"It's Southwest. That's all I can tell you. Look, Shane, I can't "
"Okay, thanks, Sally. You've been a big help."
He hung up and sat silently in the Xerox room. His mind was chewing it, looking for the connection. Joe Church, Don Drucker, and Kris Kono were all first-year cops, emotionally distraught over Ray's death, and all had fucked up on cases involving the Hoover Street Bounty Hunters, a Hispanic gang in Southwest Division. Ayers and Samansky were policemen working Southwest, but had searched Barbara's house in Harbor Division, using a warrant supplied by a Mayor Crispin-owned judge. They were also highly emotional over Ray.
He sat in the wooden chair and tried to put it together. What had he stumbled into? Was this just a bunch of stupid coincidences, or something much more sinister? His phone rang. He looked over at it as if it were a coiled snake. Finally he picked it up.
"Yeah."
"Chief Mayweather calling Shane Scully," the chief's secretary said.
"Scully just left. He wasn't feeling good. Got the flu, I think. If I see him, I'll tell him the deputy chief was trying to reach him," he said, and after she bought it, he hung up quickly. He grabbed his coat and left the Internal Affairs Xerox room, locking the door behind him. He passed up the slow-moving elevators and hurried down the stairs. In less than a minute he was back in his Acura and driving out of the parking structure on his way to the Records Division on Spring Street.
Chapter 23
DEN
ON HIS WAY across town, Shane dropped off the roll of film he had taken at Arrowhead. He told the man at the Fotomat that he wanted one set of normal prints and, if they didn't come out, a set with the negative pushed two stops. He was told that pushing the negative could permanently destroy the film, but he okayed it. The man behind the counter told him the film would have to be sent out and wouldn't be ready for six to twelve hours.
Shane drove to the Records Division and parked in the big asphalt lot on Spring Street. He locked the Acura and moved around the front, trying hard not to look at the bashed-in fender. He walked through the door of the large three-story brick building and climbed the stairs to the Criminal Division, where he sat at a table and filled out a records release request.
In order to access Soledad Preciado's criminal offender record information (CORI), Shane had to fill out a right-to-know/need-to-know CORI release form. Those persons defined in the California penal code with right-and need-to-know authorization included the juvenile court, Social Services, and members of the Special Investigations Section, which now, technically, included Shane Scully, its new unit discovery officer. Since it is specifically mandated that automated and manually stored CORI information not be electronically distributed, Shane had to be at the Spring Street building to tender his request in person.
Juvenile records are further restricted by the Department of Public Social Service (DPSS) and can be reviewed only by order of a juvenile court judge or the Los Angeles County Children's Services Department (LACCSD). However, the Special Investigations Division was exempted. . . . Shane was beginning to view his transfer to Internal Affairs in a more favorable light. Since Sol's case was part of Don Drucker's Internal Affairs investigation and had a Special Investigations CF number, Shane included that number and fraudulently listed himself as the case IO. He handed the paperwork to the clerk, a small, narrow-shouldered man with wispy blond hair combed over a yarmulke-sized bald spot. Shane hoped that the man was too bored to check the request against his badge number.
A few minutes later a manila envelope was passed over. Shane unwound the string tie, pulled out Soledad (Sol) Preciado's Criminal Records folder, and opened it. For a fifteen-year-old, Soledad had a very extensive yellow sheet. His arrest record included two CCWs (carrying a concealed weapon), one assault with intent to commit, and one attempted murder. He'd been down twice: once for a year at the Pitchess youth camp on the attempted murder, once for six months at CYA on a parole violation. Sol Preciado had definitely been out there flagging with the homies. Shane kept reading and finally came across the incident involving the escape from Drucker's patrol car, which was there by virtue of the department's Alpha Index Criminal History cross-reference system. He scanned Drucker's commanding officer's review. At the end of the page he saw that Preciado had not been originally arrested by Don Drucker. He had been called in later only to handle Sol's transport to Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall, which was all the way across town at 2285 East Quill Drive, in Downey. It was unusual for the arresting officer not to transport his own prisoner. Shane wondered why it had happened. He started flipping back, looking for the original arresting officer's report. He finally found it; Preciado had been arrested on November 12 by Sergeant Mark Martinez. Shane scanned the arrest report.
Sol Preciado, a. K. A. Li'l Silent, had been alleged to be committing multiple assaults outside the L. A. Coliseum (court appearance pending). The crimes occurred at about 12:30 P. M. as people were streaming in for the USC-Oregon State football game. He had assaulted several women, knocking them down and snatching their purses. Events escalated when a man trying to stop him was knifed in the abdomen, allegedly by the enraged fifteen-year-old. Preciado had been apprehended by Sergeant Martinez, a member of the Coliseum Division police unit.
Since Martinez was working a duty station and could not leave, Drucker had been dispatched to the Coliseum to pick up Soledad Preciado, then subsequently lost him on his way to the city jail with the ill-advised stop at the drugstore for a headache prescription. The report said that Preciado had somehow managed to open the handcuffs and escape.
There was a statement by Drucker describing his chronic migraine headaches, which had become unbearable and had caused him to stop for medication. He had listed several police officers who could attest to his medical problem. At the very top of that list was Lieutenant Raymond Molar, whom Drucker identified as his LAPD den leader.
Shane put down the arrest report and picked up the phone on the scarred wooden desk. He redialed the Clerical Division and, after a moment, had Sally Stonebreaker back on the line.
"Aren't you happy it's me again," he said, trying to put a friendly smile in his voice. It didn't work.
"Good-bye, Shane."
"Sally, don't hang up. This will just take a minute. Nobody else can help me."
"You've gotta leave me alone, for God's sake. I can't do this."
"One little, teeny favor. Just one. Take you thirty seconds. Take you fifteen."
"Oh, shit," she groaned, but he knew he had her.
"I just found out Ray Molar was a den leader, and I need to know who was in his den." He could hear a loud sigh for emphasis.
"Okay, but this is absolutely it. You call me again, I'm hanging up."
"Thanks, Sally, and don't get hit by the flower truck 'cause it's on its way."
"Don't send me flowers, just stop calling."
He heard the keys clicking as she entered Ray's name into the computer. After a moment she came back on the line. "He had a den in Southwest. Get a pencil, these are his cubs ..."
Shane grabbed a pen out of his pocket and turned over the manila folder. "Go."
"A full pack. There's six: Lee Ayers, John Samansky, Coy Love, Joe Church, Don Drucker, and Kris Kono. Don't call again." And he was listening to a dial tone. No good-bye, no good luck, just a click and a buzz.
But he'd hit the lottery. The connection between all these first-year officers was Ray's police den.
A few years back, the LAPD had instituted an innovative concept called den policing. The department had discovered that it was difficult to go from civilian life into police work. After graduation from the academy, rookies were assigned a den leader to help them make the transition. As civilians, many of them had never experienced the discrimination and hatred that some elements of society aim at its sworn badge carriers. Often, particularly in the first year on the job, officers were totally unprepared for the abuse heaped on them. It was difficult not to respond when someone called you a pig and spit
on you or your police car. Many cops ended up losing their tempers and resorting to violence. The idea of a den was to have a veteran officer who had perspective on the problems of police work assigned as a kind of emotional coach to help these rookies through their transition year. Den leaders were not commanding officers or watch commanders; they were not responsible for the officer's performance, only for his emotional stability.
Suddenly Shane could understand why these cops were hovering over Ray's death. He had been their coach; their confidant, their police department godfather. It was a piece of connective tissue that jerked the hostile emotional attitudes of the six officers into focus.
But it still left several more difficult questions unanswered: Why was Chief Brewer using Ray's old den to lean on him, and why were they all facing charges at Internal Affairs? What was the Hoover Street Bounty Hunter connection, and why were these six officers all involved in broken cases concerning that one Hispanic Southwest Division gang?
Shane sat there at the table, deep in thought. After a minute the narrow-shouldered wisp of a man who had given him the folder was hovering again. "You through with that?" he asked.
"Yeah." Shane handed back the folder, with the names of Ray's den still scribbled on the back. The clerk hurried away with it.
Shane was not sure what to do next or where to go. He couldn't return to IAD; he was dodging Mayweather. He didn't want to go home and just sit, taking the chance that the deputy chief would send a patrol unit out there to arrest him.
Finally, because he couldn't think of a better course of action, he decided to check in with DeMarco Saint.
It was not even ten-thirty in the morning when he got there, and DeMarco was already drunk. Shane was standing in the defense rep's living room, watching him struggle to get up off his sofa. He almost made it but fell awkwardly, catching himself painfully by an elbow on the coffee table.
"Whoa ..." the defense rep said as he tried once more, this time managing to stumble to his feet. Two young boys, about fifteen, were lounging on the sofa on each side of him, watching the proceedings with glazed indifference.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" Shane asked, looking at his teetering defense rep. "How can you be wasted? It's not even noon."
"Had a few bubblies. Hit me harder'n I thought." DeMarco grinned. "Shane, meet the guys Billy an' Mark. Guys, meet Shane. They just moved in. Been sleeping under the fuckin' pier. I'm helpin' 'em out."
They looked right through him, no change of expression. He wasn't even a blip on their radar. Anybody in a tie over thirty was in a parallel dimension and didn't exist for them.
"We gotta talk. Let's go." Shane grabbed DeMarco's arm and tried to drag him out of the house. The two fifteen-year-olds rose up to protect their new landlord.
"Sit down!" Shane growled menacingly, and they did.
"S'okay," DeMarco slurred. "Lez go . . . jus' don' yank on me.
They left the house and walked out onto the sand. It was a bright Southern California day. DeMarco groaned painfully as the sunlight hit him, and he shaded his eyes, wavering badly as he walked. They were twenty yards away from the house when Shane spun him and faced him.
"How can you be fucking drunk, man?"
"Relax, will ya? I was up half the night workin' on your case.
Haven't even been t'bed yet. No food . . . s'why the brews snuck up on me."
"Have you interviewed Barbara, prepared a witness list, contacted Mayweather or Halley to get their sworn affidavits and a copy of the DFAR, sent anything to the subpoena control desk?"
"I. . . I'm . . ."
"The answer is no, 'cause I've been with Barbara and you haven't even called her yet. She's gotta be priority one 'cause if she changes her statement, I'm dust. You gotta lock her in with an affidavit, secure her testimony before you mess with the rest of it. Since I know you know that, you've done nothing."
"Hey, Shane . . . will y'calm down? Okay, just calm down." DeMarco took a step forward and lost his balance and fell down. "Oops," he said, grinning. "Somebody's moving the beach."
"Dee, I was down at IAD this morning. I bumped into Sergeant Hamilton, who is running through my life with spikes on. She's got a box full of every mistake I ever made, even down to my old Patrol Division TAs. She's giving me a fucking sigmoidoscopy, while you're out here getting hammered. We only have eight more days, then we go in front of the board."
"Relax. Okay?" He was trying to get up and not having much luck, so Shane knelt down beside him.
"How can I relax? I'm on the block."
"I don't think Alexa Hamilton really wants to prosecute you. Okay?" He was smiling stupidly.
"That isn't what you said before. You said she'd been in Southwest supervising a patrol watch and came back to Internal Affairs specifically to take my case, that she volunteered for it."
"When I said it, I was trying to duck the case, but now that I have it, I think otherwise."
"She's the queen of the Dark Side. Whatta you mean, she doesn't want to prosecute me?"
"Why d'you think ya won the BOR sixteen years ago?"
"We won because you caught her key witness lying."
"We won 'cause Alexa threw the fuckin' case." He belched and then tried to stand, but again didn't make it.
"She what?"
"She threw th' fuckin' case, went in the tank, intentionally bricked it."
"You never said that before. If she dumped it, you would've told me."
"Hey, winning cases was how I kept my rep hard back then. I din' wanna share the glory. Wha' good's it to win a tough board if the prosecuting advocate throws the fuckin' case? 'Sides, she swore me to secrecy. . . . Said she'd get busted if I tol'."
"I want facts, Dee. I want the whole story. If you're bullshitting . . ."
"Not shitting." He sat back and took a deep breath to clear his head, then went on. "She comes to me like two days 'fore the board and tells me the chief advocate himself, the fuckin' Dark Prince, got a statement from Ray that was devastating to your case."
"Wait a minute. Ray was on my side."
"Grow up, man. Ray was on Ray's side. He didn't wan' any part of your problem, and his statement contradicted yours. Since he was your training officer, it was gonna flat fuckin' sink you." He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "Alexa said she wasn't gonna include Molar's affidavit in the discovery material. Said since the DA took Ray's statement personally, he would insist Ray be called to testify, but Zell wouldn't be aware that Ray's affidavit had accidentally on purpose been left out of discovery." Now he was grinning stupidly again. "She said I should object an' get his testimony stricken, because she had failed to include it, makin' Ray's testimony inad . . . inad . . ." he belched "inadmissible at the hearing. Thas wha' happened."
Shane was confused. It didn't add up.
"Then she tells me she thinks the gas-station attendant was lying," DeMarco continued. "Tells me to polygraph him. She impeached her own fuckin' guy, and he was the best part of her case."
"Why? Why would she do that?"
"Maybe she wants your bod."
"Get up." Shane pulled DeMarco up to his feet.
He stood there, weaving drunkenly. "I'm figurin' there's a good chance she's gonna come across again." He grinned.
"You mean you're sitting around, sucking down beers, waiting for her to throw this case, too?"
"I'm not waiting around. I'm bustin' tail, bud. I'm all over this puppy"
"Okay, Dee, I'm stuck with you because they fast-tracked my board and nobody else will take it on such short notice. Right now I've got something to do, but I'm coming back, unannounced. You better be fuckin' clear-eyed and sober. Next time I'm here, I want a full review of this case, blow by blow. I want your subpoena list and I want to know who you're interviewing. I want to hear your case strategy."
"Done," he said, giggling slightly, shading his eyes, squinting into the sun.
Shane couldn't believe what he was seeing, couldn't believe what DeMarco had just told him. Alexa,
with her box full of his career glitches, was hardly going to throw this board, regardless of what happened the last time. He glowered at the wavering defense rep. "We've gotta get our helmets on. If I catch you drunk again, I'll beat the shit out of you. Don't fall down on me, man." Then he turned, leaving the longhaired defense rep teetering badly in the bright sunlight.
Chapter 24
THE BLACK WIDOW
AFTER HE LEFT DEMARCO, Shane sat inside the hot Acura in the beach parking lot with the driver-side door open and called Sandy. Surprisingly, this time he got her; she picked up on the third ring.
"Sandy, it's me."
"Shane, it wasn't anywhere near as bad as you thought. I called the school, and they told me there's no problem. Chooch is back in classes."
"Yeah, no problem. What an alarmist I'm becoming. I need to see you today. We need to work out some stuff. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Today's really shitty for me."
"The whole week has been shitty for me," Shane growled. "You're meeting me at noon."
"Can't. I have a lunch engagement."
"Cancel it." He was pissed at DeMarco but taking it out on Sandy.
"It's not that easy," she hedged.
"Cancel the fucking lunch date. I'm gonna be there at noon." He hung up on her. It was eleven-thirty.
Sandy lived at the Barrington Plaza in Brentwood, in one of two gorgeous penthouse suites. Shane got there in thirty minutes. He pulled up to the overhanging porte cochere and handed the keys for the busted-up Acura to a doorman who had enough braid hanging off his uniform shoulders to lead a Latin American country or the University of Michigan marching band.
"I'll need to announce you, sir," the doorman said, frowning at the bruised Acura parked on his brick entryway, subtracting elegance like a turd on a serving platter.
"Shane Scully for Ms. Sandoval."
The doorman picked up the phone, had a short conversation, then walked with Shane into the lobby and key-carded the elevator for the penthouse level. "You can phone down before you return and I'll have the vehicle brought up." He pronounced the word "vehicle" like an ancient curse.
the Tin Collector (2000) Page 14
