I reached him on the first try. He was just heading out to get breakfast. With Slade's murder all over the news, he didn't have to ask why I was calling. We agreed to meet at a pancake house near the station.
Driving through Newton, I realized that not much had changed here since I first pinned on a badge. Some areas are so infected with urban blight that there is no reclaiming them. As I drove down surface streets, I saw three guys in silver-and-black Raider jackets huddled in a doorway. They glared as I passed. A crack deal went down right under my nose when I stopped at a light on Fifty-fourth Street.
Like everything in this neighborhood, the pancake house had seen better days. I parked in the lot, chirped my alarm, and walked into the half-empty dining room. Rosey was seated by the window, where he could keep an eye on his black-and-white parked on the other side of the plate glass. He was wearing his blue uniform with sergeant's stripes. Rosencamp was a big man and had put on a few pounds since the last time I saw him, but he was still a long way from fat. He had one of those stocky builds that made him a tough commodity on the street; hard to push around or move in a fight. He was well liked but had been stalled at sergeant for six years. He should have made lieutenant by now. I wondered if his membership in OJB had marked him as a troublemaker. The LAPD liked to pretend we were colorblind no white, brown, yellow, or black . . . just blue. Despite this carefully orchestrated fiction, nightmare incidents from Rodney King and the now-famous "Gorillas in the Mist" mobile computer transmission, to the more recent Rampart scandal and the OJ trial, had kept racial strife inside the department simmering. Nobody wanted it, but it was there just the same. Everybody on the job already knew that this thing with Alexa and David Slade wasn't going to help.
"How're you holding up?" Rosey said, even before I sat down.
"It's tough."
"Gonna get tougher," he said. Then he filled me in on how the story had leaked. "The planets musta been lined up wrong after they found Alexa's car," he said. "Some still camera stringer jumped the first patrol car radio transmission, snuck up in the trees above Mulholland, and got pictures of the body and your wife's license. Sold his shots to the L. A. Times." He grabbed a paper off the seat beside him and dropped it on the table in front of me. It was all there: the BMW surrounded by cops and crime scene tape, David Slade slumped forward with his head resting on the dash. "They got Roxanne Sharp on the TV already," Rosey continued. "She's cutting up the department. Great White Mike's in full vapor lock. For a guy who loves being on the tube, he was stuttering and muttering worse than Elmer Fudd. We're about to get our big blue asses kicked. The real chief came through surgery okay, but he's gonna be out of it for weeks. We could sure use him on this 'cause Great White Mike's gonna get pasted."
"Yep," I said, angry at myself that I hadn't even given one thought to Tony's surgery. I'd been too consumed with worry over Alexa. I knew that Rosey was right. Mike Ramsey was no match for the media sharks and political whores that were already circling.
"You got any clue what Slade was doin' dead in her car?" Rosey asked, bringing me back.
"I'm just getting started."
"Yeah, and the way I hear it, PSB is lookin' to slow you down. Also heard the D. A. is studying it. Your best bet is to go right to the chief before he issues you a two-six."
A two-six was a forthwith. Go to the chief's office on the sixth floor, Code Two, which was with all possible dispatch. Ignore a two-six and your badge goes into Lucite.
"Rosey, I need your help."
"Puts me in the dumper, I help you, Shane."
"You guys at OJB must have a case file on David Slade."
"You bet we do. I know this guy's one-eighty-one file by heart. He's the kind of police makes a nightmare for all of us. We talk about Slade least once a month."
"I need some background."
He hesitated, but then finally nodded. "Okay, but you didn't get it here."
I nodded.
"A lot of this goes back aways, to when Chief Brewer was on the job. Back then, Slade picked up seven or eight road-rage incidents in his PSB file. The way it would go down was some civilian would cut him off on the freeway and Slade would go postal, pull out his nine and wave it through the window at the guy. Start yelling how he's gonna cap the poor schlub. Trouble is, once the civilian made a complaint, it kinda just never got completely dealt with."
"You're saying he's got juice down at the Professional Standards Bureau. That doesn't sound right."
"Who the hell knows? This was under Chief Brewer. You know more than anyone what a corrupt bastard he was. Back then the chief had the power to reach down at will and adjust any Board of Rights finding. Couldn't make a penalty worse, but he could lighten it if he wanted to and that's exactly what Chief Brewer did for Slade. All eight times. Cut two flat-out dismissals down to thirty days off without pay. If you or I went and pulled a gun on some civilian over a lane change, we'd be working at Wal-Mart."
"You think he had something on the department?"
Rosey shrugged.
"Anything else?"
"All kinda stuff. You know he got in on that juvenile felony waiver."
"I kind of figured that."
"Slade grew up in Compton. By the time he was thirteen he was already a baby G doin' lookouts on dope deals. Cripped all through high school gets popped on two righteous felonies an ag-assault and an attempted murder. He does two years at the County Youth Offenders camp, gets out when he's eighteen. He was lookin' for new windows to break, sees our recruiting ad saying all is forgiven, and joins the department."
"You knew Alexa in the Academy. In your opinion, is there any way she'd ever use Slade on an undercover assignment?"
His brow furrowed. Something was going on, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to share it.
"You got something?" I asked.
"It'll keep," he finally said, and changed the subject.
"Last scam Slade pulled should a got him bounced for sure, but again, he gets out from under it. It was just before Filosiani became chief."
"Let's hear."
"The story is that he was partying in Lou Maluga's house, way up on top of Malibu. Big place fountains, lawns all they don't have is a polo field. One night, about three years back, a guy calls nine-one-one and says he was just up there delivering pizza and some black dude jumped the fence and is running around waving a gun on the property. The caller says the intruder is six-one, two hundred pounds, and is wearing a maroon two-eleven suit. The Malibu sheriff rolls a car and when they get out there, sure enough, here's this black dude running around in maroon Fila acting all crazy. The cops don't see a gun, so they tackle the suspect, put him down hard. He motherfucks them up one side and down the other, takes a swing, and it gets nasty. Batons come out and these two cops start doin' a marimba on the homeboy's skull. 'Bout then the man identifies himself as David Slade, an LAPD sergeant."
"I don't get it."
"It'll make sense in a second. Next, he hires Nathan Red and sues the Sheriff's Department for a hate crime in civil court. He wants a million bucks. Stacy Maluga, who he's screwin', backs him in a statement and pays the attorney fees. She says she saw the whole thing."
"Got it."
"He set them up. It looks like a good beef that's gonna stick. The D. A. is circling and the press is all kneeled down in the blocks waiting for a starter's gun, and the city is talking about a big settlement to keep it out of court. Then somebody in our Internal Affairs who is familiar with this dirtbag's package calls the sheriff's investigator and suggests that they make a voice print on David Slade and check it against the nine-one-one call. Just like that, the fool is busted. Slade is the phony pizza delivery guy who phoned it in."
"What happened?"
"Sixty days off without pay. I'm telling you, if the rest of us had this kind of cover, we'd all start holding up banks for a living."
"I might, but you wouldn't," I said.
"Probably right," he said. "Got this dumb white hat all stuck down on my nap
py head." Rosey grinned at me and then while we were looking at each other; the grin disappeared and the frown came back.
"What is it, man?" I asked. "Something's bothering you."
"I can't, Shane. We're friends. You got enough to deal with. I don't want to go and make it worse."
"Alexa's missing. She may be dead. I've got the rat squad and maybe the D. A. chasing me with warrants. I don't have any time. How can it get worse?"
He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Back when we were all in the Academy, there was a rumor about David and Alexa."
My heart was beginning to beat harder in my chest. "What kind of rumor?"
"You know what kind of rumor. That kind of rumor."
"You mean they were seeing each other?"
"Lotta testosterone and estrogen flowing back then. Slade was definitely a lady's man. A mac daddy from Compton. We were all real young. Hard to keep your arithmetic in one column."
"I don't think Alexa would get involved with some Crip gang-banger," I said hotly.
"Maybe not. Like I said, it was just a rumor."
The waitress came to take our order, but I had no appetite. I thanked Rosey, shook his hand, and walked out into the parking lot. I stood outside by my car for a minute, looking at the interior through the windshield. My face was reflected in the curved glass window, distorted and ugly. I didn't look like me. I didn't feel like me. And Rosey was right.
He'd made it worse.
Chapter 16.
IT WAS A lot to process. Pieces didn't fit.
How could somebody like Alexa find herself attracted to a tattooed Crip criminal with a juvenile felony package? I looked hard inside myself, trying to see if there was a racial component guiding my skepticism. I had started so low on the ladder, as a kid I didn't usually think in terms of race. For me, there were just assholes and mega-assholes. They came in all colors. But still, is anybody completely immune? I'd had Chooch with a Hispanic woman, but did that indemnify me? Sex without commitment is just a party. As I turned this over in my mind, I knew that I didn't have a problem with the idea that Alexa might have had a black lover as long as he was a quality person, but from what Rosey had told me, David Slade was a dirtbag. The road rage incidents, the crazy attempt to shake down the Sheriff's Department with that 911 call. That kind of character flaw didn't just suddenly pop up in your early twenties. This guy had been dirt from the beginning. So what was Alexa doing messing with him? She should have sensed who he was under that fake smile and carefully clipped moustache.
I was pretty sure he had never left his Crip gang, despite being on the LAPD. That was probably why he still lived in Compton. It was his hood. His old crew was kicking it there. He looked to be about the same age as Louis Maluga. I wondered if Slade knew Maluga back when he was a baby G doing corners.
I picked up my radio mike and called communications. When they answered, I identified myself and said, "Wants, warrants and background on a Louis Maluga and Stacy Maluga."
"Roger," the RTO came back. "Stand by."
I was almost out of Newton, driving on Washington Boulevard, heading toward the Harbor Freeway.
While I waited, I turned my thoughts to our Chief Filosiani's predecessor, Burl Brewer. Rosey was right, I had experienced firsthand the full extent of his corruption. I was the cop who finally had him arrested for conspiracy and murder back in the late 1990s. Had Chief Brewer somehow been involved with Lou Maluga and Lethal Force, Inc.? I knew I would never get an answer to that question, so I moved on.
As I drove, I kept wondering why Slade had been found dead in Alexa's car. Was that old Academy relationship important? Did it affect everything that was happening now?
They were not easy thoughts. They swung carelessly around in my brain like dangerous wrecking balls, knocking into emotional barriers, punching holes in my value system. If she could betray me like this, what was anything in my life worth?
"One-L-Forty. On your wants, warrants, and background. Stand by."
I keyed my mike. "Go."
"Louis Maluga. Born March sixth, nineteen sixty-five to Rita Maluga, father unknown. He did five years in Soledad from ninety-nine to oh-five for aggravated assault and attempted murder. His first arrest was in Compton in nineteen eighty: assault with intent. Juvie never filed. Second arrest in April: attempted murder. Witness died same, result. Third arrest, June of ninety-nine: attempted rape, attempted murder. Witness disappeared. Never filed."
"Okay, I get it. What about Stacy?"
"Stacy Maluga, nee Stacy Adams. Born in Norway in seventy-two at a naval hospital. Moved to the states in seventy-three when her father was discharged. He was killed in nineteen seventy-five. DUI. Family moved to E Street in Compton. Her booking sheet is mostly drugs. She was also arrested in July of ninety-five for indecent exposure and lewd acts. She had sex on stage at a strip club."
"Okay. Can you download both yellow sheets and fax them to my office at Homicide Special?"
"Roger that."
I gave her the number, then disconnected. I didn't ask for David Slade's yellow sheet because I knew there wouldn't be one. All his prior crimes had been sealed juvie busts, or he wouldn't have qualified for the felony waver. Everything he'd done wrong once he was on the LAPD would be in his PSB package, if I could find a way to access it. With all the heat coming down after his murder, it was going to be hard to get my hands on it. But I have friends and I'm devious, so I intended to try.
Without really planning it, I realized I was heading back to my house in Venice. It was probably stupid to keep going home, but I was drawn there. That house was my only connection with Alexa. I kept thinking I'd walk in and find her with a perfectly plausible explanation. Or I'd find a message on our answering machine. If she was alive, I knew she would get in touch with me.
I parked half a block away and moved down the street looking for department-issue, four-door sedans with black tires. Nothing. I kept in the shadows of a line of elm trees and worked my way past the house. If detectives from the Professional Standards Bureau were here to question me, they were pretty damn good at blending in. I couldn't see any sign of them but decided to enter my house from the canal side anyway, just to be safe.
I moved quickly along, hoping none of my neighbors would see me. I entered the backyard, took out my key, unlocked the sliding glass door, and carefully pushed it open.
The minute I stepped inside and smelled the stale air, I knew she was still missing. Nobody was there. The house was lifeless and still.
It was just after ten-thirty a. M. I turned on the kitchen television as I walked through, but was stopped in my tracks by what I heard.
"Speculation is running rampant. What was a dead undercover police officer doing murdered in the front seat of the head of the LAPD Detective Bureau's personal car?"
One of the anchors from Channel Four was leaning forward, looking stern, but you could see the excitement in his eyes. I turned away from the TV and checked on the answering machine hooked to our kitchen telephone as the newscast continued.
"This morning, in a brief statement, Deputy Chief Ramsey confirmed that Sergeant David Slade was killed while in police handcuffs but refused any comment on the guilt, innocence, or whereabouts of Lieutenant Alexa Scully. He also wouldn't say if she was a suspect in the execution-style shooting."
I froze with my hand on the telephone, watching this asshole engage in rampant speculation. Suspect in the execution-style shooting? How could he even imply that? The video package played behind him, complete with separate shots of Alexa and David Slade. They had used Slade's Academy photo. He looked handsome and clean cut. It would not have helped this media hatchet-job to show him like he really was, in his Marcel do with an armload of badass Crip ink. The shot switched to a pleasant-looking, middle-aged African-American woman in a TV-friendly, dark blue suit and pale blue blouse. She wore a small gold angel pin prominently on her lapel, attesting to her purity and faith. The on-screen graphic identified her as Congresswoman R
oxanne Sharp. She had a long record as a media whore who always weighed in on racially charged situations.
"If this is what it appears to be, I can assure you that I will personally take the LAPD to task," the congresswoman promised. "This fine, African-American officer was gunned down in his prime, left dead in his bureau commander's car. I can promise the people of Los Angeles, this will not become the latest example of LAPD arrogance or investigatory incompetence."
Nathan Red was up next. Handsome, with gray flecks in his black hair, he looked like Billy Dee Williams in a tailored Armani with a silk tie.
"David Slade's family is considering legal redress against the LAPD and the city. At this time, we will withhold further comment, except to say that it certainly raises questions that Lieutenant Scully is suspiciously missing."
My heart sank. I knew this was only the beginning.
I played my messages as the newscast continued spewing speculation and misinformation. My three calls to Alexa were still on the machine. A call from the Professional Standards Bureau came in at nine a. M., issuing me the dreaded two-six to report to Mike Ramsey's office. Then Alexa's voice was on the machine.
"Shane, it's me." She sounded small and tired. "I'm so sorry about this, darling. I can't bear to think what this is doing to you and Chooch, but I had no other choice." Then there was a long pause before she said, "I killed David Slade. An argument over something personal. I'm confessing to his murder. Please turn this tape over to the department." Then, another long pause, before she said, "I can't go on. Things have been too difficult. I'm too far gone to save myself. I love you, darling. Kiss Chooch and tell him I love him, too. Try not to hate me too much."
Then I heard a gunshot.
Chapter 17.
White Sister (2006) Page 8
