White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  We passed through another door and climbed a set of metal stairs backstage, finally arriving at the sound control room, high up in the rear of the theater. The door to the booth was open, revealing a cramped space outfitted with a state-of-the-art digital mixing board. Three video screens hung from ceiling brackets overhead, allowing the director, producer, and sound tech to monitor what was happening on stage.

  Lionel Wright was leaning over the board with an engineer, finessing the pots, adjusting levels. He was in stage makeup and had rejected his own Bust A Cap running gear in favor of a Sean John warm-up suit with diamond earrings and gold rope chains.

  "Man, Twista Sista got a slammin' cut here. We shoulda opened with this," he said and leaned down into the microphone. "Okay, that's tight, Latisha. We gotta wrap it up now. You guys sound great."

  On the overhead screen I saw the stage manager escort the act offstage.

  Lionel turned to me, and I handed him the two mug shots. "These guys and two others showed up here ten, fifteen minutes ago. Your old shot caller, Crocodile Smith dropped 'em off."

  "Sounds like you been doin' peeps at my past, Scully." Then Lionel turned to Vondell. "That old-school G is probably down here tryin't' mess up the bang."

  "Forget the show," I said. "They're here to put a bullet in you."

  "I've survived this asshole for two years. Tonight's not going to be any different."

  "This isn't good," Mustafa said. "This place is a maze of basements, corridors, and rooms. They could be anywhere. Come out when the lights dim and go to work. Gonna be hard to stop 'em."

  "We need to sweep the building," I said.

  "I agree," Vondell chipped in.

  Then in the damndest display of criminal audacity I've ever witnessed, everyone in the room, except me, pulled out a hunk of German iron and started checking clips and chambering rounds.

  "Hey, hey, hey," I said, taking a step back. "You can't do that."

  "Whatta you want us to do," Lionel said. "Hit these G's with pepper spray?"

  He turned to Mustafa. "Find your guys. Give them a heads-up and get a sweep going." He pointed up at a monitor that showed the doors were open and the audience was now streaming into the concert hall. "I got audience already moving in downstairs. We gotta try and sift through all these armed people without starting a riot.

  "I'm on it," Elijah Mustafa said and took off. I heard him clamber down the metal staircase as the rest of us trooped out of the booth and back along the corridor overlooking the theater. The audience milled below looking for seats as we descended the stairs to the lobby. Taylor peeled off and moved in the direction of the op+en theater. Lionel followed, and I grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  "You can't go in there," I warned. "There's too many sightlines. You're the target."

  "I'm not gonna hide from these bustas," he said, showing good street cred.

  The lobby was now packed to overflowing as guests with tickets were herded in from the street and squeezed against the large lobby bar where five more female bartenders, who looked like models, were serving drinks to rap stars, music execs, and flashy-looking wannabes. I surveyed the teeming mass of human flesh and counted several members of the Fruit of Islam positioned among the partygoers. Their tan suits and Kufi hats made them easy to spot. People began to recognize Lionel. As they surged forward, we were pushed even tighter against the bar.

  "What up, family?" one guy said in greeting, pushing close. It felt dangerous. Out of control. We were trapped, unable to move.

  Lionel grinned, waved, and shouted greetings to rival record execs and rap stars. "There's a secure room in the basement," Vondell said. "Let's hole up there till Mustafa gets this locked down."

  I nodded my approval.

  "I can't hide in the basement. I got a show to produce," Lionel said.

  Vondell and I ignored him. He took Lionel's arm and, with me out front clearing a path, we tried to make our way toward the basement doors at the side of the room. It was tough going. I was pushing people right and left. Vondell propelled Lionel along behind me. As we approached the double doors at the back of the lobby more people jammed in around Lionel, impeding our progress. Some had deals they wanted to discuss, others wanted their pictures taken with him, a few tried to give him CDs. Then he was pulled away from me by a big guy dressed in purple.

  "Hey, cuz ... I want ya t' peep my new act," the man said. I got blocked and in seconds was separated.

  Vondell stayed with Lionel. I tried to follow, but a vise-like grip clamped down on my arm and I was spun around. I found myself looking directly into the round, basketball-sized face of Louis Maluga. He was dressed in a black suit. His huge arms bulged the sleeves of his jacket. Around his neck was a gold rope chain displaying one ornate, diamond-encrusted word: KILLER.

  "You seem to get around," he growled at me.

  "How you doing, Lou?" I pointed to the necklace. "Advertising?"

  "Go sell your wolf tickets to somebody who gives a shit," he said ominously.

  "I'm not selling wolf tickets. I'm here 'cause I love music that threatens your life in four-four time." I looked over and saw a very hot-looking woman in a low-cut gown. It had slits going up to her hips and down to her navel.

  "Is this the lovely Sable Miller?" I said. "She's beautiful. Nice goin', Lou."

  "You best pump your brakes, Chuck. You lookin' to get served, keep it up."

  "A guy on parole shouldn't engage in verbal assault on a police officer," I said.

  Then somebody grabbed Louis by the shoulders and gave him a hug.

  "What up, cuz?" the man said. "We gotta jam."

  Lou held my gaze a second longer. Just before he was pulled away, he said, "You been warned, asshole."

  I watched him disappear into the milling crowd. He was so huge, I didn't lose sight of him until he was halfway across the lobby.

  I turned to look for Lionel, but now the lights were flashing and people surged more energetically toward the theater. I was swept along with them. I finally spotted Lionel and Taylor Hays moving toward the elevator heading back up to the production booth on the second floor. Lionel was flanked on both sides by Fruit of Islam security, who were warding off approaching guests.

  They were almost at the elevator when the doors opened and I saw Krunk and one of the other teenage shooters standing inside. Their windbreakers were closed and the Fruit of Islam guards, not realizing the danger, reached in to yank them out of the elevator.

  "Look out! It's them!" I shouted, plunging toward the elevator.

  Krunk and the punk next to him pulled back their coats exposing MAC-10 machine pistols. As they swung the guns up, I lunged forward. Lionel was seconds from death. I was only a few feet away, so I reached out and jerked him aside. Then I dove past the two FOI guards and crashed into the elevator, hitting Krunk chest-high with a sort of half-assed flying tackle. I managed to knock him sideways, throwing off his aim and bringing him down just as he squeezed off a burst from the machine pistol in his right hand. Then the other G started firing.

  Bullets whizzed around in the crowded lobby and people began screaming. From the staircase area, another gun opened up. I couldn't see it because by then I was on the floor of the elevator on top of Krunk while people were punching, screaming, and kicking my head.

  Another burst of gunfire erupted, but I didn't see what happened since I was rolling around, trying to dodge the kicks while getting the stuffing pounded out of me. I rolled right, then left. Finally, I got my feet under me and pushed up. When I was vertical, I couldn't see Lionel, Taylor, or the FOI security. But Krunk and the other G were still on the floor of the elevator with their guns out fighting for their lives.

  I heard someone scream, "Freeze! Police!"

  Two more guns started firing.

  I've been in some pretty amped-out situations, but nothing that ever came close to this. I caught a glimpse of the action in the lobby and saw what looked like a hundred men whirling and throwing punches. Crips, Bloods, civili
ans, and cops were all locked in a senseless free-for-all. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Krunk and the other shooter being dragged out of the elevator.

  Then I took a shot to the jaw and dropped to one knee. I managed to struggle up again. But this time I was facing a uniformed cop.

  "Thank God," I said, just before I caught his swinging nightstick to the side of my head.

  That was the last thing I remembered about the Oasis Awards show.

  Chapter 45.

  I OPENED MY eyes to red lights flashing against a shiny white wall. I saw medical supplies and heard the distant chatter of half a dozen police radios. Then a blurry-looking young man in an EMT uniform leaned over and peered into my eyes.

  "Welcome back," he said. But he kept splitting into two people, then slowly merging back into one. It was beginning to make me nauseous.

  "Can you remember your name and why you're here?" he said. "Don't ask any police questions until his division commander arrives," a gruff voice said. I strained to look in the direction of the second man. It was then I realized I was on a metal gurney in the back of a rescue ambulance. Next to the open back door of the R. A. sat a big, blurry, blue blob. His uniform and fuzzy chevrons identified him as an LAPD sergeant. He was also splitting and merging. I was close to vomiting on myself, so I started breathing deeply in an attempt to avoid that humiliation.

  "Can you remember where you are?" the EMT asked.

  "Ambulance?" I said. But beyond that, I was lost. My recent past was a snowstorm that made no sense. Except for an overriding sense of panic, which I couldn't account for, my memory was a mess.

  "You're at the El Rey Theatre on Wilshire," the sergeant prompted. "That help any?"

  I nodded. It seemed vaguely familiar. I thought maybe I'd once gone to a music awards show there, but that was all I could dredge up.

  "What's your name?" the EMT asked.

  "I'm . . . I'm Scully. I'm Shane Scully," I said, pretty sure I got it right.

  Then he held up some fingers on his right hand and asked, "How many do you see?"

  "Too many," I groaned.

  The EMT turned to the sergeant. "He's got a fairly severe concussion and memory loss, which in most cases is temporary and intermittent. It should start coming back. When we get him to MCJ make sure the infirmary there keeps a close eye on him. His left pupil is dilated. I don't like the look of it. I'll flag everything on my field treatment report."

  "MCJ?" I said. "I don't wanta go there." That was the Men's Central Jail on the ground floor of Parker Center. Why were they taking me to jail?

  "We're not taking him there," the sergeant said to the paramedic. "The acting chief wants him to get his MT on the thirteenth floor. He wants to keep him away from the media. According to my watch commander, it's a nightmare at Parker Center."

  I lay there trying to get my head to clear. I couldn't quite remember what the thirteenth floor was, but felt pretty sure it was not a good place for me to go. Then my thoughts started to stabilize and I suddenly knew the thirteenth floor was the jail ward at County-USC hospital.

  "Whoa, whoa," I said. "I don't want to go there, either!"

  "Ain't your call, sport," the uniformed sergeant said. My vision was beginning to come into sharper focus now and I saw that he had a big Irish face and the red bloated, potato nose of a heavy drinker. His nametag read: E. Riley.

  Then my heart froze, as a big ugly piece of memory came crashing back, burying me under an avalanche of pain and sadness. Alexa was near death in a coma. She'd been shot in the head and was being operated on at ten a. M. tomorrow at UCLA. The memory, when it hit me, was so devastating it was like coming to grips with it for the first time. I took several minutes to get my heart and emotions recentered. I tried to sit up on the stretcher but was unable to because my left wrist was handcuffed to the metal rail of the gurney. My ribs on that side were sore.

  "What the hell is this?" I said hotly, looking dumbfounded at my handcuffed wrist. Once I was vertical, my head started to throb and a horrible pain suddenly seared behind my eyes. "Am I under arrest? What's the charge?"

  "Don't know yet. That's gonna be up to the homicide dicks at RHD."

  "RHD? I didn't kill anybody." But to be perfectly honest, I couldn't remember whether I did or didn't. I yanked my left hand violently against the restraint.

  The sergeant leaned toward me. "Calm yourself down, bud. You're in custody. My partner and I are gonna be with you till your division commander or the acting chief decides what they want to do. Now lie back down." The EMT helped me back down on the metal gurney.

  Slowly, a few vague thoughts started to wander around in my head, looking for their correct place in time. I waited until they fell into some kind of recognizable order. David Slade had been found dead in Alexa's car. Alexa had been found shot in the head in a house in Compton. The e-mails I'd found that broke my heart. I remembered I had some kind of a new theory, which might exonerate her, but I couldn't remember what it was. All of this came drifting slowly back to me. Little bits and pieces of confusion. When assembled in the correct order, they formed an ugly mosaic. But everything that had happened inside the El Rey Theatre was still a deep, black hole.

  Then I remembered the mini tape recorder with the Malugas' recorded conversation threatening the lives of Curtis Clark and Lionel Wright. I didn't want to explain to detectives how I got that without a warrant, so I snuck my left hand under me and felt for the unit, which was still in my back pocket. By moving to my left I could just get my handcuffed wrist to the strap hanging off the tape recorder. I had to find a way to get rid of it before I was admitted and searched at the thirteenth floor. I worked the recorder slowly out of my pocket by pulling the strap, then pushed it between the pad of the gurney and the wall of the truck. I lay listening to the cacophony of police radios outside and tried to tighten and refine the chronology of the last two days. Little by little details sharpened. But my memory only extended to the moment where I followed the five g-sters in the black Impala SS into the alley behind the theater. After that, nothing.

  Then Sally Quinn appeared at the back of the ambulance and showed the sergeant her badge.

  "I'm his partner," she said, looking past him at me.

  "You can't talk to the suspect," Riley said. "Step back. The sixth floor is all over this, so we're gonna do it exactly right."

  At that moment, his shoulder radio squawked his name and he pushed the transmit button and said, "Whatta you got, Kyle?"

  "Deputy Chief Ramsey is sending two fifth-floor guys over to County-USC to interview Scully. Ramsey wants him transported pronto," Kyle's voice buzzed through the speaker. Then he added, "Deputy Chief says don't let anybody near him. Strict isolation."

  "Shane, I'm coming with you," Sally said, moving forward.

  "The hell you are. Step away, Detective," Sgt. Riley barked, blocking her with a beefy arm. He already knew he'd caught a potential career-ending red ball and that any slight deviation from orders would get him body-slammed with a reprimand and, depending on sixth-floor politics, even a possible mandatory retirement.

  Sally stepped back as the sergeant triggered his mike. "Get your ass back here, Kyle. We both gotta ride with this guy during transport."

  What the hell had happened inside that theater? I wondered. The whole thing was white noise in my head. I couldn't even come up with a half-assed story to save myself.

  In less than a minute, the second cop, Kyle, pushed past Sally Quinn, climbed into the ambulance, and pulled the door shut, taking my worried partner from view. He was tall and slight of build with a narrow chin. The two chevrons on the sleeve of Kyle's uniform identified him as a Police Officer Two.

  "Let's roll," Riley said.

  The EMT knocked on the panel between the truck and the cab and in a second we were in motion, heading toward the county jail with my future in serious doubt.

  Chapter 46.

  THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR jail ward at USC Medical is a county facility policed entirely by the Los
Angeles Sheriffs Department. My experience over the years has been that the deputies there seemed to delight in making their brother LAPD officers wait with their prisoners for as long as humanly possible before checking them in and providing treatment. I figured I was in for a long, frustrating night.

  Attempting a clandestine arrival, my police guards instructed the ambulance driver to swing around to the rear of the hospital where we could pull up to a long, poured-concrete loading dock with a wide setback that allowed forklifts to move medical supplies back and forth to the freight elevators. I was being whisked in the back way to avoid media contact.

  During the short trip over here, I'd learned that Sgt. Emmet Riley worked out of the Central Traffic Bureau. He had already begun to treat me with unpleasant disdain. I had already pegged him as a department loser. If you're a fifty-year-old sergeant and still working traffic, something is pretty wrong. He looked like a drinker just clocking time until he got in his thirty.

  When we pulled up to the loading dock and the back doors opened, two deputy sheriffs and a watch commander were already standing there with a wheelchair. It looked like there would be no waiting around tonight. A cop in custody is a big deal and I could already tell that the anxiety level surrounding my bust was amping up. Everybody was determined that this was not going to cost them career momentum or days off.

  I'd been around this kind of thing before. Once over in Rampart, I was in the stationhouse when a patrol cop charged with rape, was brought in for booking. As soon as he was escorted inside the station, the energy in that shop started arcing off the walls, threatening to zap anybody who got it wrong. Now it was happening to me.

  The EMT got ready to pull out the stretcher. I looked back and saw that my little mini tape recorder had fallen on the floor and was clearly visible up against the wall. I sat up, swung my legs down over the gurney, and managed to kick the unit out of sight under an equipment rack in the back of the truck.