by moonlight, running across the sand carrying her shotgun. I got up and ran after her, passing the carnage at the gravesite on my way. I couldn't see Insane Wayne but glanced again at Louis Maluga, flat on his back in one of the graves, his head blown from his shoulders. Smith was on his back. He'd died like he lived, with his yellow crocs on. The two grave diggers were both wounded and trying to crawl away, leaving red trails in the sand. Lionel lay in one of the holes clutching his leg, which was pumping blood from a hole in his thigh.
'Put a pressure compress on that,' I yelled. 'Use your belt and tux jacket. I'll be right back.'
Then I took off after the White Sister, chasing her across the desert in the dark. She had set this all up and I was determined she wouldn't get away. I didn't know where Curtis Clark or KZ were, but I kept running in the deep sand until my legs and thighs burned. I finally stopped near several rock formations and listened for any sound, trying to decide which way to go.
That was when I heard the click of both shotgun hammers directly behind me.
I was toast.
'It's still gonna work out,' she said. 'Smith still goes down for all of this. You got enough baggage to fit the frame. Motive. Method. Opportunity.' Her voice was high and manic. She was in a state of agitated panic, overdosing on adrenaline.
I turned slowly and then I saw her standing beside a large rock outcropping about ten feet away, holding the shotgun. It was perfect spacing. Far enough away so I couldn't get to her, but close enough so she couldn't possibly miss with a double load of buckshot.
As we faced each other I glimpsed a shadow move in the rocks beyond her.
'Any last words?' she said, my imminent death glittering in her pale, blue eyes.
'Just four.'
'Say 'em.'
'Look out behind you.'
A dark figure was silhouetted against the rock formation, ten feet from her. I could just make out a man holding a MAC-10.
She panicked as she spun, pulling the triggers. Both barrels on her ghetto stick barked. The man behind her fired simultaneously.
Her pattern just missed.
His didn't.
Stacy's left leg blossomed red and she screamed, pitching forward into the sand. She flopped back and forth, screaming profanities.
The figure stepped away from the cover of the rocks, and I saw it was Wayne Watkins. It was the second time in two days that he'd saved my life. I wondered why.
'Los Angeles Sheriff's Department,' he said.
Chapter 60
After we used my cell to call 911, he told me his name wasn't Wayne Watkins; it was Sgt. Wallace Wayne and he had been a Sheriff's Department gang squad undercover for almost two years. He'd been put in the hip-hop music business by the county sheriff for the same reason David Slade had.
When I asked what he knew about Slade's killing, all he would say was, 'Slade helped duke me in. We knew each other back at Compton High. The rest is classified. It's gotta wait till my supervisor clears it.'
It took less than ten minutes for the first Highway Patrol unit to arrive. The officers took one look at the mess and started screaming for more help over their radio.
Later, Sgt. Wayne and I were standing next to the Navigator watching as a dozen Highway Patrol officers and paramedics began to mop up. By then, Lionel Wright was unconscious from loss of blood and was loaded into the first rescue ambulance. It sped off to the hospital with its roof lights and siren strobing, passing another incoming RA as it left. Earlier, Sgt. Wayne and I had tried to stem the bleeding on Stacy Maluga's leg by wrapping it with our jackets and tying it off with my belt, but she had also lost a lot of blood and was in shock by the time the second paramedic truck arrived. The EMTs did a quick field triage, then loaded her into the back.
We watched the ambulance fishtail through the deep sand until it also reached the two-lane road and sped away. When it was gone, Sergeant Wayne and I went looking for Curtis Clark. We found him a quarter of a mile away, hiding in a rock outcropping.
'Man,' Curtis said. 'That cave bitch sure know how to take it to the street.' Whatever that meant.
'Time to man up, Curtis,' Wayne said. 'You gotta make a statement and own some of this.' We pulled him out of his hiding place and led him back to the crime scene.
The Nevada Highway Patrol called Vegas Metro Homicide, and then began walking around the carnage, stringing yellow ribbon and shaking their heads in disbelief. They hadn't seen this kind of a bloodbath since Bugsy Siegel left town.
In accordance with crime scene protocol, they separated Sgt. Wayne and me until the Homicide dicks arrived. I ended up in the back of a Highway Patrol Chevy Impala. The patrolman confiscated my cell phone and wallet and all I was left with as I sat there were ugly thoughts and a deepening sense of doom. I didn't know if Sgt. Wayne could finally put David Slade's murder on the Malugas. If he couldn't, and Stacy died from her wound without talking, then the only thing I'd managed to accomplish was to kill all the available witnesses who could clear Alexa.
I saw a blue LVPD minivan pull up and park a few feet away. Two crusty old guys in rumpled suits with gray hair and cop stares got out. Vegas Homicide had arrived. I watched as they talked to the lead deputy on the scene. The Highway Patrol had called for Condor lights, and while I was watching the new arrivals, a generator started up and blue-white halogen spilled out from the top of a Condor crane, illuminating the gruesome scene.
After quickly surveying the scene, one of the Homicide dicks grabbed a patrol officer and headed to the car where Sgt. Wayne sat. The other homicide cop collected a deputy and came over to talk to me. He opened the door and sat in the back as the deputy got in front. Standard protocol. The deputy was there to witness my preliminary field interview and watched in silence through the wire mesh that separated us from the front seat. My homicide guy was in his late fifties with silver brushed-back hair and a sun-ravaged complexion. He had a long face and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything, but I could tell this quadruple killing had captured his interest.
'I'm Lieutenant Barry Bush,' he said. 'My partner over there with your friend is Steve Goodstein. The Highway Patrol tells me you guys are both cops from L. A.'
'Yeah, I'm LAPD. The guy with your partner says he's an L. A. County sheriff, but you should check that out 'cause all I got is his word on that.'
'I used to work L. A. Homicide,' Lt. Bush said, sounding relaxed and friendly. 'When I remarried, I retired out here. But I'm not a casino guy and I got bored, so I re-upped and caught on with LV Metro.'
He was filling time with chit-chat while he took out his mini-recorder, found a fresh tape, inserted it, and turned on the unit. Then he said, 'Okay, I'm gonna skip the Miranda for now. I'm not arresting you. Let's call this a voluntary statement. Fair enough?'
'Sure,' I said.
'Gimme the background particulars, starting with your full name.'
I gave him my name and rank and told him I worked out of Homicide Special at Parker Center.
'Who's your C. O.? Back when I was in L. A. there was no Homicide Special. The top murder teams were all part of the Major Crimes Unit.'
I knew Bush was just filling the car with B. S. to get a loose feeling going. He wanted to set up a friendly atmosphere so I wouldn't guard my responses. I've pulled the same routine on hundreds of guys. It told me that even though I was a cop, he still didn't trust me.
'My C. O. is Captain Jeb Calloway,' I answered.
'Little muscle-bound character who looks like he could break stones with his hands?'
'That's him.'
'Wasn't he with SWAT or CRASH, one of those high-octane, kick-ass units?'
