"There's no way somebody else could turn in that prize package?"
"No, sir," Kit said. "In most of these contests, the rules mandate that the actual buyer has to claim the prize. The rare can't be passed to someone else. If we don't get the signed affidavit back here from Promo Safe attesting to those facts, then the rare is judged invalid, or if a prize claim comes in that doesn't match with the name and address of the person who the affidavit says actually bought the package, it's also invalid."
"I see." I didn't like where this was going at all. It bitched up my beautiful theory. If Tru Hickman bought the six-pack, and he already told me he did, and if Wade knew an agent from Promo Safe would be in the store to watch him do it, then what good was Hickman to Wade Wyatt and Mike Church? Tru would have to be the one to collect the money. Tru never said anything about a rare, so my guess was they hadn't told him, which meant he wasn't in on the scam. But how did that work? According to Kit, if he didn't turn in the rare himself, the prize would be disqualified. Something was definitely out of whack. I stood next to the security golf cart and thought for a minute. "Listen, Kit. I assume you have computer clearance. Do you think you could take a peek at that recent Bud Light contest from last August and tell me who won?"
"Man, you should really talk to Mr. Dahl about that in the morning."
"Except in the morning, after my supervisor is through with me, my badge is gonna be pinned to the inside of my colon."
"Yeah, I remember how that went." He looked at me for another half a minute, still trying to decide if he was going to take a chance. Then he glanced at his watch. I could read his frown. Too late to call Mr. Dahl and ask.
"Come on. Favor for a Brother Officer," I pleaded.
Still nothing.
"Can't you just go into the office, pull up the computer file, and sneak a peak?"
"Jeez. Go through files in the office?"
"This isn't exactly confidential material, is it? The winner was undoubtedly announced in the paper. Just look it up for me. I'd get Mr. Dahl to do it in the morning, except my review is at eight o'clock."
He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. I thought I'd lost him, but then unexpectedly, he said, "Okay. Get in the cart. But you better not you give me up on this."
"I'm cool," I assured him as I got in. We zoomed off in the direction of something called the Administration Annex. He pulled up, then used his keys and let us both inside.
The annex was next to the business center and was a less impressive, neon-lit, two-story shoe-box-shaped building, laid out in long corridors with doors on both sides. He walked down a carpeted first-floor hallway to an office door marked promotions, took out his key, and opened it.
"Come on in. Close the door."
"Thanks. This is really a huge help," I told him.
I took a seat across the room while he sat behind the desk and booted up the computer, then typed in his password.
"What was the contest again? What beer company?"
"Bud Light."
He searched for a minute, and then said, "Okay, here it is. We did that one nine months ago. Ten rares were in the market, all worth different amounts. Five came up as winners." He started scrolling down the page on the screen. "One in Newark. Third-tier winner. Guy won a Hummer. One in Tulsa, second tier, half a mil in prize money. One in Odessa, Texas, a grand-slam million-dollar winner; Ashland, Oregon, a Hummer; and the one here in Los Angeles."
"In the Valley? Little mini-mart in a strip mall on Sepulveda Boulevard, right?"
"Yep. That's the one. Guy won a million in cash." "And the six-pack was bought by Truit Hickman, right?" I was getting a little ahead of myself.
Kit Carson shook his head. "Nope," he said, then leaned in and squinted at the screen. "The winner lives in Valley Village. Somebody named Tito Alonzo Morales."
Chapter 23
When I got home, it was after one A. M. Alexa was in bed, but her eyes were wide open. She sat up as I came through the bedroom door.
"How come you're still awake?" I asked.
"Can't sleep. Gonna get sunk at this review tomorrow. I've got everything set up, ready to go, but I can't remember anything. I can't just be reading facts off a page, I'll look like I don't know anything." She hugged her knees. "Maybe I should just cut to the chase and resign."
"Don't say that. That's not what you should do." Then I added, "You want a beer?"
"Everything in life can't be fixed by a beer, Shane."
"Come on, get up." I handed her the heavy robe and walked out of the bedroom to get the two beers. I met her in the backyard and handed her the can.
The canal was dead still. Like glass. As we watched, a lone mallard duck paddled by, breaking the flat mirrored surface and sending a tangle of messy water to both sides of the canal behind him.
"You're gonna do fine tomorrow," I told her, but deep down I knew she was headed for a disaster. She had lost her command presence and Tony would pick up on it.
"I can't hold it together, Shane. This isn't me, but it is me. It's who I've become. I fired Ellen today."
"Oops."
"Over nothing. Over not bringing me my lunch on time, which of course she did. It was sitting inside my briefcase with the top closed. Worse still, I kind of remember putting it in there. Jesus. Who puts their just-delivered lunch inside a briefcase? Talk about gimpy behavior."
"Did you apologize?"
"Yeah. After taking her head off and accepting her resignation, I begged her to stay. She's thinking about it."
"After tomorrow, the stress will be off. You'll be better."
"By the way, you're not suspended. That's out of policy. I forgot I can't do that until after the Skelly hearing."
"I know."
"I'll call Cal and unravel that tomorrow." She looked over at me and smiled sadly. "Thank God I still have you."
We sat for a minute in awkward silence. Then I asked, "What do you know about Tito Morales?"
"Please, not this Hickman thing again."
"Did you know he won a million dollars nine months ago in a beer contest?" I held up my can and saluted her. "One of the many benefits of drinking the bubbly. I think he's using the money, or part of it, to fund his current campaign for Mayor. He's renting offices, hiring staff, placing TV ads."
"So what?" she said, her voice cold.
"Nothing. Just information." I decided to let it drop. "Listen, Alexa. I know Jane is gonna take me all the way to a full B. O. R. Since I have a thick package at PSB, I'll need a great defense." I took a deep breath. "I'd like you to be my defense rep."
"What?"
"I know the timing sucks, but you'll be out of your review tomorrow and my Skelly hearing is in ten days. I need someone to be there for my supervisor's review. You were the best they ever had down at Internal Affairs. I was wondering if you'd agree to defend me."
"I can't defend you, Shane. We're married. I'm your division commander."
"Anybody under the rank of captain is eligible."
"I'm the head of the Detective Bureau. That makes it an unusual circumstance. I'm invoking that clause."
"I just thought…"
"Forget it. No way. Not gonna happen." She stood up and looked down at me angrily. "Honestly, Shane, sometimes I wonder what goes through your head. It's inappropriate for a division commander to be a defense rep. Even though I'm only a lieutenant, I'm still the acting head of the Bureau. It would be completely wrong for me to do it. It would skew the entire hearing."
"Okay. Sorry I brought it up."
"The fact that you even asked with all I'm going through, says so much more than any words could ever say."
"You know what it says? It says I still want you on my side. We used to be a great team and I want the team back. I love you, and even though the rest of the department wants to throw you away, I still believe in you enough to put my future in your hands. That's what it says."
She stood quietly with her back to me. When she turned, I saw tears running down her face
.
Then she went quickly inside.
Chapter 24
Alexa was out of the house early. Her review with Chief Filosiani was scheduled for ten a. M. I ate breakfast alone and then looked up the number for the Police Officer's Association on my phone caddy.
At ten o'clock I walked into Jeb Calloway's office at Parker Center. He closed the door and eyed me with concern. "I talked to Jane Sasso this morning. Your Skelly is scheduled for next Tuesday-nine a. M. That's right on the ten-day timeline guaranteed you by Paragraph Six. She's really pushing to get this done. I need to do the supervisor's interview this afternoon so her IOs have time to go through it. How's three-thirty? You're allowed to bring your defense rep and a union steward from the POA."
"I guess that's okay," I said. "But I don't have a defense rep yet."
"If I were you, I'd get one now. Either way, be back here at three-thirty. We'll go over the charge sheet first, then I'll take your statement." He looked like a man walking on quicksand as he added, "Alexa's office called down yesterday and said you were suspended. I think that's out of policy, but I guess we can transfer your case load anyway."
"She rescinded that last night. She was going to call you about it."
Jeb was still frowning as I left his office. He didn't like procedural messes. I returned to my desk and pulled out the slip of paper with the number for the POA. The amount of trouble I keep getting into, I should have it on permanent speed dial. After I got through to the union, I was transferred to the steward section. I asked for Bill Utley, who had sat in for the union on my last I. A. performance beef. I was told he was out of the office, so I left my name and the time of my supervisor's review in Jeb's office. Then I scanned the charge sheet into my computer and e-mailed it to him.
Since I was technically still on the job and it was only ten-thirty, I decided to use up my remaining time by heading back out to Cartco. On the way, I called Secada.
"What d'you have going on this morning?" I asked.
"I'm meeting with my defense rep and POA steward, trying to get prepped for my supervisor meeting."
"Can you meet me out at Cartco in an hour?"
"This is a bad morning, Shane."
"You need to hear what I've got to say, and I don't trust my cell. I'll have you back in the office by one."
"Roger that," she said and hung up.
I had a plan in mind, which was legally sort of out there. But if I didn't get some traction soon, we were both going down in flames.
I drove to a Best Buy in Glendale and purchased a new Black-Berry that was identical to Roger Dahl's and the one Wade Wyatt had used when I pulled him over in his dad's Ferrari. I got back in my car and plugged it into the car cigarette lighter to charge as I drove. When I arrived at Penrose Avenue, I parked across the street from the container factory and waited. At eleven-fifteen Secada pulled in. She was driving her personally owned vehicle, known in the profession as a POV. Thankfully, she had left the conspicuous black-and-white slick-back at the motor pool.
She got out of her green SUV Suburban and crossed to my MDX. "Your car looks like shit. When're you gonna get some of this body work done?" she asked as she got in.
"That's way down on my to-do list right now," I snapped.
"Don't bite my head off. What's up?"
I told her about Tito Morales winning the million-dollar contest prize.
After I finished I saw a look of disappointment on her beautiful face.
"I can't believe he is in on this." She considered the information and then added sadly, "Man, I thought he was going to be a true carnal. Another one bites the dust."
I couldn't tell her what I had on my mind, because it was a little shady and she had already informed me that she didn't like to lie. Instead, I told her I thought it was time to have a little talk with Wade Wyatt. I wanted to give him a push and I needed her help. After I finished telling her what I wanted her to do, she was frowning-and I hadn't even told her the best part. She glanced at her watch but reluctantly agreed to stick around and help, providing she could get back downtown by two.
Wade Wyatt kept very gentlemanly work hours. He tooled the silver McLaren into the lot at eleven-forty, opened the gull wing door, and stepped out wearing tennis whites and carrying a beautiful, black alligator briefcase. He started toward the administration building. I had reparked and was now sitting alone in my car, only two spaces away. Before he could get to his building, I was out of the Acura and intercepted him halfway up the path.
"Am I supposed to know you?" he asked. The same look of entitlement I'd seen three nights ago, firmly in place.
"I see you got your car back from the Church of Destruction. Is the suspension all fixed the way you wanted it?" Not reaching for my badge, watching to see if he figured it out. It took him a minute, but he got there.
"Oh yeah." He shook his head and grinned. It was a very endearing smile. "Dude, between us, I was totally surprised you didn't pop me for speeding. I was boned… going way too fast. But it's too late now. You missed your window."
"We've got more important things we need to discuss," I said.
"Look, Mister whatever your name is…"
"Detective Shane Scully."
"Here's a sad but pertinent fact. You and I don't even live on the same planet, okay? We don't eat the same kind of food or drink the same kind of booze. We don't lay the same kind of women. We got nothing-absolutely nothing-in common. It closely follows, therefore, that we have nothing to discuss."
"Wanta bet?" I grinned at him, trying for my own endearing little smile, although it probably came off more like Jack the Ripper in mid-kill-chop.
"How 'bout a hundred?" he said, arrogantly. "Or is that too big a bet for a guy only making forty grand a year?" He tried to move past me as if with that insult, the discussion was definitely over.
"A hundred sounds good," I told him.
Wyatt turned back, surprised. "You kidding?"
"I think I can keep you conversationally entertained for a while, so you're on."
We stood there in the hot morning sun, me in my two-hundred-dollar blazer, him in his thousand-dollar tennis whites. We both tried to see how this was going to get started.
In an interview, I usually let the other guy go first just to see what he thinks we should be talking about. But Wade Wyatt was perfectly content to just stand there and wait. So I said, "How 'bout we begin by discussing the Bud Light contest that you and Mike Church ripped off ten months ago?"
No reaction.
"Is that the big wow?" he finally said. "Let's see, how's this supposed to track? My dad's worth hundreds of millions of dollars. I have unlimited credit and a Black AMEX card. But despite all this, you're suggesting I was so desperate for cash that I ripped off my own family's business with some brain-dead, West Valley car mechanic as my accomplice. Perhaps you could tell me why on earth I would ever do such a stupid thing."
"Maybe it's just because you just couldn't help yourself," I said pleasantly.
Wyatt stood looking at me, not taking any of this very seriously. It was almost as if he was deciding if I was going to be enough of an intellectual challenge to even waste ten minutes on. Then he turned and walked back to the McLaren, opened the trunk, and pulled out his tennis racket. He held it firmly in his right hand and began taking vicious practice swings.
"If you try to hit me with that I'll delaminate it over your fuzzy head."
"Don't be ridiculous. I just remembered it was in the car. Didn't want the gut strings to cook in the heat." He carried it back to where I was standing.
"Once we finish talking about the prize contest, I also have a few questions I want to ask you about Tru Hickman," I continued.
"Tru Hickman? That name's supposed to mean something to me?"
"Yeah, he was a tweaker friend of Mike Church's that you guys recruited to buy the Bud Light prize package that you knew was being sold out of a Valley mini-mart on Sepulveda."
Wade Wyatt stood looking at me, the
smile still locked firmly in place. But I had his interest now. I could see some rapid eye movement.
"I never heard of Tru Hickman. Don't know him."
"Sure you do."
Then he got his confidence back. His smile widened like somebody who knew he was having his leg pulled and was still trying to figure out why. He wasn't used to being baited and his sense of entitlement convinced him he was far above my feeble grasp.
"You're a very funny man," he remarked.
"I get that a lot."
"Okay, Mister Policeman. Since I can't help you with any of that, we're concluded. I've got a busy afternoon."
"We're not concluded. I intend to get the answers to all of my questions before I leave."
"I can make one or two calls and Chief Filosiani, who I believe signs your paychecks, will make you go away."
"The Chief doesn't sign my checks. The city payroll clerk does."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't try matching wits with me," he said softly.
Now it was my turn to stand my ground and smile at him.
"Okay, if you have something so important on your mind. Let's hear it," he said.
"Olivia Hickman. We need to talk about her, too."
For the first time, I hit a soft spot. I saw it mostly in his body language-a slight dimming of the smile, a slumping of his shoulders. But he recovered nicely.
"Olivia Hickman. And let me guess. She's somehow related, or married to this Tru Hickman person."
"His mom. Past tense. She was murdered."
"And I know something about it?"
I just let his question simmer.
Wade stood with his expensive briefcase in one hand and the titanium racket in the other, dressed in snappy white shorts, ready to serve America's container needs worldwide. Then he said, "If I could prove to you I don't know about any of this, about this Tru
Hickman person buying that beer, or his mother's murder, what then?
"That would certainly be a huge help," I responded, pleasantly.
"Then follow me."
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