White Sister (20 page)

The big, elegant car hummed out of Malibu down the Coast Highway. It turned left on Sunset Boulevard, and twenty minutes later I was six car-lengths back, negotiating the twisting turns near Mandeville Canyon. We continued on Sunset past UCLA, into Westwood. Expensive real estate slipped by on both sides of my windows; long rolling lawns fronted big Colonial and French Regency houses. Everybody had a nice gold initial on their wrought
-
iron gate.

The Rolls turned right off Sunset at Doheny and went down the hill to Santa Monica Boulevard where it pulled into a valet stand in front of a famous L
. A
. nightclub and old-time music biz watering hole called The Troubadour. The front of the club was painted completely black. It had been a trendy spot for new bands to perform in the eighties but recently the place had gone retro. However, over the last two decades a lot of music acts had been broken on that stage.

I pulled up half a block back and watched Stacy Maluga get out of the Rolls. She was dressed to stop traffic in a sequined dress that ended just below her ass and was cut so low in front it almost exposed her navel. She was wearing four-inch hooker heels and crossed the sidewalk using long stripper strides, the short hem of her dress flipping seductively around shapely legs. She handed her keys to the appreciative valet and disappeared into the nightclub.

The first problem I encountered was the valet decided to leave the expensive Rolls right out front to show everybody who drov
e b
y on Santa Monica what a classy joint The Troubadour still was.

I parked the Acura a block away and moved up the street on foot. Even though it looked busy, The Troubadour was not a place you went for dinner. I also figured this early in the evening, Stacy wasn't here scouting music acts because the marquee said the first show didn't start until eight. She was probably meeting someone for drinks. I had made such a memorable first splash at her house, I figured even in my baseball cap and glasses, I couldn't chance going in for a look around. I decided to stick to my original plan and not get greedy.

I waited until the valet stand in front of the nightclub was overloaded. Guys in red jackets were jumping into waiting cars and wheeling them around the corner up the hill on Doheny to the nightclub's parking lot, then running back and jumping into the next idling car.

Once I got the rhythm of it, I figured I would have maybe thirty seconds if I was lucky. When all three valets were away from the stand, I made my move. I speed-walked to the passenger side of the Rolls-Royce, opened the door, leaned in, and jammed Stacy's pager down into the crack between the front seats, pushing it far enough in so it would look like it had fallen from her purse and become accidentally squashed down and hidden. As I was doing this, I heard the slap of tennis shoes on pavement as one of the red-jacketed track stars came running back down the side street. I almost got my head out of the Rolls before he appeared at the corner and saw me still half inside the glitzy tan car.

"Hey, whatta you doing?" he shouted at me.

"Man, would you look at this thing?" I gushed. "Look at that leather, like butter."

"Leave the car alone," he ordered, approaching me angrily.

I needed to give him something else to think about so I said, "Boy, Cadillac really knows how to build 'em, huh?"

"It's a Rolls-Royce, dipshit."

"This is a Rolls?" I said incredulously. "You sure?"

"It says right on the steering wheel. RR
that's Rolls-Royce. Whatta you, some kinda moron?"

We were now talking about how stupid I was and not about what my head was doing inside somebody else's car.

"Get away from it," he commanded, so I turned and walked away.

I got in my Acura and found a new parking spot heading the same direction as the Rolls. Then I scooted down in my seat and waited.

At seven o'clock Stacy came out of the club. It had been a short meeting. I watched as she tipped the smiling valet, got into the Phantom and sped away from the curb. I followed.

Halfway down Santa Monica Boulevard, I pulled up directly behind the Rolls at a red light. I could see her clearly through the back window, so I dialed her pager with my cell phone and waited. The light changed, but the pager must have been ringing because Stacy didn't move. The Rolls was still parked at the green light while she began digging around in the seat cushion with her head down looking for it. When she finally raised her head, she held the pager up triumphantly in her right hand. She'd found it.

Then she dropped my bug in her purse, right where I wanted it and powered away, taking a right, heading north back up the hill toward Sunset.

Chapter
30.

IT WAS SEVEN-FIFTEEN. Instead of fulfilling my responsibility to Alexa and meeting with Luther, I continued following the tan Rolls into Hollywood.

The car turned onto Sunset Boulevard and headed toward the Strip, then pulled into a parking lot behind the old Whiskey A Go Go. Stacy was hitting her share of retro clubs. She exited the car and chirped the alarm, but didn't go inside the Whiskey. Instead, she did her runway strut down Sunset toward a two-story office building in the middle of the next block.

Two exposed upstairs dormer windows relieved the nondescript brown stucco facade and elevated the architecture from boxy to eclectic. Maintenance was slipshod and the building seemed to crouch low in the middle of the block as if trying to hide its faded paint and chipped trim. Tattered and old, the place was a reminder of better days when the Sunset Strip was the place to be.

I parked in the same lot behind the Whiskey and followed her down the street. I was still wearing the baseball cap and glasses as
I entered the run-down building, but in a clever shift of disguise, I swung the bill of my ball cap to the back, gangsta-style, and took off my coat, draping it across my arm. I arrived inside the building only two minutes behind her, but the lobby was already empty. She had disappeared.

There was a building registry behind a plate of smudged glass identifying the lucky businesses that officed here. The place had a sweet, acrid smell, like Lysol mixed with pot, and the list of tenants appeared to be mostly music companies. One on the second floor was named Chronic Inc. On the street, chronic is potent, homegrown-style bud favored by marijuana users. Chronic Inc. A rap label? Maybe.

I pulled the earpiece out of my pocket and again looked at my watch. Seven-thirty. Alexa's medical meeting would just now be starting at UCLA with only Chooch in attendance. I pictured Luther frowning, and had a mental flash of my son not understanding why I hadn't called. Because it was all over the TV, both had to know by now that I was a suspect in Slade's murder.

I shook off these thoughts, inserted the earpiece and plugged the jack into the VXT receiver hooked to my belt. A sudden rush of shame flooded over me. I needed to be at that hospital. I was better than this. But just as I turned to leave, I heard Stacy's voice loud and clear, coming through the earpiece.

"Chicken head bitch be lyin' in a coma." Stacy was talking about Alexa. It froze me. I hit record on the VXT receiver.

"Slade couldn't never keep it in his pants," she continued. "All the time messing with new bitches, floatin' his game."

"You sound like that still be a problem, Stacy. Push off. The man's dead." It was a male voice. Deep, soft, and lyrical. "Come here, baby. I can get your mind offa that chump. Lemme give ya my flava."

"Hey, Curtis, we ain't got time. You got more Lou problems." Stacy said. "It's why I come down here."

"This just gonna be bidness?" he teased. "My gun needs cleanin', Mama."

"You need to hear me out," she said. "I been checkin' expense sheets. Lou got all kinda janky shit goin' on with your concerts.

Stuff even I didn't know about. He's also been skimmin' your performance royalties. It's time for you ta use that escape clause I told you about. Go over to WYD."

"When's that man gonna give me a day off?" Curtis moaned.

"You want a day off, you shoulda been a secretary," Stacy said. "This just be the way the man thinks."

"You're right," Curtis said. "He's stealin', not takin' care of business. It's all kryptonite. Ain't just my Savage Bitch CD gettin' shelved, or no Wall Street backing. Now my new side, "Nigga Got Game," ain't even getting no radio play. All Lou does about it when I complain is threaten my ass
walkin' around with some ball bat, bustin' chops like the old days. Them East Coast-West Coast Beat Downs. You the only one over there gets it. Don't he know the Jew suits at Sony and Warner Records won't put up with his gangsta vibe?"

"You need t'have your new accountants check the last four royalty statements," Stacy said. "The short falls are mostly in event fees and expenses. You got a good civil suit here, baby."

"Man," he said. "Thank God you and me got our swerve on. Weren't for you, I wouldn't even know about any a this. If you hadn't found that escape clause Dante put in my contract, I'd be stuck." A chair scraped, somebody moved, and then Curtis said, "Lou finds out you been helpin' me, Mama, he gonna buck down hard."

"He ain't gonna find out 'less you start slippin', sugar. Since he got outta San Quentin, Lou lost his skills. He gonna end up goin' right back in the joint for fraud. I'm doin' this to teach him a lesson, so you gotta make sure it stays between us and the attorneys. Far as Lou knows, your accountants found this."

"You can count on me, baby. Now come here an' gimme some play."

Then I heard a chair scrape again, followed by heavy breathing. It went on for almost two minutes.

"Damn, that be fine," Curtis said, followed by a moan coming over the VXT. He was getting a hummer.

As I hid in the corridor listening, I tried to figure out Stacy's game. At her house, when I showed up she called Lou. She obviously looked to him for protection. Everything I'd learned about Lethal Force, Inc. suggested that she was the brains behind the label, so why was she pushing this guy Curtis out the door, giving him insider information so he could break his contract and even possibly sue them? She said it was to teach Louis a lesson, but it seemed an expensive way to do it. Like everything else in this case, it was hard to understand.

"I'm out," I finally heard Stacy say.

The door at the end of the hall opened and she exited the room. I dove into a little alcove in the hall. Stacy strode up the corridor, straightening her blouse, right past the alcove where I was hiding. She was momentarily focused on the elevator and I didn't think she would see me. Then her eyes snapped to the side and she stared right at me. Her expression didn't change, and she showed no sign of recognizing me in my hat and glasses. But one thing chilled me as she hurried on by. Stacy Maluga's eyes were hard and cold and showed no emotion or humanity. Those eyes said she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.

In that moment, I wondered if I'd been worried about the wrong Maluga. I suddenly wondered if it was Stacy, not Lou, who I should be afraid of.

Chapter
31.

WHERE THE HELL are you, Dad?" Chooch sounded angry over the speaker on my cell phone.

"Son, is Lex still there?"

"Yeah, but the other doctors all had to go."

"Put him on."

"Where are you?"

"Put him on, Chooch. Stop arguing with me." Anger flashed. Why was I taking it out on him?

After a few seconds, Luther came on the line. "Shane?"

"Luther, I'm sorry I missed the meeting."

"There were two cops here. They had a warrant for your arrest." His voice was guarded now.

"I think that was just an Internal Affairs charge sheet, not a warrant," I said. "It's a interdepartmental document. They have to serve you with a notice of the I
. A
. complaint. It's just their way of trying to get me to stop looking into this. But I can't stop, Luther, and you wouldn't, either."

He didn't say anything, so I asked, "Are the cops still there?" "No."

It wasn't easy for him, given all the pressure coming from the chorus of black activists. I knew what they were accusing us of on TV.

"I didn't kill David Slade," I finally said. "Neither did Alexa."

"It's not my job to judge you, Shane. My job is to bring Alexa out of this coma."

"Will you still meet with me?"

"You mean become an accessory after the fact in a murder?" he said coldly.

"Luther, I know this isn't fair. I know what I'm asking is tough."

"I owe you for Levonda, but let's be straight. Even though you went way beyond what was normal there, you were still only doing your job. I didn't ask you to put your life's work in jeopardy by harboring a murder suspect."

I wasn't technically a murder suspect. Last time I checked, I was just a Person of Interest, but that was quibbling.

"Alexa needs surgery," Luther said. "The blood flow to parts of her cerebral cortex is low. In time, brain cells will die. I've scheduled her for Monday at ten a
. M
. This is a risky one, Shane. She's not too strong, and she's not responding to stimuli. Frankly, I have my doubts, but if we're going to have any chance at all of bringing her out of this, I need to go in and fix some things. As her next of kin, I need your signature on a surgical consent form. I had it with me and was going to get you to sign it at our seven-thirty meeting but you didn't show."