shook her head. "Lemme check." She got in the car and picked up the rover mike.

  I watched Rico Palomino standing next to Wyatt's car, looking cool and confident. I was trying to understand why Wade Wyatt would let this guy drive his super-rare, half-million-dollar car at breakneck speed down Mulholland, risking its destruction. Then it hit me. Actually, it was pretty obvious. The car was undoubtedly insured and they were betting high stakes on the outcome of the road races. That meant Enrico Palomino was probably the best street racer Wade knew.

  Scout got out of the car and handed the badge back to me. "It's legit. A small, transit police department, located in North Van Nuys, chartered and registered." She bit her lip. "What do you wanta do?"

  "I don't care about citing this guy for reckless driving, but something isn't right. Let's turn him loose and check this out."

  "Okay with me," she said.

  I walked over and handed Rico back his expensive badge. "Okay, Commissioner," I said, almost choking on the words. "Sorry for the inconvenience. You have a nice night."

  He smiled, unable to hide a tinge of entitlement. He took the credentials and got back behind the wheel of the McLaren. Then he pulled out and drove slowly up Sunset, disappearing like a silver ghost in the dense coastal fog.

  Chapter 16

  It was well after midnight by the time we drove back to Bel Air. I dropped Scout at her car, which was parked on Madrono, two blocks from the Wyatt estate. We agreed to meet for breakfast in the morning. In the meantime I intended to find out more about the North Van Nuys Transit Authority. If I could get an address I would run over there in the morning and check it out.

  She got out of the Caddie, but hesitated before saying goodbye. "Listen, I agreed to do this stakeout with you because we weren't gonna touch anything, just watch. But we ended up pulling another guy over and drawing our guns. A police commissioner, yet."

  "We must be good," I said. "We're peeling an onion here. I want these guys."

  "My grandmother used to tell me an old Mexican story about that," she said. "It's about wanting too much."

  "Oh, boy."

  "The way the story goes, this little boy is on a beach and finds an oyster with a huge pearl the size of a robin's egg inside. He shows it to the village elders, and they know it will feed and clothe the town for years. But there is a tiny, dark spot on the side.

  They call the pearl doctor, who comes from another village and examines the treasure. He says he can sand the pearl and maybe the spot goes away, but maybe it gets bigger, making the pearl less valuable. The townspeople tell the pearl doctor to sand the pearl. But as he sands, the spot gets bigger. Now the pearl doctor explains that with more sanding the spot might get smaller again and the value of the pear will be restored. They decide to keep sanding until it's worth only a few pesos as pearl dust. They ended up with nothing."

  "What's your point?"

  "That's what this case feels like. It started with a murder over a six-pack of beer, but things didn't seem right. A tiny dark spot. We've been sanding and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. And now we're in major trouble and if we're not careful, we're both gonna end up getting sacked with nothing to show for it."

  "Except we aren't after money, we're after truth," I reminded her. "Didn't you tell me just yesterday that you gotta take on the shitty ones a case at a time?"

  She just grinned.

  When I woke the next morning, Alexa was already gone. She left me a note.

  Shane, got up at three A. M. Went to work.

  Tony gets home in two days. Gotta be ready.

  Love, A.

  I went into the kitchen and
sat at the table drinking burnt coffee, then called the Fiscal Crimes Division at Parker Center. One of their jobs is checking out business ownerships and incorporation papers. I asked the civilian assistant to run a check on the North Van Nuys Transit Authority.

  She quickly came up with the NVNTA's operations charter and read it to me. The little Valley bus company was a nonprofit that was created to shuttle the elderly and people with disabilities to their jobs in the morning and pick them up at night. The bus service had its own transit police department that had been certified by Homeland Security. The transit line currently operated five buses. I asked for a list of the police commissioners and the officers of the company.

  I was put on hold while she went on Nexis-Lexis to locate the information. A few minutes later she came back on the line.

  "Okay, here it is," she said. "The address is six-three-five-eight Midline Drive in North Van Nuys."

  I leaned over and grabbed the phone book, which still lay open on the counter displaying the ad for the Church of Destruction.

  "You sure? That's a towing service and body shop," I told her.

  "According to their corporation filings, it's also the legal address for NVNTA."

  "Okay, give me the names of the officers and commissioners."

  "There're five. In no order of importance: Tyler Cisneros, Enrico Palomino, and Jose Diego are all police commissioners. Wade Wyatt and Michael Church are commissioners and transit authority officers."

  Most of the people I'd been messing with for the past three days turned out to be part of this little transit authority police department in North Van Nuys.

  The more I sanded this pearl, the larger the black spot grew.