Three shirt deal

Chapter 24

Alexa was out of the house early. Her review with Chief Filosiani was scheduled for ten a. M. I ate breakfast alone and then looked up the number for the Police Officer's Association on my phone caddy.

At ten o'clock I walked into Jeb Calloway's office at Parker Center. He closed the door and eyed me with concern. "I talked to Jane Sasso this morning. Your Skelly is scheduled for next Tuesday-nine a. M. That's right on the ten-day timeline guaranteed you by Paragraph Six. She's really pushing to get this done. I need to do the supervisor's interview this afternoon so her IOs have time to go through it. How's three-thirty? You're allowed to bring your defense rep and a union steward from the POA."

"I guess that's okay," I said. "But I don't have a defense rep yet."

"If I were you, I'd get one now. Either way, be back here at three-thirty. We'll go over the charge sheet first, then I'll take your statement." He looked like a man walking on quicksand as he added, "Alexa's office called down yesterday and said you were suspended. I think that's out of policy, but I guess we can transfer your case load anyway."

"She rescinded that last night. She was going to call you about it."

Jeb was still frowning as I left his office. He didn't like procedural messes. I returned to my desk and pulled out the slip of paper with the number for the POA. The amount of trouble I keep getting into, I should have it on permanent speed dial. After I got through to the union, I was transferred to the steward section. I asked for Bill Utley, who had sat in for the union on my last I. A. performance beef. I was told he was out of the office, so I left my name and the time of my supervisor's review in Jeb's office. Then I scanned the charge sheet into my computer and e-mailed it to him.

Since I was technically still on the job and it was only ten-thirty, I decided to use up my remaining time by heading back out to Cartco. On the way, I called Secada.

"What d'you have going on this morning?" I asked.

"I'm meeting with my defense rep and POA steward, trying to get prepped for my supervisor meeting."

"Can you meet me out at Cartco in an hour?"

"This is a bad morning, Shane."

"You need to hear what I've got to say, and I don't trust my cell. I'll have you back in the office by one."

"Roger that," she said and hung up.

I had a plan in mind, which was legally sort of out there. But if I didn't get some traction soon, we were both going down in flames.

I drove to a Best Buy in Glendale and purchased a new Black-Berry that was identical to Roger Dahl's and the one Wade Wyatt had used when I pulled him over in his dad's Ferrari. I got back in my car and plugged it into the car cigarette lighter to charge as I drove. When I arrived at Penrose Avenue, I parked across the street from the container factory and waited. At eleven-fifteen Secada pulled in. She was driving her personally owned vehicle, known in the profession as a POV. Thankfully, she had left the conspicuous black-and-white slick-back at the motor pool.

She got out of her green SUV Suburban and crossed to my MDX. "Your car looks like shit. When're you gonna get some of this body work done?" she asked as she got in.

"That's way down on my to-do list right now," I snapped.

"Don't bite my head off. What's up?"

I told her about Tito Morales winning the million-dollar contest prize.

After I finished I saw a look of disappointment on her beautiful face.

"I can't believe he is in on this." She considered the information and then added sadly, "Man, I thought he was going to be a true carnal. Another one bites the dust."

I couldn't tell her what I had on my mind, because it was a little shady and she had already informed me that she didn't like to lie. Instead, I told her I thought it was time to have a little talk with Wade Wyatt. I wanted to give him a push and I needed her help. After I finished telling her what I wanted her to do, she was frowning-and I hadn't even told her the best part. She glanced at her watch but reluctantly agreed to stick around and help, providing she could get back downtown by two.

Wade Wyatt kept very gentlemanly work hours. He tooled the silver McLaren into the lot at eleven-forty, opened the gull wing door, and stepped out wearing tennis whites and carrying a beautiful, black alligator briefcase. He started toward the administration building. I had reparked and was now sitting alone in my car, only two spaces away. Before he could get to his building, I was out of the Acura and intercepted him halfway up the path.

"Am I supposed to know you?" he asked. The same look of entitlement I'd seen three nights ago, firmly in place.

"I see you got your car back from the Church of Destruction. Is the suspension all fixed the way you wanted it?" Not reaching for my badge, watching to see if he figured it out. It took him a minute, but he got there.

"Oh yeah." He shook his head and grinned. It was a very endearing smile. "Dude, between us, I was totally surprised you didn't pop me for speeding. I was boned… going way too fast. But it's too late now. You missed your window."

"We've got more important things we need to discuss," I said.

"Look, Mister whatever your name is…"

"Detective Shane Scully."

"Here's a sad but pertinent fact. You and I don't even live on the same planet, okay? We don't eat the same kind of food or drink the same kind of booze. We don't lay the same kind of women. We got nothing-absolutely nothing-in common. It closely follows, therefore, that we have nothing to discuss."

"Wanta bet?" I grinned at him, trying for my own endearing little smile, although it probably came off more like Jack the Ripper in mid-kill-chop.

"How 'bout a hundred?" he said, arrogantly. "Or is that too big a bet for a guy only making forty grand a year?" He tried to move past me as if with that insult, the discussion was definitely over.

"A hundred sounds good," I told him.

Wyatt turned back, surprised. "You kidding?"

"I think I can keep you conversationally entertained for a while, so you're on."

We stood there in the hot morning sun, me in my two-hundred-dollar blazer, him in his thousand-dollar tennis whites. We both tried to see how this was going to get started.

In an interview, I usually let the other guy go first just to see what he thinks we should be talking about. But Wade Wyatt was perfectly content to just stand there and wait. So I said, "How 'bout we begin by discussing the Bud Light contest that you and Mike Church ripped off ten months ago?"

No reaction.

"Is that the big wow?" he finally said. "Let's see, how's this supposed to track? My dad's worth hundreds of millions of dollars. I have unlimited credit and a Black AMEX card. But despite all this, you're suggesting I was so desperate for cash that I ripped off my own family's business with some brain-dead, West Valley car mechanic as my accomplice. Perhaps you could tell me why on earth I would ever do such a stupid thing."

"Maybe it's just because you just couldn't help yourself," I said pleasantly.

Wyatt stood looking at me, not taking any of this very seriously. It was almost as if he was deciding if I was going to be enough of an intellectual challenge to even waste ten minutes on. Then he turned and walked back to the McLaren, opened the trunk, and pulled out his tennis racket. He held it firmly in his right hand and began taking vicious practice swings.

"If you try to hit me with that I'll delaminate it over your fuzzy head."

"Don't be ridiculous. I just remembered it was in the car. Didn't want the gut strings to cook in the heat." He carried it back to where I was standing.

"Once we finish talking about the prize contest, I also have a few questions I want to ask you about Tru Hickman," I continued.

"Tru Hickman? That name's supposed to mean something to me?"

"Yeah, he was a tweaker friend of Mike Church's that you guys recruited to buy the Bud Light prize package that you knew was being sold out of a Valley mini-mart on Sepulveda."

Wade Wyatt stood looking at me, the smile still locked firmly in place. But I had his interest now. I could see some rapid eye movement.

"I never heard of Tru Hickman. Don't know him."

"Sure you do."

Then he got his confidence back. His smile widened like somebody who knew he was having his leg pulled and was still trying to figure out why. He wasn't used to being baited and his sense of entitlement convinced him he was far above my feeble grasp.

"You're a very funny man," he remarked.

"I get that a lot."

"Okay, Mister Policeman. Since I can't help you with any of that, we're concluded. I've got a busy afternoon."

"We're not concluded. I intend to get the answers to all of my questions before I leave."

"I can make one or two calls and Chief Filosiani, who I believe signs your paychecks, will make you go away."

"The Chief doesn't sign my checks. The city payroll clerk does."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't try matching wits with me," he said softly.

Now it was my turn to stand my ground and smile at him.

"Okay, if you have something so important on your mind. Let's hear it," he said.

"Olivia Hickman. We need to talk about her, too."

For the first time, I hit a soft spot. I saw it mostly in his body language-a slight dimming of the smile, a slumping of his shoulders. But he recovered nicely.

"Olivia Hickman. And let me guess. She's somehow related, or married to this Tru Hickman person."

"His mom. Past tense. She was murdered."

"And I know something about it?"

I just let his question simmer.

Wade stood with his expensive briefcase in one hand and the titanium racket in the other, dressed in snappy white shorts, ready to serve America's container needs worldwide. Then he said, "If I could prove to you I don't know about any of this, about this Tru

Hickman person buying that beer, or his mother's murder, what then?

"That would certainly be a huge help," I responded, pleasantly.

"Then follow me."

He led me inside the large, expensively designed, Business Center and Administration building.

This building was obviously where the bigwigs worked. All the really expensive art was in the lobby. The carpet was seventy-ounce plush pile and stretched wall to wall. I followed Wade down a hallway to a private office where he had his own private secretary. She was a good ornament. A nine or ten on the office fantasy scale. If she could type, God knows who she'd be working for-maybe even the great Roger Dahl.

"Cindy, bring me the Promo Safe folder on the August Bud Light contest," Wade snapped as he passed by her desk into his office.

She jumped up and exited.

The office was medium-size, but furnished with expensive antiques. There were law books everywhere. I picked up a thick one entitled Torts, Pleadings and Judicial Reviews that was marked with what looked like fifty or more yellow Post-It Notes.

"You want to leave my stuff alone?"

"Right." I put it down.

Half a minute later Cindy returned and handed Wade the file. He opened it and went through it like he knew exactly what he was looking for. Then he pulled out a single sheet of paper.

"This is an affidavit attesting to the winner of the West Valley Rare you were talking about." He handed it to me. "As you can see, it wasn't won by anybody named Tru."

The Promo Safe form was signed by one of their senior investigators named Ron Torgason. The affidavit plainly stated that Tito Alonzo Morales, of 4955 Bellingham Avenue in Valley Village had bought the Bud Light at four-fifteen on August 10 at a 7-Eleven in the 6000 block of Sepulveda. Two days later he had claimed the million-dollar prize.

"As you can see, Mister Morales was the winner. The agents from Promo Safe go out and stand in the store and-"

"Yeah, I know how it works," I interrupted.

"Then you can see this is exactly what I said. It's proof positive that Tito Morales bought and cashed in the rare, not this other guy, this Tru what's-his-face."

I stared down at the affidavit.

"Are we done now?" he asked, arrogance again framing every word. "I have to get through three chapters before my bar review class at six."

"Afraid we're not quite done yet, Wade."

"We're not?" Now he seemed frustrated, the smile long gone. "Why the hell not?"

"Because your buddy since the seventh grade, Mike Church, is a longtime associate of Tru Hickman, and because Tito Morales happens to be the D. A. who filed the murder charge against Tru for killing his mom and then did the plea bargain sending the kid away for life." I did my endearing little smile again. "This is the same Tito Morales who bought a contest rare and won a million dollars from a company that you're involved with, and whose campaign office you visited yesterday, completing a nice little circle of facts. In some crowds, this might be viewed as a scam. But any way you cut it, it's way too cozy, contest-wise."

Wade's smile suddenly reappeared. I was beginning to suspect that it was just camouflage, that he used it when he was in trouble. Either that, or this kid had more chutzpah than the ten best murderers I'd ever worked.

"That is all just a coincidence," he offered. "I was at his office because after he won our prize I got to know him, and I'm now working on his campaign. Besides, why would I give a damn one way or the other if Tito Morales won a million dollars? How does that affect my life?"

"Maybe Mike Church is still stealing your toys. Or maybe we just haven't located the reason, yet."

"I see."

"Do you?"

For a moment it seemed he was regarding me almost with affection. He was so sure of himself that he was actually beginning to enjoy this. I decided right then that his giant ego was his biggest weakness. He thought he was simply brilliant. A good technique when you've got a suspect in play is to be exactly what the guy wants you to be. He thought I was a moron and no match for his rapid repartee. The dumber he thought I was, the more careless he would become and the more mistakes he was bound to make. I let fifty IQ points I couldn't spare drop out of my head and hit the floor, then fixed him with a smile as dull as my razor.

"Since you obviously are not going to leave me alone until I figure this out for you, let me see if I can help," he said.

"That would be excellent."

He looked at his watch. "You had lunch yet?"

"No, sir."

"I know a spot near here. Let's go get something and we'll see what I can come up with."

As we crossed toward the office door, I couldn't resist taking one last shot. "Guess this means you owe me the hundred dollars."