"It's the middle of the night."
"I won't tell, if you won't."
She thought about it, but not for long. "Anything to get him out of here."
"Bring him back to ER and I'll grab him on my way out."
So much for that.
I took my coffee to the elevator and went up to the coronary care unit. The place was quiet. I knew the nurses on duty would stop me if I went by the main desk, so I waited until they were involved with patients who needed middle-of-the-night meds, then snuck past the vacant nurse's station and into Tony's room, closing the door.
Tony was sleeping. A drip trolley full of goodies was feeding solutions into him and a catheter tube was draining it all away. I moved to a chair beside his bed.
"Chief?" I said softly, as I touched his arm.
After a few seconds Tony opened his eyes.
"Huh?"
"Hi," I said and held his weak gaze.
"What time is it?" he whispered, his voice, still more or less a croak.
"I need to talk to you," I said.
"I did the TV interview. It's gonna be on the Today show. Supposed to air tomorrow," he said.
"Good." I decided I'd better get into this before I was discovered and thrown out. "I've been out doing what you said."
"What's that?" He sounded tired. His eyelids drooped.
"I've been out trying to prove that Alexa didn't shoot Slade."
"Good," he said weakly. "That's the ticket."
"Chief, you said you had an I. A. file on your desk about Slade." "Right."
"I think all that stuff in the file is made up. The road-rage stuff, the nine-one-one call. I think it was all done to make him look like a rogue cop so the department could set him up for a deep cover assignment."
"Where did you get that?" he asked. He looked trapped and tried to rise up.
"Doesn't matter where I got it." All of a sudden, I wasn't sure how much I could trust this guy. "If Slade was a deep cover, then all those light reprimands he got at I. A. were the direct doing of the Chief of Police. Back then, I. A. had a provision that let the chief review all sentences. He couldn't make a sentence heavier, but he could make it lighter. I think that's what Chief Brewer did. At first I thought it was because Brewer was corrupt and had something going with Slade, but now I think it was because he really wanted to plant Slade inside the Maluga organization. When you took command, I. A. would definitely have filled you in on that kind of deep cover op. So you had to know Slade was a UC when I talked to you yesterday."
Tony looked at me carefully before finally saying, "This is not something I will discuss with you."
"You're not gonna discuss it? You're the one who told me there are times when I should risk everything to find the truth. I thought you were one of the good guys."
"You don't have the whole truth."
"They're tattooing Alexa and me in the media. Don't you think the department owes us some truth?"
"Sometimes command is about priorities, Shane. Sometimes it's a balancing act where you pick the lesser of two problems. Alexa is in a coma. Word I'm getting is she's not going to get any better. They're operating Monday morning, but it's just window dressing. She's already slipped away from us."
"She's not dying," I said, my voice rising in anger.
"I think she is, and if she's gone, then what they're saying about her on TV can't hurt her. I'm betting in the end this won't stick to you."
"I thought you cared about her. You're just like the other guy."
"I do care about her," Tony said softly. "In fact, I love Alexa like a daughter. But there are things you don't know about, and they demand this course of action."
The door behind me opened and a nurse was standing there.
"What are you doing? His heart monitor on our station is going crazy. Get out of here this minute!"
I stood and moved to the door, but Tony stopped me. "There's department rationale guiding this, Shane."
"There may be department rationale," I said. "But the reasoning sucks."
"There's still people at risk. I'm supposed to be the chief of the entire department. That includes everyone, not just you and Alexa. I have to evaluate each situation, examine risks, and play no favorites."
I turned and walked out of the room without answering.
As I left the hospital I picked up John Bodine. He was still wearing Chooch's bloody sweatshirt and his head had tape all over it.
"Here we go again, John," I told him. "Don't try to be quite so original this time."
He looked at me and shook his head. Then he started right in. "In California, ain't no originals. Out here, everybody so busy bein' original, they all be 'zackly the same."
I grabbed his wheelchair and pushed him out of the ER. Once we were outside, I stood him up.
"Don't be yank-slammin' me around. Lookit this what you done." He pulled up the sweatshirt to reveal a pound of tape and gauze wrapped around his chest, stomach, and abdomen. "This here tape an' shit's all that's holding my dick on. So don't be pushin' and shovin'."
I got him out to Chooch's Jeep.
"Where you gonna dump me now?" he said.
"I'll make you a deal," I said. "If you shut up, you can sleep in the back. I'll sleep in the front."
"Thought you was gonna let me bunk in that sweet garage room you got. Now you sayin' I gotta sleep in this Detroit coffin."
"Shut up, John."
"Man, you ain't nothin' but some drives-too-fast, run-a-man-down, gutter scum."
A classification that seemed to fit.
Chapter 36.
ALEXA AND I were in Antigua. We had gone swimming and were a mile up the beach from the hotel, lying naked on sand that had not yet cooled in the night heat. I could feel its warmth on my back and hear the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. The scent of lush, sweet flora overwhelmed my senses. I held my beautiful wife, stroking her lustrous, black hair. Then she rose up looked down at me while soft moonlight fell across her breasts. Somewhere, in the shallow lagoon beyond, a fish jumped, then splashed back into the water and zipped away in a streak of green fluorescence.
Alexa laughed, smiled at me, then whispered, "I love having you inside me. I love your hands. The way you touch me."
I was hard and pushed deeper into her. Her breast brushed my lips and I kissed it.
"Muthafucka," she said as I held her tighter.
What a strange thing for her to say, I thought.
"Hey, muthafucka!"
I opened my eyes. It was Jonathan Bodine in the backseat.
"You awake?" he asked. "No."
"You talking, means you awake. I ain't some head case, no matter what them, piss-in-a-bottle white coats at the mental health say."
"Let's try and get some sleep, John."
We were parked in the upper lot behind the Greek. Dorsey Loveboy had opened the gate and told me we could park here for the night but had to be gone before the maintenance crew arrived at seven. I was stretched out across the console and front seats of the Jeep Cherokee and my legs were cramping. I glanced at my watch. Four-thirty a. M. The sun would be up in another hour; we'd have to be rolling in two.
"Them alphabet docs at the Mental Health called me insane. Called me a paranoid schizophrenic. Pissants wouldn't know a paranoid schizophrenic if he shit in their lunchboxes."
"I've got a big day tomorrow, I need to sleep."
"It's a cheap diagnosis anyway, 'cause half them dirtbags down on the Nickel is either running on ether, heroin, or Mystic Glue. The way I see it, if a man hears voices and there ain't no voices, then he's a whack-job pure and simple, right?"
"Yep."
"But if he hears voices and they really is voices, and them voices 'splains stuff to him, tells him what's gonna happen, then he's a visionary. Big damn difference."
I didn't answer, hoping he'd just shut up. My cell phone was on vibrate and it had fallen off my belt, so I picked it up and checked for messages. I was worried if something had cha
nged and Chooch tried to call from the hospital I might have missed it. Nothing. John kept up an endless litany.
"If you think people are plotting against ya, and the half-steppers really are, then you ain't paranoid, you just accurately informed. Them dickwads at the Mental Health don't understand that."
"Shut up, John."
"You're just a skeezy nickel slick who plows over po folks who's just minding their business, crossing with a light." He'd miraculously added a traffic light to our accident. "But 'side from that, and 'side from you gettin' me gizmoed for walking around with too much a your green in my jeans, I gotta tell you, for a po-lice, you ain't half-bad. You gimme food and ya don't just throw me away, like most a the shit birds I meet."
"Maybe if you didn't steal their stuff, that wouldn't happen quite so often."
John ignored that and kept going.
"I ain't insane neither. Was Edgar Allan Poe insane 'cause he drank himself to death? Was Van Gogh? That crazy Dutchman cut off his ear and today folks pay millions for one a his silly-ass, don't-even-know-what-it-is charcoal sketches. What is insanity? I challenge anybody ta give me a definition. Can't be done."
"Insanity is when you keep repeating the same behavior while expecting a different result." A definition that fit him perfectly, but it didn't slow him down. He just changed subjects.
"I hear dead people's voices. Okay? So big deal. But my voices tell me stuff. Like, Chief O. Half-stepper died in the African plague of oh-six, but he told me your old lady's lyin' in a coma. All the time we spent together since ya ran me over, and you ain't once told me that your old lady was about to catch the bus. I hadda hear it from a crazy old African chief been dead a hundred years. See what I'm sayin'?"
"You saw it on the TV in the ER like everyone else."
"Them docs clockin' your old lady at the hospital got no faith and less vision. You want a definition of insanity, how 'bout a bunch a bozos tryin' to change what's written in the big book? Tryin' to change what can't never be changed while all the time thinkin' it's their job to change it. That's insanity!"
"Can we please go back to sleep?"
"When you got princely powers, you get a library card, lets you see in the Big Guy's book. Some of it be hard to understand, but I got my dead peeps like Chief O whisperin' down, explainin'. When he tells me your old lady ain't supposed ta go, then you can bet it ain't her time."
"John, please."
"I ain't kiddin', Shane."
I sat up to look over the seat at him. It was the first time in two days that he'd actually called me Shane.
Then, without missing a beat, he segued again. "L. A. ain't my home, anyway. This just a place where I been sent for a few years to learn some lessons. I been learning the natural order a the universe so I can guide dumb shits like you around. I already know some of the Big Guy's secrets. Like check this one out. When someone dies, their soul gets handed off to some random dude in the afterlife, and he flings the soul as far as he can. It sails over an endless sea and awakens in another time and place. The weight of the soul and strength of the toss determines how close to the center of heaven the spirit lands."
"Sort of like a game of celestial lawn darts," I deadpanned.
"When you get to the crossroads and them God wannabes at UCLA puts it to you about yer ole lady, you remember what the Crown Prince from Cameroon just tole ya."
"Okay, John. I'll remember. Can we go back to sleep now?"
"I gotta take a dump, first."
With that, my personal guide to the universe threw open the Jeep's passenger door and blundered up into the trees to do his business.
Chapter 37.
IT WAS SIX-FORTY-FIVE in the morning and I was driving down the hill, away from the Greek Theatre. John had refused to get out of the Jeep and was asleep in the backseat.
"The hell you doing?" he growled, waking up momentarily as I braked too hard.
I stopped at a Micky D's and picked us both up some coffee and Egg McMuffins, then got on the 134 heading west. It was early and the Sunday morning traffic was light. I got off the freeway at Malibu Canyon Road and headed into the mountains, up the twisting two-lane highway toward the ocean. By seven-forty-five I was again parked across from the Maluga estate, half a block down from the ornate gate, safely tucked back in the trees out of sight. With the Jeep stopped and the windows up, the smell of our breakfast started to permeate the interior, popping Bodine out of his princely slumber.
"Man, that smells better than teenaged pussy," he said, sitting up and looking over the seat at the McDonald's bags on the passenger seat beside me. I handed him one, along with a cup of coffee.
"Breakfast in bed, your highness."
"More like it," he yawned.
As he bit into a McMuffin and sipped the hot coffee, he looked around at his surroundings and spotted the wrought-iron fence that fronted the Maluga estate with its acres of rolling lawn beyond.
"Pricey digs," he said, fumbling his sandwich. It dropped on the backseat, but he picked it up and ate it anyway.
"Don't make a mess back there. This is my son's car."
I reached into my glove box and took out my Sony miniature tape recorder. I hooked it up to the VXT radio receiver to again record conversations from Stacy's bug. I activated the system and listened through my earpiece. Nothing yet, just a low hiss. Stacy obviously wasn't near the equipment.
"Okay, John," I said. "This could end up getting dangerous. I can't be responsible for you. It's only about a mile walk down the road to the Coast Highway. I want you to get out. You can relocate at the beach. Since nobody knows you down there, maybe they won't kill you. Or if you want, I'll give you enough cash to call a cab and get you wherever you want to go."
"I thought you told that ER doc you'd take care of me."
"I just said that to keep you out of the mental ward. We're not gonna be roommates, so get out."
"I got a six-inch hole in my gizzard. I can't be walkin' a mile to the beach," he whined.
"I'm on police business. I don't want you back there. Don't make me throw you out."
Then a crafty look came into his eyes. "You ain't gonna be doing no such thing," he said.
"Why not?"
" 'Cause any fool can see you up here spying on these poor rich folks. Got yer little tape and all. Maybe I just rings their bell and gives them the four-one-one. Bet there'd be a big thank-you check in that." Then, without pausing, "You gonna eat that last McFuckit?"
"As long as we're on it, I'm getting real tired of this endless stream of profanity. I like a good four-letter word just like the next guy, but man, you need to clean up your act. It's hardly any way for the Crown Prince from Bassaland to talk."
"How the fuck do you know? You ever been to the Bassaland? You even know where Cameroon is, you ignorant sack-a-shit?" After that we both sat in silence for a long moment. Then he said, "I ain't getting out a this car. You throw me out, I'll get all up in yer bidness here."
This really wasn't working, but I didn't trust John not to blow my cover in search of a reward, so I decided to wait and ditch him once we were safely away from the estate.
"Suit yourself," I said. "But if this gets strange, you're on your own."
"Don't you go worrying 'bout Prince Samik Mampuna," he pouted. "I be on the scene with my gangsta lean."
I'd never be rid of him. This guy would be at my funeral.
So we waited as the sun made a slow climb up into the eastern sky, cooking the top of the black Jeep. It was going to be a hot day. John repositioned himself to the front seat and I put down both windows. We had an argument over the radio. He wanted some progressive jazz station so high up on the dial only dogs could hear it. There was no compromising with him, so I left the radio off.
At eleven-thirty-eight exactly, I heard voices over the VXT earpiece. The conversation was muffled because the pager was probably still in Stacy's purse. I got ready to move.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the Servo-mechanisms on the gate start
to click, then heard the wrought-iron monster begin to creak open. I was determined not to repeat my mistake from before. Most people have a favorite route when they're going to town. I was betting Stacy would take the same one as yesterday, unless she was heading to the Valley, in which case, she'd drive right past where I was parked. At least I was in a different car this morning. Over the earpiece, I could faintly hear gangsta rap playing and wondered if she was in the Rolls. When the rap music started to fade, I put the Cherokee in gear and pulled out, heading toward the Coast Highway.
I accelerated to catch up, came around a sharp bend, and saw the big tan Phantom at a stop sign a hundred yards ahead. I slowed abruptly, throwing John into the dash.
"The fuck you doing?" he complained.
"Police work."
He leaned forward to peer into the car, which was only a few yards ahead. "Some dangerous job you got here. Nothing but one itty-bitty little Platinum fox drivin' that thing."
I stayed several cars back as I again followed Stacy into Hollywood. She made her way to Wilshire Boulevard and headed toward the Miracle Mile District, a very expensive section of commercial real estate between Fairfax and La Brea Avenue. The high-priced developments are near the L. A. County Museum of Art and many are architectural statements, earning that stretch of real estate the moniker of Museum Row. Several huge talent agencies and television production companies had moved their offices out of Hollywood into this glittering business center.
Finally, Stacy pulled into a lot a few blocks past Hauser Boulevard and parked. I slid in just seconds behind her and found a place two lanes over. She got out of the Rolls, locked it, and walked up to the sidewalk on Wilshire. She was dressed in a tank top and skin-tight black jeans with heels. Her platinum-blond hair shimmered in the bright sunlight. I watched as she entered an office tower in the middle of the block, then I looked over at John.
"Will you get out now?" I asked.
"Since I don't got no self-instruction, I ain't bringin' no self-destruction."
"I assume that's a no," I said. "Okay. Then at least make yourself useful and keep an eye on that Rolls. If I get ditched inside and it leaves before I get back, give me a heads-up. Use Chooch's car phone and call me at this number." I wrote down my cell and gave it to him.
White Sister (2006) Page 17
