White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  "Maluga's company."

  "Yeah, but according to the music mags, they're having a feud. Nobody knows what it's about. They got in a screaming match at the Source Awards in Miami when Floor Score won Best New Artist."

  I turned to face him. "Floor Score is a band?"

  This hit me out of nowhere. I must have looked stunned or my mouth had fallen open, because Chooch said:

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. . . . Tell me about Floor Score. I thought it was'a sex act."

  "Technically, it's street slang for drugs you find on the ground," he said. "Curtis Clark is the lead guy the front man."

  "What's WYD?"

  "WYD stands for Who's Your Daddy. They're a huge label. Lionel Wright owns it. He's also their biggest star. Lionel records under the name Bust A Cap."

  My excitement was growing. This was a whole new direction.

  "Lionel Wright is the brains behind WYD and he's a marketing genius," Chooch continued. "Besides his rap songs, he's got a Bust A Cap clothing line and Bust A Cap hair products. He's kinda like Sean 'Puffy' Combs. Used to be that Lionel was only in magazines like Rap World and Street Beat. Now he's in every other issue of People. He and WYD have been pirating acts away from Lethal Force."

  "Acts like Curtis Clark and Floor Score," I muttered, remembering the conversation I'd overheard earlier in the Chronic Inc. office. "Ever heard of a group called Motel Crypto or Four-Fifty-Seven?" I asked, remembering those names from Alexa's e-mails.

  "Crypto Four-Fifty-Seven is a rap group that just left Lethal Force," Chooch said. "Everybody's leaving the Malugas because they're still a Compton-style gangsta rap company. Now that Maluga is out of jail, he's back to threatening everybody, trying to get his old acts back and hanging on to the ones he still has like Floor Score." He looked closer at me. "I thought you hated this kinda music. Why are you interested in all this?"

  "Just am," I said. "I'll call and check in every couple of hours. I'm sorry I can't be in there with you."

  He smiled. "I'll watch over Mom. You go find out who killed David Slade."

  "Deal."

  He started to get out of the car but I had one last thought and stopped him by saying, "Hey, Chooch, you still got your laptop in here?"

  He nodded, opened the back, rummaged under his seat, then pulled it out and handed it to me. "You might have to use the lighter plug. I don't know how much charge is left."

  "Thanks," I said, and hugged him.

  I sat in the Jeep and watched him walk back into the hospital. Then I headed back to the Valley. I'd stupidly left Alexa's computer in the Acura and I needed to retrieve it.

  All the way over the hill, I kept turning this new information over in my mind.

  There were still a few things that didn't fit, but in my mind the accounting had just changed, and a few things were finally beginning to add up. There had been a mistake in my original tabulation. I should have known to trust in Alexa no matter what. The error my mistrust had produced was hiding a larger truth, and that truth just might exonerate her.

  Chapter 33.

  I WAS PARKED in Dupar's lot with Alexa's computer resting on my lap. I left the material on her computer, but made a DVD copy and transferred the information to a blind file on Chooch's laptop. After I finished, I picked up my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts to find Figueroa's number. It was almost midnight, but I dialed him anyway.

  "Yeah?" his sleepy voice mumbled after the second ring.

  "It's Shane."

  There was a long pause before he said, "Okay."

  "I need to see you and Tommy tonight."

  "Meet you at our office on the fifth floor of the Police Administration Building," he said. "We can be there in an hour."

  "All good, except for the part about meeting at the PAB."

  "Shane, we're not meeting you any place but Parker Center."

  "I've got Alexa's computer. There's some interesting stuff on it you might wanta hear about."

  The mouthpiece of the phone was suddenly covered by his hand and I heard his muffled voice say, "Go back to sleep, Rachel. I got it."

  When he came back on the line he said, "Just a minute." Then I was on hold. A few seconds later, he was back. "Hadda change phones, sorry."

  "Rafie, I can't take a chance, going down to Parker Center. I might not walk out of there. If you guys want this computer, meet me at the Greek Theatre in an hour."

  "The Greek? You're kidding me."

  "You remember Sergeant Loveboy from Valley Vice?"

  "Big fat guy. Retired."

  "That's him. He's the plastic badge at the Greek now. He'll let you in."

  "What's going on, Shane?"

  "Tell ya when I see ya." Then I hung up. I left my Acura at Dupar's and put the Jeep in gear, pulling out of the parking lot.

  The Greek Theatre sits in a small canyon off North Vermont Avenue in Griffith Park. Once, about three years ago, in an attempt to add culture to my life, Alexa had dragged me to a summer concert of Classics. While the rest of the audience was listening to Tchaikovsky and Mozart, my mind wandered and I found myself studying the layout. The amphitheater was nestled in the hills, surrounded on all sides by forest. I realized it would be possible to get in and out of this place by coming down from the fire road on the hillside above the canyon. I put the amphitheater on my list of possible spots for a clandestine meet. This location became even more attractive two years ago when my old Valley Watch Commander pulled the pin and became a night security guard at the amphitheater. Sgt. Dorsey Loveboy was a fat, loose-jointed guy who looked as if his shirt was always untucked even when he was standing a dress inspection. But we'd had a good relationship, which I was now planning to take advantage of.

  I pulled up North Vermont Avenue and stopped about fifty feet back from his post. I blinked my lights twice to wake him if he was dozing, then I pulled up and watched as he stood up from the swivel chair in the guard shack and looked out at me. He was wearing an oversized Romark Security uniform designed to resemble LAPD blue. He leaned down and looked into the driver's side window of the Cherokee. I saw a slight smile cross his lips.

  "Scully. Still on the right side of the dirt, I see. Musta got a lot quicker than before."

  "How you been, Sarge?"

  He leaned in closer and said, "I'm real sorry about your old lady, Shane. Never really knew the lieutenant, but the word I got is she's good people."

  "Thanks."

  There was a pause, then he said, "From what I've been hearing on TV, this can't be a social call."

  I nodded and said, "I need to use this place tonight. Can you pop the back lock on E-gate for me, leave this gate open for some friends of mine?"

  "I don't need any trouble."

  "I'm just meeting two cops from Homicide Special. Since they're undercovers, we didn't want to use the PAB. This seemed like a good, quiet place," trying to smooth it out.

  "Just don't screw me up, Shane." He knew he wasn't getting the full story.

  "I promise. I'm going to come in from the back. These guys may be a little hinky, but they're good cops. Just let 'em in."

  He gave it a long moment of thought before he turned and walked away from the car to open the gate.

  I turned the Jeep around and pulled back down the drive. Then I made a right and headed up Vermont toward an unmarked fire road, which ran along a ridge above the dense growth of trees that surround the Greek. I stopped on the hill above the theater, parking on the shoulder, leaving the car pointing downhill. Then I made my way back down through the dense foliage toward the back of the concrete amphitheater. I didn't think Rafie and Tommy would try and hook me up, but if they did, I could make a break out the back of the stadium and climb the hill to the Jeep. If they followed me, they'd be a mile away from their cars.

  It took only five minutes to reach the back of the amphitheater. I found the E Stair gate, which Sgt. Loveboy had unlocked for me, swung it open, and entered the theater.

  The Greek is one of th
e most beautiful open-air concert venues in Los Angeles. It can seat thousands on wood benches attached to concrete risers. A row of pink-white security lights illuminated the place, casting a rosy glow on the thousands of empty wood seats. I placed Alexa's computer under one of the benches down front, memorized the seat number, then moved away from it and sat in the last row, as high up as I could go. From this vantage point, I could see the whole layout stretched below me under the stars.

  I waited for half an hour.

  Then I saw them coming into the amphitheater through the main entrance. Both wore jeans, tennis shoes, windbreakers, and frowns as they moved forward and stood looking around. They appeared to be alone. I was easy to spot sitting up in the last row, and Rafie pointed me out to Tommy.

  "This is fun," Tommy yelled.

  "You guys alone?" I yelled back.

  "Yeah," Rafie called out, adding sarcastically, "Request permission to approach, Oh Fucked One?"

  I waved them up and watched as they climbed almost a hundred steps and finally stopped at the eighty-fifth row, where I was seated. They were both winded when they arrived.

  "Okay," Rafie said, "where's the computer?"

  "Not so fast. I need you guys to help me first."

  "Yeah," Tommy said. "What kinda help? You can't need career advice 'cause you ain't got a career."

  I didn't need any more of that, so I launched right into it.

  "I talked to Sergeant Rosencamp, who's the new president of OJB. He told me that a while back David Slade made a nine-one-one call and got the Malibu sheriffs to send a car up to Stacy's mansion to bust an intruder that turned out to be him. Do you guys remember that?"

  "How could anybody forget? When it happened, it was all over the department," Rafie said.

  "Do you guys remember when that was?"

  "I don't know," Tommy said. "Mid to late nineties."

  "Which was it, mid or late?"

  "I don't know."

  "You know anybody you could call who was in IAD back then, somebody who could pin the date for us? I'd do it, but right now I don't have any friends down there."

  "Why you need the date?" Rafie said.

  "Sergeant Rosencamp told me one of our people at I. A. called the Sheriff's Department with the suggestion they make a voice print to find out if it was Slade who called in the original complaint. That voice print was what busted him. I want to know which one of our people in I. A. had the idea to do that, and when, exactly, it was."

  Rafie looked at Tommy, who shrugged. Then Figueroa contributed a name. "I think Fred Duma was an advocate at I. A. in the nineties."

  "Call him," I said.

  "I don't even know how to get Duma's number."

  "Lou Spinetta, maybe," Tommy said. "They were partners in South Bureau before Duma went to I. A."

  After a few minutes, Rafie had Fred Duma on the phone.

  "I got him," Rafie said. "He says he was a defense rep at I. A. off and on in the nineties."

  "Ask him," I said.

  So Rafie asked Duma my two questions and then paused and listened. "Are you sure about that?" he finally said. "Okay . . . okay. Sorry I woke you, man. Thanks."

  He disconnected, then turned to face us. "That's funny," he said.

  "It was ninety-eight, right?" I said.

  Rafie nodded.

  "Alexa was in I. A. back then. It was her idea to call the sheriffs and tip them, wasn't it?"

  "I don't get it," Tommy said. "If she was in a relationship with this guy and was friends with him since the Academy, why would she blow him in to the sheriff?"

  "Damn good question," I said softly.

  Chapter 34.

  WHAT THE HELL'S going on?" Tommy said. He sat down on the amphitheater bench beside me.

  "I've been wondering how an LAPD sergeant, like Slade, can pull guns on civilians and then walk out from under the I. A. complaints with just some days off and a departmental reprimand," I said. "Why didn't any of the civilians this guy was pulling down on go to the District Attorney and get him to file a criminal complaint?"

  "If Alexa was involved with him, maybe she kicked those charges loose and made peace for him with the D. A.," Tommy said.

  "And then she calls up the County Sheriffs and tips them to the voice print idea on the nine-one-one call in Malibu? How's that fit?" I said. "She helps him beat the road-rage beefs but turns him in on the nine-one-one thing?"

  "Shane's right," Tommy said. "Doesn't make much sense."

  They exchanged looks, so I went on. "Since I'm on everybody's shit list, I was hoping to get you guys to check with PSB tomorrow.

  Get somebody down there to pull those old road-rage incidents. See exactly who the original complainants were. I need full background checks on them. I'm going to give you guys Alexa's computer; you'll find a file marked overtime deployment schedules. It opens with the password 'Lacey.' Scroll down a few pages and you'll find a lot of e-mails between Slade and Alexa. They're from the last two months. On the surface, they look like love letters, and at the end there's some kinda blackmail threat on Alexa from Slade. But I don't think that's what they are anymore. They talk about having a floor score, which I originally thought was sex, but it's not. It's "

  "A rap group," Rafie finished. "Curtis Clark. I just got his new CD, Savage Bitch."

  I nodded. "The e-mails contain the names of rap groups and music management companies in messages written to sound like love letters. One e-mail mentions the Biltmore Hotel on Pico. There's no Biltmore on Pico. They talk about having a meeting at the Crypto Motel in room four-fifty-seven. No such place. But my son tells me there's a rap group called Crypto Four-Fifty-Seven. I think the whole thing is code. You need to take the computer to Secure Documents and get somebody you trust down there to decode it. But you guys need to keep this to yourselves. I think when we get the cheese, it will blow the top off this murder case and it might not make the guys on the sixth floor happy."

  "It still doesn't lay down for me," Rafie said. "Why is she passing e-mails back and forth with Slade, who was dirty?"

  "Yeah," Tommy said, "the guy was a shitcake."

  I didn't want to lay it all out yet, but Rafie read my expression. "You got a theory, don't you?" he said, then added, "If you want us in this, we need all of it."

  "There's only one way it makes sense," I finally said. "The reason the road rage incidents didn't go to a full Board of Rights or a criminal justice proceeding is because I think they were all setups. Those motorists didn't pursue their cases after I. A. gave Slade those wrist slaps, because they were all in on it. Maybe they were the families of cops helping the department dirty up Slade so he could go undercover. That's what I want you to find out."

  They nodded, knew there was more, and waited.

  "I think Alexa tipped the sheriffs to the voice print idea for the same reason," I continued. "The department was cementing David Slade's cover as a rogue cop, so he could infiltrate Maluga's music business, start by working security, and then worm his way up. Before Lou went to prison, he and Stacy got separated. But they didn't get divorced. I think the reason for that is Stacy's the brains behind Lethal Force. Lou supplies the street cred and keeps the acts in line. They stayed married because they needed each other. When Lou went to the Q, they were already living in separate houses. Nobody was in Stacy's bed. Slade was a notorious ladies' man, so he hit that. What better way to get info than in the bedroom?"

  They looked like they were buying it, so I went on. "Add to that a few more facts. Slade was already a Crip from the same hood in Compton and knew Stacy and Lou from Compton High, making him a good undercover choice. Alexa wouldn't have been his friend at the Academy unless he'd made a complete life change." I looked at them and said, "I don't think David Slade was a rat. I think he was a hero who gave up his life on the job."

  "So where's the computer?" Tommy finally asked.

  "Under seat B-twenty-three. Call me when you know anything."

  I stood to go, and they stood with me.r />
  "You're saying this sting started with Alexa and Slade back in 'ninety-eight?" Rafie said.

  I nodded. "Alexa and Slade weren't shot because of a busted relationship or a blackmail attempt. They were shot because Slade's cover got blown."

  Chapter 35.

  I LEFT THE Greek Theatre by the back exit and headed back down the hill toward the 134 Freeway.

  I liked my theory about David Slade being Alexa's undercover a lot better than I liked the idea of him being her lover, but there were still a few pieces that, no matter which way I tried to put them in the puzzle, wouldn't fit.

  One was Tony Filosiani. If Alexa had placed Slade into deep cover, there was no way that she would have been able to hide it from the chief. If Tony knew about all this, why didn't he tell Mike Ramsey or me? Why had he let it turn into such a PR mess?

  The second piece was the arrest warrant they'd put out on me. If this thing started in Internal Affairs in the late nineties, why were those guys running around with a charge sheet accusing me of murder? Somebody some commander at PSB had to know about it.

  By the time I arrived at USC Medical, it was two o'clock in the morning. My head was throbbing from lack of sleep, so I went to the cafeteria first and got a cup of black coffee. I was just about to leave with my plastic cup, when I saw the young ER doc who had treated Jonathan Bodine, making her way toward me. She had a worried look on her face, and I knew instantly, that the Crown Prince of Bassaland was in trouble.

  "Detective, I've been calling you on that number you left. It goes straight to voice mail. Why didn't you answer?"

  "Problems?" I said.

  "Mr. Bodine is insane."

  "Oh, come on, not really insane. Deluded maybe, probably disillusioned on occasion, but surely not insane."

  "He started a fire out of bedspreads in the men's room of the ward I transferred him to. He was doing an African fire dance or some damn thing. He set off the sprinklers. I'm transferring him to the mental ward first thing in the morning."

  I really didn't want Bodine transferred to a psych ward. That was the last thing my shaky alibi needed.

  "You're his admitting doctor," I said. "If you'll prepare release forms, I'll take him home with me when I leave and you'll be done with him."