"You hungry?" he asked.
This time she shook her head.
Jesus, for the love of God, say something. Vm dying here. But Shane said only: "I could use some food. Lemme buy you some coffee."
She finally spoke. One word, only two letters; sounding hesitant and unsure.
"Okay."
Shane had told the ME that he suspected the fatal shot was a light load. The ME concurred, also referencing the wider tattooing and the lack of an exit wound. Shane told the ME they were leaving and left his pager number, then drove Alexa's Crown Vic back toward Venice while she looked glumly at the passing neighborhoods.
They hadn't spoken about it, but with her downer brother safely out of town, Shane had intended for her to move back in, to spend the night in his bed at 874 East Canal Street. He stopped a block away from his house at a small restaurant on the beach.
The place was called the Hungry Termite, which always struck Shane as an unlikely, unappetizing name. He had never been able to find out why it was called that, but the cover of the menu had a stick drawing of a termite eating a sandwich. They sat at a patio table and listened to the surf crashing on the sand a few hundred yards away.
"I'm sure Buddy got to the airport okay," Shane offered, to get the conversation rolling.
"Good…"
"I'm afraid I didn't turn out to be much of a taxi service for him."
Again she just nodded.
"Alexa, we need to get the needle off deep grief for a minute and start thinking more like cops," he said, angry at the way she was behaving. It was almost as if she'd been sleeping with the guy.
"Christ, Shane, gimme a little time to deal with this. He was a good friend."
"Right. He was a good friend. I get that, but I'm not so sure this isn't somehow connected to Jody being back."
"Jody?" She seemed appalled at the suggestion. "Good God, Shane, Jody again? We're still on that?"
"I don't think Commander Shephard killed himself," Shane said, and the remark sat there between them, a big unwashed idea with absolutely no hard evidence supporting it.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm just doing police work here, okay? I'm trying to make sense of this."
"Right. Jody is alive. Got it. Makes great fucking sense."
"Alexa, you've been with me during a pretty intense investigation. In fact, it was a good enough investigation to win you the Medal of Valor." Shit, Shane thought, he was now sort of bitching to her about not sharing the award. But she didn't react, so he went on: "You know I can look at facts and construct truth, or at least sometimes I can." Hating the way this was going, sitting here, doing his own dumb-ass commercial while she swirled her coffee around in a chipped Hungry Termite mug using a stainless-steel spoon. "There's a lot of stuff on this unnatural death I don't like the look of."
"Let's call it suicide since that's what it is," she said. When he didn't answer, she added, "I'm listening." But there was a dead, listless quality to her voice.
"Okay, why would he shoot himself with a light load?"
"Distraught."
"Come on, I don't buy it. He's gonna take a chance on coming out a vegetable? You ever see a cop do a Dutch Treat with a light load?"
"Shane, people do stupid things in times of stress. Mark was obviously stressed. He… he… God… Do we have to talk about this?"
"Yes, we have to. Jody is alive, Alexa. He called me last night. He told me he was working UC on some high-profile case, said he was 'doing doors' on predicate felons and that the department had supplied him with a new ID and faked his death so that his crew wouldn't get busted by moles in the Clerical Division. In Payroll. They're actually paying death benefits to the wives of the guys in his unit. That's how they're getting their police salaries."
She sat there, with anger in her eyes. At least the dead indifference had disappeared. Anything was better than that. "How would they ever pull that off?" she said. "The department isn't going to be involved in cops doing felonies, committing crimes to get criminals, then faking death payments, Shane. That's the most insane thing I've ever heard."
"Not Tony Filosiani, but the old department. Chief Brewer might have done it, or Deputy Chief Mayweather, before he killed himself to avoid jail. This thing predates Filosiani. It started back with Chief Brewer. Mayweather was head of Special Investigations Section. He was supervising the Criminal Intelligence Group and the Organized Crime Division. Do you, for a minute, put it past him to recruit a buncha walk-alones out of SIS or some of those testosterone cases from SWAT, guys who wouldn't mind scoring points the old-fashioned way? You know Mayweather might have sanctioned a group like that."
"And put it under Mark Shephard, a decent, honest cop?"
"Yeah, maybe," Shane said softly.
"No fucking way. Mark wouldn't do that."
"Okay, Alexa, we also need to talk about you and Mark. I know this is a shitty time for it, but I'm sensing more than professional respect here." His hand was back in his pocket, tightly gripping the little box containing Alexa's perfect VS-1, two-carat engagement ring. He knew she wouldn't lie. The answer to this question might determine whether the ring would ever end up on the third finger of her left hand. "Was there more going on there?" he asked, his voice tight.
Alexa sighed, and took a sip of coffee. She seemed to be steeling herself in preparation for Shane's reaction. "You're right. Mark and I were more than just friends," she said quietly.
The sentence arced around inside him like loose volts of electricity. His right hand flinched; his stomach rumbled dangerously, threatening to erupt.
"We used to date. Nobody in the department knew, because he wanted it that way. He was a commander; I was a sergeant… And two years ago he asked me to marry him. I turned him down, but I came close, Shane. I almost said yes."
"And why didn't you?" He was numb with this, not thinking, just reacting.
"I didn't marry him because something told me not to… Something told me that even though I found him extremely attractive and sexy, even though he was sweet and considerate, and had a great sense of humor-"
"Okay, okay. I get the point," he interrupted. "Go on."
"Something told me that he was close, but not the one. In the end, I respected him a lot but didn't love him quite enough."
"And so, when he asked you to take over as his XO at Detective Services Group, that was his chance to be around you so he could get the romance going again."
"Maybe he saw it that way. I can't speak for him… But I told him I was seeing you and that I wasn't looking to have an affair with my commanding officer. I wouldn't consider sleeping with the boss on management principles alone. Mark said he understood but wanted me there anyway because I was the best person for the job. And, dammit Shane, I think I am."
Shane sat there, inert, unable to find the right words to express his emotions.
"I won't deny I had strong feelings for him," she went on. "I still do. I'm sorry I lost it at the crime scene. That was unprofessional. It just hit me hard. I wasn't ready to see him that way."
"It's okay," Shane said, but it wasn't. He had almost crushed the little box in his pocket. He didn't expect Alexa to be a virgin, but the idea that she'd recently been so close to marrying another man agonized him. "Look, Jody is alive," he said finally, to get his mind off it. "I know 'cause I talked to him. SIS was Jody's division when he disappeared. My guess is that this secret unit, whoever they are, is being run out of Special Investigations, because I get the feeling from what Jody said that he's in charge."
"How do you know that?"
"Because Jody was always in charge. It's just his way. He wouldn't be in the unit unless he was running it."
She nodded. She'd heard enough stories about Jody Dean to know that was probably true.
"If this crew was being run out of SIS, then Mark Shephard would have been the unit supervisor, their administrative division commander. Most of these deep-cover units have only two or three contact people, staff of
ficers who know they exist. My guess is Mayweather was one, but he's gone. Medwick ran Detective Services until two months ago, and now he's missing. And trust me, he won't be coming back from the store with his box of brass screws… He's in a shallow grave somewhere, curled around a bag of lye."
"And now Mark," she said.
"Yeah, Commander Shephard completes the trio. So if these three are gone, who's the department CO? Who's running this bunch a' kazoonies?" When she didn't answer, he answered for her: "You are, Alexa. Whether you know it or not, you're the XO, so you're now in charge. I think they're constituted under some subgroup in SIS under DSG. You're acting head of Detective Services until Chief Filosiani appoints a new head."
"You're serious about all this, aren't you?"
"Alexa, he's alive. Jody is alive. I don't know who doctored those crime-scene photos and the death report Shephard showed me, but with computer-generated imaging, you can do almost anything with photographs today. I'm telling you, Jody's death was rigged. Lauren Dean is either in the dark or lying, but either way, she's so screwed-up about it, she's turned into a lush. Everybody else who knew about this unit at DSG is dead or missing. I think we've got a huge problem here."
She sat looking across the table at him, taking all of this in. "If you believe that, then you need to take it to the chief… You need to tell Filosiani."
"The Day-Glo Dago? This guy talks out of the side of his mouth like a Brooklyn cabdriver. You're acting head of DSG… I'm telling you."
"I'm just a sergeant. If you believe all this, you need to go to a staff-rank commander or above, and for reasons of security, I suggest the chief. Filosiani didn't get to the LAPD in the front seat of a cab. He was one of the best street cops in New York. He's cleaned up three departments and has been honored at the White House. He's a smart, tough, in-your-face police officer, so if you think Jody is running a criminal conspiracy and is killing his commanders, then you better take it to him and not just your girlfriend because you don't trust anybody above the fifth floor at the Glass House."
They sat there looking at each other, chewing on this for a long time.
"If I decide to do that, would you go with me?"
"I don't think Jody is alive. I think you're-"
"What?" he interrupted. "Making it up?"
"Why do you want me to go with you?"
"Because it's your responsibility as XO and because you've got heat. Today you won the Medal of Valor… And because you owe me." There. He'd finally said it, but he knew it had come at some cost to their relationship.
She looked out toward the ocean, her beautiful profile to him. Finally, she turned back, but she didn't answer. She sat there, pondering thoughts too difficult for him to read or for her to relay. Loss and despair completed the mask of confusion on her face.
Chapter 11
TOMATO FARMING
ALEXA CAME BACK to Shane's house with him, but she was quiet most of the way. He pulled her Crown Vic into the garage next to his Acura. They got out and went into the house, where they found Chooch asleep on the living-room sofa, his algebra book across his chest. Alexa slipped out the door to the backyard while Shane shook Chooch's shoulder.
"Hey, bud," he said.
Chooch opened his eyes and looked up as if Shane had just beamed down from the teleport room of the Enterprise. Then recognition dawned as he yawned. "Just resting my eyes," he said "Last final tomorrow."
"I think you should rest the whole machine," Shane said, taking the book off Chooch's chest. "You know this stuff. Once you've got the formulas, you can't study for algebra. You should get a good night's sleep."
Chooch cocked a wary eyebrow. "Yeah?" he said. "And just what'd you get when you took this course?"
"Doesn't count." Shane grinned. "Statute of limitations ran out on that crime." Shane helped Chooch to his feet. He glanced out the window and saw Alexa on the lawn, her back to the house, staring at the canals, both arms wrapped around her as if she were cold on that warm June night.
"You give her our rock?" Chooch asked, following Shane's gaze out the window.
"No, not yet. Something came up. It didn't seem like the right time."
"Don't screw this up."
"Don't worry. Now get to bed," he said, and Chooch shambled off to his room.
Later that night Shane and Alexa made love in his cluttered bedroom. It started off well enough: some gentle caressing at the beginning, with Shane moving his hand over her soft, tight body, finding the place between her legs, rubbing her while her arms encircled his neck, her breath warm on his ear. But somewhere between the beginning and the end it turned competitive, with both of them on top of the sheets, bathed in sweat, thrusting their hips at each other, climax finally coming in a ferocious moment that more closely resembled anger than love.
Instead of closeness, loneliness followed the event.
"I've been thinking about it, and I changed my mind," Shane said as they lay on his bed in the dark room. "I can't go to Chief Filosiani. If I do that, my career is over. I have zero evidence. I can't prove that I saw Jody or that he called me. If I try and bring all this up- Medwick and Shephard-I'm gonna look like a jerk."
She rolled toward him and looked at him carefully. "I think that's the best way to handle it," she said, softening as he held her. "Honey, if you insist on pressing this Jody thing, it will turn out bad… You're almost through your psychiatric review. Once that's done, you're back on the job. Maybe then, if you still feel this way, you could look into it. But if you do it now, you could get pushed into forced retirement."
"But let's suppose I'm right. Let's just say, for the hell of it, that I did see him, and let's suppose he is doing doors. Don't we need to stop him?"
"It's a matter of timing, Shane. Now is the wrong time."
"I'm not going to the chief anyway," he said, knowing that she was right. A move like that would be an event Filosiani couldn't ignore. Without a shred of evidence to back up what he saw, his career would be over. He didn't trust the Day-Glo Dago, despite all the stories going through the department about the legend of Tony Filosiani, the "policeman's policeman." Shane wasn't yet ready to put his entire twenty^year career into the hands of the short, round-faced man who talked out of the side of his mouth and looked as though he should be in the corner market, cutting up flank steak.
Chief Filosiani had hit the LAPD like a shaft of white light from the first day he took over four months ago. His first day on the job he had witnessed four cops trying to wrestle a crazy old homeless man through a metal detector at West Hollywood Division. The man had been arrested for walking naked down Santa Monica Boulevard, wearing only a silver biking helmet. He said that he was from the planet Argus and wanted an audience with the President. There were four large uniformed cops fighting with this deranged and panicked old man in front of the booking cage, trying to force him to put on a city jail jumpsuit and go through the metal detector into the holding-cell area. The four uniforms were rolling on the floor, trying to cuff him, when a short, balding man in a shiny suit stepped forward and gave a space salute, slamming his fist onto his chest.
"Welcome to the planet," Filosiani bowed. "It is with great honor and respect that we welcome visitors from your galaxy." The man jumped to his feet and returned the salute, standing naked in front of the four sweating cops.
"I am the interplanetary ambassador for Earth people, and I will be your escort while you are a visitor here. Is this your desire?" the new chief continued in Brooklynese.
"Yes" the old man said.
"It is our custom that visitors to the Earth Senate and Presidential Chamber wear the honored robes of the Interplanetary Guest Council. Would this be acceptable?" Filosiani bowed again. "Yes… I will wear your robes," the man said, bowing in return. Filosiani reached out and took the orange city jail jumpsuit out of a startled cop's hands. The old man shinnied into it, pulling up the zipper. Then Tony bowed once more to the old man, who bowed back.
"Now, as is our custom, it i
s necessary to take you to our Interplanetary Medical Center where you'll be screened for diseases and bacteria from the planet Argus that may be harmful to the people a' Earth. Will this be acceptable?"
"Yes… I understand."
"Our galaxy medical officer here will escort you," he said. Tony gave the old man another space salute, which was returned, then they bowed a fourth time, looking like two Japanese businessmen. One of the cops led the homeless man quietly through the metal detector guarding the entrance to the West Hollywood Division booking cage. He walked peacefully into the holding cell, wearing his new orange Earth clothes and silver biking helmet.
The old man was booked without further incident and taken to the mental ward at County Hospital.
The four cops had by now figured out who the short, round man in the shiny suit was. They stood and listened as Tony gave a lecture on how to handle deranged or disoriented people: "This old man is sick," he told them. "You guys don't fight or wrestle with a sick person. Y'buy into his fantasy and he'll follow ya anywhere. Do it right, fellas," he said, smiling. "Save all this rough-and-tumble stuff for the hard cases."
The story spread like wildfire. After Chief Brewer, L. A. was ready for a top cop with a shrewd streak of humanity. But still, Shane wasn't ready to go in front of the little man with his Jody Dean story, at least not yet. Not until he had something more-one piece of concrete evidence.
Alexa elected not to sleep over, and Shane didn't try to stop her. She took her car back to her apartment in Santa Monica. They were badly out of sync and needed time to get past it.
Shane put the little leather box containing her engagement ring inside the top dresser drawer and finally went to bed.
He didn't dream of Alexa and he didn't dream of Jody. Strangely, he had a dream about tomato farming. He was sitting on a huge green tractor, trying to plow a straight furrow so he could plant his tomato seeds. But the tractor kept going its own way, despite his efforts to steer it. The huge green machine left a wavy, drunken furrow behind him. "Dammit," Shane kept saying, as the tractor wavered. "Dammit, stay straight, will ya." It was a difficult night of farming.
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