White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Pryce Patterson for you." I must have looked confused, because he added, "Senior partner at some white-shoe Beverly Hills law firm. He's their big muckety-muck." Gunner handed the phone over. "Knock yourself out."

  "Hello?" I said.

  "Is this Shane Scully?" a cultured, nasal voice said.

  "Yes."

  "Has your bail been determined yet?"

  "A million dollars, why?"

  "I'm right downstairs in the lobby with an open cashier's check. If you'll meet me at the bail clerk's desk, we'll do the paperwork and you'll be out of here in a jiff." "A cashier's check? How come?"

  "My client, Lionel Wright, has taken an interest in your case," the nasal voice replied.

  Chapter 51.

  PRYCE PATTERSON LOOKED like his name. All that was missing was the tennis racket and the Alpaca sweater tied around his neck. His suit was a custom Brioni, and he had one of those ninety-day wonder attitudes that allowed him to look through rimless glasses and down his nose at the world. Not exactly my kind of guy. I wondered why a street guy like Lionel Wright would hire such a vanilla pastry.

  "I'm not a criminal attorney," he intoned needlessly. "My specialty is estate planning and wills." Answering that question. When it came to managing money, a vibrant personality is not a prerequisite.

  We were standing in the bond clerk's cluttered office on the first floor of the courthouse. It was a little after nine a. M. Gunner Gustafson appeared with the release papers and as soon as he showed up, Pryce Patterson began casting glances at my legal assassin, wondering, no doubt, how this bellicose midget had ever managed to pass the bar. Like a French poodle that suddenly finds a coyote in his backyard, he was unsettled and slightly appalled.

  I signed the bail slip. Because Lionel Wright had posted the entire million, I didn't need to involve a bondsman. I was notified that when I showed up for my October twelfth scheduled court appearance, the bond would be returned, minus a few hundred dollars for processing.

  Patterson handed me a business card with a phone number written on the back and said, "Mr. Wright requests that you give him a call once you have a chance." All very polite, as if we were buying art instead of freedom.

  We all walked out of the courthouse at nine-fifteen, right into the teeth of ten reporters, all of them pissed because they'd been juked by the half-hour time change, causing them to miss the colorful news event in Division Thirty. There were lots of shouted questions.

  "Detective Scully! Any comment on your arrest for murder?"

  Yeah, right. Good luck on that one.

  Tucking my tail, I again ran from those jackals like the media fugitive I had recently become. All I wanted to do was get over to UCLA. Gunner offered me a ride back to the El Rey Theatre to pick up Chooch's Jeep, which I prayed hadn't been towed. I desperately needed his laptop. If I hustled and the Jeep was there, I could still make it to the hospital in time. It was a miracle that I had pulled this off.

  We got into Gunner's new gray Mercedes S-55, which was the last car I would have expected him to own. He seemed more like a Ford truck type of guy. He put the expensive car in gear and powered away while TV crews raced to the sidewalk to photograph our exit.

  "Don't talk to those guys," Gunner said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the scrambling pack of reporters. "Contact with the media will only fuck us in the ass."

  I love a plain-talking lawyer.

  "We need to set up a meeting," he went on, "I'll start filing my discovery motions this afternoon. We'll see how much real ammo the D. A. has. Then sometime in the next two days we have to sit down and go through it."

  "Good. That's fine." I waved a vague hand at him, not paying much attention.

  "Are you even listening to me?" he said, picking up on my distraction.

  "No." I looked over at him. His fighter's chin was pointed defiantly out the window at the morning traffic. "I'm sorry. With my wife going into surgery, I can't focus on this right now, but I will call you."

  When we pulled around behind the El Rey, wonder of wonders, the Cherokee was still in the alley. Gunner dug into his wallet and handed me a cheap card that looked like it had been printed at Kinko's. I thanked him for all he'd done on such short notice. Then I headed to the car and took off.

  At ten-fifteen I finally arrived back at UCLA. There were several news crews holding down this location as well. I noticed that a stage had been built in the parking lot for a press conference. Crews were setting up a sound system. A banner declared: black justice. blind faith.

  My beautiful wife could be dying while politicians and activists were getting set to dance on her grave. At least I didn't have to hide anymore. I was out on bail. I could go where I wanted.

  As I made my way up to Neurosurgery, I was stopped twice by hospital security and had to show an ID that corresponded to a patient's name to get in. When I finally got there, I found Chooch sitting alone in the small waiting room. As I came through the door he jumped to his feet and embraced me.

  "Dad . . . Dad . . . thank God you got here," he said, holding on to me as if afraid to let go.

  "It's okay, son," I said, trying to calm us both, but having no effect.

  "You got arrested. I knew you wouldn't want me to leave Mom. I tried calling the jail, but they wouldn't put me through."

  I didn't tell him about the fire at MCJ and being held and questioned all night. Then he was focusing on my burned hair.

  "It's okay," I said. "Little accident. Here's my parental tip for the day. Never play with fire." I smiled. He didn't. "No real damage. Once it grows out, it'll be fine."

  "Thank God you're here," he said. "It was such a madhouse; Luther finally made the hospital throw the press out. It's been horrible."

  We sat together in the empty room. Then Chooch said, "Luther says it's gonna be hours till we know anything. If you want, we could get some coffee."

  "I want to stay here. You don't know how hard it was for me just to make it in the first place."

  So we sat in the small lounge and waited. Around eleven a newspaper guy and his photographer found a way past security and came through the door asking questions and snapping pictures. I got up and advanced on them, not sure if I was in complete control of myself, but I'd had it. I snatched the camera out of the photographer's hand. It was a digital and I can never figure those things out. I wanted to rip out a roll of film and theatrically expose it, like some hero in a '40s movie. But after battling with the camera for a few seconds, I pitched it over to Chooch, who removed the memory card and tossed the camera back to the man.

  "You can't do that," the reporter protested.

  "Get the hell out of here, asshole." I got right in his face and he took a frightened step back. It felt good to finally take charge of at least one moment in my life. He took two more hesitant steps, and then he and the photographer turned and quickly left.

  We sat and again waited. Time ticked off the clock in slow motion. Five minutes seemed like an hour. The only sounds were the hushed voices of the hospital staff behind the glass enclosure. No cops showed up to support Alexa. She had been pilloried in the press, tried, and found guilty. At the Glass House, careers were in jeopardy. The rank and file knew when things were too hot to touch. It's an instinct that develops quickly in political environments.

  Then I smelled the musty odor of unwashed clothes and sweat. When I looked up, Jonathan Bodine was standing in the doorway ten feet away. His chopped-off hair was almost as ridiculous as mine. He was still wearing Chooch's bloodstained sweatshirt, but it was now covered with a layer of grime.

  John nodded at me and said, "Howdy do, half-stepper."

  "What are you doing here, John?"

  I was surprised and quite touched to see him. Of all the people in Los Angeles, the only one who came to support us was this half-crazy homeless person. But then he ruined the moment when he said:

  "Ain't ate in almost a day. You're the only muthafucka I can ever ge
t ta feed me."

  Chapter 52.

  WE HAD A few hairy moments, but she made it," Luther said.

  His face was drawn. Etched with stress. It was just a few minutes past noon.

  Chooch, Luther, and I were standing just inside the surgical staff area near a sliding, frosted-glass partition that was above a reception desk and separated us from the waiting room.

  "Time is our ally now. The longer we keep her alive post-op, the better our survival chances are."

  "What's this crazy Jim Crow nigga talking 'bout?" an unmistakable voice blurted.

  I turned to see that Bodine had moved up to the counter and was looking in through the open partition. His wretched appearance was causing Luther some concern.

  Our neurosurgeon glanced at a passing surgical floor nurse. "Can you get someone to help this gentleman?"

  The nurse went off in search of security.

  "Go fuck yourself," Bodine said. "The Crown Prince of Bassaland ain't gonna be going nowhere."

  Luther frowned at me.

  "He's with us," I said. "Sorta . . ."

  Luther snapped a look back at John with his chopped-off dreads. Then he glanced at my freshly burned hair and eyebrows. I saw indecision flash. He was probably thinking he'd just thrown in with a bunch of crazies.

  "What do you mean, the longer we keep her alive post-op, the better our survival chances are?" I said.

  "I won't lie, Shane. There was a lot of damage. Once I got in there, I did what cleanup I could. I restored some blood flow. Enervated and repaired some veins and arteries. I recovered half-a-dozen bullet fragments and some more bone chips, but there's some in there I couldn't safely get to. We left the skull patch open, so if there's swelling, the pressure won't build. In a few days, if things go well, I'll replace the bone flap and reattach the scalp. Till then we pray."

  "Jesus," I whispered.

  "I never promised you a perfect result," Luther said.

  "Samik Mampuna promises perfect results every damn time. I know what's in the future. I got peeps up there lookin', talkin' to me.

  John waved his left hand, which was still clutching a half-full cup of soda from the cafeteria. "Member what I told ya 'bout these God wannabes who think it's up to them what happens t'folks." He motioned to Luther. "This ass-wipe here don't have any damn way t'change nothin'."

  With that, Luther walked over and slammed the sliding glass partition on the counter shut, cutting off John's tirade and turning him into a ghostly apparition waving his arms and ranting on the other side of the frosted glass.

  Bodine turned up the volume. "'Member what I be sayin'!" he shouted though the glass. "I get this direct from the boss. From Chief O. Your old lady ain't on the ark till Chief O punches her ticket."

  Through the closed frosted partition it looked as if someone in a blue uniform walked up, collared him, and roughly pulled him away.

  "I've got to make rounds now," Luther said. "Check with me in two hours, and we'll talk again at six tonight."

  After he left, Chooch and I made a quick search of the floor, looking for Bodine, but didn't find him. I couldn't worry about him any longer. I'd fed him a cafeteria breakfast and for now, that's all I could contribute.

  Chooch and I returned to the waiting room and talked. Mostly, we shared old memories of Alexa. After about an hour, he said, "Dad, I've got to get out of here for a while. I'm fragged."

  I could imagine. I told him I would take the next shift until the meeting with Luther at six. Then we walked down to his Jeep and I retrieved his laptop, which contained the cloned disk from Alexa's computer. I hugged him. We stood in the parking lot, clutching each other, both afraid to let go.

  When I walked back up to Neurosurgery, there were tears in my eyes. Time was our ally, that's what Luther had said. But as it crept off the clock, time felt like my worst enemy. I still had the jail property bag with all my possessions, so to keep busy, I started to unload it and put things back into my pockets. I finally recovered my cell phone at the bottom of the bag and when I flipped it open, there was an urgent message to call Tommy Sepulveda's cell.

  I dialed and waited for him to answer.

  "Sepulveda," he said in a hushed voice.

  U T . +

  It s me.

  "Just a minute. I'm in the hall up on five. I'm going outside."

  I waited for two minutes, hearing his footsteps as he left the building. Once outside, he came back on the line.

  "Shane?"

  "Still here."

  "I heard you got out. I'm glad. How's Alexa?"

  "I don't know. The doc says time is our ally whatever that means. Thanks a bunch for showing up and supporting her."

  There was a long silence while he dealt with the cheap shot. Then he pushed on. "Listen, you asked me about Alexa's computer last night. Me and Rafie talked. We know how jammed up you are, and frankly, man, I'm not sure what I would do if Frannie was laying where Alexa is."

  I waited, while it sounded like he was walking again. Then he said, "Just a minute. I'm in the parking lot. It's a mess out here. Lotta TV people. Gotta find a better spot." There was more walking and his breathing got louder. Then, the walking stopped and he spoke again. "Rafie and I figure you probably made a copy disk of the files on Alexa's computer before you gave it to us. You don't have to say yes, or no, but when we went back to get the computer from Documents, we found out that operations Nazi, Commander Summers, already took the computer out of there. It's up on the sixth floor in Ramsey's office along with the report. Rafie and me don't even know what's on it. But we chatted up one of the guys over in Documents. He didn't know we were being screened off by the sixth floor and let something drop."

  "I'm listening."

  "The code they were using is fairly simple. It's just every other sentence."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. You erase the first, the third, the fifth, et cetera. What's left is the message."

  "What is it that you want from me?" I was feeling like this was some kind of setup, but I wasn't sure. I'd screwed with them so much, I couldn't read those two anymore.

  "If you've got a copy of those e-mails, and you can decode the damn things, Rafie and me could use a call."

  "Why should I trust you guys?"

  There was a long moment before he said, "Because Ramsey is starting to panic. This isn't like with Tony Filosiani. Everything on the sixth floor is about containment now. But me and my bow-legged Mexican partner still want to clear this damn murder case."

  Chapter 53.

  Dark Angel, My thoughts are always on you. We must meet tomorrow night. I can't go another day without holding you. You need to give me another floor score. I ache to see you. How about Crypto 457?

  Love Hambone When I erased the first, third and fifth sentences, it read: Dark Angel, We must meet tomorrow night. You need to give me another floor score. How about Crypto 457.

  Hambone

  The next one read:

  Dear Hambone, Time away from you is agony. This time Watts is the key. I can't be away from my Queen. It's all about lost performance and royalty. Don't make me wait, darling. I've got WYD and plenty of ammo. I'm in the cut, waiting.

  Edited, it read:

  Dear Hambone, This time Watts is the key. It's all about lost performance and royalty. I've got WYD and plenty of ammo.

  Originally, I thought Slade was talking about a love nest meeting in Watts, which is in South Central. Now I knew he was talking about Dante Watts and the missing performance fees and royalties.

  As I sat in the hospital waiting room, scrolling the e-mails on Chooch's computer, I realized that every communique was carefully worded to look like a love letter that cleverly disguised its true content. They detailed what Slade had learned in Stacy Maluga's bedroom and at Lethal Force, Inc.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out Pryce Patterson's business card, with Lionel Wright's phone number written on the back. I dialed and waited.

  "Residence," a soft female voice answe
red. I recognized Patch McKenzie's cultured English accent. I wondered what she was doing at his house. She was certainly beautiful enough to interest a hip-hop mogul. "It's Shane Scully," I said.

  "Oh, we're so glad to finally hear from you. I'll pop off and get Lionel. I know he wants to talk to you." And I was on hold.

  She called him Lionel, not Mr. Wright. I suspected my guess was correct. After a moment, Lionel came on the line. "What up, dog?"

  "Thanks for bailing me out. You didn't have to do that." "You didn't have to save my life in that theater." "We need to meet." "Solid."

  "You're still in a lot of danger. I can't talk over this phone. I don't trust it. I have a six o'clock meeting I can't miss, then I'll be over. What's your address?"

  "Thirty-four-fifty Bel Air Drive."

  "I'll see you around seven, maybe a few minutes before."

  After I disconnected I sat on the couch outside Neurosurgery and waited. It was only four o'clock. I had time to leave messages for Rosey Rosencamp and Dario Chikaleckio. I also called Tommy Sepulveda.

  "I'm making progress," I told him. "Keep your cell phone on."

  Then I sat back and closed my eyes. I knew that my current blessings finally outweighed all my early disappointments. The dark, lonely past had been erased by a family full of love and, more important, optimism for my future. But now I was teetering again on the edge of desperation.

  These last few days, I'd been having two visions of Alexa. In one, she was my beautiful wife, loving and smart. The person with whom I'd be blessed to spend the rest of my days. She was always entertaining, because even though she lived by a strict moral code, she was extremely creative, and inside that code was often able to surprise me. In this first vision, I was a grinning, dopey, lottery winner who couldn't comprehend the depth of my good fortune.

  Then there was the second, darker vision. Alexa was lying inert on an operating table with half of her skull open, her scalp unattached, breathing through tubes attached to hissing pumps and machines. In this vision, she was lost in the vagaries of a vicious head trauma, asleep in a sea of anesthesia from which she might never be rescued. Worse still, there was nothing I could do but sit here with this damn computer on my lap and fight for her reputation, which, if things went wrong, she would never need again.