White Sister (13 page)

"That's your call, but Rafie and Tommy can stay with her. They'll have your cell number and can keep you posted. The chief's office is only ten minutes away. It's probably gonna be a while till you get any word. Be smart about this, Shane."

"I'm not leaving her!" My voice was raised in frustration.

"Okay. Fair enough. Put Rafie back on."

I handed the phone to Figueroa. He put it to his ear and nodded.

"Yep. Can do," he said, then closed the cell and glanced at Sepulveda. There must have been a lot of hidden meaning in that look, because suddenly they both dove at me.

Rafie got my hands pinned. Tommy got his cuffs out. The two blues from across the room joined in and held me down. I'm good and I'm fast, but I was operating at half-capacity. My nerves were fried. It took them about thirty seconds to get the bracelets on while I struggled and hurled insults. Then they dragged me out of the hospital and shoved me into the back of their Ford.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. They wouldn't look at me, neither willing to engage my eyes. We all knew it was wrong, but the order had come from the acting chief, so it wasn't up for discussion. I was going to this meeting.

Seven minutes later we were sweeping into the underground parking garage next to the Glass House.

We took the elevator ride to the sixth floor in silence. I stopped struggling and decided that if I wanted to leave this meeting without making a side trip to the Central Division Jail, then I would have to look like I wasn't carrying my shit around in a sock. Nobody wanted me raving insults on TV or feeding smug Roxanne Sharp her little gold angel pin.

I'd broken enough laws to merit a criminal arrest. The fact that Alexa was in critical condition or maybe already dead just didn't weigh very much compared to the media tornado that was threatening to blow careers up into the air before dropping them like twisted Chevy trucks. If I was looking for cool heads, loyalty, or a commitment to a fallen comrade, I wasn't going to find it on the sixth floor of the Glass House today.

Great White Mike hadn't wasted any time moving into Tony Filosiani's office for his interim stay as acting chief.

We paused in the outer part of the chief's suite and looked at a young female operations lieutenant from Ramsey's regular support staff who was sitting to the right of the double mahogany doors. She motioned us to a sofa, picked up the phone, and started talking softly, announcing our arrival.

"I can't face this turd in handcuffs," I said softly.

"If you go nuts in there, we're all gonna get it," Rafie said.

"I won't. I'm solid."

Rafie and Tommy glanced at each other. They weren't sure what to do. I had played these guys badly. They had been trying to deal with me for close to a day and I had lied, screwed them over, and physically threatened them. But they were good cops. Deep down they had sympathy for my plight. Beyond that, most of Alexa's detectives liked her. She was an evenhanded, fair-minded bureau chief. Nobody quite understood how all this made sense yet, but everybody knew she was getting a bum deal on TV.

So after exchanging a look, Tommy leaned over and unhooked me just as the door opened and a fifty-year-old Commander of Operations, named Keith Summers, looked out at us.

"Good," was all he said, then motioned us inside.

Great White Mike was standing by a large picture window that looked out over Olvera Street, which was the first street in Los Angeles and located in the most historical section of the city. The roof of Union Station was visible off to the north. Under most circumstances, Mike Ramsey looked like we got him out of Central Casting. He was pale-skinned, thin, and handsome in a forties movie star kind of way. He had slicked black hair and a trimmed moustache that rode below a patrician nose like a delicate afterthought. His sculpted chin was heroic. Deputy Chief Ramsey was the kind of cop who had spent the minimal amount of time on the streets before making a headlong dash toward administration. He liked being on TV and kept makeup in his briefcase for those unexpected prime-time appearances. But right now all of his swagger was gone. He looked tired. Tired and overmatched.

One of the things most media-relations officers will tell you is the press is like a furry little puppy that looks like it would be loads of fun to play with. And most of the time it is. You do an interview and then go home and tell your wife or girlfriend that you were on Greta or Geraldo, or that Ken and Barbie on Channel Seven were kissing your ass and couldn't get enough of you. The press would ask respectfully for your opinions. You quickly learned how to scratch the furry little pup under the chin, and how to kiss his damp whiskers without getting any drool on your lips. But then, sometimes without any warning, the little beast would snarl and bite you on the nose. That was what Great White Mike was just now discovering. The TV in his office was on and he was taking the brunt of a full media onslaught. Roxanne Sharp, Nathan Red, and a black activist named Reverend Leland Vespars, just in from New York, were all piling on. They felt that Deputy Chief Mike Ramsey was criminally mishandling the investigation. Police pundits were also weighing in. As I came through the door, I could hear the Deputy Chief screaming at one of his administrative assistants, a lieutenant from Press Relations.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Mike was pointing at the TV screen, where Fox News
fair and balanced
was peeling strips off Chief Ramsey in particular and the LAPD in general. "When was this antique on our dick squad?" He shouted at the screen.

I looked over at the TV and saw a gray-haired, retired, homicide detective who used to work for our old Special Crimes unit. I remembered him from the late eighties. I think his name was Merle, or Mel something. He'd pulled the pin over a decade ago and was now a Fox News analyst. He was just opinionating that due to the obvious racial component in this murder, the department owed the public a much more detailed description of events.

"I'm sure when this popcorn fart was on the job he was sharing all his case facts with these ghouls," Ramsey whined.

Then somebody motioned toward me and they all turned. The media relations guy crossed the room and turned down the volume on the TV.

"I need answers, Scully," the Deputy Chief said without preamble. "This department is getting the shit kicked out of it. I gave a direct order yesterday that you were to desist in this investigation. Then I gave you a forthwith to this office three hours ago! You ignored my two-six, just like you've ignored all my wishes for almost a day."

He crossed the room and took up a position directly in front of me, then rocked forward until he was at least a foot into my personal space. Some kind of lavender cologne was wafting off of him.

"I'm waiting for a response," he said coldly.

"Chief Ramsey, my wife is critical. She's in the gunshot trauma ward. I'm only here because of the two-six, but sir, I really need to get back to the hospital." I was trying my best to look and sound calm, but my voice was shaking.

He looked over at Figueroa and Sepulveda. "We got people down there covering her progress, right?" Both detectives nodded, but neither of them seemed too happy about the way this was being handled. "Okay, so if something changes, they'll call you, right?"

I didn't answer, but Ramsey seemed satisfied that base was covered and went on. "You're a Level Three detective assigned to Homicide Special. You're supposed to know what you're doing. But instead, because of you, I've got a rap producer named Maluga all over my phone sheet. He's hired this Nathan Red character who's halfway up my asshole wearing golf cleats. He's laying groundwork for a wrongful death suit on behalf of Sergeant Slade's family and he's also complaining about the illegal search you did at Maluga's house. On the criminal front, I got the District Attorney looking to charge you with two or three low-weight felonies and PSB wants you picked up and held for internal questioning on this bad search. Have I missed anything?" Operations Commander Summers shook his head, so Ramsey continued. "But despite all this reckless behavior, I've delayed these actions against you, and do you know why?"

"No, sir."

"Two reasons. The PR blowback from arresting you will get all over us and just make this look like a bigger scandal than it already is. The second reason is I want something from you. You gimme what I want and we'll see what we can do about holding the line on this internal investigation and all the criminal stuff."

"What do you need, sir?"

"Lieutenant Scully's computer."

"I don't have it."

"What you don't have is a career if you give me any grief on this."

"Hook me up to a poly," I said. "I don't know where that computer is." Which was technically true, if somewhat disingenuous and inaccurate.

He stood there, rocking back and forth, leaning in and out of my space, the cologne drifting around us, sweet and cloying. He was panicking and I could see it in the tightness around his eyes. He was no Tony Filosiani. Just a big, overdressed palooka with plucked eyebrows, who was on the edge of a meltdown.

"I may have an idea where that computer is," I said. "But I'll need a little time to run it down."

"You don't have time. This shit storm we're all in erased our time."

"The computer was stolen from our house. But I may have a way to get it back."

Great White Mike's tweezered brows shot up into the middle of his forehead and hovered there uncertainly. "Stolen?" He didn't believe me.

"Yes, sir. It's a long story, but a homeless guy I let into my house took it."

"You let a homeless guy into your house?" He glanced over at Commander Summers with a "do you believe this?" look.

All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and back to the trauma ward, but there was no leaving without cutting some kind of deal. The handcuffs were still dangling from Rafie's right hand, reminding me of how perilous my freedom had become.

"He's a wit on one of my open homicides. I was giving him a hot meal, working him for information." Complete B
. S
.

"What's this homeless guy's name?" Ramsey asked, still suspicious.

"He's got lots of names," I dodged. "He's a delusional schizophrenic. Right now he's calling himself Samik Mampuna. He thinks he's a Crown Prince from Cameroon."

I saw Mike struggling with this. He didn't know how to handle me. Then something happened, and his frown disappeared. He was suddenly on a different track.

"Look, Shane. Nobody says you shouldn't be upset over your wife, but you don't just throw the rule book away," he said with more compassion.

"Exactly, sir. And you should know, I'm in much better control of myself now." In a moment, we'd both have to start rolling up our pant cuffs.

Then from out of nowhere he said, "You know with all this media scrutiny, we're going to have to examine the idea that Lieutenant Scully shot this police officer for some unknown reason. There's no way to ignore that possibility, given the circumstances of his death."

"Sir, he was a dirtbag. A practicing Crip who got in on the felony waver policy. He was dirty, hanging out with this ex-con gangster Maluga's estranged wife."

"I will not let this turn into some kind of cooked-up racial incident," he shot back. "The way we keep that from happening is we will look at all possibilities including the one I just mentioned. Despite Sergeant Slade's rather questionable record, we will also not defame the memory of this dead African-American police officer. All that will do is make us look insensitive and will fan the flames higher. But so help me, if it comes out your wife is involved in this murder, she is not going to get any cover from me or this department. A lot of this looks real suspicious. She had a prior relationship with Sergeant Slade. It's even written up in her Academy instructor's review."

"She didn't kill him!" My voice was shrill and dangerous. "You think she's so stupid she'd kill one of her own detectives and leave him in the front seat of her own car?"

"Ah, yes. The good old Robert Blake defense. Too smart to be that dumb. You never heard of heat-of-the-moment killings?"

"She didn't kill him!" I repeated.

Ramsey began ticking off points on his fingers. "Slade was found dead in her car, wearing her handcuffs. When ballistics is through, my bet is the murder weapon will be her gun. They used to be intimate, making this your classic relationship gone bad. Motive, method, and opportunity. The prosecutor's trifecta."

I know how cops think. I couldn't explain any of it. Besides all that, I couldn't get Alexa's phone message out of my head. "I killed David Slade. An argument over something personal." I was so confused and twisted up, I didn't know if I was fighting for her life, her career, or her memory. Whatever it was, I was determined that Great White Mike would never get his hands on that answering
-
machine tape.

"If she did it, then I agree she should go down for it," I said disingenuously. I had to get out of there.

"Okay, then I'm going to give you till end of the day tomorrow, that's eight o'clock p
. M
.," Ramsey said. "You have that computer in this office by then or I'm gonna fall on you."

"Thank you, sir. That ought to be enough time."

After some more rocking back and forth and some very theatrical stink-eye, Great White Mike finally let me walk out of Tony Filosiani's office. Figueroa and Sepulveda left with me. As we got silently in the elevator, Rafie looked over at Tommy and me.