“Chooch isn’t here, Shane.”
His heart started beating faster. “He said he was spending the night with Billy.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that. Billy’s here, you want to talk to him?”
“Please …”
After a moment he heard Billy Rano’s soft African-American lilt.
“Wassup, Mr. Scully?” the tall; quick wide receiver answered.
“Hi, Billy, I’m looking for Chooch.”
“Uh, I left him at the library around five o’clock.” “I thought he was spending the night over there.” “He was, but he said something came up. Didn’t say what.”
“Okay, thanks,” Shane said. “If you hear from him, tell him to call home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shane hung up and his imagination immediately started to run away with him. What if Chooch went to see Amac?
Of course, that was about the stupidest thing Chooch could do with the Emes in a citywide war. But the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that was exactly what his son had done.
He dialed Chooch’s cell phone, and it started ringing down the hall in his bedroom. His son hadn’t taken it with him.
He called Amac’s cell number and got an “out of the area” recording. He called Alexa again and this time, by claiming a personal emergency, was put directly into Chief Filosiani’s office.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” she said after listening to his concern. “He’s probably studying with somebody, or maybe he’s at the library. Did you try to call him?”
“He left his cell here. I think he’s with Amac,” Shane said. Then he heard the back door slam. “Hold it. I think he just came in. Talk to you later.”
Shane hung up the phone and met his son in the kitchen. “Where’ve you been, bud?” Shane asked with a little too much force, and got the teenage mantra.
“Out,” Chooch stonewalled.
“Right, but out where? I called Billy. He said he left you at five. It’s after nine.”
“Don’t you trust me, Dad?”
Shane had one of those parental moments. Did he want to make this a battleground where Chooch’s word was at stake? “You know I trust you.”
Chooch nodded, retrieved a soda from the fridge, then walked past him without saying anything else.
Shane wanted to be fresh for tomorrow’s meeting with Chief Filosiani, so he went to bed at ten and was sound asleep by 10:02.
He had an unsettling dream.
Chooch was dragging a big mahogany coffin up the hill at the New Calvary Cemetery, tugging it up to the edge of an open grave. When he got it there, he looked at Shane and smiled.
“It’s called a Heaven Rider,” his son said proudly in the dream. “My eses will all come. Vatos will talk about my bravery. They will celebrate my life.” Suddenly, the chapel bell started ringing, and then it sounded more and more like a telephone.
Shane opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. It was almost eleven. The phone kept ringing. He sat up in bed and fumbled the receiver out of the cradle, noticing that Alexa still wasn’t there.
“Hello,” he said.
“Is this Sergeant Shane Scully?” a woman’s voice asked. “Yes. Who is this?”
“Detective Carla DePass, Homicide.”
Uh-oh, Shane thought, but said, “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“My partner, Detective Lou Ruta, and I are working a homicide at West Eleventh Street, just east of Hoover. We’d appreciate it if you could roll on this, right now.”
“I’m not assigned to Homicide. In fact, I don’t even go back on active duty till tomorrow.”
“We don’t need help investigating the murder. We need some help identifying the vic. We’re at 2635 West Eleventh, Los Angeles. How soon can you make it here?”
“That’s gonna take me half an hour.”
“Don’t let it take any longer,” she said, and was gone. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. That address was somewhere down in the Rampart Division.
Then he had a dark premonition as to who’d died.
Chapter 12.
STAR
“Detective Ruta’s in the back by the garage,” a young uniformed policeman told Shane after he had identified himself. Shane hung his creds in the handkerchief pocket of his blazer and started up the narrow concrete driveway. The house was a ramshackle California Craftsman, an architectural style popular in Southern California in the thirties and forties. This one had seen better days. The low wood dormers flaked paint, and sagging drainpipes and window shutters made the once fashionable structure look forlorn. This part of Rampart was ethnically mixed; the house on West 1 1 th was located on a street that, a few years back, had been all Hispanic, but Vietnamese and Koreans were beginning to buy up the neighborhood. Asian and Mexican families were standing in their doorways up and down the street, looking at the police circus parked in the center of the block.
Shane got to the head of the drive where Detective DePass, a middle-aged blonde in plainclothes with a weight lifter’s build and close-cropped white hair, stopped him. “You said half an hour. It’s twice that. Ruta is chewing my ass.”
“Well, let’s go calm him down then,” Shane said. “Which one is he?”
She pointed out Detective Ruta.
Ruta was one of those police nightmares that every cop looks at and thinks Please, dear God, don’t let me end up like that. He was at least seventy pounds overweight with a drinker’s beet-red complexion and a nose like a small Idaho potato. His unkempt mustache was growing down both sides of his mouth in a modified Fu Manchu, or was it a Pancho Villa? He looked like he was just waiting for somebody to say something that would give him an excuse to kick the shit out of them.
A second Blue stopped Shane before he reached Ruta. “You have to sign the Crime Scene Attendance sheet, Sarge,” the rookie said, so Shane took the man’s clipboard and signed himself in at 12:07 A. M.
“Scully, you’re with me,” Ruta called, waving a meaty hand at him and walking toward the back porch. He had never met Ruta, but Shane had gotten so much press coverage in the last two years that most cops knew him on sight.
Shane ignored the fat sergeant and veered toward the garage. He could see crime techs working inside through the half-open door. There was a police evidence table out front and he could see the contents of a beaded purse set out on its surface: no wallet, but a few bills and several pictures of a marmalade cat. Shane headed past the table. He wanted to see the body, but Ruta moved quickly and grabbed Shane’s arm, pulling him toward the back porch.
“Hey, Detective, you wanna take your hands off me?” Shane complained. Ruta looked at him for a long hard moment before finally releasing him.
“I’m working this hit and I don’t need you climbing all over my crime scene, fucking up my forensics, okay?”
“If you didn’t want me here, why did you call me?” Shane asked. Now he thought he could also smell booze on Ruta’s breath.
“Don’t be a smart aleck. I’m gonna ask ya just this once to try real hard not to go up my ass. Zat gonna be too much trouble?”
“Why am I here?”
“I need you to put the hat on this vic for me. No wallet, no I. D. It’s a whodunit.” In homicide, whodunits were mystees without suspects. Until a homicide dick knew the identity of the victim, it was impossible to make up a suspect list. Every investigator called out on a murder investigation prayed he would find an enraged spouse or burglar standing over the body waving the murder weapon. This one was going to cause Ruta to burn some shoe leather, and he was already pissed about it.
“How’m I gonna I. D. the vic without a visit to the crime scene?” Shane asked.
“Don’t start up with me, okay?” Ruta growled. “Way you’re gonna do it is to follow me. We walk through the side door in the back of the garage, and without touching anything, you tell me who this junkie bitch is. Then we’re gonna step back outside and have further discussions.”
“By ‘junkie
bitch,’ are you referring to the deceased?” Shane was already burning with anger. He didn’t need to see the body to know who it was.
“Let’s go,” Ruta said, then led Shane off the sloping porch. Through the rear windows of the house, Shane couldn’t see any furniture inside. The rooms looked vacant, the house deserted.
They walked across a weed-strewn lawn and through the rear door of the garage.
“Don’t touch anything,” Ruta repeated.
“You mean I can’t pick any of the evidence up, put it in my mouth or play with it?”
“Just I. D. this cunt and we’re outta here.”
Then the big plainclothes dick stepped aside.
There were lab techs, photographers, forensic scientists, and DNA experts; maybe fifteen people busily working in the garage. Hanging from a beam in the center of all this activity was Carol White. She was naked and her hands had been lashed behind her. Somebody had done a pretty good job on her face before she died. Her eyes were swollen shut and caked with blood. Her lip was split and a perimortem bruise decorated the right side of her face.
In Shane’s head a familiar whistle blew … somebody yelled, “Play ball.”
“She had your business card in her purse,” Ruta interrupted, “so who the fuck is she?”
“Her full name was Carolyn White but she went by Carol. She’s a hooker. Her street name was Crystal Glass.”
“Okay, let’s go. We can do the rest outside.” Ruta led him out of the garage. Once Shane was back on the lawn, the overweight detective turned and stepped forward, using his huge gut to back Shane up against the wall.
“Hey, Detective, you wanna ease off a little?”
“Let’s lay some conduit, Scully. To start out, I don’t like you.”
“Back up or I’m gonna give you a good fucking reason,” Shane hissed, and after a minute of appraisal, Ruta took a halfstep back, giving Shane a little breathing room.
“Ray Molar and I were in the Academy together,” the fat detective vented. “Ray was the best cop I ever knew, and you put him on the bus.”
“Ray Molar was a violent, out-of-control asshole who was shooting his arrestees and holding court in the street.”
“You piece of shit, there’s still a lotto people on the job lookin’ to close your show.”
“If they’re all drunk whales like you, then I’m probably not in too much danger,” Shane said. Suddenly, without warning, he chucked Lou Ruta hard, with both hands to the chest, pushing him away. The heavy cop took a staggering step backward but held his ground. His rummy eyes were smoldering with hatred.
“You wanna talk about this murder, or you wanna stand out here and blubber about Ray Molar?” Shane said.
“Why’d this hooker have your card in her purse?” Ruta growled as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, clearing some spittle off the bottom of his Fu Manchu. “You a client? You fuckin’ her?”
“I was doing a favor for a C. I. of mine. He was trying to find her. I located her in the vice computer and paid her a visit. She was in a bar called the Snake Charmers, a few miles from here.”
“That junkie whore couldn’t charm anybody’s snake,” Ruta snorted.
“Hey, Ruta, you wanna hear this or you wanna stand out here and disrespect your victim? You’re supposed to be her advocate. You’re supposed to speak for the dead.”
Lou Ruta didn’t say anything for a minute, just kept his pig-mean eyes on Shane.
“She’s got a pimp named Paul Mills,” Shane continued. “His street name is Black and I think he lives near the Snake Charmers Bar. When I was there, she told him to go next door and hang. You might pick him up and see what you can get out of him. He’s a skinny fuck who wears a pound of gold jewelry and carries an umbrella.”
“So you found Carol White, and then what? You told your C. I. where she was?” “Yeah.”
“I want the C. I.‘s name. He just went to the top of my suspect list.”
“Hey, Sarge, my C. I.‘s not a hitter. He didn’t do this, okay? I’m not gonna roll him up for you.”
“This is a murder. My murder. You don’t tell me what you’re gonna do. 1 tell you. I want the fuck’s name.”
“Well, you’re not getting it. Best I can offer is, I’ll go talk to him myself and then, if I think he looks good for any part of this, I’ll hand him over to you.”
“You don’t get to make that choice, Scully.”
“How many of your C. I.‘s have you given up over the years? Without confidential informants, the police clearance rate in this town would be zero. I’m not giving up my guy unless I have to.”
“Then you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice.” “Blow me.”
The two of them stood nose to nose for about a minute. Ruta was barely in control of himself. The vein in the center of his forehead was throbbing ominously. He looked to Shane like a pre-op heart case.
“I could call one of those Blues over and you’d be explaining this to my lieutenant downtown. You want that?” “What division does your lieutenant work for?” “DSG.”
“Then I’ve got some bad news for you, Regis… . The head of DSG is my wife. So unless you’re sleeping with your lieutenant, guess who’s gonna win this one? We’ll see who ends up with days off for calling his vic a junkie bitch and a cunt, and for drinking on the job.”
Ruta’s big belly was rising and falling with each angry breath.
“Gimme your card. I’ll call you if my C. I. looks dirty,” Shane concluded.
After a long time, Ruta pulled out his card, and in a childish moment, flipped it at him. It fluttered to the ground between them. Shane squatted to pick it up, then stood and put the card in his pocket.
As Shane walked down the drive, his stomach was turning sour, his face felt flush, and it wasn’t Lou Ruta who had caused it. It was Carol White hanging from that rafter, naked, with her face a bloody mess. She finally got her big part. She was starring in her own murder investigation.
Chapter 13.
THE INEVITABILITY OF BEING
Nicky lived in one of two older steel-and-glass high-rise towers off Sunset, built in the late sixties. The condo buildings were called, appropriately enough, Hollywood Towers. Nicky Marcella had one of the East Tower penthouses, P-4.
Shane had been there before and knew they had security elevators, so he parked out front and pulled a big empty pizza box out of his trunk, which he sometimes used on occasions like this. He climbed back into the front seat, took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and waited. It was 12:50 A. M., but one of the advantages of working Hollywood was that the town never slept. They didn’t roll up the streets at eleven.
Shane only had to wait about ten minutes before he saw an attractive thirtyyear-old woman pull into the underground parking garage of the East Tower. She looked flashy, with blond hair and hoop earrings. He got out of the Acura, grabbed his pizza box, ran across the street into the building, and ducked under the closing garage gate. The woman was hurrying toward the tower elevator, where she used her security card. The elevator doors opened and she entered just as Shane arrived with the pizza box and caught the closing door.
“Hold it! Only three minutes till I’m over my half-hour time limit.” He smiled, then crowded into the lift with her, easily bypassing the building’s only general security feature. The woman seemed slightly annoyed and maybe a little frightened, so Shane tried to put her at ease. “Pizza Hut … I don’t usually deliver, I’m the night manager, but this flu epidemic’s got me down to three drivers.”
She smiled, more relaxed as Shane pushed the “P” for penthouse.
The door opened on nine and she got off. Shane rode up to the penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor. When he stepped off the elevator, he was facing a smoked, marbleized mirror. Very sixties.
Nicky’s apartment was at the end of the hall. Shane rang the bell. Nothing. He rang again. Still nothing. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the leather case containing his lock picks.
Fortunately, this door had dead-bolts. There were no electronic locks when the Towers were built. Nicky had not upgraded his security strange behavior for an ex-crook.
It took Shane four minutes to work the tumblers. First he slid in the long, flat, narrow pick, then fed in the smaller picks with hooks on the ends, jiggling each one until the pick lodged itself in a tumbler. When he had enough picks inserted into the lock so the tumblers were all engaged, he took the handful and turned them together. The lock clicked. The door opened.
The Hollywood Towers were old buildings, but they were well placed, and the views’ were magnificent. Nicky had furnished his penthouse lavishly: plush pile carpeting, antique wood pieces, fawn-colored tie-back drapes. A few brightly painted Chinese screens hung on the interior wall. But the dominant feature was the magnificent view. Two walls were wrapped with floor-to-ceiling glass, which showed the twinkling lights all the way to Santa Monica.
Shane went through the place, frisking it quickly. He started in the bathroom, which all cops learn is the temple of human weakness. But Nicky was playing it pretty straight—no drugs, no Viagra. He was, however, using some hair color—Just for Men, Dark Brown.
When Shane finished searching the bathroom, he moved into the bedroom. In the closet hung twenty rather garish suits, including the orange-brown number Nicky had worn at Farrell’s party. There was a rack of expensive shoes. On the top shelf, in a shoe box, he found a 9mm Beretta with two clips, both loaded. He replaced it, then finished the closet, remembering to search the suit pockets, but he found nothing. Next he moved to the dresser.
The sock drawer—always a treat.
Under Nicky’s argyles, Shane found a small leather book with twenty Polaroid pictures of beautiful half-clad or naked women. They were carefully mounted under plastic, each with a code number written on a slip at the bottom. Shane flipped through it twice. Carol wasn’t in the book. He put it back, wondering if it was some kind of out call or trick book.
Half an hour after entering, he had done his search. He settled himself in a big overstuffed chair in the living room, where he had a commanding view of the twinkling lights of the city. Off to the east, he could see the high-rises of the financial district; off to the west, about five miles away, the lights of Century City glittered. Shane watched them shine while his own spirits darkened.
Hollywood Tough (2002) Page 9