'Shane? Jeb.' I've known this guy for six years and nobody ever called him Jeb, especially him. It was always Cal. The Jeb thing sat wrong. Something was going on downtown. Twenty years of dealing with Glass House politics had my alarm lights flashing. Then he said, 'How is she?'
'She's… she's…' I felt tears coming. So far I'd managed to hold them back. I didn't want to cry in front of these guys, so I took a moment to center myself. 'Not so hot,' I finally said.
'She's in good hands, Shane. The trauma guys at USC are the best.'
'They're okay, but I want to move her,' I said. 'I have a friend who's a brain surgeon at UCLA. This slug… it…' Again, I couldn't finish the sentence. This time coffee-flavored bile rushed up my esophagus and filled my mouth. I spat into the paper cup and set it down. 'Slug did a lot of damage, Captain.'
'Sometimes this stuff looks worse than it is,' he said.
'Yeah.' I decided not to tell him there were bone chips from her brainpan all over the bed, or that her hair looked like a mop dipped in red paint. That I'd felt her heart stop while my fingers were touching her neck.
Then he said softly, 'Listen, Shane. I've got to bring you in.'
'I'm sorry, you have to what?'
'Chief Ramsey wants you in his office forthwith. He's got some issues.'
'He's got issues? I'm the one with issues! Everybody's pissing on Alexa on TV and he has almost no comment. He owes her some fucking cover.'
'Shane, he sent you a two-six hours ago. You can't ignore that. You're gonna have to deal with it.'
'I've got a little situation going here, in case you haven't noticed. I'm not taking time out to deal with that moron.' He said nothing, so I added, 'I need to be here to make medical decisions if necessary.'
'That's your call, but Rafie and Tommy can stay with her. They'll have your cell number and can keep you posted. The chief's office is only ten minutes away. It's probably gonna be a while till you get any word. Be smart about this, Shane.'
'I'm not leaving her!' My voice was raised in frustration.
'Okay. Fair enough. Put Rafie back on.'
I handed the phone to Figueroa. He put it to his ear and nodded.
'Yep. Can do,' he said, then closed the cell and glanced at Sepulveda. There must have been a lot of hidden meaning in that look, because suddenly they both dove at me.
Rafie got my hands pinned. Tommy got his cuffs out. The two blues from across the room joined in and held me down. I'm good and I'm fast, but I was operating at half-capacity. My nerves were fried. It took them about thirty seconds to get the bracelets on while I struggled and hurled insults. Then they dragged me out of the hospital and shoved me into the back of their Ford.
'Why are you doing this?' I asked. They wouldn't look at me, neither willing to engage my eyes. We all knew it was wrong, but the order had come from the acting chief, so it wasn't up for discussion. I was going to this meeting.
Seven minutes later we were sweeping into the underground parking garage next to the Glass House.
We took the elevator ride to the sixth floor in silence. I stopped struggling and decided that if I wanted to leave this meeting without making a side trip to the Central Division Jail, then I would have to look like I wasn't carrying my shit around in a sock. Nobody wanted me raving insults on TV or feeding smug Roxanne Sharp her little gold angel pin.
I'd broken enough laws to merit a criminal arrest. The fact that Alexa was in critical condition or maybe already dead just didn't weigh very much compared to the media tornado that was threatening to blow careers up into the air before dropping them like twisted Chevy trucks. If I was looking for cool heads, loyalty, or a commitment to a fallen comrade, I wasn't going to find it on the sixth floor of the Glass House today.
Great White Mike hadn't wasted any time moving into Tony Filosiani's office for his interim stay as acting chief.
We paused in the outer part of the chief's suite and looked at a young female operations lieutenant from Ramsey's regular support staff who was sitting to the right of the double mahogany doors. She motioned us to a sofa, picked up the phone, and started talking softly, announcing our arrival.
'I can't face this turd in handcuffs,' I said softly.
'If you go nuts in there, we're all gonna get it,' Rafie said.
'I won't. I'm solid.'
Rafie and Tommy glanced at each other. They weren't sure what to do. I had played these guys badly. They had been trying to deal with me for close to a day and I had lied, screwed them over, and physically threatened them. But they were good cops. Deep down they had sympathy for my plight. Beyond that, most of Alexa's detectives liked her. She was an evenhanded, fair-minded bureau chief. Nobody quite understood how all this made sense yet, but everybody knew she was getting a bum deal on TV.
So after exchanging a look, Tommy leaned over and unhooked me just as the door opened and a fifty-year-old Commander of Operations, named Keith Summers, looked out at us.
'Good,' was all he said, then motioned us inside.
Great White Mike was standing by a large picture window that looked out over Olvera Street, which was the first street in Los Angeles and located in the most historical section of the city. The roof of Union Station was visible off to the north. Under most circumstances, Mike Ramsey looked like we got him out of Central Casting. He was pale-skinned, thin, and handsome in a forties movie star kind of way. He had slicked black hair and a trimmed moustache that rode below a patrician nose like a delicate afterthought. His sculpted chin was heroic. Deputy Chief Ramsey was the kind of cop who had spent the minimal amount of time on the streets before making a headlong dash toward administration. He liked being on TV and kept makeup in his briefcase for those unexpected prime-time appearances. But right now all of his swagger was gone. He looked tired. Tired and overmatched.
One of the things most media-relations officers will tell you is the press is like a furry little puppy that looks like it would be loads of fun to play with. And most of the time it is. You do an interview and then go home and tell your wife or girlfriend that you were on Greta or Geraldo, or that Ken and Barbie on Channel Seven were kissing your ass and couldn't get enough of you. The press would ask respectfully for your opinions. You quickly learned how to scratch the furry little pup under the chin, and how to kiss his damp whiskers without getting any drool on your lips. But then, sometimes without any warning, the little beast would snarl and bite you on the nose. That was what Great White Mike was just now discovering. The TV in his office was on and he was taking the brunt of a full media onslaught. Roxanne Sharp, Nathan Red, and a black activist named Reverend Leland Vespars, just in from New York, were all piling on. They felt that Deputy Chief Mike Ramsey was criminally mishandling the investigation. Police pundits were also weighing in. As I came through the door, I could hear the Deputy Chief screaming at one of his administrative assistants, a lieutenant from Press Relations.
'Who the hell is this guy?' Mike was pointing at the TV screen, where Fox News fair and balanced was peeling strips off Chief Ramsey in particular and the LAPD in general. 'When was this antique on our dick squad?' He shouted at the screen.
I looked over at the TV and saw a gray-haired, retired, homicide detective who used to work for our old Special Crimes unit. I remembered him from the late eighties. I think his name was Merle, or Mel something. He'd pulled the pin over a decade ago and was now a Fox News analyst. He was just opinionating that due to the obvious racial component in this murder, the department owed the public a much more detailed description of events.
'I'm sure when this popcorn fart was on the job he was sharing all his case facts with these ghouls,' Ramsey whined.
Then somebody motioned toward me and they all turned. The media relations guy crossed the room and turned down the volume on the TV.
'I need answers, Scully,' the Deputy Chief said without preamble. 'This department is getting the shit kicked out of it. I gave a direct order yesterday that you were to desist in this investigation. Then I gave you a forthwith to this office three hours ago! You ignored my two-six, just like you've ignored all my wishes for almost a day.'
He crossed the room and took up a position directly in front of me, then rocked forward until he was at least a foot into my personal space. Some kind of lavender cologne was wafting off of him.
'I'm waiting for a response,' he said coldly.
'Chief Ramsey, my wife is critical. She's in the gunshot trauma ward. I'm only here because of the two-six, but sir, I really need to get back to the hospital.' I was trying my best to look and sound calm, but my voice was
