shaking.
He looked over at Figueroa and Sepulveda. 'We got people down there covering her progress, right?' Both detectives nodded, but neither of them seemed too happy about the way this was being handled. 'Okay, so if something changes, they'll call you, right?'
I didn't answer, but Ramsey seemed satisfied that base was covered and went on. 'You're a Level Three detective assigned to Homicide Special. You're supposed to know what you're doing. But instead, because of you, I've got a rap producer named Maluga all over my phone sheet. He's hired this Nathan Red character who's halfway up my asshole wearing golf cleats. He's laying groundwork for a wrongful death suit on behalf of Sergeant Slade's family and he's also complaining about the illegal search you did at Maluga's house. On the criminal front, I got the District Attorney looking to charge you with two or three low-weight felonies and PSB wants you picked up and held for internal questioning on this bad search. Have I missed anything?' Operations Commander Summers shook his head, so Ramsey continued. 'But despite all this reckless behavior, I've delayed these actions against you, and do you know why?'
'No, sir.'
'Two reasons. The PR blowback from arresting you will get all over us and just make this look like a bigger scandal than it already is. The second reason is I want something from you. You gimme what I want and we'll see what we can do about holding the line on this internal investigation and all the criminal stuff.'
'What do you need, sir?'
'Lieutenant Scully's computer.'
'I don't have it.'
'What you don't have is a career if you give me any grief on this.'
'Hook me up to a poly,' I said. 'I don't know where that computer is.' Which was technically true, if somewhat disingenuous and inaccurate.
He stood there, rocking back and forth, leaning in and out of my space, the cologne drifting around us, sweet and cloying. He was panicking and I could see it in the tightness around his eyes. He was no Tony Filosiani. Just a big, overdressed palooka with plucked eyebrows, who was on the edge of a meltdown.
'I may have an idea where that computer is,' I said. 'But I'll need a little time to run it down.'
'You don't have time. This shit storm we're all in erased our time.'
'The computer was stolen from our house. But I may have a way to get it back.'
Great White Mike's tweezered brows shot up into the middle of his forehead and hovered there uncertainly. 'Stolen?' He didn't believe me.
'Yes, sir. It's a long story, but a homeless guy I let into my house took it.'
'You let a homeless guy into your house?' He glanced over at Commander Summers with a 'do you believe this?' look.
All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and back to the trauma ward, but there was no leaving without cutting some kind of deal. The handcuffs were still dangling from Rafie's right hand, reminding me of how perilous my freedom had become.
'He's a wit on one of my open homicides. I was giving him a hot meal, working him for information.' Complete B. S.
'What's this homeless guy's name?' Ramsey asked, still suspicious.
'He's got lots of names,' I dodged. 'He's a delusional schizophrenic. Right now he's calling himself Samik Mampuna. He thinks he's a Crown Prince from Cameroon.'
I saw Mike struggling with this. He didn't know how to handle me. Then something happened, and his frown disappeared. He was suddenly on a different track.
'Look, Shane. Nobody says you shouldn't be upset over your wife, but you don't just throw the rule book away,' he said with more compassion.
'Exactly, sir. And you should know, I'm in much better control of myself now.' In a moment, we'd both have to start rolling up our pant cuffs.
Then from out of nowhere he said, 'You know with all this media scrutiny, we're going to have to examine the idea that Lieutenant Scully shot this police officer for some unknown reason. There's no way to ignore that possibility, given the circumstances of his death.'
'Sir, he was a dirtbag. A practicing Crip who got in on the felony waver policy. He was dirty, hanging out with this ex-con gangster Maluga's estranged wife.'
'I will not let this turn into some kind of cooked-up racial incident,' he shot back. 'The way we keep that from happening is we will look at all possibilities including the one I just mentioned. Despite Sergeant Slade's rather questionable record, we will also not defame the memory of this dead African-American police officer. All that will do is make us look insensitive and will fan the flames higher. But so help me, if it comes out your wife is involved in this murder, she is not going to get any cover from me or this department. A lot of this looks real suspicious. She had a prior relationship with Sergeant Slade. It's even written up in her Academy instructor's review.'
'She didn't kill him!' My voice was shrill and dangerous. 'You think she's so stupid she'd kill one of her own detectives and leave him in the front seat of her own car?'
'Ah, yes. The good old Robert Blake defense. Too smart to be that dumb. You never heard of heat-of-the- moment killings?'
'She didn't kill him!' I repeated.
Ramsey began ticking off points on his fingers. 'Slade was found dead in her car, wearing her handcuffs. When ballistics is through, my bet is the murder weapon will be her gun. They used to be intimate, making this your classic relationship gone bad. Motive, method, and opportunity. The prosecutor's trifecta.'
I know how cops think. I couldn't explain any of it. Besides all that, I couldn't get Alexa's phone message out of my head. 'I killed David Slade. An argument over something personal.' I was so confused and twisted up, I didn't know if I was fighting for her life, her career, or her memory. Whatever it was, I was determined that Great White Mike would never get his hands on that answering-machine tape.
'If she did it, then I agree she should go down for it,' I said disingenuously. I had to get out of there.
'Okay, then I'm going to give you till end of the day tomorrow, that's eight o'clock p. M.,' Ramsey said. 'You have that computer in this office by then or I'm gonna fall on you.'
'Thank you, sir. That ought to be enough time.'
After some more rocking back and forth and some very theatrical stink-eye, Great White Mike finally let me walk out of Tony Filosiani's office. Figueroa and Sepulveda left with me. As we got silently in the elevator, Rafie looked over at Tommy and me.
'That guy's a purebred asshole,' he muttered softly.
Chapter 19
When I got back to the trauma ward it was two P. M. and there were twice as many cops as when I left.
Pagers kept going off and people would get up and leave the room. Some didn't come back, but more kept arriving.
When a police officer is shot, it's standard for the chief to make an appearance. The one time I can remember when that didn't happen was when one of our guys got hit and then Chief Willie Williams was in Vegas on a junket and elected not to come home. The other time was now. Mike Ramsey stayed conspicuously absent.
Two network news teams were hovering in the corridor outside, drinking machine coffee. I pushed past their shouted questions and checked with the trauma desk. Still no word on Alexa.
I had been trying to get through to Chooch, but the Trojans were having afternoon practice and nobody had been picking up the phone at the football dorm. I sat down and tried again. This time I reached him.
'What's going on?' he asked quickly. i 02
'I found her. It isn't good. She's been shot in the head. She's in the trauma ward at County-USC.
'No!' he said softly.
