"You don't need a voice print. It's Ray's voice, believe me. I recognize it."
"I know it's Ray. I'm more interested in seeing what else is on here. Answering-machine tapes are used, erased, and rerecorded on. Sometimes there are old messages hiding there. I'm gonna see what the ESIS can pull off the erased portions," Shane said, referring to the Electronics Scientific Investigation Section.
"Oh," she said softly. Then she squeezed his hand for luck, and they headed out the back door of the house.
He drove her to her red Mustang, parked a block away. She got out of the Acura and unlocked her car door, then leaned down into his open passenger window and smiled at him sadly. "Why do I get the feeling this is over?"
"It's your imagination, Barbara. It's not over. It's on hold."
She kissed her fingertips and gently put them on his cheek. "Night," she said sadly, then got into the red Mustang and drove away.
? ? ?
Shane drove back to his house and locked up. He decided not to wake Longboard, who was snoring loudly on the sofa. He turned off the light and moved into his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and wearing only his Jockey shorts, dropped heavily onto his bed. His head felt like a forty-pound medicine ball, worn, seamed, full of cotton and lead. He looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and fought a wave of intense self-pity: Why can't I catch a fucking break?
"When did you get home?" Chooch's voice sounded suddenly, pulling him up from useless thoughts. He opened his eyes and saw the teenager standing in the doorway, wearing a Lakers shirt and baggy shorts.
"I thought you were asleep," Shane said.
"I woke up."
"Well, go back to sleep. You've got school tomorrow."
Chooch didn't move; he had an expression that seemed both frightened and sad.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothin'. It's just. . ."
"What?" Shane turned on his side and looked at Chooch carefully.
"Sandy called. She wants you to call her first thing in the morning."
"Why? What's up?"
"She didn't say."
"She probably just wants to tell me how she smoked your geek principal."
"She didn't call St. John, I asked her. She said she's been involved in a big deal and hasn't had time to get in touch with him yet."
"Right. Well, okay." He lay back on his pillow. "So I'll call her in the morning."
"That means old Thackery musta talked to you, not her. You made him keep me in school."
Shane looked over at Chooch again, then rubbed his eyes and sat up on the bed. "Let's go outside for a minute. I can't sleep with this fucking headache."
"We could light up, toke some bang?" the teenager said hopefully.
"We're through getting high together. I wanna talk to you."
Chooch shifted his weight uncertainly, then nodded. "Okay, sure."
Shane got up, put on his pants and an old sweatshirt, then the two of them moved quietly past Longboard into the backyard. Shane pulled up chairs, and they both sat under a fruitless tangerine tree, looking out at the still canal. The reflection of an almost full moon wavered on the glassy surface.
"What is it?" Chooch asked cautiously.
"I'm in a lot of trouble," Shane started.
"Trouble's the exhaust of life," the fifteen-year-old said surprisingly.
"The trouble I'm in could get dangerous. Some of the people I'm sideways with could decide to make a play. I don't want you to get hurt."
"I'm not afraid." Chooch smiled. "Got your back, bro."
They were silent for a moment, then Shane continued. "I also think it's time for you to get to know your mother. Maybe you haven't given her a chance."
"I hate her," Chooch said softly. "Let's drop this, okay?"
"You can't stay here. When I talk to her tomorrow, I'm going to make arrangements for her to take you back for a week or so."
There was a long silence. Suddenly some crickets started up in the hedge between Shane's and Longboard's yards. They sawed holes in the silence with their back legs.
"I think it's time you gave your mother a break," Shane persisted. "Make me a promise, give it a week. Just five days."
"You're fulla shit, just like Thackery and all those other dick-wads. I thought you were never gonna lie to me. I thought we had a deal."
"I'm not lying to you, Chooch. I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt."
"I'm not stupid. I get what's going on here. I've become a problem, an inconvenience, so you wanna throw me out, simplify things for yourself."
"Just one week, till I can get my problems sorted out."
Chooch got up and started into the house. Shane grabbed his arm to stop him, but Chooch yanked it free.
"Look, it's not. . . I'm not trying to get rid of you."
"Eat me!" the boy said, defiance and pain shining in his black eyes.
"I care what you think," Shane said. "It matters to me. We need to talk this out."
"You came close. You almost had me fooled, but I got it straight now. I finally got it. . . nothing's changed. It's just like it always was I can only count on myself. So fuck off."
Chooch walked back into the house. Shane's head was still pounding. No matter which way he turned, he saw disaster. He didn't know what to do next, so he went inside and wrote a letter to his father.
Chapter 21
THE ARROWHEAD LETTER
Dear Dad, I hate to admit it, but I'm really scared. Something big and dangerous is going on, and I have the feeling if I don't figure it out soon, I will be destroyed by it. The answer is in that Lake Arrowhead house. Why would Chief Brewer call a location where Ray was committing some kind of sexual blackmail? Who is Carl Cummins? That name isn't in either the Arrowhead or the L. A. phone book. I need to get the answers to some of these questions fast. I'm running out of time. Why do I feel it all closing in? Dad, I'm losing it. I sense disaster coming. I need to talk to somebody.
I know my problems are the last thing you need right now, but please give me a call.
I love you, Dad, and miss you. I'm scared and lonely. You're all I have left.
Your son,
Shane
Chapter 22
CLERICAL DIVISION
THEY PULLED UP in front of the Harvard Westlake School at eight the next morning. It was half an hour before the other students would arrive. Chooch got out, dragged his book bag off the front seat, and walked away from the car without looking back. He hadn't spoken all the way there. He had completely tuned Shane out.
Three times before leaving the house, Shane had tried to get through to Sandy but had reached only her machine. As he pulled away from the school, he dialed her number again.
"Hi, you've reached 555-6979. I'm not in, but you know what to do," announced the recording in her furry contralto voice. Shane didn't leave a third message. He closed his phone and headed back to Internal Affairs.
He pulled into the parking structure adjacent to the Bradbury and used his newly issued employee-parking card. The arm went up, and he found his assigned space on the third level.
He was just getting out of his car when he saw Alexa Hamilton five spaces away, removing a heavy cardboard case-file box out of the trunk of her plainwrap. A few Metro sergeants and special players in the department still had these prized vehicles instead of the hated slickbacks. Alexa's was a new dove-gray Crown Victoria with blackwalls and red velour upholstery. Crown Vies were senior staff vehicles, and hers was prima facie evidence that Sergeant Hamilton had top-shelf department "suck."
She slammed her trunk lid and started carrying the box to the elevators. Shane didn't want to ride down with her, but she had seen him and they were both heading toward the elevators, destined to arrive within seconds of each other. For him to veer off now or pretend he forgot something and divert back to his car would be a chickenhearted admission of weakness, so he kept walking and arrived a few seconds behind her. She had balanced the heavy cardboard box full of case files on her knee so she could push the
elevator button with her free hand. She looked over at him with those slanted, exotic chips of laser-blue ice poker player's eyes that cut holes through him but revealed nothing in return.
"Need help with that?" he asked, hating himself for even offering, the question inadvertently slipping out of him in an anxious attempt to fill the awkward silence.
"Wouldn't that be sorta like asking a condemned man to carry his own ax to the chopping block?"
"Hardy-har," he said sourly. It surprised him that the box was so full. She'd been on the case for only forty-eight hours. "That can't be all me."
"All you. And this is just '92 to '96. 'Ninety-four seemed like a fun-packed year, all those civilian complaints . . . the second unit-destroying traffic accident coming in April after the first-of-the-month kick down to Southwest Traffic."
"You had to be there."
The elevator arrived and they got in. The door closed, and as they rode down, Shane kept looking into the open box with the morbid curiosity of a freeway rubbernecker passing a fatal accident. All of his mid-nineties career pileups were collected there. He spotted a bunch of his old 7.04 ADAM control cards, which were identification sheets for radio-message logs. It shocked him. She was actually reading his old radio transmissions. He couldn't believe it. He also saw two manila envelopes from the Traffic Division that he assumed detailed the two unit-wrecking collisions he'd had while he was in Southwest Patrol. Wedged down in the side of the box were dozens of 8.49 out-slips, which were like library cards from Records and Identification. She was pulling all of his old arrest reports. The rest of the box was littered with field-interview cards and DR numbered witness statements filed by the IOs working his case. He was staring down into the box with growing dread.
"Jesus Christ, what's with the fucking rectal exam?"
"And you don't even have to grab your ankles," she said, shifting the box away from his stare. She was still balancing the heavy box on her knee as the elevator door opened.
Shane moved out without looking back at her. He had a tinny taste in his mouth as he pushed open the double doors at the back of the Bradbury Building and hurried through. He heard them swing closed behind him, right in Alexa Hamilton's face. She must have been trying to slip in with the file box before the doors closed and mistimed it, because he heard the heavy oak frame hit her hands, which were clutching the leading edge of the box.
"Shit!" she said as the door bounced off her knuckles.
Shane now had his own key to Room 256; he let himself in and turned on the stark neon overhead lights. They blasted a harsh, unfriendly blue-white glare down on the three Xerox machines. He dropped his coat on the back of the chair and glanced at his watch. It was 8:32. Since no deputy chief ever got in before nine, he took a chance and picked up the phone, dialing the number for Parker Center.
"LAPD Parker Center," a cheerful woman's voice greeted him.
"Deputy Chief Tom Mayweather," he said, and a few seconds later got Mayweather's secretary.
"Is he in?"
"Who's calling, please?"
His heart was beating fast. Once he identified himself, if Mayweather was in, he'd either have to talk or hang up; neither was an acceptable choice. What he wanted was just to leave an ass-covering message. "It's Sergeant Shane Scully," he finally answered, holding his breath.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, he's at a breakfast meeting."
"Breakfast meeting" was department bullshit for "not in yet." Shane let out a chestful of air.
"It's really important that I talk to the chief," he lied, laying it on a little.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Can I give him a message?"
"Will you tell him I've been trying to get in touch with him, please? Tell him I was unable to get to Robbery/Homicide last night as he ordered because I fell asleep driving down from Arrowhead. Crashed the car, broke my front fender. It was dangerous to drive when I was that tired, so I stopped in a motel. I just woke up. I have some errands to take care of when I get home, so tell him I'll get in touch with him later."
"I'll be sure he gets the update." She hung up.
Shane hoped the phone call would give him a little cover.
He looked at his IN box and found half a dozen new cases that had been left for him to copy. He started to pull them out, and as he was arranging them in stacks on the worktable, his eyes scanned each face sheet.
He was surprised to see that Don Drucker had made this morning's lineup. Apparently Drucker was scheduled for a full board as well. Under the face sheet was an internal notification slip that informed Drucker's defense rep that his board had just been postponed from April 20 until April 23, as requested. The face sheet had the IAD case number and had been signed by the head of Special Investigations Division, Deputy Chief T. Mayweather.
"What the fuck?" he said softly, thinking, Why was the head of the division signing these charge sheets instead of Warren Zell, here at IAD? Then he picked up his phone and dialed the Clerical Division. He asked for and was transferred to a civilian employee who was a longtime friend.
Sally Stonebreaker was nothing like her name ... a sparrow of a woman with a Transylvanian complexion, translucent skin, and thin white hair. Shane had met her in municipal court nine years ago. He'd been testifying in a robbery case, and she was getting a restraining order against her ex-husband in the courtroom next door. A1 Stonebreaker had beaten her twice and had been threatening her over disputed alimony payments. That same night Shane had looked him up and explained the new rules. The "discussion" had taken place in the alley behind a neighborhood bar and required A1 to get half a dozen stitches and some new bridgework. After that, A1 Stonebreaker had left Sally alone.
Shane got Sally on the line. Once he identified himself, he could hear a little pause before she went on.
"I'm sorry about what's going on," she finally said. "Ray Molar was some piece of work."
"Sally, I need you to do a computer run. I'm sort of locked off the system now, and I don't want a record of this search anyway."
"Shane, I'm busy right now." She paused, then added, "Besides, they've got new DataLocks on our consoles and it's real hard to access the mainframe without a case clearance number," she said, trying to shake him. He was already department poison.
"Sally, I need this favor. You've gotta come through for me."
Another long pause, during which he could hear her breathing. "Okay, but only this once. After that, I can't do it again."
"Thanks. I've got an IAD complaint investigation CF number for a Board of Rights on a policeman one in Southwest, named Don Drucker. I need to find out what IAD is trying him for. The number is 20-290-12."
"Just a minute."
He could hear computer keys clicking, then she came back on the line.
"He's been charged under a 670.5 of the PDM," she said.
"What is that? Six hundred codes are like booking and prisoner-escape violations, right?" There were hundreds of numbered codes listed in the five-hundred-page LAPD manual.
"Yeah. Escaped juvenile. Drucker lost him in transit, prior to booking. Gimme a minute to read this," she said. Then a moment later she came back on the line. "Okay. Prisoner was a teenage Hispanic named Soledad Preciado, arrested in Southwest. According to Drucker's Internal Affairs complaint, he left the arrestee unattended in the back of his squad car while he went into a drugstore. Drucker claims he was having a migraine and needed to fill a prescription, said he couldn't drive with the headache and was getting nauseous. While he was in the drugstore, Sol Preciado got out of the unit and walked away."
"Was this kid, by any chance, a Hoover Street Bounty Hunter?"
"Just a minute," she said, and her computer keys were clicking again. She came back on. "A suspected Bounty Hunter, age fifteen. He claimed he's not in a gang, but he's listed in the Gang Street Alias Index under the name Li'l Silent, so at the very least he's a TG or a known associate." TG stood for "tiny gangster" and was basically a killer in training. Shane knew you didn't usually get a street na
me unless you'd already been "jumped in the set," so it figured he was probably a full member.
"Can you punch out another name for me?"
"I gotta go, Shane. My supervisor's a great white. All he does is swim and eat. Right now, he's cruising this floor."
"Sally, I need help. I hate to put it this way, but I helped you once, now you gotta do this for me." He could hear her sigh loudly on the other end of the phone.
"Okay, gimme it." She was getting mad.
"A policeman one, his name is Kono. I don't have his first name. Check him to see if he's got an Internal Affairs complaint." He was shooting with his eyes closed, firing on instinct.
"You got a CF number?" Sally asked, frustration in her voice. "It'll make it a lot easier."
"I'm sorry, this is just a hunch. There may not even be a board pending on him."
He could hear keys clicking again, then: "Yeah. Kris Kono. He's got a CF number, 20-276-9."
"No shit," Shane said, his heart beating fast now. He wasn't sure what was tugging on the end of this line, but he'd definitely hooked something. "What's IAD got him for?"
"It's . . . lemme see ..." She was quiet as she scanned the file for a few minutes, then: "It was a gang fight, also in Southwest. Two bystanders got shot. A store owner died. Kono got the BOR 'cause he lost some key evidence. In this case, the murder weapon disappeared from the trunk of his squad car. The case got pitched by the judge at the prelim. The dead store owner's wife complained, and this complaint has a bunch of community affidavits attached. A city councilwoman in that district is on a tear. I process Southwest complaints on my terminal. The division started heating up about six months ago. Gang-related crime is soaring. The community is getting pissed down there."
"Was the Kono blown bust also H Street Bounty Hunters?"
"Yeah . . . same as Drucker."
"Two more names: Lew Ayers and John Samansky. I think they're operating in Southwest, too."
"I can't. I gotta go. I'm gonna get in trouble."
"Just tell me if these guys all worked on the same patrol shift or if you see any other common denominators."
the Tin Collector (2000) Page 13
