White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  I got behind the wheel. As I pulled out, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw him standing on the curb with his shopping cart full of junk. There was a moment, sucker that I am, when I almost went back and got him.

  As things turned out, I would have been way ahead if I had.

  Chapter 13.

  THERE ARE MORE videotapes running in Parker Center than at NBC Burbank. Five security cameras photograph the lobby and multiple cameras cover all the main hallways of each floor. Everything is fed down to a tape room in the sub-basement. I knew that there was very little I could do to defeat all that high tech security. After what happened up on Mulholland, the Deputy Chief wouldn't have to think very hard to figure out what I was doing in my wife's office on the command floor at three a. M. I was disobeying direct orders and the tapes would confirm it.

  I didn't care.

  I pulled out Alexa's spare office key and used it to open the door, moving through Ellen's neat outer office, past a stack of crime manuals and new forensic journals that the chief made mandatory reading for all command rank officers.

  I sat behind Alexa's desk and turned on her computer. While it booted I looked at a photograph of us taken in Nevis last year. In the shot, Alexa's black hair was lustrous in bright sunlight, blowing in a tropical breeze. Her dark tan and bright smile made my heart clutch. In the picture, two glasses of Planter's Punch with colorful umbrellas rested between us on the wooden plank table of the beach bar where we'd stopped. She wore her beauty like a casual gift, I wore a Hawaiian shirt and a jackass smile. It was as good as it gets. A roving photographer had taken the picture. Twenty bucks to memorialize a romantic moment that now broke my heart.

  As I studied the photo the knot in my stomach tightened. Memories of those five romantic days flooded over me, underlining my loss. That time spent on a Caribbean island had been a glimpse into our future. In a few more years we'd both have twenty-five years on the job and be out with full pensions, able to travel the world. I hadn't told her, but lately I had started to look past the daily uncertainty and harsh realities of police work, contemplating a more tranquil existence.

  We had made love in the sweet-smelling garden suite at our hotel. We made love in the ocean at midnight. We talked about secrets and shared our fears. I'd told her about parts of me that nobody else knew. Instead of being repelled, she had caressed my shortcomings. She told me that fear is at the heart of the human condition, that it's one of the two basic reasons that anyone does anything. The other reason, she said, was love. I knew she was right. In a few short years she had changed what motivated me.

  Now she was missing maybe gone forever. Would I ever see her again? Would I even recover her remains? Desperate thoughts arced around inside my head murderous plans of violence and revenge. I thought about what I'd do to Maluga if he had hurt her.

  The computer had loaded and I turned toward it. Her password was "lacey." The TV show Cagney & Lacey was what had motivated her to be a cop when she was a girl. I typed it in and started opening windows.

  I found a file on undercover assignments. I could find nothing in the file on David Slade.

  Next I accessed the e-mails. All communications from yesterday and today had been purged. I wondered if Ellen had come back in to do that after Alexa's car was found or if Alexa had done it before she left for that mysterious appointment. When we'd walked back from the jail, did she know she was in danger? I sat there for a moment, turning that over in my mind. Then I went back to the document files. I opened half-a-dozen with coded names like "Operation Rhinestone," which turned out to be an undercover op on a ring of jewelry store burgs. "Walking Tiger" was a sting on Chinese gangs. The last one I opened was called "Dark Angel." It contained one short sentence.

  File Transferred to AHC

  I had no idea what AHC stood for.

  Then I heard footsteps in the hall. I turned off the computer and crossed to the door where I met Tommy Sepulveda.

  "Scully," he said, looking at me with tired eyes.

  I was so busted, it was pathetic.

  We stood there, each not knowing what to say.

  "What're you doing here?" he finally managed.

  "Thought maybe Alexa might be . . ." I didn't finish the sentence because the frown on Sepulveda's face was so deep it was almost comical.

  "This isn't working," he said.

  "For me either."

  "I'm not gonna try and take you down, Shane. But I'm putting it all in the report. Me and Rafie look like morons letting you run around gumming this up."

  "Right. When I get the PSB charge sheet, I'll tell them you gave me the word and I wouldn't listen."

  He heaved a disappointed sigh before he said, "As long as you already shook this place, you find anything worthwhile?"

  "There's a purged file on Alexa's computer, code named 'Dark Angel.' That seems a little strange. Says it's been transferred to AHC. Whatever that is."

  I still wasn't convinced that Sepulveda wouldn't try something. If it were me, I'd have gone for it, so I kept my eyes on him as I slipped past and out the door. He watched me walk down the corridor and get in the elevator. As the doors closed, he was still staring.

  It was three-thirty a. M. when I left Parker Center. I was pretty sure Sepulveda and Figueroa wouldn't be able to get a warrant to search my house until at least eight a. M., so I decided to risk it and headed home. Something was buzzing in my head. It felt as if there was some piece of this that linked up, but because of all the adrenaline and emotion, I had walked right past it. It wasn't until I pulled up in front of my garage that I suddenly knew what it was. I scrambled out of the car and ran to the front door. Once I got into the entry, I was immediately struck by the fact that it was cold inside. We usually keep the temperature at seventy-five. It was well below that. Then I saw the reason. The window in the den was half open, cold marine air was blowing in. I closed and latched it. Bodine must have opened it when I found him standing in here two hours ago, looking out.

  I walked into the bedroom. I was looking for a blue book that was about an inch thick. It was not in the bookcase or in Alexa's bedroom chest of drawers. I finally found it in the bottom of her closet in a cardboard box that had been in the garage when we'd redone the space for Chooch after Delfina came to live with us last year. I pulled out the book and took it to the front room, sat down by the light, and opened it up. It was Alexa's LAPD Cadet Academy class book. I felt something brush my leg, looked down and saw Franco rubbing against me. He looked up, knew something was wrong, and let out a pitiful cry. I patted him but didn't speak. I opened the blue Police Academy yearbook.

  The thing I had just remembered was that both Alexa and David Slade had joined the department in 1982. There were only two Academy classes a year. That meant there was a fifty-fifty chance they'd gone through police training together.

  I leafed through the book, looking at the graduating cadet pictures. They were all standing straight, hats off, looking sternly into camera. There were several people I knew in this class. William Rosencamp. His picture showed a tall, handsome African-American officer whom I hadn't seen in about a year but I thought was now a patrol sergeant in Devonshire Division. The caption under his picture said he was tenth in a class of fifty-six. He had won a cadet street combat tactics competition and had a long-gun shooting classification of Marksman. His Academy nickname was "Rosey." Still was.

  I found Alexa's picture. Even though she had her game face on, she looked breathtaking as usual. I skimmed through her cadet accomplishments. Alexa Hamilton was second in her class. She had won the Distinguished Marksman shooting medal and held a dozen other cadet honors including obstacle course champion in the one-hundred-fifteen-pound division. Her academy nickname was "Hambone."

  And then, toward the back of the graduation shots, I found David M. Slade. He was rakishly handsome and clean cut, smiling through perfect teeth. His coffee-colored skin glowed against his crisp blue Academy uniform. His moustache was clipped and perfect. Slade had
graduated forty-fourth. He had a sharpshooter's medal and came in third in an academy martial arts competition.

  His nickname was "Dark Angel."

  Chapter 14.

  COME ON OUT. Don't be afraid," Alexa shouted through the bolted iron door. "You've been afraid since you were born. It's time to put all that behind you."

  "That's ridiculous," I called back. "The only fears we're born with are fear of falling and fear of loud noises. All other fears are learned." Sweat was dripping out of my hair, into my eyes.

  "I won't hurt you, I promise," she said. "Open the door."

  My heart was beating fast, my eyes strained to see in the dark enclosed space. "Fear is what lets you grow," I shouted through the door. "I've had my head shrunk by the best. I know the drill. You can't just live in a comfort zone. You have to take chances if you want to improve." I could barely make out the walls. Dim light seeped in through a few holes in the rafters.

  "Come out, Shane. I promise I won't hurt you."

  "But you already have." I was crying. I never cry, but I was crying. Tears ran. Hot tracks of salt and self-pity.

  "But I don't mean to hurt you," she called to me.

  "I know. But I can't take this. I can't live like this. Not knowing is killing me."

  "But I'm right here. Right outside this door. All you have to do is come out."

  I woke up without opening my eyes. I had departed from one darkness and was suddenly in another. I remembered lying down on the bed with the police graduation book on my chest, trying to sort out what it meant that Slade and Alexa's relationship dated back to the Police Academy. I had not intended to fall asleep, but fatigue had overtaken me. Then I dreamed, and my dreams were torture.

  I opened my eyes, sat up, and looked at the clock in our bedroom. It was eight in the morning. Damn. I jumped out of bed, went into the bathroom, slapped water on my face, and looked into reddened eyes. I looked different. Everything was the same, but somehow it wasn't. There was less here than there was yesterday.

  Then the front doorbell rang.

  I grabbed my jacket and moved to the side window and looked out at the street.

  Parked by the side of my house was the maroon Crown Vic. It was empty. Tommy and Rafie were at the front door.

  Decision time. What do I do? Do I open up and risk taking an arrest? Or do I slip out the back door and beat feet down the canal walk to the side street? I was still half-asleep, but then a thought hit me. Maybe these guys knew something. Maybe they'd found Alexa.

  I opened the door.

  "Thank God you finally went home," Tommy said. There was a piece of yellow paper in his left hand that looked like some kind of internal department document.

  "Yeah," I answered. "Finally came to my senses. Whatta you doing here? I was expecting the I. A. rat squad."

  "Takes a little time for a shit souffle to rise," Rafie said. "They gotta get a deputy chief to sign their warrant and DCs don't get in till ten. We got our paper from the division commander who gets in at seven." "What paper is that?"

  Tommy handed me the yellow sheet. It was an internal demand served on Alexa's computer.

  "You want her computer?"

  "Police property. We're reclaiming it as part of the investigation."

  "I see," I said, cussing myself. I hadn't even thought to look at her personal computer. I didn't want these two guys in my house going through her files so I centered myself in the doorway.

  "Don't be a schmuck," Rafie said.

  "Look, I'm ..."

  "You gonna step aside or is this going to turn into a police incident?" Rafie said. Both of them looked like they were a heartbeat from thumping the crap out of me. Actually, scanning her computer was a good idea. I should have beat them to it, but with the two of them standing there, I knew that race was pretty much over.

  "Okay," I finally said, and stood aside.

  "Where is it?" Tommy asked.

  "Her office." I led them through the house into a small storage room off the hall that we'd converted into a place for Alexa to work. No windows, a small workspace, everything stacked and organized neatly, Alexa-style. I turned on the lights and motioned to the desk. Her computer was gone.

  "Where is it?" Rafie said. The tension in his voice was hard to miss.

  "I don't know." And I didn't.

  "Starting last night you were a problem, but me and Tommy were trying to look past it because the Lieutenant is your wife. Now, however, we're talking criminal malfeasance. Obstructing justice, withholding evidence, interfering in a homicide investigation, accessory after the fact. You're stacking up felonies faster than an E-Street gangster."

  "I don't know where the computer is," I said. But in the next instant, I figured it out. John Bodine stole it. He hadn't been looking out my side window earlier, when I'd caught him, he'd been unlatching it. That's why he jumped. Then after I dumped him on the Nickel, he must have rented a cab using my money, come back here, shimmied through the window, and stole the computer. My guess was when I checked the house I'd find he'd liberated a lot of other stuff as well.

  "I'm going to ask the Professional Standards Bureau to pick you up, Shane. You won't stay out of this, so I'm gonna have you held," Tommy said.

  "We all do what we have to do," I answered.

  They turned and walked out of my house, leaving me standing in Alexa's office looking at her empty desk.

  After they were gone, I took a quick tour. Bodine had stolen two TVs, Chooch's stereo, and a microwave, along with Alexa's computer.

  He'd clouted our stuff and true to his rep, was long gone.

  Chapter 15.

  HOWARD JONES FIELD on the USC campus is where the Trojans football team holds summer two-a-days. Pete Carroll has open practices during July, so I parked behind an athletic equipment building and walked past the track to the field. It was nine-thirty in the morning and players in shoulder pads, practice jerseys, and shorts were huddled in separate groups working with their position coaches.

  I spotted Chooch with the quarterbacks. Steve Sarkisian was leading them through a footwork drill, teaching both three-and five-step step drops. As I approached I couldn't help a flash of pride. My son was handsome. He was the result of a one-time fling I'd had with a beautiful Hispanic call girl who had given up being an escort to become a confidential informant for the department. Five years ago before she died in my arms, she told me that he was a son I never knew I had. Now I watched him across the football field and marveled at how perfect he seemed. Six-three with his mother's dark good looks, he was even more beautiful on the inside where it counted. Chooch saw me coming, said something to the coach, and then sprinted in my direction carrying his helmet. He met me on the thirty yard line. Tension was etched on his face.

  "Did they find her?"

  "Not yet."

  His shoulders slumped.

  "Look, son, I promise I'll get to the bottom of this."

  "Dad, let me help you."

  "I can't. Since this happened, I've broken a lot of department regs along with a few low-grade criminal statutes. The acting chief is probably pissed, so there's a good chance the District Attorney could press charges. I can't have you mixed up in this."

  "Dad, how can I just "

  "I know. I know, it's tough," I interrupted. "But you've gotta trust me, Chooch. If I have something for you to do, I'll call. Until then I need to know you're safely out of this."

  "One of the guys had a radio on this morning. They're saying an LAPD undercover officer was found dead inside of a high-ranking female police commander's car. They made it sound like she's at fault sorta."

  I was surprised that the media had the story already. Usually the department tried to keep a police shooting under wraps until they had all the facts. Somehow, it had leaked.

  "There're some very tough characters on the edge of this. The press is going to blow it up into something it's not."

  "Whatta you mean?"

  "I have a bad feeling about the way they're going
to spin it. In the meantime, I'm going to find your mom. That's my focus. If this goes the way I think it will, it may get a little uncomfortable for you, even here."

  "They're gonna say she killed him? That's ridiculous," he said.

  "In a high-profile deal like this, speculation often gets played like fact. The uglier it seems, the more the press likes it. I don't know what they're gonna say, but we've gotta believe in Alexa."

  "Dad, how can you say that to me? I know Alexa. I know who she is. I'll always believe in her." He had tears in his dark eyes.

  "I'll call you at least once a day."

  "No cell phones on the practice field. You've gotta wait until after eight, when we're out of the film room. Or send somebody out to get me."

  "Okay. Hang tough. I'll call you at eight unless it's urgent."

  I didn't hug him in front of his teammates, even though I wanted to. Instead, we shook hands. It felt awkward and forced. I turned and walked back to the equipment building where my car was parked. As I drove away and made the turn at the end of the field, I looked back and saw Chooch still standing there, holding his helmet, all alone, watching me leave.

  Driving out of USC I tried to get a number for William Rosencamp. I called a friend in Personnel and found out that he had moved from Devonshire to the old Newton Division. Newton used to be its own division, but was now reorganized as part of the Central Bureau. The area was bordered by the Harbor Freeway on the west and Florence Avenue on the south. The reorganized Central Bureau was a hot zone that now included South Central L. A. The streets around the Newton stationhouse were still notorious. As a result, it had retained its old moniker, Shootin' Newton.

  I needed more information on David Slade. On the surface he just seemed like a bad apple. I knew from reading The Blue Line, an LAPD magazine, that Rosey Rosencamp was the recently elected head of the Oscar Joel Bryant Association for black police officers. I was pretty sure that a wrong number like David Slade would be a special topic of interest for those guys. Since Rosey was an old friend of mine and had been in the Academy with Alexa and Slade, I was also hoping he might be able to shed some light on this guy and maybe point me in a fresh direction.