White Sister (9 page)

"No." I grabbed his clothes out of the dryer and rolled them u
p i
n his old coat, which had not yet made its trip to the cleaners. I was definitely through with this joker.

"I grew up watching hungry folks," he rambled on, trailing after me, blabbering nonsense as I gathered up his things. "Watchin' them grab their swelled-up bellies; so far gone they couldn't even keep nothin' down. My daddy was a king
a tribal chief. He said the act of true sacrifice is giving even when you got nothin' left to give. And that be exactly what I'm talking about here."

"Don't move. I'll be right back." I left him standing on the laundry porch rambling about Africa, and headed to the bedroom to get my extra gun, a small .44 special Bulldog Pug. It's only accurate for a few feet, but it weighed less than two pounds and was an easy carry piece. I wasn't too worried about its accuracy, because I figured if Maluga came for me it would be close combat.

As I was pulling the piece out of the dresser drawer, something started vibrating in my pocket. I reached in and retrieved Stacy Maluga's pager. I'd completely forgotten about it. The number on the screen read: 310-555-6768.1 jotted it down on a piece of paper and put the pager back in my pocket. As this was happening, I got the germ of an idea on how I might put that stolen gadget to work. I took a stack of cash out of a lockbox under the bed and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I grabbed Alexa's spare office key from the coin dish on our dresser, fitted the Bulldog into a small belt-clip holster and tucked it inside the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. My Beretta was still riding a holster on my hip. I grabbed a box of shells for each gun and left.

When I returned to the living room, true to his name, John was long gone. I found him in the den near the side window, looking out at the canal.

"Let's go."

He jerked up, shrieked in terror, then spun around. He was sure jumpy. It took him a minute to reclaim himself. Then he was back at it. "This ain't right. You run a man down, a prince of all things. Then you just give him a roll-up, and push him out the door with no howdy-do here's some cash."

I pulled out my wallet, extracted four hundred dollars, and handed it to him.

"I'll drop you back on the Nickel. How you deal with all that anger down there is up to you. As of now, you and I are done, friend."

He wouldn't move, so I grabbed his skinny arm Rafie-style, and hustled him out of the house. Ten minutes later we were in the Acura heading east on the 10 Freeway.

"Can't go to the Nickel. Ain't got no friends on the Row."

"Okay, I'll drop you in Hollywood then." I wasn't paying much attention to him anymore. I was trying to get my thoughts sorted out, make a list of investigative priorities. The order of my next few moves could mean everything.

"Hollywood is like Tibet on acid," Bodine whined. "It's all prayer rugs and hoop earrings down there. Buncha crackheads and trapdoor Johnnies. My voices be tellin' me Hollywood ain't no place for a straight Christian man to be."

"Come on, John. I'm through. I told ya I got my own problems."

"Hey, who run me over, huh? Was it you? I fuckin' think it was."

We exited the freeway at Main, heading toward Parker Center.

"This ain't where I want to be at," Bodine whined.

I had stopped answering him. I finally pulled up across the street from where I first hit him. "Door-to-door service. Doesn't get much better than that."

I set the brake, got out, and pulled his shopping cart out from the back of the SUV. I heard the sound of leather ripping as it snagged the upholstery. I jerked it out angrily. Pissed me off, but a torn backseat was way down on tonight's list of problems. As I started to load Bodine's junk back into the cart I could see him in the front seat. He wasn't about to move. He just sat there, rocking back and forth, moaning slightly.

When I finished with the cart I went around to the passenger side, opened the door and glared down at him. "Let's go."

"Half-steppers at the sperm clinic won't even take my jizz anymore," he said, looking up. His desperate eyes blazed. "Mutha
-
fuckas won't even pay me to jerk off into a bottle. Say my count is low. I tole 'em you eat outta garbage cans your sperm goes all
. T
a hell. No vitamins in a grapefruit rind, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Get out."

"Can't sell my blood, can't sell my jizz, what am I supposed to do?"

"I gave you four hundred. Don't make me drag you outta there."

He sat still and looked up at me. "Officer Scully, I'm kinda at my wit's end right now. I ain't brilliant or even that smart really, but you know what I am?"

"Stubborn."

"I'm worthwhile. Underneath all these problems is a very worthwhile person."

"John . . . please." I reached in and pulled him out of the car.

"I could be dead in the morning," he said.

"Me too."

We stood looking at each other in the dim light of the street lamp.

"No man is an island," Bodine finally said. "Some people help me along, but some, like you, just push me away. Ain't easy being an African prince in a cold-ass place like L
. A
. I keep sending out my resume, but I'm not hearing back."

I got behind the wheel. As I pulled out, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw him standing on the curb with his shopping cart full of junk. There was a moment, sucker that I am, when I almost went back and got him.

As things turned out, I would have been way ahead if I had.

Chapter
13.

THERE ARE MORE videotapes running in Parker Center than at NBC Burbank. Five security cameras photograph the lobby and multiple cameras cover all the main hallways of each floor. Everything is fed down to a tape room in the sub-basement. I knew that there was very little I could do to defeat all that high tech security. After what happened up on Mulholland, the Deputy Chief wouldn't have to think very hard to figure out what I was doing in my wife's office on the command floor at three a
. M
. I was disobeying direct orders and the tapes would confirm it.

I didn't care.

I pulled out Alexa's spare office key and used it to open the door, moving through Ellen's neat outer office, past a stack of crime manuals and new forensic journals that the chief made mandatory reading for all command rank officers.

I sat behind Alexa's desk and turned on her computer. While it booted I looked at a photograph of us taken in Nevis last year. In the shot, Alexa's black hair was lustrous in bright sunlight, blowing in a tropical breeze. Her dark tan and bright smile made my heart clutch. In the picture, two glasses of Planter's Punch with colorful umbrellas rested between us on the wooden plank table of the beach bar where we'd stopped. She wore her beauty like a casual gift, I wore a Hawaiian shirt and a jackass smile. It was as good as it gets. A roving photographer had taken the picture. Twenty bucks to memorialize a romantic moment that now broke my heart.

As I studied the photo the knot in my stomach tightened. Memories of those five romantic days flooded over me, underlining my loss. That time spent on a Caribbean island had been a glimpse into our future. In a few more years we'd both have twenty-five years on the job and be out with full pensions, able to travel the world. I hadn't told her, but lately I had started to look past the daily uncertainty and harsh realities of police work, contemplating a more tranquil existence.

We had made love in the sweet-smelling garden suite at our hotel. We made love in the ocean at midnight. We talked about secrets and shared our fears. I'd told her about parts of me that nobody else knew. Instead of being repelled, she had caressed my shortcomings. She told me that fear is at the heart of the human condition, that it's one of the two basic reasons that anyone does anything. The other reason, she said, was love. I knew she was right. In a few short years she had changed what motivated me.

Now she was missing
maybe gone forever. Would I ever see her again? Would I even recover her remains? Desperate thoughts arced around inside my head
murderous plans of violence and revenge. I thought about what I'd do to Maluga if he had hurt her.

The computer had loaded and I turned toward it. Her password was "lacey." The TV show Cagney & Lacey was what had motivated her to be a cop when she was a girl. I typed it in and started opening windows.

I found a file on undercover assignments. I could find nothing in the file on David Slade.

Next I accessed the e-mails. All communications from yesterday and today had been purged. I wondered if Ellen had come back in to do that after Alexa's car was found or if Alexa had done it before she left for that mysterious appointment. When we'd walked back from the jail, did she know she was in danger? I sat there for a moment, turning that over in my mind. Then I went back to the document files. I opened half-a-dozen with coded names like "Operation Rhinestone," which turned out to be an undercover op on a ring of jewelry store burgs. "Walking Tiger" was a sting on Chinese gangs. The last one I opened was called "Dark Angel." It contained one short sentence.