And the thing was, he wasn't holding out on her. He had never held out on her. He had been loyal to his son, giving him whatever he needed, fighting with Cindy to spend more time with him. Now she was treating him like the villain, insisting he cough up money he didn't have so she could treat a problem that might not even be a problem.
What did shrinks know, anyway? According to them, every kid who was restless in school needed Ritalin, and any kid who wasn't a straight A student had a learning disorder. The thing sounded like a scam, and Cindy had fallen for it, and now she was threatening to take him to court.
Wolper sighed. He hated and distrusted shrinks. He had never believed in any of that psychiatric voodoo. It was crap, an employment program for the unemployables churned out by this society in increasingly large numbers. He knew all about the unemployables, more and more of whom were showing up in blue uniforms as proud members of the new LAPD.
Not the LAPD he'd started out in. Not the LAPD of Daryl Gates, who had run the department in the 1980s and made it into a slick paramilitary force. He remembered the physical-fitness requirements when he joined upjump a wall, drag a 160-pound dummy, execute pull-ups, chin-ups, run a mile. Nothing like that for today's applicants. They were asked to balance on a teeter-totter, for Christ's sake. They had to pedal a stationary bike, skip between lines like kids on a playground.
Gates was gone, and so was his vision of the department. The new LAPD was all sensitivity training and community outreach and diversity. It was an equal opportunity employer that invited women into the ranks even though they couldn't meet the physical standards established for men. The solution was to lower the standards for everyone. So what if a cop lacked the upper body strength to scale a fence or subdue a suspect? Playing political games was what the department was all about. Bullshit had been elevated to a science. Wolper hated all of it.
Now political correctness was invading his personal life. Damn.
And yet amp; suppose the doctor was right. Suppose Zach really did need the meds, the counseling, the special ed. If so, then it didn't matter whether Wolper had the money or not. He would have to provide it. He could not let his son down.
Fourteen years in the patrol side of the LAPD, working the roughest divisions, had left Lt. Roy Wolper with few ideals, but loyalty to one's own flesh and blood was a credo he would not violate.
He took a sip of coffee and spat it back into the mug. Some idiot had percolated a pot of water through a batch of used coffee grounds. And since he had his own coffeemaker here in the office, and he was the only one who used it, he knew the identity of the idiot in questionnamely, himself. The stuff tested like bilgewater.
He took out the rubber ball he used to work off tension and started squeezing it in his left fist. God, what a crappy day. Lately all his days were like this. He'd taken to spending more time at the bar down the street at EOWend of watch, the close of his business day. He'd never been all that sociable with his fellow officers, but now he preferred to hoist a few with the boys if the alternative was to go home to a ringing telephone and another shakedown by his ex.
He knew he ought to chill out, but it was hard to stay calm where his livelihood was concerned. Money was a bitch. A marriage killer, a friendship killer. Often a literal killer. Most of the shit going down on the streets was about moneythe lack of it, the craving for it, the worship of it.
He squeezed the ball harder.
This morning, at five a.m., even before he'd left for the start of the day watch, Cindy had been on the phone to him, telling him that she would have to take Zach out of therapy if she didn't get enough cash to cover the last three sessions.
At two hundred bucks a pop, the sessions weren't cheap, and insurance paid almost none of it. Wolper had ended up telling her that Dr. Hackerthat was his actual name, Hackerwas a fraud and a con man, and she was being taken for a ride. He'd slammed down the phone and left his house before she could call back.
Best thing to do was not to think about itany of it. He would stay fit and keep a low profile. He knew he would rise no higher in this politicized bureaucracy. If Gates were still running the show, Wolper might have been a deputy chief by now. Instead the newest deputy chief was that pansy Hammondsame age as Wolper, but much less experienced on the street. Hammond wasn't even the worst of them. A lot of these other guysthe new recruits and the veterans who liked the new administration better than the oldwere pure politicos who'd never made a righteous bust in their lives, cowards who ran the other way when bullets flew.
When the whole department consisted of affirmative-action hires and civil-service bureaucrats and ass kissers, where would this city be? Wolper knew the answer to that one. Up shit creek, that's where. The public was too dumb to care, and the politicians encouraged the trend, seeing an advantage in a police department they could control. Everything was heading that way, and here was Lt. Roy Wolper, the last dinosaur mired in his own personal tar pit.
Well, he'd put in fourteen years. Another six, and he would cash out. Until then he would be a rock. Rock hard, rock solid, rock steady.
"Rock on," he said to himself, and smiled.
His assistant stuck her head into the office, interrupting his thoughts. "Lieutenant, there's a Dr. Cameron to see you."
Oh, hell. Another shrink. And one who, like Dr. Hacker, seemed committed to making his life a continuing pain in the ass. He took out his annoyance on the squeeze ball, crushing it flat.
"Send her in," he said evenly.
He caught his assistant's blink of surprise and realized he wouldn't have been expected to know that Dr. Cameron was a woman. The doctor had never been to his office before. They had never met anywhere, in fact. But he knew about her. She was part of the whole Brand situation.
The office door opened again, and Robin Cameron entered. He took a second to look her over. She seemed younger than he'd expected, and there was an air of calm determination about her. He wasn't sure he liked that.
"Please have a seat, Doctor. I assume this is regarding Sergeant Brand."
She took the chair in front of his desk. "That's right."
"Didn't show up for his appointment, did he?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "How did you know?"
Wolper sighed. "I've known Sergeant Brand for a lot of years. I have a pretty good idea how he'll behave."
"He was supposed to see me at one. Never arrived. I called his home number and his cell phone. No answer."
"He's off today. Guess he's not answering his phone."
"He's off? I was led to understand that he would be scheduled for therapy during his normal working hours."
"Called in sick." He kept his tone neutral.
"Did he?"
"That's right."
"So he's ill."
Wolper hesitated. "I said he called in sick. The actual state of his health is another matter."
"Meaning?"
"It's not the first time he's taken a sick day since amp;"
"Since the shooting."
"Bingo." Wolper winced at himself. Cops were always saying bingo in the movies. He wished he hadn't picked up the habit.
"You're telling me Sergeant Brand hasn't been coming in for work?"
"Not reliably. Not like he used to."
"So you don't think he's sick."
"I'm not a doctor. I guess that would be your diagnosis to make."
"It's hard for me to render a diagnosis when I can't find the patient."
"I guess that's true. Sorry. Wish I could help."
"But you can't?"
Wolper spread his hands. "If he's not there and he's not answering his phone amp;"
She leaned forward in her chair. "You wouldn't happen to have any idea where Sergeant Brand goes on his sick days?"
"How could I?"
"You said you've known him for years. You know how he'll behave, you told me."
"That doesn't mean I keep tabs on his whereabouts."
"Why do I have the feeling you're holding out on me?"
/>
Wolper tried a smile. "You sound like a cop interrogating a suspect."
She didn't smile back. "I'm just a doctor trying to get some information. I think you can help me. Why won't you?"
A moment passed as he squeezed the ball a few times and considered several responses. "Let me be honest with you, Doctor. I'm not too happy about the idea of Brand's participation in this program of yours. Using the same treatment on cops that you've been using on criminals amp; it doesn't sit well with me."
"The only connection is the nature of the syndrome. Post-traumatic stress doesn't discriminate between good guys and bad."
"That's not how the media will see it. They'll jump all over this. You know the angle they'll play upcops who are so shell-shocked, they're one step away from being hardened cons themselves. The department doesn't need that kind of publicity. We've gotten enough black eyes over the last few years as it is."
"Black eyes? I guess that's one way to put it."
He knew what she meant. Since the Rodney King arrest, there had been an unbroken string of public relations disasters for the LAPDthe riots of '92, the O. J. Simpson debacle, the succession of failed chiefs, and the overshadowing scandal of the antigang cops in Rampart Division, who had turned into a drug-dealing gang themselves.
"How would you put it?" he asked, though he really didn't care.
"According to the Christopher Commission report"
"The Christopher Commission report was a politically motivated smear job."
"Was Rampart a smear?"
"The Rampart scandal was blown out of proportion. It was a few bad cops. The department overreacted, and the media jumped all over the story."
"But you don't deny there were abuses, that people were framed by their arresting officers, that cocaine was stolen out of evidence rooms, that police officers perjured themselves"
"What is this, a Sixty Minutes interview?"
She took a breath. "Sorry. We're getting offtrack. The point is, the media need never know about this. My work with my patients is completely confidential."
"Nothing is confidential in this town." Wolper rubbed his forehead. "Ever since the orders came down from Parker Center, I've known this was going to be a pain in the ass. Brand doesn't want to cooperate, most of his fellow officers agree with him, and I get to play the bad guy, the enforcer."
"All you're enforcing is an opportunity for Sergeant Brand to get better."
"That's not how the rank and file see it."
"No? Why not?"
Wolper leaned back in his chair. "Brand's a street cop. He never wanted to be anything else. Some guys get into this work to be civil servants. They put in their twenty years, then cash out. They hate the street. They'll take a desk job as soon as it comes up. No one ever got killed riding a desk. It's nice and safe back here. We call them pogues."
"Pogues?"
"Pogues. I don't know where the term comes from, but it means a commanding officerlieutenant, captainwho knows all about paperwork and has zero street IQ. Not exactly admired by the rank and file. Brand's never aspired to a desk job. He's only happy when he's pushing a black-and-white, chasing the radio. It's what he lives for. He has no wife, no kids, nothing at all outside the job."
"Doesn't sound like a very well adjusted personality, does he?"
Wolper fought back his irritation. "My point is, he's the kind of cop that other cops respect. Any officer who's ever worked with him trusts Brand to watch his backor take a bullet for him if necessary. Men like Brand are the guts of this police force. We've already lost too many of them to early retirement or transfers to other cities. We can't afford to lose any more."
"That's a nice speech, Lieutenant. But the fact is, you've already lost Brand, haven't you? He's not showing up for work. He's showing other symptoms of post-traumatic stress also. I know. I've talked with the psychiatrist who's been treating him. If he's as important to the department as you say, then you ought to want him to get over this problem that's keeping him off the job."
"I do want him to get over it."
"Then why are you shielding him from me?"
He flattened the squeeze ball again. "I'm not shielding anybody."
"That's not how it looks from here."
Wolper took a moment to compose a reply. "Being a cop amp; it's a lot like joining a fraternity. We all go through the same initiation, the same hazing. We earn our street degree. We look out for each other."
"You're supposed to look out for the public."
"We do that also. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Aren't they?"
He knew she was thinking of the scandals. Baiting him.
He was tired of being on the defensive with this woman. He set aside the squeeze ball and stared her down.
"Look, if Brand needs to work off his emotional baggage by doing some things I wouldn't do, hanging out in places I wouldn't go" He stopped.
"What places?"
Damn. He hadn't meant to say that much. "Even if I told you, Doctor, you wouldn't want to go there. Take my word for it."
"What places?" she asked again.
"I have no idea. I was speaking hypothetically."
"No, you weren't."
"Let's just say I was." He showed her a hard smile.
"Let's just say I'll go over your head to Deputy Chief Wagner. If he asks you, maybe you'll give a straight answer."
So she was playing hardball. Great.
Wolper had gotten himself cornered. He could give her a phony address, but what would that accomplish? She would only come back to hassle him again. And if he kept putting her off, she would put Wagner on the case. That was all he goddamn neededa deputy chief breathing down his neck.
He drummed his fingers on the desk for a long moment, then picked up a plain index card and wrote on it in block letters. He almost handed it to her, but hesitated. He really did not want her to have this information. If she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't want it, either.
"Going here is not a good idea, Dr. Cameron. Believe me."
"Bad neighborhood?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"VFW?"
He was surprised she knew the term, and even more surprised she'd used it. "Definitely. But that's not the only reason. It's the nature of the establishment itself. To be blunt, I can't vouch for your personal safety."
She wasn't backing down. "Are you going to give me the address or not?"
Reluctantly he surrendered the card.
"You're putting yourself in danger if you go," he said.
"Maybe you'd like to accompany me."
"Can't do that, I'm afraid. It's off my beat. Besides amp; I shouldn't be seen there."
Something flickered in her eyes, and he knew she'd understood why he filled out the index card in capitals instead of his normal, identifiable handwriting.
"And if anyone asks how I got the address amp;?" she began.
"You never received it from me."
"I'll keep that in mind. So you think I can find him at this address?"
"Can't guarantee it. But it's your best shot."
She stood. "Thanks for your help. By the way, what exactly does VFW stand for?"
"I thought you knew."
"I don't. It's just something I picked up."
"Well amp; not everything about the LAPD is politically correct, even today. It stands for 'very few whites.'"
"I see."
"Shocked?" He allowed himself to smile at her.
"It takes more than that to shock me, Lieutenant Wolper. Thanks again for your help."
She left, shutting the door. Wolper stared after her.
She wasn't quite what he'd expected. He had imagined someone more timid. Instead she was stubborn and tough. Maybe not as tough as she wanted to appear, but tough enough.
He might have made a mistake telling her Brand's whereabouts. But he hadn't believed she would be crazy enough to go there. Even now, he couldn't believe it. When she saw the neighborhood,
she would back off.
At least, he hoped she would.
Chapter Seven
Wolper had been right about one thing, Robin decided.
It was a bad neighborhood.
But he was wrong if he thought she'd turn back.
She guided the Saab deeper into the maze of streets that ran parallel to Imperial Highway, heading east, toward Watts. The fractured windshield and blown-out side window and dented trunk were not out of place here. She actually welcomed the damage. It helped her fit in.
After leaving the police station, she'd continued south on Central Avenue, past Florence Avenue. It was at the corner of Florence and Normandie, about a half mile away, that the 1992 riots had erupted. She hadn't lived in LA then. She had watched the news coverage from the home she and Dan had shared in Santa Barbara, until four-year-old Meg had wandered in to ask what was going on. Then Robin had switched to a cartoon show.
She had always tried to protect her daughter. But if that was true, why had she brought Meg here, to a city of random carjackings and drive-bys, a city that seemed to be losing its mind?
The address Wolper had given her was near the intersection of Imperial Highway and Compton Avenue. The spot was six miles south of the Newton Area station, but that distance was deceptive. If Newton was a borderland, this was enemy territory, one that a middle-class white woman with an expensive car and a postgraduate degree was not expected to enter.
She didn't know which gangs fought over this turf, but she could see their markings on every wall and fence and trash bin, the loops and squiggles of spray paint visible everywhere, even on the boles of drooping, sickly palm trees. The thump of rap music pounded from boom boxes set on curbs and from the radios of jacked-up cars, cruising the streets. Most of the people were dressed in black, and she wondered about that at first, until she realized that it was dangerous to wear colors on gang turf. Although it was a school day, kids lounged on street corners and in vacant lots and alleys, wearing loose T-shirts and do-rags, watching her roll past with suspicious eyes.
Every pair of eyes was a flashback to this morning's attack, the thump of the crowbar, the crunch of glass amp;
In Dark Places Page 5