White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  Curtis started begging again; this time he seemed close to tears. "Louis, I can make this right, brotha. I didn't want any a them old performance payments. I never would a known about any a that if it weren't for Stacy. She told me everything." Then he turned to the White Sister. "Why'd you put me up to this then back down on me? I don't get none a this."

  "Shut up!" Louis said. "You gotta pay what you owe, nigga."

  I was getting ready to add my testimony, tell everything I'd picked up on the VXT, when Louis raised the Desert Eagle and thumbed back the hammer, freezing me in mid-thought.

  "You think you can kill me and Curtis and just walk away?" Lionel said softly. "This ain't like Dante Watts, where nobody gave a shit. This is L. A. Times front page, Lou. This is network, baby. You gonna be watching this every night on CBS till they hook you up and star you in the broadcast."

  Something in that sentence jogged my brain. I needed to come up with something usable fast and it needed to be something I could prove. Lou wouldn't believe what I'd overheard on the pager because I didn't have the tape with me to play as evidence. As I stood looking at the three holes in the ground, something started buzzing around in my thick head. They had set this up to kill Lionel and Curtis. Stacy sent her two Crip grave diggers out here this afternoon, but nobody knew I was going to stumble into the mess.

  "Listen up, cuz. I got a play here. This gonna ring solid." Curtis was pleading again. "I got two albums worth of songs already cut. I give them all to you, baby. Okay, I give all that wax away. Do ya feel me? I'm tryin' hard t'make this right."

  Louis Maluga was street gristle who couldn't take much more of Curtis. I saw the same murderous look in his eyes that I'd seen in Malibu when we'd faced off in his African print living room. He was ready to throw down. I knew once the shooting started, it wouldn't stop until all three of us were dead. Stacy had way too many stories. I had to knock one down. It was now or never.

  "Hey, Louis," I said. "When's the big day? You and Sable pick a date yet?"

  He looked over at me with a dumb look on his round face. Under the circumstances, it was probably the last thing he thought anybody would ask.

  "What?" he said, trying to understand why, seconds from death, I would ask that question.

  "You and Sable." I tried to smile, but my jack-o-lantern grin was stretched thin across dry teeth and felt phony. I pressed on. "I put a bug in your ride, man. I been listening to you and her snuggle. Good stuff there."

  I turned to Stacy. "You gonna be the matron of honor? Carry some flowers? Maybe wish the bride well with a nice toast at the reception?"

  Stacy looked at me with such a strange, angry frown that I knew I was in fertile territory.

  "Shut the hell up," she growled. "Whatta you bringin' this up for?"

  " 'Course with a wedding on the horizon, that means you and Stacy gotta get a divorce," I said. "Couple a things here don't quite add up, Lou. For instance, how're you two gonna divide up your company in divorce court without going broke? California is a community property state. Once you get through paying your long-term capital gains, most of your assets are gonna go to pay for the war in Iraq."

  "There ain't gonna be no divorce and no wedding," Louis shouted. "Where'd you get this shit?" He was pressing, leaning too far into it. His body language screamed lie.

  "She knows, Lou," I said. "She knows you're getting set to dump her. That's why we got one too many graves out here."

  I was flying half-blind, clawing at loose ends hoping to unravel this knot. I could see from their expressions that I'd started something. Stacy fumed while Louis frowned. He was working on it. He had survived in a brutal, deadly street world by trusting his instincts. Stacy glowered at me, still holding the shotgun in her delicate hands, but in her anger, it seemed almost forgotten.

  "What're you talking about?" she yelled.

  "One hole for Lionel, one for Curtis. But who's this third one for?" I asked.

  "It's for you, motherfucker!" she was screaming now.

  "I don't think so. You didn't know I was gonna be here. I was a last-minute add." I pointed to the Crips with shovels. "These guys were out here digging hours ago."

  "Lou, I'm gonna put this guy down!" Stacy growled and raised the shotgun until it was pointing at my stomach.

  "No," Louis said. "I want to hear him out. Let him talk."

  It was hard to focus on Lou while Stacy was twenty feet away, pointing a cocked shotgun at me. But I forced myself to turn and face him.

  "This third hole is for you, Louis," I said soberly.

  "You're outta your mind!" Stacy screamed.

  Her reaction said I wasn't. I figured I was dead anyway, so I just plowed on. I looked at Stacy.

  "What's he good for anyway? Lou's a record company disaster. A dinosaur. No acts want to record for him anymore. You built this label, Stacy. You're not gonna watch it go down in a divorce so this guy can marry some silicone Barbie from the Valley. You got this beat down started. You riled up Curtis, leakin' stuff till he got so upset he decided to change labels. That sets up Lou's motive for Curtis's murder. But Lou, it only works for her if you also die in the shoot-out. That way, she inherits 'cause you're still married." I turned to Crocodile Smith. "You're the designated shooter, Croc. You've got a motive and you're gonna die with the murder weapon in your hand. You all die and leave the cops to sort it out. God knows there's enough bad blood between you all to justify it."

  "He's lyin', Lou."

  Louis wheeled on her, his face contorted with rage. "You been leakin' our accounting to Curtis to force all this?"

  Suddenly, Crocodile Smith pointed his gun at Lou. But Lou was ready, and spun and fired, blowing him backwards into the sand. Lou and Stacy were now faced off with guns drawn on each other, about to execute a street divorce. It was a moment that lasted no longer than a heartbeat but seemed frozen in time.

  Nobody was paying attention to Lionel, who moved slightly to his left, closing the distance between Lou and himself.

  Then without warning, Lionel dove at Louis, and knocked him backward into the nearest grave. Lou rolled up into a sitting position, poking his head over the top of the hole. As he did, Stacy fired both barrels at him and blew his head clean off his shoulders.

  I turned and started a zigzag run back to the Navigator as weapons started discharging all around me. I heard Stacy slam the double barrel closed.

  A reload.

  The shotgun fired again and a double-load of heavy buckshot flew by my ear, its wind ruffling my hair. In front of me, the side window of the Navigator turned to crystal as the pattern hit.

  I yanked open the door, rolled into the backseat, and grabbed the Beretta AR-70. The case fell open and I pulled the heavy weapon out, jammed in a clip, threw myself to the ground, and rolled under the car. I heard guns firing and people screaming. I jacked a round into the tube and started spraying lead. For an instant Insane Wayne was in my sights, but I remembered the note that he'd passed that saved my life, and I held my fire. He ducked down as more guns barked in the dark. Barrel flashes illuminated everybody's positions. I fired the Beretta until both clips were dry.

  Then I heard the 12-gauge bark again and Lionel Wright screamed. Seconds later, I caught sight of Stacy, lit by moonlight, running across the sand carrying her shotgun. I got up and ran after her, passing the carnage at the gravesite on my way. I couldn't see Insane Wayne but glanced again at Louis Maluga, flat on his back in one of the graves, his head blown from his shoulders. Smith was on his back. He'd died like he lived, with his yellow crocs on. The two grave diggers were both wounded and trying to crawl away, leaving red trails in the sand. Lionel lay in one of the holes clutching his leg, which was pumping blood from a hole in his thigh.

  "Put a pressure compress on that," I yelled. "Use your belt and tux jacket. I'll be right back."

  Then I took off after the White Sister, chasing her across the desert in the dark. She had set this all up and I was determined she wouldn't get away. I didn't know wh
ere Curtis Clark or KZ were, but I kept running in the deep sand until my legs and thighs burned. I finally stopped near several rock formations and listened for any sound, trying to decide which way to go.

  That was when I heard the click of both shotgun hammers directly behind me.

  I was toast.

  "It's still gonna work out," she said. "Smith still goes down for all of this. You got enough baggage to fit the frame. Motive. Method. Opportunity." Her voice was high and manic. She was in a state of agitated panic, overdosing on adrenaline.

  I turned slowly and then I saw her standing beside a large rock outcropping about ten feet away, holding the shotgun. It was perfect spacing. Far enough away so I couldn't get to her, but close enough so she couldn't possibly miss with a double load of buckshot.

  As we faced each other I glimpsed a shadow move in the rocks beyond her.

  "Any last words?" she said, my imminent death glittering in her pale, blue eyes.

  "Just four."

  "Say 'em."

  "Look out behind you."

  A dark figure was silhouetted against the rock formation, ten feet from her. I could just make out a man holding a MAC-10.

  She panicked as she spun, pulling the triggers. Both barrels on her ghetto stick barked. The man behind her fired simultaneously.

  Her pattern just missed.

  His didn't.

  Stacy's left leg blossomed red and she screamed, pitching forward into the sand. She flopped back and forth, screaming profanities.

  The figure stepped away from the cover of the rocks, and I saw it was Wayne Watkins. It was the second time in two days that he'd saved my life. I wondered why.

  "Los Angeles Sheriff's Department," he said.

  Chapter 60.

  AFTER WE USED my cell to call 911, he told me his name wasn't Wayne Watkins; it was Sgt. Wallace Wayne and he had been a Sheriff's Department gang squad undercover for almost two years. He'd been put in the hip-hop music business by the county sheriff for the same reason David Slade had.

  When I asked what he knew about Slade's killing, all he would say was, "Slade helped duke me in. We knew each other back at Compton High. The rest is classified. It's gotta wait till my supervisor clears it."

  It took less than ten minutes for the first Highway Patrol unit to arrive. The officers took one look at the mess and started screaming for more help over their radio.

  Later, Sgt. Wayne and I were standing next to the Navigator watching as a dozen Highway Patrol officers and paramedics began to mop up. By then, Lionel Wright was unconscious from loss of blood and was loaded into the first rescue ambulance. It sped off to the hospital with its roof lights and siren strobing, passing another incoming RA as it left. Earlier, Sgt. Wayne and I had tried to stem the bleeding on Stacy Maluga's leg by wrapping it with our jackets and tying it off with my belt, but she had also lost a lot of blood and was in shock by the time the second paramedic truck arrived. The EMTs did a quick field triage, then loaded her into the back.

  We watched the ambulance fishtail through the deep sand until it also reached the two-lane road and sped away. When it was gone, Sergeant Wayne and I went looking for Curtis Clark. We found him a quarter of a mile away, hiding in a rock outcropping.

  "Man," Curtis said. "That cave bitch sure know how to take it to the street." Whatever that meant.

  "Time to man up, Curtis," Wayne said. "You gotta make a statement and own some of this." We pulled him out of his hiding place and led him back to the crime scene.

  The Nevada Highway Patrol called Vegas Metro Homicide, and then began walking around the carnage, stringing yellow ribbon and shaking their heads in disbelief. They hadn't seen this kind of a bloodbath since Bugsy Siegel left town.

  In accordance with crime scene protocol, they separated Sgt. Wayne and me until the Homicide dicks arrived. I ended up in the back of a Highway Patrol Chevy Impala. The patrolman confiscated my cell phone and wallet and all I was left with as I sat there were ugly thoughts and a deepening sense of doom. I didn't know if Sgt. Wayne could finally put David Slade's murder on the Malugas. If he couldn't, and Stacy died from her wound without talking, then the only thing I'd managed to accomplish was to kill all the available witnesses who could clear Alexa.

  I saw a blue LVPD minivan pull up and park a few feet away. Two crusty old guys in rumpled suits with gray hair and cop stares got out. Vegas Homicide had arrived. I watched as they talked to the lead deputy on the scene. The Highway Patrol had called for Condor lights, and while I was watching the new arrivals, a generator started up and blue-white halogen spilled out from the top of a Condor crane, illuminating the gruesome scene.

  After quickly surveying the scene, one of the Homicide dicks grabbed a patrol officer and headed to the car where Sgt. Wayne sat. The other homicide cop collected a deputy and came over to talk to me. He opened the door and sat in the back as the deputy got in front. Standard protocol. The deputy was there to witness my preliminary field interview and watched in silence through the wire mesh that separated us from the front seat. My homicide guy was in his late fifties with silver brushed-back hair and a sun-ravaged complexion. He had a long face and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything, but I could tell this quadruple killing had captured his interest.

  "I'm Lieutenant Barry Bush," he said. "My partner over there with your friend is Steve Goodstein. The Highway Patrol tells me you guys are both cops from L. A."

  "Yeah, I'm LAPD. The guy with your partner says he's an L. A. County sheriff, but you should check that out 'cause all I got is his word on that."

  "I used to work L. A. Homicide," Lt. Bush said, sounding relaxed and friendly. "When I remarried, I retired out here. But I'm not a casino guy and I got bored, so I re-upped and caught on with LV Metro."

  He was filling time with chit-chat while he took out his mini-recorder, found a fresh tape, inserted it, and turned on the unit. Then he said, "Okay, I'm gonna skip the Miranda for now. I'm not arresting you. Let's call this a voluntary statement. Fair enough?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "Gimme the background particulars, starting with your full name."

  I gave him my name and rank and told him I worked out of Homicide Special at Parker Center.

  "Who's your C. O.? Back when I was in L. A. there was no Homicide Special. The top murder teams were all part of the Major Crimes Unit."

  I knew Bush was just filling the car with B. S. to get a loose feeling going. He wanted to set up a friendly atmosphere so I wouldn't guard my responses. I've pulled the same routine on hundreds of guys. It told me that even though I was a cop, he still didn't trust me.

  "My C. O. is Captain Jeb Calloway," I answered.

  "Little muscle-bound character who looks like he could break stones with his hands?"

  "That's him."

  "Wasn't he with SWAT or CRASH, one of those high-octane, kick-ass units?"

  "This is good kitsch, Loo, but I'm onto it. Can't we just get this over with? I'm having a really bad night."

  He studied me and finally nodded. "Okay, then how do two L. A. cops end up in the middle of my desert with all these dead black people?"

  "It's a long story."

  "That's why I carry two-hour tapes," he drawled.

  I started at the beginning and told him the incredible tale of my last week, ending with the chartered flight full of hip-hop music people to the Mandalay Bay Casino, including the garage kidnapping, the shooting of Elijah Mustafa, and our subsequent trip into the desert to be murdered by the president of Lethal Force, Inc. and his estranged wife.

  When I was finished, he sat there and looked at me with skeptical, unblinking eyes. "All that story needs is a main title and some end credits," he said.

  I nodded.

  Then he spoke into the recorder for the record. "This preliminary declaration was given voluntarily in the presence of Highway Patrol Officer Duane Lewis and Lieutenant Barry Bush. The tape has not been shut off or edited and has been running for twenty continuous mi
nutes. It is eleven-seventeen p. M. on July sixteenth, a Tuesday night." Everything exactly by the book.

  Sgt. Wayne and I were transported to the police station in separate cars. I met Lt. Bush's captain, who said he was formerly with Chicago PD. I found out that most of the cops on Vegas Homicide were transplants from other departments. Finally, after our statements had been signed and witnessed, Sgt. Wayne and I were allowed to speak to each other again. We got some vending machine coffee and sat in the empty lunchroom.

  "After high school, I joined the Compton PD," he said. "Compton had a corrupt department with bad city government. Lotta cash payoffs. About ten city councilmen and our chief eventually got indicted. When the new mayor decided to close down Compton PD, the job got contracted out to the L. A. Sheriff's Department. I switched badges and stayed on."

  Even though he'd been instructed by his gang intel commander to say nothing about his two years undercover, he took pity on me and finally conceded that on the night David Slade was killed, he'd been left behind at the Maluga estate by Stacy. She told him to go down to Lou's Malibu Colony house to work security for a party Lou was having. He told me he couldn't help me with Slade's murder. In fact, he was Lou's alibi for the time of the homicide. I hadn't figured Lou for an innocent bystander, but there it was.

  "Something heavy was going down with Stacy that night," he said. "She was all riled up, screaming at people. But she only took KZ with her. He was her main guy when it came to street actions. They knew each other from back in the day. When they got home later that night, KZ was spooked, but he wouldn't tell me what happened. By then, he was scared to death of Stacy. She was willing to do anything. I think she's a sociopath." He then looked at me. "I know that doesn't help clear your wife," he said. "But that's what went down."

  So I still didn't have enough. It was the way my luck had been running all week.

  At about two a. M. the Las Vegas cops cut us loose with a reminder not to leave Las Vegas without checking in first.