The chief saw Shane looking for a seat. "No chairs, Sergeant. This ain't a place t'sit n'chat. Y'state your business and go."
Shane had heard that the chief was rarely in his office anyway, preferring to be out touring the department, making unscheduled stops. Filosiani had posted office hours for those seeking meetings, but he spent at least three hours each day in the trenches, available to his troops. At first, the Blues in the field had remained skeptical, but slowly, one cop at a time, the Day-Glo Dago was winning converts.
A buzzer on the chief's phone rang. He picked it up and listened, then said: "Send her in."
The door opened and Alexa walked into the office, carrying a manila file folder. She crossed the office and delivered it to the chief. "That was in a wall safe behind a picture in Commander Shephard's office," she said. "I thought a hidden office safe was sort of unusual, so I checked to see who authorized the installation. I couldn't find any record anywhere. I checked the Furniture, Equipment and Transfer Log, along with the Equipment Budget Request for DSG, even the Maintenance and Repair Log… Nothing. The safe must have been put in on the sly, on a weekend or something. We had to drill it to get it open. That file was all that was inside."
The Day-Glo Dago rubbed his mouth with his right hand, inadvertently flashing his diamond pinky ring in the light streaming through his huge office windows. "Okay, then…," he said, opening the folder, "let's see what we got here." He squinted at the first page, flipped a few… Read… Squinted again… Flipped some more… Now he was frowning. Then he closed the folder. "It doesn't say nothin'; just a bunch of numbers," he growled, looking at her. "Gibberish."
"Yes, sir," Alexa said. "It looks like some kind of arithmetic code." She still didn't look over at Shane, not wanting to admit that he might have been right, that Mark Shephard had somehow been involved in an illegal conspiracy.
"You get this over to the Questioned Documents Division?" Filosiani asked, referring to the section of the Scientific Investigations Division that broke codes and did handwriting analysis.
"Yes, sir, I sent them a copy; they're looking at it now, scanning it into their computer. Captain Franklin over there said they would probably be able to break it, but he couldn't estimate how long it would take."
"Sir, this unit is going to go further underground," Shane said. "Jody knows I found his crib. He'll be twice as hard to find now."
"Where's the radio you two took outta Shephard's wall?" Flosianii asked.
"In my office," Alexa said.
"Bring it in," he ordered.
She turned and left the room. Shane and Tony Filosiani traded stares but didn't speak. A few minutes later Alexa returned with the twenty-pound black UHF radio. She lugged it in and put it down on Filosiani's gray metal desk.
The Day-Glo Dago looked at the dial. "You say this is set on the same frequency as the one you saw in the noise-abatement house?" the chief asked in his distinctive New York accent.
"Yes, sir," Shane said. "Same frequency."
"It's got a built-in scrambler… And a satellite transmitter-very expensive and almost impossible to triangulate on," Alexa added.
"Dusted?"
"Yes, sir. We got a right-hand index and thumb off the faceplate. They're over at Latent Prints with the ones we got off the glass Shane found in the kitchen," Alexa said. "We're running them against Jody Dean's file; then, if that fails, we're gonna see if we can get a cold hit from the Police Academy class records."
Filosiani nodded. He leaned over the radio and put his pudgy fingers on the ON/OFF button. After a moment, he flipped the switch. The radio hissed to life, but there was no one using the frequency. The radio was monitoring dead air, so after listening to the hiss for a minute, he shut it off.
"They probably have those radio units turned on only when they're on surveillance," Shane volunteered.
"Okay, I'm gonna assume the worst here," Filosiani said softly. "I'm gonna assume we got a rogue squad throwin' bricks and tryin' t'fly under the radar."
Alexa's expression told Shane that her defense of Mark Shephard was starting to crumble. "Sir, I'm not at all sure that-"
"Yeah, yeah," Filosiani interrupted her. "Me, either; but if we assume the worst, then we ain't gonna get schmucked."
The phone on his desk beeped, and the chief picked it up. "Yeah…" He listened without speaking for over a minute. "Okay. Got it." He hung up and stared at them. "Latents just got a cold hit. The prints from the radio were Shephard's, but the ones on the water glass belong t' an LAPD sergeant named Hector Sanchez Rodriquez. He was a member a'Cobra, workin' special crimes in the Valley Division. He supposedly died in a drug-house fire two years ago. The story is, he was workin' a Mexican drug ring, undercover, and SIS didn't know he was ours, tried to take down a crack house he was in, lobbed some canisters, and the place flamed. Sergeant Rodriquez went up in the fire. Records is sending his file over."
"Sir, Cobra is one of the LAPD units interacting with the Sheriff's Department. The Vikings were originally Sheriff's Department rogues. Commander Shephard had a Viking tattoo. Jody was in SIS, and since I got that glass two hours ago, we know Rodriquez is still alive, just like Jody. This is a criminal conspiracy."
There was a strange silence in the under-furnished office.
"This ain't gonna be easy," the Super Chief said. "Matter a'fact, it's gonna be tricky and dangerous as hell… But if you two are willin' t'play a little loose, I think maybe we can reel this bunch in."
"Let's hear it," Alexa said.
"I'd tell ya t'pull up a chair, but since I don't have one, how 'bout we all go across the street and get a cuppa coffee?"
So that's what they did.
Shane didn't get home until almost ten-thirty that night. His mind was picking up the dangerous pieces of Chief Filosiani's plan and then putting them back where he found them.
Jigsaw pieces that had made a convincing picture an hour ago now didn't seem to fit. In theory it could all come together, but the plan was physically dangerous for both him and Alexa. But despite his nervousness, it seemed as if it might be the only way to lure Jody out-the only way Shane could get Jody to trust him enough to let him infiltrate his secret squad.
Shane had the black UHF radio under his arm as he entered his Venice house from the garage. He could feel the reloaded Mini-Cougar heavy on his ankle. He had filled the nine-shot clip with light loads that would protect Alexa when he eventually fired at her per Filosiani's plan. He set the radio down on the kitchen counter and switched it on. Shane had to wait until the rogue unit went hot again; then while they had the UHF satellite radio on, he would step on their transmission, trigger the mike, talk to Jody, and make his pitch. He hoped Filosiani had given him enough information to get Jody to agree to meet him. As the radio hissed softly from the kitchen counter, Shane fished a beer out of the refrigerator and held it up to his face, rolling it along his forehead to cool his throbbing brain.
Then he sensed movement behind him.
He spun around, but he was way too late.
Chapter 17
COMING CORRECT
THE FIRST THING Shane became aware of was a fetid, throat-constricting stench. He was still unconscious; the smell had started in the middle of a confusing, kaleidoscopic dream. The odor filled his nostrils, becoming stronger and more unpleasant as consciousness gradually returned. Getting his eyes open was a little like prying up a manhole cover with his fingernails.
He was finally looking at a damp, rusting metal wall; his hands were locked painfully behind him. Finally Shane realized he was sitting on a metal floor, handcuffed to some kind of structural support… all of this drifting through his thoughts without making much of an impact. The back of his head throbbed where he had been hit, and a sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes, threatening to explode with each heartbeat. Suddenly a moment of panic and a surge of adrenaline. His thoughts focused; his senses returned.
Cold, bluish light hissing from a Coleman lantern hanging from a knotted rope on the
ceiling; the radio he took from Shephard's house, on a nearby table, on the edge of his peripheral vision; three… No, two men, talking low.
"Was me, I'd come correct on the man." The sentence had a Mexican lilt. The second voice was deep and rumbling. Shane recognized the same African American speech rhythm from the UHF radio broadcast he had overheard from the house on Dolores Street. He had to concentrate hard to translate the rich ghetto idiom.
"We all be flossin'. You hear what I be sayin'? Jody's all'a time treating us like we just studio gangstas hangin' round, tryin' t'get served. He ain't da only one bustin' moves here. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"You a tough cabeza when Jody ain't in the room, but you just doin' fake jacks, nigger." A chair scraped.
"Ain't afraid a'Jody-fuck Jody," the black voice said, then added: "I think Casper's over there lyin' in the cut. Check him out."
Shane heard footsteps, then a face loomed into view. The man had tangled shoulder-length hair and a bushy black beard laid up against dark, swarthy skin. He looked Hispanic, but his eyes were an odd color for a Latin, a strange light gray-hooded eyes, set deep under massive, bony brows. He shoved his chin down in Shane's face and studied him.
Could this be the late Sergeant Hector Rodriquez?
When the man spoke, the Mexican idiom disappeared. Now his tone was condescending, more like a cop talking to a street criminal: "How's things down there in Shitsville, Scully?"
Shane heard another chair scrape, and a second face swung into view. This was the African American who'd exited the pool-cleaning truck when Shane was trapped in the noise-abatement house. He was ebony black, and now that the man had his baseball cap off, Shane could see that he had shaved his head. From his right ear hung a long chain with a cross dangling at the end of it. His tank top was ripped and dirty.
"How long you been listening Scully?" the African American said.
Shane could smell booze on his breath. "Where's Jody?" Shane's pinched voice echoed weakly in the windowless space.
"Ain't here," the Mexican said.
"Are you cops?"
The black man looked at Shane and gave his answer careful consideration before he spoke. "We was makin' weak-ass music, y'know? Hadda leave da jam. You come along and be tryin' t'collect for the trip. 'Cept now all you be doin' is waitin' on the big bus."
The confusing ghetto-speak made Shane's head throb. "Get Jody. I got something he'll want to hear, something important." Shane was trying to focus, to collect his scattered thoughts. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. He couldn't see outside and didn't know if it was day or night. As his senses cleared, he began to feel the gentle lapping of water against the outside of the metal wall he was cuffed to. He thought maybe he was on a big rusting boat, somewhere down by the harbor. "I got something important to tell Jody," he repeated.
"You don't tell nobody shit. You assed-out big-time, muthafucka," the African American said softly. "You shot Victory. Fuckin' guy is moaning and crying'. We hadda smuggle him down t'Mexico t'get him fixed."
"Victory?" Shane asked.
"Peter Smith. Man calls hisself 'Victory' 'cause he say he never loses. He's the-"
"Hey, Inky Dink," the Mexican interrupted. "Shut up. Yer mama ain't here, so who you tryin' to impress?"
"Don't matter… Fuckin' guy's dead anyway."
Then, either because he had been disrespected or to make his point, the black ex-cop stepped forward and grabbed Shane, jerking him up violently. Shane's hands were still cuffed to some kind of structural support, so his wrists exploded in pain as he came abruptly to the end of the chain. His head and torso were only three feet off the floor, his shoulders aching, barely able to keep his legs under him.
"I told Jody we shoulda capped you when you went to see his old lady… When you talked to the Good Shepherd," the black ex-cop said angrily. "But he says no. He's got some fuckin' issues with you. Like what you two white boys did in Little League makes a shitload of difference t'anything. But he ain't here t'cover ya, so guess what? We gonna come correct on yo' white-slice ass."
He hit Shane with a thundering right cross.
Darkness swarmed, and Shane was knocked back inside his head. For a second he was still conscious, peering out through a tiny hole of light that quickly narrowed.
Then he was swimming in black… Dreamless… unattached… alone.
Chapter 18
THE WINDUP
You AMAZE ME," the voice said.
Shane kept his eyes closed; his head was down on his chest. His jaw felt dislocated. He was trying to get his jumbled thoughts in order, standing on the front porch of a disaster, rehearsing opening lines like a teenager on his first date.
Jody's voice droned: "You runnin' all over, talkin' to Glass House brass. I always held your back, Hot Sauce. How come ya' couldn't hold mine?"
Shane still didn't answer.
"Give it up, man. I can see ya thinkin' in there. I read you like the funny papers. Open yer eyes, or I'm gonna set your socks on fire."
So Shane opened his eyes and looked up.
Jody was still greyhound-lean, his stringy muscles flexed and bulged under an old LAPD T-shirt that read sis… WE MAKE HOUSE CALLS. Copper hair hung in long, untended ringlets around his head. His tangled beard had not been trimmed. But Jody's X-ray eyes were drilling, piercing holes in Shane's paper-thin psyche.
"I was countin' on you, Salsa, but you didn't come through. It was all I could do to keep my crew from swingin' by your house and giving you a shiny new set of nine-millimeter nipple jewelry."
"You're hanging out with very frank company," Shane mumbled softly; his throat was sore, his jaw was popping cartilage painfully when he spoke. "Your crew thinks you're a piece of shit."
"Two weeks more and none a'that matters. I can hold it together." He smiled, and for a second, Shane saw the old Jody from Little League, smirking after a tough out, joy mixed with sarcasm, as if his charmed life were still just a practical joke on everyone.
It was time to make his pitch. Shane felt weak and dull, not up to the task, but he had no choice. He wondered what day it was… How long he'd been unconscious… He wondered if he needed to adjust the Chief's carefully worked-out timetable.
"You got something you're about to lay on me, Hot Sauce. So, get to it." Jody was back inside his head, browsing, uninvited.
"What time is it?" Shane started. "What day?"
"Two A. M. Tuesday morning."
"Tomorrow at nine A. M., the department is gonna know all you guys are still alive."
"I don't think so."
"Commander Shephard had a secret safe in his office. He kept a file on your unit behind your back. Alexa found it. She's taking it to Filosiani tomorrow morning." Shane watched Jody for a flicker of interest or concern but saw nothing. "The whole thing is written in some kinda number code," Shane continued. "Once Filosiani gets it, he's gonna send it over to Questioned Documents. They're gonna scan it into their computer and they'll probably be able to break it in a day or two. Then everything you did to Medwick and Shephard is gonna be for nothin'."
"Medwick and Shephard?"
"You killed 'em."
"I what?" Jody smiled. "Why would I kill those guys?"
"Because they were the only two left who knew that you and this squad of yours exists."
Jody was squatting before him, Indian-style. Shane remembered that Jody could squat on his haunches like that for hours; his thighs, like steel, never seemed to tire. He was looking at Shane carefully, reading him like always but never giving away his own thoughts. Jody's face was granite, so Shane had to push his bet. He shoved more chips out. "If that file says you and these other guys aren't dead, then the department is gonna figure you killed Shephard and Medwick so you could disappear. Once they believe that, there isn't a town high enough up in the Andes or far enough out in the bush for you to hide."
A long, tense moment was punctuated by the distant moan of a foghorn. Shane was now pretty sure he was inside one of the
old deserted freighters he'd seen chained to the docks in Long Beach or San Pedro.
"I think you still got something else you want to tell me. This ain't all of it," Jody finally said.
"Jody, I've been fucked over by the department." Shane repeated the lines they had all come up with in the coffee shop across from Filosiani's office.
"No shit."
"I made that Naval Yard case, not Alexa, but they gave all the credit to her, gave her the Medal of Valor while I got a psych review. While she makes lieutenant, I'm stuck in a basket-weaving class. At first I was pissed. Now I'm just looking to get paid." Jody didn't respond, so Shane pressed his bet again-threw in some more chips. "When I saw you on the freeway, I was hurt," Shane continued. "You should've told me what was going on-that you were alive. I was like your brother. That's why I went to Medwick's house and to see Lauren. I couldn't believe you'd do this to me… Let me think you'd killed yourself."
"I had no choice, Shane. It was a department-sanctioned deep-cover op. Medwick set it up. Got the phony coroner and death-scene photos made. CGI, they call it-computer-generated imaging. He got us all undercover driver's licenses out of ATD, where they bury 'em with high-security numbers. Only Medwick and Mayweather could access them." ATD was the Anti-Terrorist Division; among other things, it supplied bogus IDs for undercover cops on deep-cover stings. "I couldn't tell you, Salsa… It was a black ops case."
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