"Let's go. We're doing this out front."
Sepulveda stayed with the Malugas, while Rafie and I made the long walk down the drive to the car. No cart this time, but Wayne and KZ followed us, driving the miniature Rolls-Royce fifty feet behind, making sure we left the grounds.
When we got through the front gate, Wayne closed it on us and turned the cart around, heading back to the house. Rafie led me over to his maroon Crown Vic. The car was still warm from their drive up here. Rafie opened the back door and shoved me inside.
"Stop pushing me around, will you? Next time you grab me and yank on me like that, get your hands up, 'cause I'm tired a your shit," taking my frustration out on him, even though he'd done nothing but play by the rules. I was the one who was way out of line, but I was stressed and not thinking straight.
"Don't you think I get it, man?" Rafie said. "If my wife was missing like this, I'd probably be running around doing the same things you are. But what are me and Tom supposed to do? Should we just stand back and watch while you rip up and flush half the criminal code? This is a high-profile murder case. Tomorrow we're gonna be up to our necks in media. If there is evidence in that house, you just blew it with an illegal search. You know who that guy in there is?"
"Yeah. Lou Maluga. Some ex-con rap producer. I've read about him. He's not a player anymore. Since he got out of prison, he can't even get a CD distributed."
"Lou Maluga is CEO of Lethal Force, Inc. It's a huge rap label. And you're wrong, this guy is not out of it. He's got a pile of money and throws big fund-raisers for charity. He's put a lot of dough into politics. Real tight with U. S. Congresswoman Roxanne Sharp. I've run six cases on this guy. I know what the score is with this crowd. When people mess with the Malugas, people tend to disappear."
"So because they've got dough, they get to kill David Slade, maybe kidnap or kill my wife, and we can't say anything?"
"If you keep violating their rights and threatening them, you're gonna get hit by so much paper you're gonna think it's raining affidavits. So calm down."
"Okay, okay. I'm calming down." I took a deep breath. "Since you've worked this bunch, tell me about KZ and Wayne. Who are those two guys?"
"KZ is a Crip drug dealer turned bodyguard from Compton. He's a hitter. His yellow sheet is impressive because every witness to ever point him out didn't live to testify. The other guy, I don't know much about. Wayne Watkins. They call him Insane Wayne. He's new. The bimbo in the pink terrycloth robe is Stacy Maluga. She's Lou's estranged wife and the president of his record label. They're still married, but two months back, she filed for separation. Lou got himself some fresh trim, a hot-looking woman named Sable Miller. Before I had to pull my bugs out of his beach house, it sounded like they were thinking about getting married soon. Lou lives behind the gates in the Malibu colony. Stacy's got this place, which will give you an idea of what a tough, hard-nosed piece of work she is."
"She was having an affair with David Slade," I said.
"Prove it."
"There's a picture in there of the two of them, all wrapped around each other, swappin' spit."
"And your theory is what? That Lou Maluga shot David Slade because Slade was messin' around with his estranged wife who he doesn't even live with anymore?"
"It's been known to happen," I said, wondering if I had such a good theory here after all.
"These people don't play by the same rules you do, Shane."
I didn't say it, but I knew there were no rules for me anymore.
"Just try and answer two questions if you can," Rafie finally said.
"Okay."
"How did this all end up in Alexa's car and, assuming that Astra nine is Alexa's, why was Slade shot with her gun?"
"I don't know yet. But you tell me what an LAPD sergeant was doing screwing around with a gangsta rap producer's estranged wife. There's something here."
"Yeah, and a third-year law student could suppress everything you've turned up so far."
"Alexa didn't kill David Slade. And before I'm through, I'll prove it."
"You're not going anywhere. Put your hands out. I'm cuffing you to this floor ring back here."
"You and Sepulveda can play around with these Gs all night for all I care. I'm out!"
I pushed my way out of the backseat, stood, and Rafie rose up with me. We were now facing each other outside the Crown Vic. He was big and fit and obviously trusted his moves. For a moment, I saw something in his eyes that told me this was about to go physical.
"Don't do it, Raf," I said. "You and I have known each other ten years. I need some slack here. I'm asking for some understanding."
His hand moved, then fell to his side. He didn't want this any more than I did.
"I'm filing that one-eighty-one," he finally said.
"You know what? I think that's a good idea. It will cover you and Tommy with the dick squad at PSB."
Then I turned and walked to my car and got in. He watched me go. As I drove off, he shook his head and said something.
I'm not much of a lip reader, but it looked like, "Good luck, man."
Chapter 11.
BY THE TIME I was six, I had life pretty well figured out. I was sure nobody really cared about anything . . . especially me. Shuffled back and forth between group homes and foster families, I spent every other Saturday morning in some County Health facility, sitting for endless psych evaluations administered by bored civil servants. They usually turned up troubling results.
"He seems to have a dissociative personality, Mr. Jones."
Of course, he does. He has nobody to associate with.
"His lack of concentration indicates severe emotional distress, Mrs. Smith."
Of course, he lacks concentration. He's got nothing to care about.
Into the van, off to the group home, back to the dorm. Kick a ball on a dirt field behind the Huntington House for Boys. Watch an endless parade of fake smiles and furrowed brows, all of them telling me I was just another problem that had been laid off on society and would never be solved.
So you internalize. You get tough. You build calluses that will defend you from the darkness that has defined your life. When it starts so early, these dark spells can become who you are but the people who run the meat machine always know where the soft spots are. They know where to poke and prod. To stay alive, you get tougher. Hard skin and a hard mind-set. They become your calluses. But calluses only go an eighth of an inch down. To survive, you know you have to make yourself harder, so you do. You work to protect what's left of your soft center. But over time, these emotional calluses can get so thick they become who you are. When that happens, there is very little left to fight for.
That was me by the time I was ten. I had little I really cared about, nothing that interested me. When I joined the LAPD, it was after a stint in the Marines and it was just an easy next step. The police department, like the Corps, was a way to trick myself into believing that I knew who I was. The man in the green uniform is a Marine. The man in the blue uniform is a police officer. On the door of my black-and-white patrol car it said, "To protect and serve." That was my new identity, my new code. But it wasn't me.
When I looked in the mirror I saw a uniform. A man of authority. But I didn't feel like one. I was good at being a cop, mostly because I didn't care what happened to me. Go ahead, shoot me, you dirt-bag. There's nothing here but hard skin and a heartbeat anyway.
And then came Alexa and Chooch.
They flooded into my life, slowly softening my protective calluses like oil on dried leather. Little things, at first pensive moments where new personal thoughts seeped into me, filled hollow spots in my infected psyche. And these thoughts and feelings started slowly curing me like antibiotics pumped into a throbbing abscess.
The idea that people were actually important came next, along with the notion that there really was such a thing as an unselfish act. I began to realize that love was an actual condition, and not just something faked a manipulative ploy.
> Little by little, I was pulled back from the darkness, reclaimed like a submerged, barnacle-encrusted hulk. It seemed like I would never fully come alive again, but I did.
The last four years had been a rebirth, with Alexa and Chooch performing emotional CPR. They taught me there was strength in vulnerability, and wisdom in restraint.
Driving back to Venice from Malibu, I tried to make sense of what was happening. Selfish as it seemed, I knew that losing Alexa would probably cost me more than I could deal with. I had Chooch, but he was an adult now, off at college. I couldn't live my life for him much longer. Without Alexa, I was afraid I would slip back into the same, murky, alcohol-infested swamp I had just managed to crawl out of.
I wasn't sure if Alexa was alive, wasn't sure why there was a dead cop in handcuffs in her car. I had absolutely no idea how Stacy and Lou Maluga figured in, but there was one common denominator in all this, and that was the late Sgt. David Slade. I knew that Rafie and Tommy had no choice but to hang me out with the dicks in the Professional Standards Bureau. Their careers were at stake if they tried to give me cover. I wasn't going to back off and by now they knew it.
The problem was that nothing was anything without Alexa. I love her with a power so pure it sometimes frightens me. Without her, my life has no meaning.
I had been in some life-threatening situations, but I had never been in such jeopardy before.
I got home to Venice and parked in the drive. When I opened the front door, I realized that I had left without turning the alarm on. Like David Slade, deep down I knew I was tougher than anybody dumb enough to come after me. All the lights were still on, just as I'd left them. It was past one A. M. but I knew instantly the house was empty. It had that empty house feel, like a murder scene where everyone was dead.
I walked into the den and checked the answering machine. It was an old machine and the remote access system had become temperamental, so I couldn't retrieve calls. But it didn't matter because there were only the same three messages I'd left for Alexa earlier. I sat in the half dark, thinking about what my next move would be. I probably shouldn't stay here because if Rafie and Tommy followed through and filed a 181 complaint on me, by morning the Professional Standards Bureau could go to the D. A. and get an arrest warrant for obstructing justice. I could be picked up, booked, and taken to the courthouse for arraignment. It would take me half a day to get through all that. I didn't have half a day.
I figured I'd better clear out and come back here only to shower or change. They would try to serve the damn warrant two or three times, but they wouldn't make a career of it. After a couple of tries, it would go on the computer along with a BOLO to pick me up. I'd broken some internal department policies, some search and seizure regs, and a criminal obstruction of justice statute, but it was all Class-C stuff. I hadn't shot anyone yet.
I stood and moved slowly out of the den. I was halfway across the partially darkened living room when I saw something move in the backyard.
I froze in my tracks and looked out. It was hard to see too much of the backyard through the room reflection on the glass, but someone was definitely sitting in one of the metal chairs back there, looking at the canal.
Had Luna Maluga already sent some energy in my direction, or was it Alexa? Taking no chances, I pulled my gun, moved to the side of the room, and edged to the glass slider. It was locked. I silently unhooked the latch and using my foot, slowly slid it open. I knelt down to nonfatal shooting height and looked outside.
There was someone stretched out on the lawn chair. It looked like Chooch. He had ignored my instructions and come home. In that instant, I was glad he had. He'd been right, I needed someone to talk this over with.
"Chooch!" I stepped outside and crossed toward him.
A man screamed in terror and jumped up, dreads and skinny elbows flying. Then John Bodine stumbled and went down, managing to catch himself with his good wrist, balancing himself precariously. "Like to scare a motherfucker to death," he whined.
I put my gun away. "What are you doing here?"
"Got no place else," he said. "And you still got all my what-alls in the car. 'Sides alia that, I got..."
"I know. Payback coming."
"Finally got that right, half-stepper."
Chapter 12.
I GRABBED HIS skinny arm and pulled him into the house.
"I ain't no sack a shit you just yank here and about!" Bodine whined.
Once we were in the entry hall, I turned to him. "I can't deal with you right now. I'm in trouble maybe about to be arrested. I've gotta get movin', so you're outta here." I went into the laundry room to get his stuff. He trailed after me, lost in one of his rants.
"You about to get arrested, are ya? In Cameroon, during the workers' strike, I got my black ass arrested six times. Got put on trial no legal representation or any such shit. Weren't nobody there for me, but I was on a royal pilgrimage. A prince leading a people's rebellion against tyranny. In his manuscript, Tonio Kroger, Thomas Mann calls a killer one who permanently kills the ills of his people by piercing them with the arrows of the true word. That was me. Prince Samik Mampuna, killer of ills. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"No." I grabbed his clothes out of the dryer and rolled them up in his old coat, which had not yet made its trip to the cleaners. I was definitely through with this joker.
"I grew up watching hungry folks," he rambled on, trailing after me, blabbering nonsense as I gathered up his things. "Watchin' them grab their swelled-up bellies; so far gone they couldn't even keep nothin' down. My daddy was a king a tribal chief. He said the act of true sacrifice is giving even when you got nothin' left to give. And that be exactly what I'm talking about here."
"Don't move. I'll be right back." I left him standing on the laundry porch rambling about Africa, and headed to the bedroom to get my extra gun, a small .44 special Bulldog Pug. It's only accurate for a few feet, but it weighed less than two pounds and was an easy carry piece. I wasn't too worried about its accuracy, because I figured if Maluga came for me it would be close combat.
As I was pulling the piece out of the dresser drawer, something started vibrating in my pocket. I reached in and retrieved Stacy Maluga's pager. I'd completely forgotten about it. The number on the screen read: 310-555-6768.1 jotted it down on a piece of paper and put the pager back in my pocket. As this was happening, I got the germ of an idea on how I might put that stolen gadget to work. I took a stack of cash out of a lockbox under the bed and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I grabbed Alexa's spare office key from the coin dish on our dresser, fitted the Bulldog into a small belt-clip holster and tucked it inside the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. My Beretta was still riding a holster on my hip. I grabbed a box of shells for each gun and left.
When I returned to the living room, true to his name, John was long gone. I found him in the den near the side window, looking out at the canal.
"Let's go."
He jerked up, shrieked in terror, then spun around. He was sure jumpy. It took him a minute to reclaim himself. Then he was back at it. "This ain't right. You run a man down, a prince of all things. Then you just give him a roll-up, and push him out the door with no howdy-do here's some cash."
I pulled out my wallet, extracted four hundred dollars, and handed it to him.
"I'll drop you back on the Nickel. How you deal with all that anger down there is up to you. As of now, you and I are done, friend."
He wouldn't move, so I grabbed his skinny arm Rafie-style, and hustled him out of the house. Ten minutes later we were in the Acura heading east on the 10 Freeway.
"Can't go to the Nickel. Ain't got no friends on the Row."
"Okay, I'll drop you in Hollywood then." I wasn't paying much attention to him anymore. I was trying to get my thoughts sorted out, make a list of investigative priorities. The order of my next few moves could mean everything.
"Hollywood is like Tibet on acid," Bodine whined. "It's all prayer rugs and hoop earrings down there. Buncha crac
kheads and trapdoor Johnnies. My voices be tellin' me Hollywood ain't no place for a straight Christian man to be."
"Come on, John. I'm through. I told ya I got my own problems."
"Hey, who run me over, huh? Was it you? I fuckin' think it was."
We exited the freeway at Main, heading toward Parker Center.
"This ain't where I want to be at," Bodine whined.
I had stopped answering him. I finally pulled up across the street from where I first hit him. "Door-to-door service. Doesn't get much better than that."
I set the brake, got out, and pulled his shopping cart out from the back of the SUV. I heard the sound of leather ripping as it snagged the upholstery. I jerked it out angrily. Pissed me off, but a torn backseat was way down on tonight's list of problems. As I started to load Bodine's junk back into the cart I could see him in the front seat. He wasn't about to move. He just sat there, rocking back and forth, moaning slightly.
When I finished with the cart I went around to the passenger side, opened the door and glared down at him. "Let's go."
"Half-steppers at the sperm clinic won't even take my jizz anymore," he said, looking up. His desperate eyes blazed. "Mutha-fuckas won't even pay me to jerk off into a bottle. Say my count is low. I tole 'em you eat outta garbage cans your sperm goes all . Ta hell. No vitamins in a grapefruit rind, know what I'm sayin'?"
"Get out."
"Can't sell my blood, can't sell my jizz, what am I supposed to do?"
"I gave you four hundred. Don't make me drag you outta there."
He sat still and looked up at me. "Officer Scully, I'm kinda at my wit's end right now. I ain't brilliant or even that smart really, but you know what I am?"
"Stubborn."
"I'm worthwhile. Underneath all these problems is a very worthwhile person."
"John . . . please." I reached in and pulled him out of the car.
"I could be dead in the morning," he said.
"Me too."
We stood looking at each other in the dim light of the street lamp.
"No man is an island," Bodine finally said. "Some people help me along, but some, like you, just push me away. Ain't easy being an African prince in a cold-ass place like L. A. I keep sending out my resume, but I'm not hearing back."
White Sister (2006) Page 6
