Three Shirt Deal (2008) (16 page)

I was halfway around the room, when I stopped. Looking very frosty and inviting, sitting under its own pin light, there it was: A million-dollar, prize-winning, six-pack of Bud Light beer.

Chapter
20.

ALEXA WAS WAITING IN THE ENTRY WHEN I GOT HOME. IT WAS

nine o'clock that night and she was holding a charge sheet and transmittal letter from the Professional Standards Bureau.

"We've gotta talk." Her voice was hard, even threatening. The one she uses when she questions suspects. "Calm down," I cautioned.

She didn't answer, but thrust the charge sheet at me. I saw the PSB seal and the three typed yellow sheets that every cop dreaded receiving. In my distinguished career I've already received three.

"Yeah, I've been expecting this," I said.

"The IO served it here, an hour ago. Since you're the charged officer, the detective didn't want to leave it with me, but I insisted. Pulled rank."

"It's good being king." I pushed past her, feeling busted, and went into the kitchen where I snatched a beer from the fridge. Alexa followed close on my heels. "Shane, we've got to discuss this."

"Not with your voice like that, we don't." I pushed past her again and walked out to the backyard.

"Stop doing that. Stop just walking away from me," she called, then followed me outside.

I plopped in one of the lawn chairs, put my feet on an ottoman, and popped open the beer. It chirped loudly in the still night and I could tell it pissed her off that, under these circumstances, I would be sitting out here with my feet up, drinking beer. She came around and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the canal.

"You don't have any idea what I'm going through right now, do you?" she asked angrily. "You have this bullshit idea that your career and my career are separate, but they're not. I'm your fucking boss, guy."

"Is that a job description or a marital condition?" The minute I said it, I regretted the comment. I was tired and upset, but I knew I needed to handle this carefully. It was a critical moment for us, both personally and professionally. I looked up at Alexa. There was an awful look on her face. I don't know exactly what it was--anger and disappointment, of course, but it seemed there were other, even more destructive things in the mix. Contempt or even disdain. I'd never seen that look before. Or at least, it had never been directed at me. I forced myself to take a step back emotionally, to not fully engage.

I reminded myself that I was the one out of line. I'd been breaking more crockery than a karate master, ignoring supervisors, working without portfolio.
I
also knew this angry person in front of me wasn't Alexa. This was TBI. This was a brain anomaly. This was caused by changing neurological functions. She must have read all that on my face because she shook her head sadly.

"I'm not crazy. You can't blame this one on Stacey Maluga. I'm not the one ignoring the specific orders of a division commander and a deputy chief. You are."

"Whatta you want, Alexa? I'm sorry. I admit that I've been reckless here. But no matter what I do, I can't make that charge sheet go away."

"I want... I want you to . . ." She turned and faced the Grand Canal. Her mood was dark, a stark contrast to the canal water that sparkled brilliantly in the orange twilight. She turned back to me and finished her sentence. "I want you to help me, but you won't."

"I'm trying to, honey. I know this is a stressful time for you, but now I really do need your help."

"With this Hickman thing? Jesus! Can you please put that away for a minute?"

"Alexa, you're stressed. You're frightened, okay? I get that. I also know you feel horrible about this review Tony is putting you through tomorrow, horrible about what's been happening to you. I sympathize, because I know how unfair it is. It's just... I stumbled into this thing and now I don't know what to do about it."

"What does that mean?"

"This kid--this boy is only a few years older than Chooch. He's stuck up in Corcoran doing Level Four time. His prison car is full of net-heads who beat him up and rape him. They're putting him through hell. If I don't get him out of there, he's gonna commit suicide. I saw it in his eyes. And the worst part is we did it to him. We did. We put him there on a manufactured case. The more I look into it the surer I am."

"You don't have anything, Shane. Not one solid fact." Her voice had softened.

"I'm getting closer. I've turned up some important pieces." I took a breath and, because we'd always worked through tough cases together and because I wanted the old Alexa back, I tried my theory on her. "I think Wade Wyatt and Mike Church ripped off a beer contest to win a million dollars." Working it in my mind as I went. "That's why Church made Tru go to that exact market in a strip mall halfway across the Valley. The motive fo
r t
he murder wasn't an argument over a six-pack of beer. It was over a rare worth a million dollars in prize money."

"I have not the faintest idea what you're talking about," she said.

"Alexa, I want you to listen to me. You and I could always work stuff out together better than any partner I ever had. Let me just run it down for you. We'll get a theory. Select a course of action."

"No. I'm ordering you to drop this, Shane. Your behavior is bound to come up in my review tomorrow. This Hickman case, Deputy Chief Townsend, Jane Sasso. It's all gonna come out. They're going to wonder what kind of division chief I am if I let my own husband break all the rules. I already look impotent and out of it. Nothing I do lately seems to come out right." She snatched up the charge sheet from the table beside me and shook it under my nose. "And now this. Now I've got to try and explain this insanity."

"I've got to get him out."

"Why? You didn't put him there."

"Hey, Alexa, we all put him there. You did when your Valley Bureau commander missed the sloppy case work on review. I did when I didn't testify against Brian Devine when I was in Patrol. Internal Affairs did when they let a hitter like Devine slide for twenty years. We're all guilty. We made the corruption that spawned this mess. How do we just say it's inconvenient to deal with now, because we both have more important career considerations? This kid is being beaten and raped."

We stood in silence for a moment. Then she laid the charge sheet down on the table and started ticking off the charges from memory.

"Refusal of a direct order from A-Chief Townsend. Malfeasance of duty. Making false or misleading statements during an inquiry. Failure to cooperate with an ongoing investigation insid
e p
roper department channels, and ignoring the direct order of the Head of the Internal Affairs Division."

"Because she was wrong."

"So now I'm giving you a direct order."

We looked at each other over a chasm growing wider and deeper by the minute.

"You get your supervisor's review and your Skelly hearing. Both are being scheduled by Cal and Jane Sasso. In the meantime, you're suspended. Relieved of all your cases and responsibilities. See Callaway about transferring your workload in the morning. And this order is coming straight from the Head of the Detective Division. Ignore it, and you're out on your ass, Shane. Understand?"

"Seems pretty clear."

"Good."

She turned and went back into the house.

I stood, went inside, grabbed my jacket, then went to the garage, got into my busted MDX, and headed out, not sure where I was going, just needing some space. Needing to be away.

I got on the freeway and drove toward town. Of course, one way to fix my problem was to just drop the Hickman case and start kissing rings on the sixth floor, begging for forgiveness. I had Alexa to worry about. She needed my help and understanding. This Hickman case had become a huge career mistake for me. What if I just cut and ran? I considered that option carefully as I drove. How much would that act of self-preservation cost me in self-esteem? Could I swallow more career cowardice like my refusal to testify against Brian Devine fifteen years ago? Could I just drop this mess and move on? I tried to come to terms with the idea. But I kept seeing Tru Hickman standing there in the visitor's center, skinny and pale, pulling at his frayed sleeve, begging me to save him. I was his only chance and I knew I had to keep trying.

I dialed Chooch. I promised myself that the call wouldn't be about Alexa. I didn't want to put him in the middle. I jus
t w
anted to hear his voice. But his cell went directly to voice mail. He was probably in an evening film session or some place where he couldn't talk.

I kept driving and wondering what I should do. I knew Alexa was right about my behavior being an issue in her review. The brass would hammer her for my misconduct. But weren't some things bigger than this job? Didn't dedication to a principle count for something?

I wasn't sure anymore. I didn't know what to do. I needed help.

I dialed another number.

"Hello?" Secada said.

Chapter
21.

"YOU SURE THAT'S WHAT HE YELLED?" SHE ASKED ME, SCROLLing through the pictures on my digital camera.

"Yeah. 'Fuck you, codelincuente.' Morales yelled it just as Lieutenant Devine was pulling away from the campaign headquarters. This was after almost five minutes of screaming at each other in the parking lot."

"Codelincuente means 'partner.' But more negative than that. More like 'partner in crime.'" She set my camera down.

We were in the living room of Secada's beautiful, candlelit, loft apartment. She lived in one of those renovated factories downtown on Fifth. Developers had come in and gutted the old buildings, turning Skid Row junk into expensive yuppie housing. I estimated this one was up over half a million dollars. I wondered how the hell she could afford it or, for that matter, the six
-
hundred-dollar suits she wore.

We were sitting by an expansive window, drinking red wine. If I wasn't in such a horrible mood, I would have thought the atmosphere inviting. The top of the Bonaventure and Nob Hill were visible from her windows. I watched as half a mile away, an old, rebuilt, and freshly painted Angels Flight tram car crawle
d s
lowly up the small cliff face on dark cables. At midnight the last car would descend to the terminal, bringing visitors and tourists to the bottom of the hill.

"I keep wondering what ties Tito Morales and Brian Devine together," I said. "A kick-ass head breaker and a politically engaged Latino prosecutor. These guys don't seem like they should be drinking from the same fountain."

I looked over at Secada. She was dressed in a white running suit, her dark hair and brown skin made lush by its contrast.

"I'll check that out," she said. "See what I can find." She took a sip of her wine. "You were right about all of those guys we ran at Church's house being in the Van Nuys school system. Jose Diego, Mike Church, Enrico Palomino, Wade Wyatt, and Tyler Cisneros. But they weren't at Van Nuys High. Only Church and Diego went there. I checked back and the whole bunch were at Van Nuys Junior High. Wade Wyatt transferred to private school in the eighth grade when his dad left the Universal Studios Legal Affairs department in the Valley and set up his own law firm in Century City. A few years later the family moved to the estate in Bel Air. I talked to a vice-principal who remembered them. Apparently Mike Church stole Wade's new ten-speed bike in the seventh grade. It was a big incident because Wade got his father's gun, brought it to school, and threatened to kill Church. Aubrey Wyatt gave the school money for some new science classroom equipment and the problem went away. After that, Church and Wyatt became friends under the social principle that states, 'Assholes are inevitably drawn to other assholes.'"

"Okay, so junior high is the nexus," I said.

"And you think these codelincuentes all got together last year to rip off that million-dollar beer prize?"

"Yeah. Wade Wyatt works in the legal department at Cartco. He'd have access to the market locations of the rares. But he can'
t w
in the prize himself because he's a member of the carton manufacturer's family, so he gets together with Mike Church."

"Church can't be tied in directly either, because he's only one generation removed on the friendship chart. I did a lottery rip-off investigation once and it's customary to run intense background searches on winners to make sure there's no cheating. Church, Wyatt, and these other guys are all involved with that bus company police department. That's too close a connection. It would pop up on a computer run. The prize committee would find out they were all friends."

"So they recruit poor, half-out-of-it, Tru Hickman to buy the beer. He's a certified tweaker and Mike's old yard bitch from CYA. He can't be tied directly to Wade Wyatt or Cartco."

"I like it." She got up and poured some more wine for herself, then freshened my glass and sat back down by the window.

"Yeah, I like it, too," I said. "Olivia Hickman wouldn't let them take the beer when Church came over to pick up Tru. Big argument. They leave without the million-dollar six-pack. Church, and maybe Wyatt, come back to the Hickman house later that night after Tru gas bags on meth at that party. Things get out of control and they kill Olivia, then take the prize-winning package."