came from the fact that they all knew the rules and sometimes paid the ultimate price. It was a big rough game of shirts and skins. They would hit low, bust teeth, even kill each other, but after the game, sitting in the station house, booking the losers and bandaging up their wounds, there was still that strong sense of being in it together. It was roller-ball with guns. The winners on both sides became legends. The losers populated boot hill or the penal system. Everybody talked the talk.
As Shane walked through the double doors of the Hollywood Division station house, he was suddenly reintroduced to all of this. He could feel the beat almost as if it were coming from the linoleum, shooting through the soles of his shoes, heating the nerve endings in his feet, surging up through him, lighting his eyes and putting a new spring in his step. He was back on the field running toward the bench, the cheers raining down from the stands.
He continued into the Homicide Division and heard half a dozen shouted 'Hi ya, Shane' greetings. He headed down the familiar line of desks, slapping backs and trading insults with his old homicide team.
'Did you get hemorrhoids, Scully, or is that just Chief Filosiani's head sticking outta your ass?' Sergeant 'Swede' Peterson joked. It was no secret that the new chief, Tony Filosiani, known on the job as the Day-Glo Dago, had taken a real liking to Shane since the Viking case.
Captain Haley came out of his office and the two of them smiled at each other.
'Shane, don't talk to these morons. I don't want your newly enhanced status in police work to be tarnished by proximity to lazy dirtbags.'
Catcalls and hoots… Grinning, Shane followed Haley into his office and sat opposite his desk while the captain worked the dial on his safe, opened it, then plucked out Scully's badge case.
'I understand you're going back on the job on Monday, so I might as well give you this stuff now.' He put Shane's badge and I. D. on the desk, then unlocked his drawer, took out Shane's service revolver, and laid it next to his shield.
'I'm glad you healed up good, repassed the physical, and the head check,' Haley said. 'Congratulations on the Medal of Valor.'
'Yeah, that's why I'm here. Gotta win medals.'
'I know it's bullshit, but it's good bullshit. Enjoy it.' 'Some good people died during the Viking case,' Shane said sadly. 'Tremaine Lane had his skin peeled off, tied to a fence in Colombia. Where's his medal?'
'He was a sheriff's deputy, ask them.'
They sat there looking at each other, then Haley grunted.
'
'You're right,' he finally acknowledged. 'Good point.
Another pause, then Haley stood. 'I already sent your jacket to the Personnel Division, including my last fitness report, which was a rave by the way.'
'Thanks, Skipper,' Shane said.
'Good to have you back on the team. Anything else I can do for you?'
Then Shane remembered Nicky Marcella's request. 'Yeah, Cap… one thing. It's a favor for an old C. I. of mine. Guy used to give me some good felony bait.'
'Yeah?' There was a warning in the way Haley said that one word. Cops didn't like doing favors for civilians, even confidential informants.
He told the captain what Nicky wanted-how he had a star-maker part for Carol White, but couldn't find her.
'Movies?' Haley said. 'We gonna give this girl her big break?'
'Something like that. Only you're not supposed to say `movies,' you're supposed to say 'film.' '
'How 'bout we say 'bullshit'?'
'Really.' Shane grinned as Haley sat back down, turned to his computer, and started pushing keys.
Haley finished inputting her name, keyed it to the Traffic Division, and waited while the computer searched.
'Nothing in DMV registrations or traffic,' he said. 'Maybe she doesn't have a car.'
'Well, while we're at it, try the main arrest computer downtown. If she's a friend of my old C. I., she might have something pending in the courts.'
Haley raised an eyebrow but turned back to the computer.
Shane was looking at Bud Haley's back. The captain was a fit, gray-haired man, probably in his late fifties, but he looked much younger. He had smile lines around his eyes and mouth, reminding Shane more of a friendly scoutmaster than a cop. All of a sudden, the screen lit up. There were at least twenty entries on the arrest log.
'Hello, hello,' Haley said. 'Carol White's been busy.'
Shane came around the desk and looked over his shoulder.
'Pavement princess,' Haley said. 'She's been down six times for prostitution in the last six months… two stretches in Sybil Brand-short jolts-first a month, then eighteen weeks. Let's see… We also have a pandering on film beef from two years back, so she was doing some porno loops for somebody. This your actress?'
'I don't know, maybe it's another girl.'
'Carolyn White. She hooks under the name Crystal Glass.' He leaned back reflectively. 'Pretty good street name, but my favorite's still a girl we kept busting in North Hollywood, named Lotta Pussy.' Haley hit a button and Carol's yellow sheet started printing out on the laser jet across the office. Then the captain went to the last arrest report and pulled it up on his screen. 'Last place of business is a motel down in Rampart called the Ho-Tell Motel. Her pimp's named Paul 'Black' Mills. His arrest record is probably a list of female assault charges that got dropped before court.' As he spoke, he was punching up Paul Mills on the computer, and soon, two pages of withdrawn complaints popped up on the screen. 'And the beat goes on,' Haley sighed. 'Carol White tested positive for drugs, six out of six arrests, so this girl's probably not gonna be at next year's Academy Awards. She's headed for a viewing room at Forest Lawn instead.'
Shane walked across the office, picked up the yellow sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
'Anything else?' Haley asked.
'Yeah, can you punch up Farrell Champion?' Shane asked. His heart was beating hard in his chest. It surprised him that he would fire all of his own adrenal jets at the idea of a computer run on Farrell Champion. He immediately knew that it was because he was breaking his promise to Alexa, but his gut told him there was something wrong there.
'The movie guy?' Haley was saying. 'The big-time Oscar-winning producer?'
'He hasn't won an Oscar, just been nominated.' 'Right… and he's the one who wants to hire this strawberry, this Carol White person, and make her a star?' 'No, it's an unrelated matter.'
'Jesus, Shane…' But for some reason Haley spun his chair around and started punching in Farrell Champion's name, probably because he was just as interested as Shane in knowing what kind of trouble the famous celebrity producer might have gotten himself into.
The screen came back empty.
'Clean as Crisco,' Haley said, and swiveled around to look up at Shane. 'Anybody else? How 'bout Tiger Woods or Minnie Mouse?'
Shane had been thinking about asking for a run on Nicky Marcella, but decided he'd worn out his welcome. He'd do it himself Monday after he went back on duty. He smiled, then picked up his gun and badge.
'Thanks for the good fitness rep, Skipper.'
'You earned it,' Haley said.
Shane was quickly out the door of the captain's office. He stopped at an empty homicide desk, picked up a phone, and dialed an LAPD extension. A woman's voice answered the phone. 'Records and Identification Division.'
'Is Lee Fineburg around?' Shane asked.
'Fineburg. That's Records Services Section, Special Duties. One moment please. I'll switch you.'
In a few seconds he heard Lee Fineburg's voice. 'Lee? It's Shane Scully.'*
'Shane, you is da man.' Fineburg's voice grinned over the line. Shane pictured the skinny geek who was also the LAPD racquetball champion. 'I need a quick favor, and it has to stay covered.'
'Covert ops. Love it.'
