We stood in silence for a moment. Then she laid the charge sheet down on the table and started ticking off the charges from memory.
"Refusal of a direct order from A-Chief Townsend. Malfeasance of duty. Making false or misleading statements during an inquiry. Failure to cooperate with an ongoing investigation inside proper department channels, and ignoring the direct order of the Head of the Internal Affairs Division."
"Because she was wrong."
"So now I'm giving you a direct order."
We looked at each other over a chasm growing wider and deeper by the minute.
"You get your supervisor's review and your Skelly hearing. Both are being scheduled by Cal and Jane Sasso. In the meantime, you're suspended. Relieved of all your cases and responsibilities. See Callaway about transferring your workload in the morning. And this order is coming straight from the Head of the Detective Division. Ignore it, and you're out on your ass, Shane. Understand?"
"Seems pretty clear."
"Good."
She turned and went back into the house.
I stood, went inside, grabbed my jacket, then went to the garage, got into my busted MDX, and headed out, not sure where I was going, just needing some space. Needing to be away.
I got on the freeway and drove toward town. Of course, one way to fix my problem was to just drop the Hickman case and start kissing rings on the sixth floor, begging for forgiveness. I had Alexa to worry about. She needed my help and understanding. This Hickman case had become a huge career mistake for me. What if I just cut and ran? I considered that option carefully as I drove. How much would that act of self-preservation cost me in self-esteem? Could I swallow more career cowardice like my refusal to testify against Brian Devine fifteen years ago? Could I just drop this mess and move on? I tried to come to terms with the idea. But I kept seeing Tru Hickman standing there in the visitor's center, skinny and pale, pulling at his frayed sleeve, begging me to save him. I was his only chance and I knew I had to keep trying.
I dialed Chooch. I promised myself that the call wouldn't be about Alexa. I didn't want to put him in the middle. I just wanted to hear his voice. But his cell went directly to voice mail. He was probably in an evening film session or some place where he couldn't talk.
I kept driving and wondering what I should do. I knew Alexa was right about my behavior being an issue in her review. The brass would hammer her for my misconduct. But weren't some things bigger than this job? Didn't dedication to a principle count for something?
I wasn't sure anymore. I didn't know what to do. I needed help.
I dialed another number.
"Hello?" Secada said.
Chapter 21
"You sure that's what he yelled?" she asked me, scrolling through the pictures on my digital camera.
"Yeah. 'Fuck you, codelincuente.' Morales yelled it just as Lieutenant Devine was pulling away from the campaign headquarters. This was after almost five minutes of screaming at each other in the parking lot."
"Codelincuente means 'partner.' But more negative than that. More like 'partner in crime.'" She set my camera down.
We were in the living room of Secada's beautiful, candlelit, loft apartment. She lived in one of those renovated factories downtown on Fifth. Developers had come in and gutted the old buildings, turning Skid Row junk into expensive yuppie housing. I estimated this one was up over half a million dollars. I wondered how the hell she could afford it or, for that matter, the six-hundred-dollar suits she wore.
We were sitting by an expansive window, drinking red wine. If I wasn't in such a horrible mood, I would have thought the atmosphere inviting. The top of the Bonaventure and Nob Hill were visible from her windows. I watched as half a mile away, an old, rebuilt, and freshly painted Angels Flight tram car crawled slowly up the small cliff face on dark cables. At midnight the last car would descend to the terminal, bringing visitors and tourists to the bottom of the hill.
"I keep wondering what ties Tito Morales and Brian Devine together," I said. "A kick-ass head breaker and a politically engaged Latino prosecutor. These guys don't seem like they should be drinking from the same fountain."
I looked over at Secada. She was dressed in a white running suit, her dark hair and brown skin made lush by its contrast.
"I'll check that out," she said. "See what I can find." She took a sip of her wine. "You were right about all of those guys we ran at Church's house being in the Van Nuys school system. Jose Diego, Mike Church, Enrico Palomino, Wade Wyatt, and Tyler Cisneros. But they weren't at Van Nuys High. Only Church and Diego went there. I checked back and the whole bunch were at Van Nuys Junior High. Wade Wyatt transferred to private school in the eighth grade when his dad left the Universal Studios Legal Affairs department in the Valley and set up his own law firm in Century City. A few years later the family moved to the estate in Bel Air. I talked to a vice-principal who remembered them. Apparently Mike Church stole Wade's new ten-speed bike in the seventh grade. It was a big incident because Wade got his father's gun, brought it to school, and threatened to kill Church. Aubrey Wyatt gave the school money for some new science classroom equipment and the problem went away. After that, Church and Wyatt became friends under the social principle that states, 'Assholes are inevitably drawn to other assholes.'"
"Okay, so junior high is the nexus," I said.
"And you think these codelincuentes all got together last year to rip off that million-dollar beer prize?"
"Yeah. Wade Wyatt works in the legal department at Cartco. He'd have access to the market locations of the rares. But he can't win the prize himself because he's a member of the carton manufacturer's family, so he gets together with Mike Church."
"Church can't be tied in directly either, because he's only one generation removed on the friendship chart. I did a lottery rip-off investigation once and it's customary to run intense background searches on winners to make sure there's no cheating. Church, Wyatt, and these other guys are all involved with that bus company police department. That's too close a connection. It would pop up on a computer run. The prize committee would find out they were all friends."
"So they recruit poor, half-out-of-it, Tru Hickman to buy the beer. He's a certified tweaker and Mike's old yard bitch from CYA. He can't be tied directly to Wade Wyatt or Cartco."
"I like it." She got up and poured some more wine for herself, then freshened my glass and sat back down by the window.
"Yeah, I like it, too," I said. "Olivia Hickman wouldn't let them take the beer when Church came over to pick up Tru. Big argument. They leave without the million-dollar six-pack. Church, and maybe Wyatt, come back to the Hickman house later that night after Tru gas bags on meth at that party. Things get out of control and they kill Olivia, then take the prize-winning package."
"Okay, so who's got the million dollars?" she asked. "After he was charged with murder, Tru couldn't collect it."
"Obviously, Wade Wyatt got it somehow," I said. "I think maybe that's what paid for the half-million-dollar McLaren. I think he split it with Mike Church. What we don't know is who actually collected the prize. We know it wasn't Tru and we know neither Wyatt or Church could do it. It had to be somebody they trusted, or someone who was afraid enough of them to just turn it over and not complain afterward."
"Then that's where we start tomorrow," she said.
We sat silently, looking out the window, sipping red wine from crystal glasses, neither of us mentioning that tomorrow we'd probably both be off the job and facing I. A. boards. Then, without warning, the moment turned awkward with sexual tension.
"This place is nice," I said, trying to alter the vibe. I started looking around the apartment, then brought my gaze back to her. Low light from flickering candles danced in the hollows of her neck and glinted seductively off her hair. "How does a D-Three afford a place like this?"
"My ex-husband was a very successful stockbroker. I got this in the divorce."
"Good going," I said, unaware before this moment that she'd once
been married.
"There was anger, I'm not certain it was worth it. We still don't talk."
"I got my charge sheet today," I told her, changing the subject again because I could tell from her body language she was uncomfortable talking about her broken marriage.
"Me, too," she said.
"I'm suspended until my Skelly hearing, whenever it's scheduled."
"I thought they couldn't suspend you 'til after the Skelly. Who did that?"
"Head of the Detective Bureau"
"Your wife suspended you?"
"Yep."
A long moment passed before Secada leaned forward. "I knew something bad had happened. I saw the pain in your eyes."
We sat in silence as disapproval for Alexa spread across Secada's face. I again felt a need to protect my wife, to rehabilitate her in Secada's eyes.
"I was nothing until she came along," I said softly, the sense of loss and regret seeping out of me. "She gave meaning to my life. Because of her, I opened myself up, became a better person."
"I understand."
"And now I feel empty. I'm lost without her. We're fighting all the time. That bullet in the head changed her. She's worried about this internal performance review that Tony is putting her through. It's all she thinks about."
Then I was talking about my marital problems, blurting it all out. All the stuff I hadn't told Dr. Lusk. I was talking about Alexa, my fears, and anger. It was all rushing out of me, fouling the candlelit atmosphere.
"I can't give up on her. I can't let it all go. But I also can't go on like this. Just being in the house with this person, who isn't the woman I married and love, is killing me."
"What do you want from me?"
"I don't know."
Silence.
"I can be your friend," she said slowly. "Or later, if you and Alexa don't figure this out… maybe even your lover. But I won't be your sister, Shane."
More silence.
"I need help," I finally told her. "I need a friend."
She thought about that for a long moment before she said, "Okay, as your friend, I have one idea that might help." I leaned forward. "I know Jane Sasso and she's pissed about us staying involved with this. She's gonna take this all the way to a full Board. But according to Paragraph Six of the Police Bill of Rights, an accused officer can pick anyone in the department below the rank of captain to represent him at a board. Alexa is still just a lieutenant. Why don't you pick her to be your defense rep? I understand when she was in I. A. she was the best advocate in the division. She knows how to argue a legal case. You pick your wife to defend you, then you two can work on the problems surrounding this together. She'll see that you are right. She will see what I see. Alexa will fall in love with you all over again."
She fell silent, regarding me with undisguised sympathy. Then she looked me directly in the eyes and said, "It's good advice, Shane. You know it is."
"I hadn't thought of that," I admitted. "But what if she says no?"
"Department rules forbid it. If she is picked by an accused officer, she has to agree to serve unless there are extreme reasons why she can't. You'll make her see the wisdom in this idea," Secada said. "Now get out of here and go home, Shane. If you stay any longer, you will be forced to watch me cry."
Chapter 22
It was eleven-thirty when I pulled out of the underground garage next to Secada's loft apartment. Technically I knew she was correct about my protections under Rule Six of the Police Bill of Rights. Anybody in the department below the rank of captain could be compelled to serve as my defense rep unless unusual circumstances were present. I knew that Alexa could invoke the Unusual Circumstances clause because, as a division commander, she had greater responsibilities. On the other hand, maybe she would hang in there with me. I wondered if it would be possible, or even fair of me to ask her to take on my Board of Rights with everything else she was facing. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the idea of Alexa defending me had a lot going for it. Getting it to happen was going to be another thing altogether.
Tomorrow my gun and badge would probably go into a holding locker, and as far as the job was concerned, I would be up on blocks. If I wanted to have any further effect on Tru's predicament, I had to get busy and bust a pretty good move in a hurry.
I got on the freeway and twenty minutes later was back on Penrose Street parked across from Cartco. The up-lights illuminated the building's poured concrete facade and the large, ornate company sign.
Here goes nothings I thought, and drove the MDX into the parking lot and up to the guard gate. There had been no guard on duty in the afternoon, but the night shift was protected by a rickety old, white-haired guy with a sagging gun belt and a light blue uniform. I showed him my badge. I even let him hold it for a second. Tomorrow, it wouldn't be mine anyway.
"LAPD Homicide," I announced.
"What's this about?"
"Murder," I said, theatrically. "I need to talk to the head of security."
The old man picked up the phone and called a number. "Kit? It's Leo at the front gate. LAPD Homicide dick is out here askin' for you." He listened for a moment, then hung up.
"Park over there." He pointed at a guest spot.
I parked the Acura as instructed. All of the spaces in front of the Administration Building were empty. After a minute, I heard the electric hum of a golf cart and looked over as a four-seater with a fringed roof and security seal on the hood rounded the corner and came to a stop next to the driver's side of my car. Behind the wheel was a middle-aged man with a buzz cut wearing a lightweight suit. His sloping, weightlifter's shoulders and muscular neck told me that he took his job seriously.
"Hi. Help you?"
I showed him my badge and he looked it over carefully before handing it back.
"Okay, Detective Scully. I'm Doug Carson. Ex-L. A. Sheriff. Back when I was on the job everybody called me Kit. I run night security. So what's up? Who died?"
I didn't know if I should lay all this out. Especially to somebody who wanted to be called Kit Carson. But I was out of time.
"Alright, Kit. I'm working on a murder out of Homicide Special.
On the surface it looks like a nothing killing over a six-pack of beer, but the deeper I dig, the more I think the real motive was the theft of one of your high-dollar contest packages."
"A rare."
"Exactly. I was here this afternoon and talked to Roger Dahl." I saw him relax a little at the mention of a familiar name.
"So what do you need?"
"I need to know how it works. The contests, who knows about them. All about the security. Anything you know about those promotions would help."
"Guess there's no harm in telling that. It's all been written up in the press."
"Good. I wouldn't ask you late at night like this, but I have a major case review in the morning. My supervisor's a real asshole about having every single detail down in the murder book."
"Man, do I know that type. I had a Loo on my old bank squad who would take your head off if you didn't have every damn case fact on your daily I-report."
"Then you know my problem."
"Okay. We print the rares over in E-Building." He pointed at the big warehouse structure with the loading dock and all the topflight security I'd witnessed earlier.
"Mr. Dahl showed me that security system this afternoon," I said to further loosen him up. "Pretty impressive."
"Right. Security to get in there is bulletproof. Can't get inside unless you're on the approved list."
"Okay, what else?"
"Each prize package is hand-delivered to randomly selected distribution points. A distribution point is like a market or a store where the rare is put on a shelf by a bonded member of Promo Safe."
"Who?"
"Promo Safe. They're an independent company we hire that guarantees the integrity of the contest. Cartco employs them to watch the rares."
I grabbed my notebook and started to write. I would have used
a tape recorder, but this was off the record, and it always spooks people when you shove a mic under their nose, so I stuck with the spiral pad. "Promo Safe. Okay, what do you need them for?" I asked as I wrote. "Why not just watch the rares yourself?"
"On these big national promotions the company putting up the prize always does a lot of advance advertising on radio and TV to alert the public they're giving away millions in prize money, or whatever. The idea is to get everybody to think they're gonna win so they'll buy more product. In your case, beer."
"Makes sense."
"But lots of times, the rares will get bought by somebody who has no idea the beer company, or whatever, is having a contest. They bought the prize package, but because they didn't know, they just throw the package away when they're done with it and they don't claim the prize. If nobody wins, then inevitably there's people out there who'll say, 'You guys never had any prize packages in the marketplace to begin with. The whole contest was just a lot of promotional B. S.'
"
"I see. So the Promo Safe guys protect you against that kind of claim."
"Exactly. They hand-carry the prize packages to the stores, then stand in the aisle and watch for as long as it takes until the rare is purchased. They follow the buyer home and log the address. Then they fill out an affidavit. That way, if the purchaser of the prize package doesn't know to scrape off the number and there's a complaint that no prize was won, there is somebody from Promo Safe, a totally independent company, to certify that he witnessed the purchase of the prize-winning package, who purchased it, and where he or she lives. That way everybody knows the contest was on the up-and-up. Promo Safe employs security agents who are ex-FBI or Treasury guys. They're all bonded."
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