anything in my life worth?
'One-L-Forty. On your wants, warrants, and background. Stand by.'
I keyed my mike. 'Go.'
'Louis Maluga. Born March sixth, nineteen sixty-five to Rita Maluga, father unknown. He did five years in Soledad from ninety-nine to oh-five for aggravated assault and attempted murder. His first arrest was in Compton in nineteen eighty: assault with intent. Juvie never filed. Second arrest in April: attempted murder. Witness died same, result. Third arrest, June of ninety-nine: attempted rape, attempted murder. Witness disappeared. Never filed.'
'Okay, I get it. What about Stacy?'
'Stacy Maluga, nee Stacy Adams. Born in Norway in seventy-two at a naval hospital. Moved to the states in seventy-three when her father was discharged. He was killed in nineteen seventy-five. DUI. Family moved to E Street in Compton. Her booking sheet is mostly drugs. She was also arrested in July of ninety-five for indecent exposure and lewd acts. She had sex on stage at a strip club.'
'Okay. Can you download both yellow sheets and fax them to my office at Homicide Special?'
'Roger that.'
I gave her the number, then disconnected. I didn't ask for David Slade's yellow sheet because I knew there wouldn't be one. All his prior crimes had been sealed juvie busts, or he wouldn't have qualified for the felony waver. Everything he'd done wrong once he was on the LAPD would be in his PSB package, if I could find a way to access it. With all the heat coming down after his murder, it was going to be hard to get my hands on it. But I have friends and I'm devious, so I intended to try.
Without really planning it, I realized I was heading back to my house in Venice. It was probably stupid to keep going home, but I was drawn there. That house was my only connection with Alexa. I kept thinking I'd walk in and find her with a perfectly plausible explanation. Or I'd find a message on our answering machine. If she was alive, I knew she would get in touch with me.
I parked half a block away and moved down the street looking for department-issue, four-door sedans with black tires. Nothing. I kept in the shadows of a line of elm trees and worked my way past the house. If detectives from the Professional Standards Bureau were here to question me, they were pretty damn good at blending in. I couldn't see any sign of them but decided to enter my house from the canal side anyway, just to be safe.
I moved quickly along, hoping none of my neighbors would see me. I entered the backyard, took out my key, unlocked the sliding glass door, and carefully pushed it open.
The minute I stepped inside and smelled the stale air, I knew she was still missing. Nobody was there. The house was lifeless and still.
It was just after ten-thirty a. M. I turned on the kitchen television as I walked through, but was stopped in my tracks by what I heard.
'Speculation is running rampant. What was a dead undercover police officer doing murdered in the front seat of the head of the LAPD Detective Bureau's personal car?'
One of the anchors from Channel Four was leaning forward, looking stern, but you could see the excitement in his eyes. I turned away from the TV and checked on the answering machine hooked to our kitchen telephone as the newscast continued.
'This morning, in a brief statement, Deputy Chief Ramsey confirmed that Sergeant David Slade was killed while in police handcuffs but refused any comment on the guilt, innocence, or whereabouts of Lieutenant Alexa Scully. He also wouldn't say if she was a suspect in the execution-style shooting.'
I froze with my hand on the telephone, watching this asshole engage in rampant speculation. Suspect in the execution-style shooting? How could he even imply that? The video package played behind him, complete with separate shots of Alexa and David Slade. They had used Slade's Academy photo. He looked handsome and clean cut. It would not have helped this media hatchet-job to show him like he really was, in his Marcel do with an armload of badass Crip ink. The shot switched to a pleasant-looking, middle-aged African-American woman in a TV-friendly, dark blue suit and pale blue blouse. She wore a small gold angel pin prominently on her lapel, attesting to her purity and faith. The on-screen graphic identified her as Congresswoman Roxanne Sharp. She had a long record as a media whore who always weighed in on racially charged situations.
'If this is what it appears to be, I can assure you that I will personally take the LAPD to task,' the congresswoman promised. 'This fine, African-American officer was gunned down in his prime, left dead in his bureau commander's car. I can promise the people of Los Angeles, this will not become the latest example of LAPD arrogance or investigatory incompetence.'
Nathan Red was up next. Handsome, with gray flecks in his black hair, he looked like Billy Dee Williams in a tailored Armani with a silk tie.
'David Slade's family is considering legal redress against the LAPD and the city. At this time, we will withhold further comment, except to say that it certainly raises questions that Lieutenant Scully is suspiciously missing.'
My heart sank. I knew this was only the beginning.
I played my messages as the newscast continued spewing speculation and misinformation. My three calls to Alexa were still on the machine. A call from the Professional Standards Bureau came in at nine a. M., issuing me the dreaded two-six to report to Mike Ramsey's office. Then Alexa's voice was on the machine.
'Shane, it's me.' She sounded small and tired. 'I'm so sorry about this, darling. I can't bear to think what this is doing to you and Chooch, but I had no other choice.' Then there was a long pause before she said, 'I killed David Slade. An argument over something personal. I'm confessing to his murder. Please turn this tape over to the department.' Then, another long pause, before she said, 'I can't go on. Things have been too difficult. I'm too far gone to save myself. I love you, darling. Kiss Chooch and tell him I love him, too. Try not to hate me too much.'
Then I heard a gunshot.
Chapter 17
Alexa would not commit suicide!
But her words and the gunshot were still ringing in my ear. After a few seconds, I shook out of it and dialed the communication section at LAPD. I got a watch commander, who identified himself as Captain Doug Chang.
'Captain, I have a police emergency,' I shouted. 'I need an immediate phone check on this line.' I then gave him my badge and home phone number.
'What is this regarding?' He seemed hesitant to run the trace.
'A possible police shooting. The call came in on this line. Officer down. I need an immediate trace on this number with the time the call was placed!' I shouted. 'I'm heading out, so when you get it, call me on my mobile phone.'
I gave him that number and hung up. Then I sprinted to my car, threw it in reverse and squealed out of my driveway, hitting my neighbors' trash cans and knocking them over. I punched the shift into Drive and powered up the alley toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. I had a vague hunch where Alexa was, so I took a chance and hit the 405 South.
Somebody inside the car was saying, 'No. No. No.' In a second, I realized it was me.
My cell rang and Doug Chang was back on the line. 'Last call at ten-thirty this morning, only a few minutes ago, from area code three-one-oh. Five, five, five, six, seven, eight, four.'
'Where is that?' I screamed.
'Compton,' he answered.
'Okay. Get me a trace on that number from the reverse directory. I need to confirm the address. Call me back.'
I was pretty sure I knew where she was. I transitioned onto the 105 East and put the pedal down. In seconds I was doing over a hundred miles an hour. I passed people like they were parked, putting my life and everybody else's on the line.
I was on Long Beach Boulevard when Doug Chang got back to me. 'The number traces back to Four-twenty Cypress Street,' he said.
'Roll an ambulance to that address right now.'
